C'mon, you know how.

Knees buckled, snatches flooded, and nipples hardened as Lloyd's new pack of bitches came. They moaned when Lloyd's mom clicked the collars shut around their necks and got so excited they started making out with each other, motorboating funbags, and twerking. Pretty much the reaction he expected.

Once they were all leashed up, he led them inside, nudging Chuck out of the way with his shoe. Dude was still ****. Thats not good after a head injury. Eh, he'll probably be fine. Lloyd couldn't find it in him to care either way.

He hosed his fuckmeat (not the person but the, y'know, women. It's derogatory, some people have a kink for that) off with ice cold water until they were soaked through and shivering. They still gave him slutty smiles like he was doing them a favor.

Back inside, Lloyd took his place at the head of the table. Well, except his chair was one of his bitches on her hands and knees while another stood behind him. Her jugs were a nice pillow for him to lean back on.

"Uh," Lloyd's dad stammered. "Is ole Chuckster coming in for dinner? He's not one to miss a -"

"Mom, whatever dinner is, serve it between your tits. I'm hungry."

His mother rubbed her damp thighs together. "God, Daddy, how do you know exactly what I'm thinking?"

Lloyd spent the evening pressed between two phenomenal pairs of boobs, one holding his head up, the other holding his food.

His father, naturally, tried to make small talk. "Anywho, uh, sport. Um, what's the, what's going on with things? You moving out of the dog crate?"

Lloyd didn't bother to answer, just kept enjoying the titmeat.

Until he asked, "What's the, y'know, plan, my man?"

Our boy froze between his mom's fat knockers. Then, he rose from his domination throne and slowly paced the kitchen. He didn't need to worry about planning, about failure. He knew, whatever he wanted to do, he'd succeed.

But what does he want to do?