I was folding laundry on the couch when the bathroom door creaked open upstairs. Dad had just finished his Saturday jog and shower; the hallway smelled like Irish Spring and steam. The door was cracked a few inches—he always leaves it that way when he thinks the house is empty. I glanced up without thinking.
He was at the sink, towel low, back to me. Upper fifties, still solid—broad shoulders, a little softness around the middle, thick chest hair going gray. He turned for his deodorant and the towel shifted—just enough. I saw it: dense, wiry salt-and-pepper bush, cut cock hanging heavy, soft but thick, the head flared and pink. He didn’t see me. Just retied the towel and walked to his room.
I kept folding, but my mind wouldn’t let it go. Dad came down ten minutes later in gray sweatpants and an old Navy tee, pouring coffee. I grabbed a water and sat.
He glanced over. “You eat?”
“Not yet.” My voice sounded off.
He leaned on the counter, sipping. “What’s up?”
I rubbed my neck. “Bathroom door was cracked.”
He snorted. “Towel slipped. Sorry.”
“No big deal.” I paused, then blurted, “You’re… really thick.”
He raised an eyebrow, half-smirk. “Thanks. Runs in the family.”
I laughed, awkward. “You sure? I mean… I’m not small, but…”
He set his mug down. “You fishing for a ruler?” I shrugged, face hot. “Kinda.”
He huffed a laugh, not offended. “Alright. Let’s settle it.”
He hooked his thumbs in his waistband and shoved his sweatpants down just enough. His cock flopped out—heavy, soft, nestled in that thick, untamed bush of gray-black pubes. Cut head, flared and pink, resting against his thigh. He gave it a lazy shake. “There.”
I swallowed. Stood. Pushed my shorts down. My dick was already half-hard, springing free—cut, long, thinner than his, curving up.
He looked. Nodded. “Not bad, Dylan. Good length. You’ll fill out.”
We both just stood there, dicks out, the kitchen quiet except for the fridge hum. I couldn’t tuck back in. Neither could he. His started to thicken, just from the air, the comparison.
I took a breath. “They look different soft. What about hard?”
He stared at me a second, then shrugged. “Fair point. Sit.”
We moved to the living room. He dropped into the recliner, legs spread. I sat on the couch, facing him, maybe five feet apart. He wrapped a fist around his cock—slow, deliberate strokes. It grew fast in his hand, thickening, veins popping, the head swelling dark pink. That bush framed it like a crown.
I gripped mine, matching his pace. Long pulls from base to tip, thumb swiping the head. Pre-cum beaded quick, slicking my palm. The room filled with soft, wet sounds—skin on skin, breathing getting heavier.
He glanced over. “Both cut. Easier to clean.”
“Yeah.” I pumped steady, eyes on his fist moving through that thick bush. His cock was fully hard now—thick, a solid seven inches, girth like a beer can. Bigger than mine by a lot.
“Fuck,” I muttered. “Yours is a monster.”
“Yours ain’t small,” he grunted. “Nice curve. Girls like that.”
We kept stroking, tension building. I was close—hips twitching, fist flying. He was too, abs flexing, breath ragged.
Then I stood, stepped closer. “Can we… compare hard? Like, side by side?”
He paused, fist still. Looked at me a long second. Then nodded. “Alright.”
I moved between his knees. We both stood. Our cocks were inches apart, both rock-hard, throbbing. I reached out, hesitant. He didn’t stop me.
I pressed mine against his—hot skin on hot skin, the contrast stark. His was thicker, heavier, the head flaring wider; mine longer but slimmer, curving up. I slid them together, base to tip, feeling the weight, the heat, the pulse. Pre-cum smeared between us, slick and warm. “Jesus,” I whispered. “Feel that?”
He grunted, hips shifting slightly. “Yeah. You’re not kidding.”
We stayed like that—cocks pressed together, sliding slow, the friction electric. My hand wrapped around both, stroking us as one. His breath hitched. Mine too.
Then I dropped to my knees. “Just the head,” I whispered. “Please.”
He didn’t stop me. Just leaned back, hand falling to his thigh.
I took his flared head in my mouth—hot, salty, the skin smooth over steel. I sucked gentle, tongue swirling under the ridge. He groaned, low and rough, hand settling on my head—not pushing, just there.
He tensed. “Fuck—gonna—”
I didn’t pull off.
He came hard—thick, heavy pulses flooding my mouth. The taste hit strong: salty, slightly bitter, thick and creamy, coating my tongue. I swallowed fast, some leaking down my chin. Kept sucking softly until he softened, the last drops oozing out warm and slick.
He pulled out slow, breathing hard. Grabbed tissues from the side table, handed me a wad. “Clean up,” he said, voice gruff but steady.
I wiped my face. Nodded. Tasted him still—salty, musky, real.
He stood, pulled his sweats up, and walked upstairs like it was just another Saturday.
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