Met and Bred by my Biological Dad

Editor's note: this submission contains scenes of incest or incest content.

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This is how I met my biological father.

I was adopted as a baby. I didn't meet my bio-Dad until I was eighteen, since I was born in a place where records of the adoptees and their biological parents were sealed until we, the adoptees, become adults. I'm just going to call him Dad from here on out because that's what I call him in real life. With my adopted father we spoke French all the time, so he was always "père" or "papa". Never Dad. Mon père was a stick-thin sixty-something academic. Dad was thirty-six and built like a Minotaur.

Dad had me when he was eighteen. He gave me up because he was too young, too broke, and just all around too problematic. But I didn't know that growing up. Instead, I had this image of my bio-Dad as a hero with the body of a god. Being born way on the other end of the country, it didn't seem likely I'd learn who he really was anytime soon even after turning eighteen. But then fate stepped in. Without knowing it, Dad ended up settling in a city just two hours away from me, where he worked as a personal trainer.

At first, a personal trainer was all he was to me. See, when Dad got my records and found out where I lived, he wanted to meet me but just wasn't ready to be confronted with all the emotional baggage that being my bio-Dad involved. It would put him on the back foot from the get go. Better to meet me without me knowing who he was. So, he rang our doorbell and played the visiting salesman. Just a guy selling his professional service. If this scheme sounds wild, well, you don't know my Dad.

I was the one who answered the door and my first thought on seeing my Dad was fuck me. All personal trainers are hot, but it's usually all surface. Look a little deeper and they're just pampered boys who haven't experienced much of life beyond the gym. This guy, though, looked to me like a real bad boy. I liked the casual but ready-for-anything way he stood, the tatts peeking out of his sleeves, the bit of edginess in his eyes as he scanned for exits even as he smiled and told me in his back-alley lilt how he was drumming up business for his health club. He told me that all he needed was my name, email and phone number and he'd enter me into a raffle for a free one-year gym membership and a weekly training session with him.

I gave Dad what he wanted. What could a body like that do in bed? I wondered, not knowing that getting fucked by that body meant committing incest. As for Dad, well, he was the cagey sort with his own agenda. Instead of telling me the truth, he called to say I'd "won" his fake free raffle. He figured meeting once every weekend for him to train me would be a great way for us to bond before the tiny problem of genetics and the missing eighteen years got in the way. When I apologized, red-faced, for getting a hard-on one day while doing bench presses with him standing over me, he just gave me a sly smile, shrugged, and whispered that I'd already sent him dick pics over Grindr. Apparently, his profile had been one of the hot faceless dudes I'd sent nudes to. "Great," I thought glumly, "He thinks I'm a slut." Well, at least I knew now he was at least bi.

Eventually I found myself standing in his motel room just mindlessly staring at his dick. Dad really needed to have said something then. Because by the time I slid off his sweatpants and took his big club-shaped cock into my mouth, I think it was a little late. He warned me before he came, but even so I was surprised. Dad shot a mouthful, then another, and another. It was more than I could take and it dribbled out of my mouth to form stains on the carpet. It wasn't till later that I'd learn about the supplements Dad added to his protein shakes. They enhanced the size of his loads.

Things progressed from there. I started giving Dad oral after every workout session. Eventually, he started sucking my dick, and then we made out. Why didn't Dad stop it? Because at the end of the day, Dad wanted me to suck his cock not despite me being his flesh and blood, but because I was. He liked incest. He liked it because it was wrong. From the moment he'd realized I was checking him out he'd decided to let the situation play itself out. Fuck the consequences.

One part thug, other part charlatan, Dad was exactly the kind of man other dads hate out of instinct because guys like that so rarely do the decent thing. He held back only from fucking me, saying that he'd never fucked a client and wanted to keep it that way. What he was really trying to do was keep it casual. But he needn't have bothered. I was already falling for him. I wanted Dad to fuck me bad, but I got nowhere until I mentioned that I'd already brought lube and condoms.

"You always fuck safe?" he asked. "Never bareback?"

Never, I said.

"You're a good boy," he murmured, before revealing in a low voice, "I only fuck raw." And then he lifted my legs onto his massive shoulders and see-sawed his club of a cock against my crack. If I wanted him to fuck me, he told me, I'd have to let him do it unprotected. "You trust me?" he asked, studying me intently. I did. "Show me." He licked his lips. Dad wanted me to let him be the first to breed me. "Us guys," he gave a feral smile, "We always remembered our first bareback fuck." Truth be told, I was a little scared, but I wasn't going to disappoint my trainer, or the hottest guy I'd ever met. So when Dad lubed up his cock and slid it into my ass raw all I did was moan. I don't know if it was because we were barebacking, or because we were related, but it went in slicker and smoother than any cock of that size I'd ever taken. Then he started fucking.

Dad had done the wrong thing, and he knew it. He was balls deep inside his son's body, teaching me just how good it felt without a condom. Bad lessons from a bad father. As we locked eyes, he shot load after load, with more spunk leaking out my ass with each thrust. At thirty-seven, Dad's body was in his prime, and he bred me with the energy and skill only an experienced breeder who hits the gym seven times a week can. I swear, if I'd been his daughter rather than his son, Dad would have wanted to impregnated me in that motel. If I'd popped out a kid nine months later, he'd have been right at it again trying to make another. Dad was big on mating and procreating, and the fact that he was fucking the product of one real successful coupling turned him on all the more.

Me, I was clueless. I had no idea, even as I lay underneath the weight of Dad's body, that I'd inherited the build and sex drive of the man who'd just inseminated me. All I knew was that we shared a connection. And that it felt so fucking good. I came with Dad inside me without even touching myself.

After that, there was no turning back for either of us. Each weekend Dad drove down we'd workout and then, still covered in sweat, we'd fuck raw. Missionary was our favorite position. There was something extra intimate about wrapping my body around a guy who's almost entirely lean muscle. Then there was seeing my cum splattering his broad pecs and, when he sat up, seeing it catch in each dip in his abs as it dripped down to his crotch.

On my nineteenth's birthday, mon père bought me a second-hand car and I started driving up to Dad's place more often. Dad bought me a weight belt and a bunch of other quality equipment. By then I was starting to pack on serious muscle. Dad, I think, took a certain pride in molding me into his perfect fucktoy. And I was proud to be that fucktoy. Pretty soon, I was drinking semen-enhancing protein shakes too.

A few months later, I graduated from our jurisdiction's equivalent of high school. I went to stay with Dad rent-free for the summer, with my plan being to go to the university in Dad's city come fall. I'd already applied and been made an offer, but Dad wanted me to put off accepting for another month. He had something special planned on a specific date, and didn't want me to make a decision until then. It was all a little mysterious, but given that he'd now begun breeding me on a daily basis, I was generally agreeable to whatever Dad had in mind.

The date arrived and I walked out of the shower to see a wrapped box on my nightstand. Dad stood there with a lazy smile on his face, eyeing me up and down. The box was for me, but for later. Cocking his head in the direction of his bedroom, he said he wanted to fuck me first. I was down with that. Closing the distance, Dad tugged my towel loose and let it drop to the floor. His big hands lingered on my ass as we made out. Once we were both naked in his room, Dad pushed me onto his bed and then joined me there. With my ass raised so he could rim me, all I could see was Dad's thick hairy forearms, and all I felt was the intense wetness of Dad's tongue probing my sphincter. By the time he entered me his cock was already coated with precum. He made so much of it that we didn't even bother with lube anymore. A bit of spit was all that was needed to smooth out the friction of skin-to-skin fucking.

At some point, Dad rolled me over onto my stomach and got on top. Sliding in with a grunt, he started driving into my prostate in blunt, controlled assaults, pushing me towards orgasm. When it came to sex, nothing was accidental with Dad. I rarely came unless he wanted me to cum. When I started getting close, Dad casually murmured into my ear, "You know, I knew this girl once. Good girl. Freckles. Pretty eyes. Took her virginity in the parking lot of the auto-shop where I worked. Twenty years ago to the day. You know who the girl was?"

"No," I croaked. The pleasure was too intense for me to really follow the story.

"Your mother," Dad grunted.

My head jerked up. "What?"

"You're my son," said Dad in a soft, gravelly voice. "Me and your mother, we made you in that parking lot, boy."

"Like hell you did," I swore, still horny but also angry. I tried to throw Dad off, but in an instant, he had me pinned beneath his full weight and a headlock. I cried out, frustrated and dazed. What the heck was going on?

"Now you listen, Son," Dad continued, his voice edged in steel, his cock firmly lodged in my ass. "You've gotten stronger, but you're not near strong enough. Now, there are things you need to know, most of which I'm not so proud of, so shut your squirming for a minute and listen!"

I went still and Dad started telling me things. He told me my birth mother's name, the faraway city I was born in, the things he'd done there, a lot of which was stupid and petty. I learned that I had a half-brother, two years younger, who lived with his mother in that city and who Dad paid child support to. He talked about escaping his old life and building a new one here. A guy I'd met and assumed was just Dad's work buddy turn out to be something more.

As always, there was a certain flow in the way Dad talked. And the subtle but persistent flexing of Dad's hips as he gently fucked me almost tempted me to ignore the insanity of what he was implying. It pissed me off that this guy, who now seemed a complete stranger to me, could literally screw a guy in the same breath he was telling his life story. It pissed me off even more that I was still rock hard.

"You're mad, I can tell," said Dad. "That's fair. Guess I should have told you I was your father from the start. But then we'd never have started fucking. I wanted you as soon as I saw you, Son. And I knew you wanted me too. So here we are. I'm not gonna lie. Knowing you're me son turns me on." To emphasize the point, Dad loosened his headlock and rammed his cock in hard. I moaned involuntarily. God damn it. God damn my Dad's raw cock.

"I don't want this ride to end. But I'm telling you now, because if you're moving in with me for the long haul, I want no secrets between us. I want to be as much a good father, if you'll let me, as a good fuck. What you say, Son?"

What could I say? My head was swimming. What kept popping into my mind were the words of my science teacher: "The father's sperm determines the sex." This guy fucking me wasn't just training my body, he'd practically predetermined my physiology based on the cold hard facts of biology. The DNA he'd been pumping into me every time we fucked, well, that was why we were similar in height and why our cheekbones looked alike. Dad was the one who'd set the testosterone levels in my body and made it so I shot semen when I came instead of wet my pussy. Shit, he was probably why I was gay.

It felt like my whole world had shifted. But the only sounds I made were moans. "Fuck boy, you've turning into one hot little jock," rasped Dad. "But you're body still needs protein, Son. Hold on."

Dad's cock, that thing he'd used to plow my mother, was now plowing his teenage kid, hard and fast. I wanted him to fucking breed me already so that I could cum. Flooding me with his semen always set my body off. It was like my body wanted... no, needed permission before releasing its own load. I wondered if that need had something to do with my Dad's DNA.

"I've waited twenty years to mark the day you were conceived, boy, and today's it." By his ragged breathing, I could tell Dad was getting close. "I've regrets, but making you ain't one of 'em. Breeding your mum at eighteen let me breed you now."

I could feel Dad's cock swell with blood. "Happy Breed-Day, Son!"

Dad bellowed. Our bodies convulsed. His semen ejaculated, then mine. For the first time, I'd been bred while knowing that it was my own Dad's cum filling me up, that this was incest. But in that instant, I knew I wasn't going to stop fucking my Dad.

In the days that followed, Dad made himself scarce. He told me he wanted to give me space to process it all. The material evidence of his truth was in the wrapped box he'd left in my room. It had my birth certificate, the adoption documents, the court records. And Dad's rap sheet. So much for the hero-image I'd had of him since I was a kid. There were also photos of my birth-mother. Apparently I'd inherited her eyes and complexion.

It'd been one revelation after another. But the one thing I pushed back against was the expectation that I accept him as a father-figure in any way, shape, or form. I was nineteen, a grown man. By the way he broke the truth of my paternity -- that is, while balls deep in me -- it didn't seem like he saw a difference between me the boytoy and me the son. And that didn't sit well with me. He couldn't have it both ways, and I told him so. It would be way too messed up. If I was going to move in, it would be on the understanding that I would never call him Dad and he would never call me Son. We'd be lovers, and that was it.

Surprisingly, Dad just shrugged. Fine by him. And that was it. Or so I thought.

Things settled down. Dad and I went back to fucking and working out together. Come moving day, I gained a new appreciation of how strong he was. I watched him carry my wood-furnished computer desk up two flights of stairs single-handed before breeding me on it. Once school started, he added another twist to our sex-life. Before bed, while his cock was sliding in and out of my ass, he started asking how my day went.

"Fine," I said the first time, both my hands gripping his biceps as he worked to get me bred.

"No, I wanna know details," insisted Dad. Then he stopped fucking.

"Alright, details," I agreed, desperate for him to keep going. And so, I told him about the new profs, the party girl who'd hit on me after class, the archery club I thought might be cool to join... all while getting slow-fucked. Dad, for his part, listened attentively and sometimes chimed in with a revealing personal story or two when he wasn't grunting from pleasure. Dad's experiences had given him some uncanny insights into human nature. Gradually, bedtime sex became a special kind of sharing time, and what started off as weird became something I looked forward to. Sometimes, the fucking went on all night.

It was during one of those late-night sessions, while Dad was taking me in the missionary position, that he told a corny joke that prompted me to roll my eyes and groan, "Daaaad!"

With a look of instant triumph, he crowed, "You called me Dad! Now say it again!"

I clamped down, realizing my mistake. I shook my head.

Heaving a sigh, Dad cupped my face. "Look kid, you know I love you. I love you 'cause you're my hot fucking stud. But -- and here's the part I know you don't wanna hear -- I also love you 'cause you're my son. You think I'd have bought a fuckbuddy an entire year's gym membership the first day I met you? You must've figured out by now that you didn't win no free raffle. Or how about driving two hours each way for a year, every goddamn weekend? Heck, if you weren't my son, we'd never have met in the first place!" I felt a pang of guilt. He wasn't wrong. He pushed off his knees and onto his toes so that I could clearly see Dad's bare cock, shiny with precum, sinking into my stretched hole. "You see that? That's my cock. It's what made you. This is us being joined in flesh and blood. Incest, boy. Sex with family. We're family, and if you wanna keep getting bred, I think it time you acknowledged it. So you still want me to breed you?"

"Yeah," I panted.

"I want you to say it," he growled.

"I want you to breed me," I gasped.

"Who am I?" he demanded.

I said his name. A look I recognized as disappointment crossed his face. I hated that look.

He punched me in the shoulder, hard. "Wrong answer. Who am I?"

I hesitated.

He'd stopped fucking and was just looking at me now in a cool, detached way. He punched me again. "Boy, I'm not gonna fucking ask again."

I squirmed. I hated disappointing him. And I wanted to be bred, bad. Finally, I caved. "Dad," I blurted out.

All of a sudden, his face broke into a broad grin and he kissed me. "Better. Both parts together now. What you want, Son?"

"I want you to breed me, Dad." I groaned.

"See, not so hard, is it?" He stuck his tongue into my mouth and started thrusting again. "Nothing wrong with wanting to have my babies, Son," he rasped. "Now, say it louder."

I shouted, "Breed me, Dad!" and kept on shouting until he did what we both wanted. With a guttural roar like a gas engine he sent his sperm swimming inside me. What semen didn't end up soaking my anal walls ended up squirting out my sphincter with every pump of Dad's still spewing cock. Then, while still covered in the sweat from our fucking, Dad proceeded to scoot down and suck what cum was left in my ass so he could pass it from his mouth to mine. "Protein recapture," he called it. I swallowed it all. By then I'd already shot my load, but I still had the urge to worship and lick clean Dad's cock. I gave into it because that's what I felt it deserved. It was the tool that had given me life. Dad gave a low rumble of satisfaction.

I'd finally come into my own. Where there'd been a naive, clean-living teenager, there was now a well-muscled fuckboy in an incestuous relationship. Bit by bit, Dad had convinced me I'd had it all wrong from the get go. Hero-Dads were invented by sons who didn't have Dads they could get intimate enough to really know. Whereas my Dad was a warm (and ripped) body in my bed that I could talk to, hold, and make love to every night. I could measure his sacrifices over the past year in all the ways that mattered. What more could a son ask for?

This is how Dad became Dad. From then onward, it was what I called him when it was safe, and even sometimes when it wasn't. It's now "Dad!" when dinner is ready, just as it's "Dad!" when he's putting a second dose of DNA in my ass. Our little chats during late-night sex went on. Dad always makes my Breed-Day extra special. I filled out some more, though Dad was careful not to let me bulk too much or get tattoos and piercings. These days, I'm just a leaner, cleaner version of Dad, and I like it that way. I think it speaks to the way we're bound to each other by genetics, animal sexual attraction, and love. Sure, he might not have raised me, but that doesn't make him any less of a Dad in my eyes. Nor does him being my Dad make him any less fuckable. Dad had been right. He could have it both ways.