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“What ya lifting now?” His dad asks as he fidgets on the commode seat. He can feel his hard-on growing in his pants. “But you didn’t though, did you, son?”

“I look forward to the day when you are a fully grown man, my son.” His father says. “I am anxious to see the fruit of my loins reach his fully-adorned manhood. Adulthood.” “Was it because of that?” His dad asks as he points a finger towards him. And his midsection.

His dad’s cock does not curve like that of his son, it angles like a fishing rod looking for fish under rushing river waters, from the deep furry patch between the father’s legs. He lifts his head from its bowed stance and looks into the eyes of his father wanting some acknowledgement.

I used my teeth to strip off daddy’s black sheer socks. I placed them in my mouth and washed them with my saliva. I swallowed every single sweat and stink from these socks. It takes so well. I rolled them into a ball and stuck them into my jockstrap where my small dick and balls were. Garrett sits on the commode, where his father had sat.

“You have not fucked, have you, my son? Have you?” His father asks, as he readjusts the cock covered and swelling in his khaki pants. “I thought as much.” “I’m am nearly 6 foot 2 inches tall, dad. I weigh 210 lbs. I think, dad. At least I was the last time we were weighed at football practice.” The son says. “Much bigger than you, I should say.”

“Yep. I’ve had one since I put on my gear at practice today.” He tells his dad. “I’m am nearly 6 foot 2 inches tall, dad. I weigh 210 lbs. I think, dad. At least I was the last time we were weighed at football practice.” The son says. “Much bigger than you, I should say.”

“Last I measured, I was nearly eight inches, dad. Maybe more. I may be even bigger, who knows.” He answers nonchalantly. He reaches for and cups the wiggling low hangers of his teenage son.

“See this; see this. “His father says. “This is where power comes from.” “I think all of us were sprouting wood, today, dad.” He says. “Coach even noticed how hard we all were.”

“Yeah, dad, it’s me.” He shouts over the blistering rush of the shower spray as it pelts him hotly with force. “It was a rough practice.” The helmet of the man’s cock weaves a picture of no recognition as the father’s cum streaks itself through the watery haze.

Garrett does not go hog-wild on his tool. He caresses and adores it like one would an idol. He reaches for and cups the wiggling low hangers of his teenage son.

“Last I measured, I was nearly eight inches, dad. Maybe more. I may be even bigger, who knows.” He answers nonchalantly. “See this; see this. “His father says. “This is where power comes from.”

“What?’ He balks at the suggestion from his dad. “Yes, sir.” He says as he straightens up, standing erect as his member pulses to life between his legs, and in his father’s right hand, which are firmly locked on his balls. “Yes, sir, I do.”

“Yep. I’ve had one since I put on my gear at practice today.” He tells his dad. “I knew ya couldn’t keep your hands off it.” His dad says. “Men can’t do it, we are drawn to our cocks, like a moth to a flame, and usually that burning sensation that a man feels is the cum boiling up in our balls. You know that feelin’ doncha son?”

“What are you now, son?” “And you did it with that. Your boner?” His dad asks. “I guess.”

He looks down. And then smiles at his dad. Garrett can see what his father is doing, unconsciously his hands moves to his cock. He strokes the length of his tool with his left hand while he teases the blistering red crown with the fingertips of his right hand. The lightning of his cool fingertips sends sparks through every nerve in his body.

The pre-cum leaks, like a babbling brook, from the boy’s erect and pulsing cock, depositing its tiny droplets of juice onto the arm-hairs of his proud father. His father squeezes the nuts of his son, tighter and tighter, releasing more of the youthful essence. “What are you now, son?”

“Back in the day, back before we turned into a modern society, a man would grab another man’s balls and swear an oath on them in his hand and state his words to be true. To be a friend” His father says. “Do you know what I mean, son?” He reaches and lets his hand glide over his swelled cock. Tickling the head of his bulbous cock with his rough fingertips which sends electric sparks through him and down to his toes.

“I bet you got some stares from the other boys in the locker room.” His dad adds. “You couldn’t miss it.” “Let me get in there, Garrett.” His father says, as his son steps aside so he can get into the shower enclosure.

“Last I measured, I was nearly eight inches, dad. Maybe more. I may be even bigger, who knows.” He answers nonchalantly. “Yeah.” He answers his dad. “…and I was ‘going commando’ too.”

“Nope.” He says. Flatly. As he runs his hand over his still steely-hard length of his curved cock. “I bet you got some stares from the other boys in the locker room.” His dad adds. “You couldn’t miss it.”