American Dad!

All Characters in This Story Are Aged 18 Years or Older. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, loving or dead, business, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No portion of this story is to be copied, reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning or otherwise—without the expressed written permission of the author and Literotica.com.

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"Just another day at the office,"

CIA Agent Stan Smith humbly boasted after he successfully smashed yet another terrorist cell singlehandedly. By protecting America for another day Deputy Director of the CIA, Avery Bullock rewarded Stan by ordering him to leave work early. American Dad drove home toward Langley Falls, our defender of freedom, he felt proud of himself. He felt an odd stirring in his loins.

"Maybe Francine will get some lovin' tonight," he said to himself. "I know today's not Tuesday, but she'll just have to make the exception. I mean, 'C'mon its only 10 minutes and I do all the work before we go to sleep.'" And so, America's savior had tonight's activities all planned out when he arrived home.

Opening the front door, our hero's highly developed, super-trained senses told him something was amiss; or maybe it was that creepy fish Klaus' look of mortified horror, but whatever. Mr. Smith silently entered the living room and scanned it quickly for Al-Qaida, ISIS, or members of Hydra. 'None here,' his senses told him, 'they must be upstairs'; or maybe it was Klaus' staring at the top of the stairs, but whatever.

American Dad crept up the stairs not making a sound, his trusted American-made Colt automatic in his hand. Reaching the top of the stairs, he heard the terrorists in the master bedroom.

"Oh Steve," he heard his wife giggle and moan.

"They must have Francine and are torturing her by tickling her; and one of the terrorists is named Steve," Stan narrated.

Moving silently down the hallway, he paused at the doorway to assess the situation. Stealthily looking in, the scene was more horrifying then he imagined. Stumbling back in horror, Stan knew his son was a momma's boy but...

He never imagined Steve and his mom were thisclose!

Somehow finding the stairs to the attic, he fled up them. In the attic lives this strange looking, and even stranger alien Roger, who happens to run a tavern up there called Roger's Place. Mr. Smith stumbled onto one of the bar stools. Roger shuffled over to serve his lone customer. "Gee, Stan you don't look so...

"...oh, you caught them, huh?"

Stan looked at Roger traumatized, "It was, it was, it was... they were, they were..." he stuttered.

Pouring his lone customer a double of whiskey, Roger said, "I know, isn't it awful what people do these days? No respect for themselves or others."

Steve's father slugged the whiskey down. Incredulous and angry, he spit out, "You knew?"

Refilling the empty glass, the bartender calmly explained, "Stan, I may live in this attic but I hear everything that happens in this house. Right now, Jeff is in the basement rolling a spliff... Upmf, and now he lit it."

With our hero's mind swirling, he drank down the second shot and asked, "How long has this been happening?"

"It's been happening awhile. I didn't tell ya because I didn't wanna upset you," Roger calmly told his friend and refilled his customer's glass.

Stan drank the shot, pounding the empty glass on the bar. He cried, "Why?"

Roger, as the caring and attentive bartender, refilled his lone customer's glass. In a calm, caring voice he told his woe-be-gotten patron, "He's everything you're not. He's kind, caring, and considerate. He takes care of her needs, he makes sure she's finished before announcing 'Done!' and rolling over to go to sleep, worse of all... you'll need to drink that before I tell you this"

The customer hammered the whiskey down and Roger continued, "...he cuddles with her."

"Roger, what am I gonna do?" on the verge of tears, Stan pleaded.

Refilling the glass, the bartender wisely prophesied, "You'll sit on this bar stool and drink until you crash your head on the floor, knocking yourself out but scrambling your brains enough to have a good idea. Hours later, you'll wake remembering this idea but not remembering to pay your tab."

Therefore, that's what Stan Smith did.

Many hours later, he woke. Sitting up, his head spun for a moment. After his mind cleared, he got up from the floor and Stan announced, "I know what I must do."

Roger sitting on an old, beaten-down beanbag in front of an even older TV with a huge bowl of popcorn said, "Go my young Padawan."

Standing by the door to leave the attic, our American Dad yelled over, "What store do I most not belong?"

"The Candle Worx Factory," the alien answered.

After working over twenty years as a covert field operative for the CIA, Stan Smith has travelled to 191 different countries. Yet upon arriving at the Candle Worx Factory, he was assaulted by sights and scents foreign to him. Upon seeing the foreigner, a saleswoman welcomed him to her country, "Hi, I'm Myra and welcome to the Candle Worx Factory. How can I help you?"

"I need to woo my wife," the lost foreigner told her.

"Oh isn't that sweet," Myra cooed. "Come, I know exactly what we need to do."

After two hours, the patriot returned to America and headed home. Getting there, he heard Francine in the kitchen. Silently, he headed up to their bedroom, putting the bundle of packages on the bed. Heading into the bathroom, Stan looked around clueless about what he was supposed to do with all the crap he just bought. He softly whispered, "Roger, get down here."

Walking back into the bedroom, the strange looking alien was already going through the packages. "Oh my god, Stan this is incredible. Oh the things I could with this stuff."

"That's why I called you down here. Do whatever you have to do to make this and the bathroom look... you know." Francine's husband said. "How long will it take?"

"Give me 20 minutes and it'll look like Paradise," Roger told him.

"Make it ten and you can stay," Francine's husband challenged.

"Thank you, Stan, thank you," Roger exclaimed.

Mr. Smith went downstairs and into the kitchen. Going through the door, he saw Steve at the kitchen table and Mrs. Smith was at the stove. As Steve's father headed toward his wife, he noticed the dirty look his son shot him.

Oh, it's gonna get worse, Stan laughingly thought as he came up behind Francine and put his arms around her.

Startled, she spun around and seeing her husband began, "Stan..." However, her husband didn't wanna hear it. He gave Francine his best kiss. She asked, "Stan?"

He answered her with another kiss. Their lips remained together, his hand slipped down to Francine's ass, grabbing a handful. "Oh Stan..." Pulling her even tighter against him, she responded by grabbing Stan's ass.

With Francine's tongue in his mouth and her hand on his ass, our American Dad heard his son clearing his throat: "...umm... umm... there's other people in here."

Stan thought, Tough luck kid, but Dad's back in change.

Ending their kiss, he told his wife, "Put dinner to the side, I got something for you upstairs." Releasing Francine, she turned off the stove and hurried out the kitchen. Stan followed, but not before stopping to tell Steve, "Tough luck kid, but Dad's back in change."

Out the kitchen Stan went. Following his wife, he enjoyed the sight of her backside.

At the top of the stairs, Francine waited for her husband in front of their closed bedroom door. He gave her a quick kiss and asked "Ready?"

She bounced with eagerness. Her gentleman opened the door and they saw their bedroom had been transformed into a feminine utopia. She ran in and saw lace, candles, and flowers exactly where she dreamed they should be. In awe, she smelled potpourri. She saw a glow coming from the bathroom, and ran in there.

"Oh Stan... Stan..." Francine called. He followed her into the bathroom and saw it contained more lace, candles, and flowers. The bathtub had a mountain of bubbles floating on it, and steam hovered along the ceiling. She turned and embracing him, kissed him. Deftly he unzipped her dress. "In here Stan?"

"No, this is only for you," he tenderly told her. Francine finished undressing and slipped into the steaming hot water. Stan sat on the stool conveniently next to the tub, and fought mightily not to start talking about himself. To help resist the urge he started looking through the bottles of stuff he bought. He settled on the bottle of passion fruit shampoo thinking, this sounds like a good idea.

Telling his wife to dunk her head, he began washing her hair. Clueless, Stan assumed he was doing something right since all she did was 'Oh' and 'Ah.' When he rinsed her hair, her husband saw he was on the mark. Francine's nipples were rock-hard gumdrops.

Next, he grabbed a bottle that promised, 'deep hair root treatment.' Rubbing the goo into his wife's hair, she cooed with delight. As Stan continued to massage her skull, he saw Francine's hands were between her legs. This excited him and he whispered into her ear, "I want you to play with yourself."

"Oh Stan, really?... Really?" His answer was to keep massaging her head.

Francine started stroking her pussy with her whole hand, gently lapping up the warm water. She closed her eyes and leaned her head back. A soft sigh escaped from her mouth. With her eyes closed, Francine focused on all the wonderful sensations she was experiencing and thought of nothing else. With her fingertips, she massaged her outer folds and loved the quivers they sent through her.

As she inhaled the aromas, she explored her own pussy as if discovering a new toy. With each quiver, her lust built. Unaware, she cried, "oh that's so..." as it merged with a sigh of ecstasy. Tenderly, she inserted one finger into her pussy. Feeling her finger and the warm water, it brought such delight her eyelids fluttered. Her feminine spirit never felt more relaxed, and her finger sought deeper inside her womb. She could feel her nail touching, scratching, scraping. It was miraculous.

Blissfully, Francine slid her finger in an' out of pussy. Her other hand began to stroke the top of her pussy lips and the tender spot above it. She moaned, "Oh... Oooooh..." She groaned in delight; she sighed in ecstasy. While she stroked herself, she felt a hard bump. Every time she touched it, electrified her. Soon Francine began to focus on her clit and for her, time stopped to exist.

Stan watched, for the first time ever, as his wife pleasured herself. He was enchanted and wondered why he had never done this before. He kept massaging her head until she arched her head back and held it there. He dropped his hands to her shoulders. Rubbing them, he heard his wife's sighs increase in frequency.

Released from its body, the feminine spirit felt her lust build towards its climax. Francine knew it wouldn't be long. She could perceive her release was right there, and sought it desperately. She vigorously rubbed her clit; she furiously fingered herself. Stan watched his wife's arms moving like a blur, her legs shook.

Suddenly her back arched and she thrust her chest skyward. The angel saw the light before her and she reached out to it. As she did, it crashed over her; it absorbed her; it purified her; it became her. She shouted to the heavens in delight. For a lifetime, she bathed in the light, and then allowed it to withdraw. She became she again yet the residue of the light resided in her.

Slowly opening her eyes and upon seeing her husband she said, "Kiss me, my love." She rewarded Stan with a kiss never more enriching. She removed her tongue from his mouth, and broke the kiss.

"Stan, I'm sorry. I love you." The angel stood up and he handed her a towel. As she stepped out of the tub, her husband wrapped a robe around her. She wrapped the towel around her hair, twisting it into a turban.

Having returned to this earthly Paradise, Mrs. Smith looked around in amazement. "Stan, you did this yourself?"

Stan admitted, "It was my idea, and I bought everything; it was Roger who made it is," waving his hand to include all. Hearing her husband's honesty surprised her more than anything already happened.

"Come, let's go to bed. Now it's your turn to pleasure me," Francine told her love.

Stan scooped her up and carried her through the door. Reaching the bed, he playfully tossed her onto it. Francine's robe flew open. She cared not a whim. She playfully teased, "Is this what you want?" Her husband just boyishly nodded his head.

"Then get naked and join me," she ordered. Mr. Smith removed his black tie, his blue suit, and white shirt. So full of lust, he tossed it all on the floor.

"Stan, are you wearing boxers?" For her, he traded his trusty tighty-whitey superman's. He sported a pair of boxers, white boxers polka-dotted with red hearts.

"Do you like?" he asked as he thrust out his hips. The angel let out a wolf whistle and said, "Indeed I do, now get them off and get over here." Mr. Smith shucked the boxers and climbed on to the bed to join Mrs. Smith.

Stan climbed over Francine. She grabbed her brawny husband, pulling him to her. Lustfully, they began kissing each other; exploring each other's bodies with their hands. When he touched a delicate sensitive spot on Francine, she broke their kissing to release a sigh of delight. It was then she noticed a strange shaped shadow in the corner.

"Stan, Roger's in here! He's watching us," Francine said concerned.

"So what? Let him..." Stan replied.

"Really?" Francine asked astonished by Stan's willingness. "But,"

Knowing what his wife meant, he called out, "Roger, you promise not to touch either of us."

"I will." The shadow replied.

With more force Stan growled, "Roger..."

Grudgingly the shadow conceited, "I promise."

Francine whispered into Stan's ear, "I'm surprised at your gen..."

He interrupted her by saying, "I know you've always wanted to let him."

She laughed and playfully bit his ear. Releasing it, she joked, "Let's give him a show then."

With that, Francine reached between them and groped until she found her husband's equipment. As she fondled him, she marveled as she always did at how his anvil-sized chin was an indicator of how massive the rest of him was. Francine cupped just one of his testicles, it was all she could fit in her hand then she shifted to the other. Having judged their weight, she knew how much love juice he would have for her.

Even as different as Stan was today, Francine still knew he wasn't the most creative of lover she ever had. As she took hold of his elephant trunk and guided it into her eager pussy, she knew what to expect.

As always, as soon as Stan's cock entered her pussy it was like releasing him from the starting gate of a horse race. Instantly, he was spiriting all out, galloping for the finish line. His wife was used to and welcomed it; she took the pounding the stallion delivered upon her pussy.

Like an enraged rhinoceros, Stan pummeled his ivory horn into her; who responded by wrapping her arms and legs onto him, holding on for dear life. Francine cried out in pleasure, she screamed out in pain, she howled to the gods in delight, she cursed at the gods; and still he continued to grind away with no sign of letting up.

Back an' forth, Mr. Smith rode Mrs. Smith and she was able to catch Roger watching them. The look on his face excited her lust. Looking at the horror stricken, marveling, envious face of Stan's strange little friend, Francine cheered Stan on. After a few minutes of his jackhammering into her pussy, she began to expect her husband to stiffen, call out "Done!" and deposit a bucket of cum within her.

She was amazed as her racehorse continued to pulverize her pussy with no end in sight. Francine's mind swirled as she tried to gasp for breath, amazed at her racehorse's stamina. Our hero ceaselessly donkey-dicked his wife; he pummeled his horse-cock into her shaved clam. Francine marveled at how her thoroughbred had become a plow horse.

She laughed at the thought, Stan can be a mule, but he knows how to plow my field.

For the angel, time ceased to have meaning. The only things she could comprehend was the wonderful throb her pussy emitted, Stan's battering ram, the heat they were creating and the look of awe upon Roger's face.

Francine felt as if she were liquefying, she felt her pussy juices running out of her, she could feel it puddle underneath her, she felt her ass splashing into it every time he drove her into it. She felt sweat dripping from her every pore; she felt her husband's sweat flooding over her, threatening to drown her. She screamed in delight at such a rewarding promise.

Many lives later, Francine saw the candles had burnt down. She felt Stan stiffen. She prepared for the onslaught, knowing her lover was about to flood her with his cum. Still when Stan called out to the universe "DONE," Francine was still shocked at the force of his cum exploding into her.

His cum shot into her and she wondered how it didn't rip through her. His cum filled her, flooded her, overwhelmed her, drowned her, and still he continued cumming! His cum overflowed her pussy. It ran down her ass-crack mixing with her own puddle beneath her. Finally, her hero groaned at the end of his release and his tsunami of semen was over.

Stan collapsed upon her, and Francine loved his suffocating mass on her. As she struggled for air, she gasped: "Stan...that...was...incredible!"

Above her, she heard him proudly say, "Yeah, I was pretty good." Rolling off her, she was startled to hear him admit, "You were pretty good yourself," and Francine knew she loved her Gov't Mule.

Mrs. Smith thought she couldn't be surprised any more today. She was shocked speechless when instead of hearing Mr. Smith start snoring, he wrapped an arm around her and pulled her close to him. She snuggled up against her reformed Neanderthal, draping on arm across his heaving chest.

His wife laid there with her legs open letting Roger watch Stan's cum leak out her pussy. Devilishly, she inserted a finger into her drenched hole. Withdrawing her cum-laden finger, Francine sucked it into her mouth. She thought Roger may've fainted as she deliciously drew her finger out.

When time returned back to seconds, minutes, and hours Stan said to Francine: "I'm hungry, how 'bout Chinese?" Realizing how famished she was, she agreed and prepared to get up to start cooking. Yet her hero held her tight and she was astonished when she realized he was on the phone ordering. She was caught off-guard when he asked, "Francine, what do you want?"

"Can I get the number 4?" she tentatively asked.

"For you, anything," her love informed her.

Then she couldn't believe it when Stan called out, "Roger?"

"Let me get number 7 and an extra shrimp roll...oh and an extra fortune cookie. I never like what the first one says." Stan simply repeated his strange friend's order. Looking at Francine, Stan mouthed, 'Diet Coke?' she shook her head no. 'Diet Pepsi?' She nodded yes. Francine marveled as this stranger gave their address. She wondered, Stan was paying extra for delivery? Do the miracles cease?

Hearing him hang up the phone, Mrs. Smith realized, "What about Steve?"

"Steve is gonna have to learn to fend for himself," America's Dad told her.