Mike emerged from the locker room, the steam of the shower still clinging to his smooth skin as he tugged on his Slipknot tee and cargos. Practice had left him wired—clashing with Ryan, breaking even, the new layer of respect simmering beneath their rivalry. He grinned, slinging his letterman jacket over his shoulder. No McDonald’s tonight—his shift was off, and the evening stretched free.
He hit the bike rack outside, the late afternoon sun dipping low, casting long shadows across the school lot. Jake and Carlos were already there, leaning against their bikes—Jake bouncing a stray football, Carlos steady as a rock, backpack slung over one shoulder. Jake spotted him first, gap-toothed grin flashing. "Yo, Parker! You’re done—thought Ryan’d keep you out there all night."
Mike laughed, unlocking his bike. "Nah, we’re even—he’s quick, but I’m tougher. What’s up with you two?"
Carlos smirked, buzzcut glinting as he adjusted his grip. "Jake’s got no homework, and I’m burned out—figured we’d crash at your place, play some games. Your dad cool with it?"
"Yeah, let’s hit it—Jeff’s chill," Mike said, already pulling his phone. He dialed Jeff, pedaling slow as the line rang, Jake and Carlos rolling beside him. The call clicked through, Jeff’s deep voice cutting in, laced with a grin. "Hey, kid—what’s up?"
"Hey, Dad," Mike said, leaning into the teenage ritual with a smirk. "Jake and Carlos wanna come over—games, hang out. That cool with you, oh wise old man?" He kept his tone light, teasing the swap—38 years in a 16-year-old’s shell calling the shots.
Jeff laughed, the sound rough through the phone. "Wise old man, huh? You’re loving this teen shit, aren’t you, ‘son’? Yeah, they can come—house is yours ‘til I’m back. Don’t trash it, or I’ll ground your ass with my hairy dad hands."
Mike snorted, Jeff’s hairy, bearded vibe flashing in his mind—rocking that 38-year-old cock Mike had gifted him. "Deal—see you later, Pops." He hung up, pocketing the phone, and nodded at his crew. "We’re good—Jeff’s stoked I’ve got friends. Let’s roll."
Jake whooped, kicking off, his wiry frame weaving ahead. "Sweet—your dad’s the best, man. Mine’d say no just to flex." Carlos pedaled steady, smirking. "Mine’d lecture me on grades first—Jeff’s a legend."
The trio biked through the neighborhood, tires humming on asphalt, the air cooling as dusk crept in. Jake led, popping wheelies and shouting trash talk— "Bet I’ll smoke you at Madden, Parker!"—while Carlos hung back, keeping pace with Mike, his calm a tether. "He’s all talk—gonna crash in ten minutes," Carlos muttered, and Mike grinned, Jeff’s cock a subtle buzz as he pedaled, loving the vibe—teen life, swapped dick, friends who fit like gloves.
They hit the house, bikes clattering into the garage, and Mike unlocked the door, kicking off his sneakers. The living room sprawled ahead—Jeff’s mature touch in the leather couch, but Mike’s chaos in the game controllers strewn across the coffee table. Jake beelined for the XBox, flopping onto the floor. "Madden, now—winner picks dinner." Carlos grabbed a controller, settling on the couch, dryly adding, "Not pizza again—I’m picking tacos if I win."
Mike laughed, dropping beside them, Jeff’s approval echoing in his head—happy he was thriving, 16 and free. The screen flared to life, and the trio dove in—Jake’s loudmouth energy, Carlos’s quiet focus, Mike’s linebacker grit meshing tight. The night was theirs—games, banter, a teenage haven in a swapped world.