Jeff stirred awake Wednesday morning, the master bedroom bathed in soft dawn light filtering through the blinds. Mike’s thick, 38-year-old cock pressed against his boxers, and he savored it, hairy chest flexing as he rolled out of bed. Day three of this swap—38, king of the firm, cool dad—and the house hummed with teenage life downstairs.
He slipped on his morning gear—boxers, a navy robe hanging open, the hairy expanse of his chest and stomach on display, a rugged contrast to the smooth jocks he’d wrangle. The clock hit 6:45 a.m., and he padded to Mike’s room, hairy hand rapping the door. "Rise and shine, boys—up, now! Breakfast’s on." His voice boomed, warm but firm, and muffled groans leaked out—Jake’s whine, Carlos’s grunt, Mike’s snore.
Downstairs, Jeff fired up the kitchen—coffee brewing, the sharp scent cutting the air as he cracked eggs into a skillet, bacon sizzling alongside. His hairy forearms flexed, flipping strips with a spatula, the robe swaying as he moved—38 years owned, a dad in his element. The boys stumbled in, bleary-eyed—Mike in his tee, Jake shirtless, Carlos in a tank, all in boxers, their teenage mess a foil to Jeff’s grizzled ease.
"Morning, champs," Jeff said, sliding plates of scrambled eggs and bacon across the counter, hairy hands pouring coffee into mismatched mugs. "Fuel up—school’s waiting." He grinned, beard glinting, and leaned against the counter, robe open, Mike’s thick cock a bulge impossible to ignore in his boxers.
Jake grabbed a mug, gap-toothed grin flashing. "Mr. P, you’re the shit—coffee and bacon? My dad’d burn the house down."
Carlos nodded, forking eggs into his mouth, head tilting. "Yeah, this is clutch—better than cereal. You’re the real deal, man." Mike smirked, sipping coffee, Jeff’s young cock stirring in his shorts as he watched—his “dad” thriving, hairy and hung, a man these boys worshipped.
"Glad you think so," Jeff said, hairy arm flexing as he sipped his own mug. "Eat fast—showers, then out to school." The boys dug in, the breakfast sealing Jeff’s status—awesome, steady, a hairy beacon of masculinity they couldn’t touch yet. He caught Mike’s eye, a swapped spark flashing—Jeff ruled, and Mike’s lust for it simmered.
They finished, plates clattering, and shuffled upstairs to Mike’s bathroom, towels in hand. In the hall, Jake stretched, wiry frame popping, and blurted, "Dude, your dad’s a fuckin’ stud—hope I’m that masculine someday. Hairy, built, total boss." His voice carried, loudmouth as ever, and he grinned, scratching his chest. "And shit, that bulge? Guy’s hung—jealous as hell."
Carlos flushed, stocky frame tensing as he elbowed Jake. "Man, shut up—why you gotta say it?" But his dark eyes flickered, sheepish, and he muttered, "He’s right, though—Mr. Parker’s got it all. Goals, I guess." His tone was quieter, admiration raw, and Jake laughed, unashamed.
Mike leaned against the wall, towel over his shoulder, Jeff’s slim cock twitching as he grinned. "Yeah, tell me about it—wish I could be that big someday too. Dad’s a legend." He played it cool, but inside, the heat roared—Jeff rocking his old cock, hairy and thick, these boys drooling over it, a secret turn-on. They’d seen the robe gape, the bulge, and Mike loved it—Jeff owned what he’d given up, and it showed.
"Shower up, losers," Mike said, shoving Jake toward the bathroom, and Carlos followed, still red. The water hissed soon after, their chatter fading, but Jeff’s breakfast show—hairy, bearded, hung—stuck with them. Downstairs, Jeff cleaned up, grinning—day three, king of the teens, ready for the firm.