Editor's note: this story contains scenes of incest or incest content.
*****
I was sure my parents were going to get divorced.
It felt like all they did was fight. It was constant. As soon as I got to high school, it was like a switch flipped—we went from a big, happy family to two archenemies competitively trying to parent one teenager. It was exhausting. They worked tirelessly to find minute details to fight over, from doing dishes to washing the car to picking me up from soccer practice. Once they bought me my own car, they gave up on "who will pick Max up" and moved on to "who will pay for gas."
There were only two times they weren't fighting. The first was when they weren't speaking, just letting the harsh, silent resentment bubble up between them, building until it noticeably lowered the air temperature.
The other was when they were fucking.
And boy, did they fuck.
I gathered from my friends in high school that it wasn't normal to listen to your parents fuck like that. Apparently, some parents are discreet, and some pretend like they don't have sex at all. Not my folks. An hour and a half, two, even three hours at a time, they would go at it like screaming, sweating, moaning maniacs. The floors would shake and clothes would rip and once or twice a neighbor even called the police; Mom would come down to the door to meet the officer, a towel thrown quickly over her body for modesty.
On one occasion, the cop, a young, new officer, asked to take a look around the house. I happened to be upstairs in my room at the time. Through the door, I heard my mother waffle for a moment on whether that was a good idea. I crept out and looked down the stairs; there she was, towel and all, and there was the thin-faced cop with his hand on his hip. Finally, she said yes, he could come take a look around. There was a strange look on her face when she agreed.
The cop didn't linger long. He took a sweep of the main floor, checked the basement, and headed upstairs. Mom lingered behind him in her towel, occasionally making an awkward comment about the house to ease the tension. I could hear her voice flitting from floor to floor, babbling about vaulted ceilings and natural light. Finally, they came upstairs. I posed myself casually on the bed when he knocked on my door; he poked his head in, nodded, and closed the door again, continuing his search. Strange; I was sure he'd at least say something to me. I opened the door a crack to spy on him; I couldn't help it. He was an invader, and I was curious.
I saw him pace slowly across the hall, open the door to the master bedroom, then quickly slam it shut. He turned around, his face plastered with shock, and quickly made for the stairs. Mom flapped after him, talking much faster now, blabbering how the bathrooms perfectly suited our little family. I heard him say something quick and polite on the stairs, then the indistinct murmurs of her explaining something.
Curiosity overwhelmed me. Where was Dad? I knew he had to be in the room, but why hadn't I heard his voice? Was he okay? I had to act fast, before Mom came back upstairs. I bolted out of my room, hesitated for just a brief moment at the master bedroom door, and peeked inside.
There was Dad, alright—he was strapped to the bed, arms spread wide, on his back. Cuffs ensnared his wrists, holding his arms down to the bed. But his ankle cuffs did not keep his legs down—instead they pulled his legs straight up, the cords running to my parents' huge headboard, leaving his ass exposed in a toppled sitting position. His ass, big and lightly furry, was red and covered in welts. A big red ball was perched between his drooling lips. Clamps held tightly to his nipples. He was wearing a blindfold.
And, of course, his cock was hard. It pointed up weirdly at his face in his reclined position, nestled in a neatly trimmed bush of brown. Maybe it was my imagination, but I thought I could see it throb gently as I watched. He was loving this.
That was when I saw that there was something in his ass. Something dark and... wide.
I heard Mom's footsteps on the stairs again (having seen the cop out the door), and I sprinted back to my bedroom. I heard door to the master close, and it wasn't long before the screams and moans started up again. This time, though, I could imagine my father's bright red ass when I heard the thudding of flesh, and his big, beautiful dick when he moaned in ecstasy.
It was overwhelming. For the first time, listening to them fuck, I took my cock out. I jerked it frantically, keeping myself teetering on the edge until I heard the earthshaking holler that announced Dad's climax. I made sure to cum at the same time.
Soon after, they started fighting over the thermostat.
I didn't think things would work out long-term. I couldn't imagine that the crazy sex was enough to keep them together; I figured that it was me. So when I left for college, I prepared for the call, or the text, or the visit home that would announce that they were separating.
When I left for college, they would barely talk to each other. They stood an awkward two feet apart and waved as I pulled out of the driveway with a car full of cheap dorm furniture. Dad was wearing a neatly pressed button down shirt, tucked carefully into his khaki pants. Mom was wearing a t-shirt and jeans.
Then there was the day that changed everything.
I got home from college with a duffel bag and a backpack. I was wearing a baseball cap turned backwards, a t-shirt, and shorts—all of it lightly sweaty from the early summer heat, if I recall. As soon as I stepped inside and closed the door behind me, I slipped my shoes off. I started to head upstairs when I heard the unmistakable sound of flesh hitting flesh—someone was fucking in the kitchen. Only distantly surprised, I moved to the stairs again, but something about the sounds gave me pause. The slapping sound was normal for my parents, but the low growls, the deep moans, they were not. Mom was usually every bit as loud as Dad—why was she being so quiet?
Then, the impulsive thought. Maybe I should take a look.
And maybe, just maybe, I could catch a glimpse of Dad, sweating, cock flexing, ass jiggling...
So I peered around the stairs into the kitchen, where something altogether different was happening.
It was Dad, alright, moaning and groaning and whimpering on the kitchen island. He was on all fours, and slam fucking him with the biggest dick I'd ever seen in person was our big, hunky neighbor, Mr. Jones.
They were both naked, both dark and hairy, both glazed with a light sheen of sweat; both had clearly been athletes in their youths, but both (especially Dad) had filled out from years of comfortable suburban living. They looked... physically similar, almost, if not like brothers then like cousins. However, the similarity was only physical; their roles could not have been more different. Dad's eyes were rolled back, his face was desperate and grateful and submissive. His back was arched, and his moans were light. His mouth was agape in ecstasy. Mr. Jones was growling, grunting, slamming Dad as hard as he could with slow, powerful strokes. His face was screwed up with intensity. But to top it all off, he was saying the most filthy things I had ever heard in my entire life.
"Take that fucking dick, faggot," he said, yanking on my dad's thinning hair to arch his back more.
"Yes, sir," said Dad breathlessly between moans. "Whatever you want, sir."
"I own that cunt, don't I, bitch? This ass is fucking mine to seed whenever I want?"
"Yes, sir! Whenever you want!"
"Take this fucking cock, boy. You're going to have to work for this load. You're going to have to earn it."
"Please sir," Dad started to undulate backwards, grinding Mr. Jones' cock deeper inside of him, "please, sir, I need your fucking load. I need it inside me."
"You my good faggot cumdump?"
"Yes, sir!"
"Say it."
