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“That your jockstrap on the floor next to you, son?” His dad asks. “Pick it up and smell the crotch.” His dad says.

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Garrett sits on the commode, where his father had sat. “That you, son?” A voice chimes in from the hallway.

The now lukewarm water streams through the curls of his hair rinsing away the last vestiges of the soapy lather. It all goes down the drain in a swirl of bubbles. “Nope.” He says. Flatly. As he runs his hand over his still steely-hard length of his curved cock.

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Daddy gave me a look implying his shoes are needed to be removed. “Can I take off your loafers, daddy ?” I asked so quietly. He looked at me and nodded. I took off both his loafers and put them away neatly in front of me. Daddy then raised his right leg and stepped on my forehead, pushing me down into his loafers. It is a mixed smell with sweat, testosterone, and leather. I couldn’t help but take a big whiff every time I breathed. “Hands-on the floor” he commanded. He moved his feet from my head to my hands. “Kiss them and make the stink goes away using only your fag tongue.” “Yes sir.” His father’s words are what he hears when he erupts. His cum streaming like liquid threads from the pee-hole of his rigid cock.