Unholy Liplocking

UNHOLY LIPLOCKING

I peeked through the dunes and my blood turned to ice, then instantly to fire. There they were. My father, the man who preached about sin every Sunday, and Marcus, my best friend since kindergarten. They were wearing nothing but briefs, huddled.

My dad had Marcus pinned, his hands gripping those thick thighs. Marcus was grinding back, a low groan tearing from his throat. They were kissing like they were drowning, mouths slamming together, tongues fighting for dominance. The way my dad's fingers dug into Marcus's skin, bruising the pale flesh... it made my cock twitch violently in my boxers.

Anger spiked in my chest. How dare they? How dare they touch each other so openly, so shamelessly? But the anger died instantly, choked out by the heat rising in my gut. Watching them, seeing the raw, unashamed lust between them, made me wet. I wanted to be the one grinding against Marcus. I wanted my dad's hands on me.

I walked out from the dunes. My boots crunched on the sand, loud in the silence.

They froze. Marcus pulled back, his chest heaving, sweat glistening on his abs. My dad looked up, his eyes dark, unreadable. He didn't look ashamed. He looked hungry.

We stood there, the air thick with tension. No words. Just stares. The wind whipped around us, carrying the scent of salt and sex.

My dad stood up slowly, the fabric of his briefs straining against his erection. He didn't look at me. He looked at Marcus, then pointed a commanding finger at his lips. "Kiss him," my dad said, his voice rough, commanding.

Marcus didn't hesitate. He stepped forward, grabbing my waist, and crashed his mouth onto mine. It was sloppy, desperate, tasting of salt and sin. I groaned into his mouth, my hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer.

Then, a hand gripped my shoulder. I turned. My dad was there, looming over us. He grabbed my face, tilting my head back. His lips were heavy, demanding. He kissed me hard, swallowing my gasp, his tongue forcing its way into my mouth. It was a kiss of possession, of authority.

"Fucking unholy father and son," Marcus whispered against my neck, biting down.

My dad laughed, a low, wicked sound. "Unholy father, son, and his friend," he growled, pulling me in.

The afternoon stretched out before us. No church. No sermons. Just us. Just sin. Just the three of us, lost in the heat of the beach, unashamed and undone.

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