Stan Smith sat in his office at the CIA, his fingers drumming impatiently on his desk. Another night of Francine rolling over with a sigh, muttering, *"Not tonight, Stan."* It had been months.. *months..* since she’d let him touch her. Every time he reached for her, she’d push him away, claiming she was too tired, too stressed, too *anything* to fuck him. But Stan wasn’t stupid. Francine was still young, still sexy as hell with her blonde hair, her curves, that tight little body he’d once known like the back of his hand. So if she wasn’t fucking him, who *was* she fucking?

His suspicion gnawed at him like a rat in the walls. That’s why he’d done it. That’s why he’d planted cameras in every room of the house, hidden in the smoke detectors, the clock radio, even the fucking toaster. He told himself it was just to ease his mind, to prove to himself that he was being paranoid. But deep down, he knew. He *knew*.

And now, sitting in his dimly lit office, his lunch forgotten, he pulled up the live feed on his secure work computer.

The first thing he saw made his stomach drop.

Francine was in the kitchen, bent over the table, the *same table* where Stan ate his goddamn breakfast every morning, her skirt hiked up, her panties torn to the side. And there was Steve, his own *son*, standing behind her, his cock buried balls-deep in Stan’s wife.

Stan’s breath hitched, his cock twitching in his slacks despite the rage and betrayal boiling in his gut. Steve’s hands were gripping Francine’s hips, his thrusts hard and deep, the sound of skin slapping skin filling the room through the camera’s audio. Francine moaned, her fingers clawing at the tablecloth, her voice breathy and desperate. *"Harder, Steve. Fuck me harder."*

Stan’s jaw clenched. *His wife.* *His fucking wife.*

He watched, unable to look away, as Steve pulled out and flipped Francine onto her back, spreading her legs wide before slamming unprotected pussy. Francine wrapped her legs around Steve’s waist, her nails digging into his shoulders as she cried out, *"Yes! Just like that!"*

Stan’s hand drifted to his cock, his mind warring between fury and a sick, twisted arousal. This was wrong. This was *his* wife. But goddamn, the way she was taking it, like she’d been starving for it, made his dick ache.

Steve wasn’t done. Oh no. He fucked her on the table, then bent her over the couch, then carried her upstairs to Stan’s *marriage bed*, where he spread her out and fucked her forbidden hole slow and deep, his hands roaming over her body like he owned it. Francine's legs high in the air as she cried out, *"Yes Steve! Fuck Mommas ASS!"*

Francine came twice before Steve finally pulled out, his glistening cock out of her gaping butt, and guided it to her mouth. *"Swallow it all, Mom!,"* Steve growled, and she did, her lips wrapping around him, her throat working as she took every last drop as Francine smiled up at her son, her face dripping with his seed *"You're so much better than your Dad!"*

Stan’s cock was rock hard, leaking in his pants. He should’ve been furious. He *was* furious. But he couldn’t stop watching.

And then.. *then..* an hour later, Hayley walked in.

Stan’s breath caught as his daughter sauntered into the kitchen, her hips swaying, her dark hair messy from sleep. She didn’t even hesitate. She just looked at Steve, her eyes dark with hunger, and dropped to her knees in front of him.

Steve’s cock was already hard again.

*"You want this, Hayley?"* Steve asked, his voice rough.

*"You know I do,"* she purred, her hand wrapping around him.

Stan’s mind reeled. *His daughter.* *His fucking daughter.*

Hayley didn’t just suck him off. No, she let Steve bend her over the counter, her ass in the air as he fucked her rough and deep. Their moans filled the kitchen, their bodies moving in a rhythm that was anything but sisterly. *"You like that, slut?"* Steve growled, his hand tangling in Hayley’s hair as he pounded into her. *"You like being your little brothers whore?"*

Hayley moaned, her voice high and needy. *"Yes! Fuck me, Steve. Fuck me like you fucked Mom."*

Stan’s hand moved faster, his cock throbbing. This was wrong. This was *so wrong.* But he couldn’t stop.

And then... *then...* hours later, when Stan thought he’d seen it all, Snot showed up.

Stan’s eyes widened as Snot, his son’s *best friend*, walked into the living room, his voice nervous. *"Uh, Steve, man, I don’t know if*...*"*

Steve cut him off with a smirk. *"Shut up and bend over."*

And Snot *did...*

He wiped his hand on his tie, his mind racing. What was he going to do? Confront them? Divorce Francine? Kick Steve out?

Or…

Or maybe he’d just keep watching.

After all, tomorrow was another day.

**Stay tuned for Part 2!**

American Son (Part 1)