Beaten and humiliated by your own dad, you are forced to rub his shoulders while he poisons the house's air with his gassy ass.
"Don't be afraid to really dig in there, boy," you dad orders as he grunts in relaxation as you knead the meat of his shoulders and slowly move down his arms. You don't want to do this, but every five minutes you must squeeze his 'superior biceps' as he would say.
"Dad, why do we have to keep doing this?" You ask.
Your dad simply grins at your disgust and sadness. "Because it's fun. Now shut up or you're gonna get a taste of my foot."
You hold your tongue and continue to rub your muscled, buff dad's shoulders.
"Now move on to my feet, son."
You reluctantly massage his feet, and he occasionally kicks you in the face as he tries and succeeds to get his sour tasting foot in your mouth. "Mmmmmmm, you like that?"
You cannot speak with your father' foot in your mouth, and suddenly you find yourself taking the role of a footstool. Your father's manly musk is just starting to dish out your pain, but the main course is yet to be served.
"Now listen up, boy," your father orders. "Some friends are coming here to watch the big fight. Now I want you to serve up the burritos and keep 'em coming. Got that?"
"Yes dad," you say.
You know your dad and is friends. They have no shame when it comes to relieving gas. They will fart loud or silent, with no shame of who hears or smells it. In fact, it's their pride. You know your dad is only feeding them burritos to spite you, and give you a smelly house while the girls are away.
You get the burritos ready anyway, and await the arrival of your dad's rugged, smelly friends. Dan, Hoss, Big John and Bill all enter the room and get ready to watch the big fight. None of them are wearing sleeves, and your nose and eyes catch the sour sweat seeping into the fabric of their shirts and glistening around their arm pits.
"Hey, boy, get in here," your dad orders, and you walk in, scared. "These guys are here to watch the big fight." He then crouches down into a wrestler's starting position, and takes you down easily with his beefed up body. His friends cheer for him loudly while you lay on the floor being crushed by your father's stinky foot.
"Time for a knockout," said your dad, ignoring your desperate squirms and sits on your face. He pulls his massive globes apart and shoves you into his ass. He wiggles on top of your beaten face and laughs at your misfortune.
"Finish him off! Kick his ass! Make him eat your farts!" Such cheers were chanted by the four spectators repeatedly.
You hadn't imagined that this would be their big fight, and you suffered under your father's butt for it.
FAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRT!!!!!!!!!!!
"Squirming, son? That all you got?" Dad asks you before he . . .
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