Editor's note: this story contains scenes of incest or incest content.
Author's Notes: It's been awhile since I've made a new submission; life has gotten busy. This is a revision and expansion on my most favorited story to date, Paternal Fruit. I've gotten many kind comments and feedback from you, including requests to continue the story beyond a one-shot short story.
This story is a work of adult fiction that describes in explicit detail incestuous homosexual acts between consenting men. This is not like my typical fare; it's just a scene in the life of two people who realize they love each other in a way they hadn't considered before.
This is an incest story and a gay male story. If either of these is a dealbreaker for you, or if such stories are repugnant or offensive to you, do not continue as you will not enjoy it. Please refrain from reading and then leaving homophobic or defamatory comments. They will be deleted.
If, however, you are open-minded and can appreciate the fantasy for what it is--first and last, a harmless fantasy and a time for you to indulge in ideas and desires that may be unavailable to you in your daily life--I hope you will enjoy it and savor the masculine, homoerotic energy that these two characters find intoxicating and that finally drives them into each other's arms.
As always, if you like the story, please do rate it and leave a comment. If you're a fan of my earlier work and would like to see a continuation, feel free to drop me a line with any requests you'd like to see as I'm looking for plot points and scenarios. Always glad to get a private message from a reader. Without further ado, I leave you to enjoy--
*****
His heart thunders in his ears at the erotic sight before him. No matter how he heaves, pulling in breath after breath, he can't seem to get enough air into his lungs. He knows what he is bound to do. The thought has him shaky and excited. His cock is all steely and wet and dripping with the seductive depravity of it all. His fingers go to his straining head and adjust it in his low-cut briefs. The same fingers tremble as he rakes them through his short-cut locks.
His fate was sealed the minute he realized just how intoxicated the man lying before him was. He rarely drinks. Definitely not like this. Something must have happened on the way home from the site.
He had come out of the shower, towel around his neck, sweatpants and tank top clinging to his damp body, to the sight of the man sprawled out on the futon, chest rising and falling rhythmically. He smiled and shook his head. How unlike him. He pulled off the slumbering man's boots and tossed them aside. He had released the latches on the futon to flatten it out and make him more comfortable. It would be difficult to coax him into his bed at this rate. Better to let him sleep it off until morning out here.
It had started innocently enough. And then, he had allowed his eyes to fall to the bulge inside the older man's tight bluejeans. The way the bulge curved upward just slightly, the outline of his member diverging from the heavy sac, had done him in. He had licked his lips, heart suddenly pounding. Something inside him fell away. All rationality, all reason seemed to slip from him. "Maybe. Just maybe..." he dared to think. The man was really sleeping hard. "Just a little bit..."
The man's legs are open in a sort of 'V' shape. He is breathing in deep, rolling breaths from his abdomen. Even in the dim glow of the streetlight coming in through the long horizontal sliver of window at the top of the wall in the front room where they are, Jonah can see the older man's strong jawline with a dark shadow of brown stubble from the week spent on a job site out of town with too little sleep. No doubt, he was persuaded to have a glass or two with friends from work to celebrate a job well done and a break before heading out to the next site. He never ate enough when he was away. He had probably drunk his beers or whiskey on a nearly-empty stomach. Foolish though it was, Jonah was glad for it now.
The older man is solid, all muscle and sandy locks with some gray strands and sharp angles and brown stubble. Jonah himself is lithe and almost raven-haired. They look so little alike, save the coffee-brown eyes and angular jawline. Jonah has taken after his mother.
He kneels down in the 'V' between the man's legs and pulls his socks away revealing large feet with a smattering of downy hair. He licks his lips at the sight, suddenly desperate to suck at the toes. He resists the urge, knowing that one wrong move will prove disastrous. His treasure slumbers at the crux of the legs splayed out to either side of him.
The belt buckle rattles as his thin fingers force the tooth through the leather, and he pulls it open. The jeans are tight and the bulge is heavy. Jonah pulls at the stubborn button. It gives way and he makes quick work of the zipper. The sound of it slicing through air makes him gulp in anticipation. He quivers in a mix of excitement and fear. This isn't right. But it is. God, if it isn't more right than anything he's ever felt.
The briefs underneath are thin and gray and silky. He savors the warmth that fills his palm when he presses it against the bulge. It is warmer than he had ever imagined. It is meaty and thick and immediately mesmeric. Jonah feels himself falling under its sexual spell. A slave to furtive lust and an aching need in his own loins, he reaches up both hands to grasp the waistband and lift it up and down to free the object of his desire.
And now he sees the forbidden fruit in its magnificence. It lies, turgid from an instinct as old as mankind itself. The instinct to fuck. The instinct to pump its hot essence into a waiting orifice. The instinct to dominate and to seed. To give pleasure and take what it needs. Savage. Rough. Strong. Even as its keeper slumbers under the weight of the dram he has imbibed, it courses to life with the innate virility and masculine energy Jonah seeks.
The musky smell wafts at him. Jonah takes down his own tight jeans and peels away his ankle socks before returning to his knees to examine the object of his desire. He kneels in his tight briefs before the man he loves best. He is seized by the aching need to have it in his hands. Before he can even stop it, his right hand goes there and holds it. The weight and girth of it, and the faint ridge of his glans tempt Jonah. A masculine force pulses in his palm and the warmth of skin heats his hand at once. He stifles a moan in his chest and pulls back the foreskin. His father is uncircumcised, a peculiarity for that generation in the rural American town where Jonah and his dad have shared an apartment for the 10 years since the divorce. Still, Dad emigrated from a part of Europe where, even then, the senseless ritual was an obscurity.
Jonah had realized early on in middle school that both he and his father were different down there from his classmates and the guy on the team. He had showered at school and after practice. In their modest apartment, Jonah and Dad shared a bathroom, and it was not uncommon for Dad to come away from a shower toweling off his hair, uncut dick hanging down from its nest, fat and proud. Dad had often spoken casually to him as he stepped into his bedroom and pulled thin briefs up to cover his tight cheeks. Jonah sometimes snuck into the bedroom to open the hamper and smell these thin strips of cloth. When he got older, he recognized the smell of excitement his father left behind from time to time, no doubt on nights when he had gone out. At these times, Jonah would feel a twinge of jealousy at the women his father was no doubt meeting mingled with his desire. Once, he even let himself lick at the cloth, tasting the tang of precum and masculinity.
It was at the kitchen table of this apartment that Jonah studied for his driver's test and later studied for exams in a technical program at the local college before going to work in the same industry as his father. He made a better wage earlier on thanks to that piece of paper. It was at the same table that they had recently toasted Jonah's twenty-first year with expensive Scotch he had choked down and his father had said would put hair on his chest. It was in this apartment, too, that he had awoken to a love for his father that ran deeper than he could ever have imagined, a respect and a hero worship that kept him up at night, stiffened prick in his hands, and that compelled him to sneak peeks at the older man in the shower when he could.
Now, he is not peeking but drinking in the sight of the meaty, substantial cock in his hand. It is swollen now, and longer, almost scalding with the heat of an instinct to mate. Jonah pulls back at the foreskin to reveal the purple head and then lets it glide back into place, a pearl of his father beading and streaking down the piss slit. Jonah lunges forward, instinct hijacking his brain and forcing him to touch the tip of his tongue to the silky, hot skin.
Tang and sweet and salty. Vintage Dad. Better than any Scotch. He brings his lips to kiss the tip and indulges his need to suckle at the fountainhead of life that made him. Jonah reaches to clasp at the manhood from which his lips are sipping and his other hand goes into his own shirt to find the aching pebble of his nipple. His need to be touched and taken is almost maddening. If only his father would wake up and take him--hard and rough and without regard for the bonds of morality--he could lose himself in this man, the object of his admiration and worship for so many years of unrequited lust.
Jonah lets his tongue scrape along his father's slit, letting salty-sweet ribbons if precum ooze out from the thick head of Dad's dick. His fingers work and pinch at his own nipple. He feels his cock drooling precum and knows the carpet is soiled with the sticky traces of his lusty neediness.
The cock on his lips is titanium hard and yet velvet softness to his tongue. He lets his hand jerk the foreskin back and forth over the swollen head, his reward for his ministrations coming as more delicious wetness and musky fragrance. Jonah lets his jaw muscles soften, and he gulps down more of the head before taking part of the shaft, servicing more of the older man, inch by inch. He is pleasuring Dad, and Dad's cock is honest in its appraisal of his oral skill. It appreciates and accepts his pleasuring, letting go of more and more drool. The slippery head is so engorged, it looks painful. Jonah wants this never to end.
Jonah gasps. Long, solid fingers have snapped with steel grips at his triceps, and now, they dig into them. The smell of Belgian beer wafts to his nose from just above his head. A low growl assaults his hearing in the twilight.
"Boy, what the fuck you think you're doing? Hmm?"
Jonah looks up, letting the manhood slip from his lips. His balance crumbles beneath him and he falls back on his ass with a bang. He hears a rapid gasping and realizes the sound is his own desperate plea for air. His erection has withered, his hand instinctively raised to shield him from any blow to his face.
"Answer me, goddamn it," his father demands. Jonah yelps as he is yanked up by the armpits in the muscled arms of his father. He is standing, toe to toe, crotch to crotch, with the man who laid the seed to bear him, the man whose thick rod he had been worshiping against all decency and without permission.
"The fuck you think you're doing down on your knees like a whore, sucking my cock when I can't say no, hmm? You do this before to me?"
