Tormund fell to his knees at his fathers feet. His journey had come to an end and all the while his greatest fear wasn't being felled by a foe, or losing his way. What gave him pause more than anything was the moment unfolding before him. When he saw his father Hubert, through the window... touching himself... his heart began to pound in his chest. He could smell the farmer's heady arousal through the cracks in the stone structure. Before now, he would have braced his back against the workshop and masturbated along with Hubert, but now that he'd been made a knight... He couldn't take the coward's way out. So, as bravely as he could, he stripped outside the door, and then...

Hubert was startled when Tormund burst in on him, he was after all "taking care of some business" but the most confusing part for him was that his son was naked. When Tormund fell in front of him he could not make any sense of it. The first thought that he had was a memory, or more like an instinct. He recalled quickly how he and Tormund would wrestle sometimes when they'd camp alone in the past. And so, before he could think any more about the situation, he'd grabbed Tormund's hand, swung him onto his back and pinned his free arm with his knee.

Tormund feared the worst in this moment. He'd made his move and if there were any more a decisive way his father could have shot him down, he could not perceive of it. Guilt swelled in his gut, and pain that was worse than any he'd yet experienced suddenly bore down on him heavy. It immobilized him more than any grapple could. Why then, did Hubert's sudden hearty chortle still make him smile when it burst from deep down in his manly chest? It relaxed him and saddened him all at once. And then, as the winner of the bout loosened his knee from the knight's arm, why did he lower himself to a seated position on the ground instead of getting up to leave?

Hubert chortled again, "You've found me in a compromising situation Tor, but still it seems I'll always get the better of you." As he sat down flat to lean back against the workbench it occurred to him that his manhood had grazed his son's nose, and while he'd have expected his son to recoil from the touch and maybe gag dramatically, he did not expect for him to do what he did. Tormund, who looked like he was on the verge of crying, turned his face to follow his father's still tumescent cock, like his nose had been magnetized to it.

Hubert had nearly reached the precipice of his arousal even before he saw his son acting this way, but when his son started sniffing at his privates, he couldn't help but flex his trunk the way he did. When his puppymaker consequently found itself nudged against his son's muzzle, what shocked him was the deep sensual drag Tormund took, sucking in all that he could of his old man's scent. The aura in the drafty shack then shifted in a way Hubert did not expect, but nevertheless, his foot began to probe lower and lower, to the pulsating pole which caught his eye. And as suddenly as he touched it, it spat, and then he could hear his son choking on a moan, and it spat again. Then as he ran one or two of his curious digits along the length of it, he could tell that he'd made his son cum. He could feel him squeezing his fingers in time with the eruptions. What he hadn't noticed yet was that he'd slid his finger along the rim of his cock, and was tugging at his foreskin as he watched.

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