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He does not say anything in response to his father as his cock continues pulsing and jumping as the blood engorges his youthful cock more. And more. Garrett does not go hog-wild on his tool. He caresses and adores it like one would an idol.

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“What are ya now, by the way?” He runs the towel through his curl-filled hair, and down over his chest, where the early signs of his manhood sprout like an uneven crop of hairs across his chest that run down to his furry-pillowed crotch. Where the throbbing from his hard-on springs back as the damp towel whips his erection back and forth with each swipe of the now dampened towel.

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“Nope.” He says. Flatly. As he runs his hand over his still steely-hard length of his curved cock. The helmet of the man’s cock weaves a picture of no recognition as the father’s cum streaks itself through the watery haze.

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“You are grown. Yes. Physically. Yes, my son. But a full man. No! No!” His father, says, sharply. “You have much more to grow, to mature, before you are a man, before you can call yourself. A man.” “You lettin’ the beard grow on your face, I see, son?” His father asks him, as his head bumps up under the chin of his towering son.