Sam and his stepfather Charles are in the custom-built fitness studio of their house. Charles had just landed a stinging kick to Sam's groin. Charles is teaching Sam a painful lesson about spending other people's money. Charles is a foot-fighting master. He loves to toy with another man's emotions and lack of defensive skills. That, more than anything-- yes, even more than his nude wife, Sam's mother-- gets him penilely aroused: the fear that the application of his powerful kicks brings to another man's face. He saw that fear in Sam, but something else too, a twinge of desire...for his superb gymnasium-crafted buttocks. This boy--yes, 23 years old, but still emotionally a boy-- was now under Charles's kickmaster spell. Charles was going to have some fun...
"That didn't hurt too awfully much, did it, Sammi-poo?"
"Yes. A lot."
"Tsk-tsk. You gonna pee in your panty? I bet you wear panties, don't you? Get those jeans off and let me see."
"No way."
With no prelude, Charles flings a roundhouse right foot into Sam's left ribcage; on the second beat, his other foot is up, the instep slapping Sam's right cheek.
"Way, Sammi-boy. Way. You don't EVER say no to step-daddy. You understand?"
Sam is shaking, becoming terrified. Charles grins. He thinks: the strands of my web are tightening. This fly is mine. He feigns a groin-kick. Sam winces and flinces.
"Good. Good. Now you're getting scared of my feet. Which is the way it should be. You need a daddy to guide and mold you. Obviously your birth-daddy was a loser. He left when you were nine, right?"
"Uh-huh."
Charles kicks Sam in the shin. Sam drops to one knee. Then Charles's flashing knee crashes into Sam's jaw, the first knee-blow of this correction session.
"Ow! What did I do?"
"I didn't like that 'uh-huh.' Very disrespectful. I'm not one of your slovenly frat-friends, You call me 'Sir' or 'Daddy' at all times from now on. That's non-negotiable."
"Yes, sir."
"Better. But insincere."
Charles whomps still-kneeling Sam in the ear with a heel.
"You gotta mean it, bitch. Or mean daddy long-legs with kick you all night long. You know your mother's gone to her Aunt Sue's for the weekend. I may not let you leave this house-- or this room-- for two days. Unless I get the respect you owe me."
"What can I do...sir?"
"Jeans off."
Sam complies.
"T-shirt off."
Now Sam is in white-cotton Fruit-of-the-Looms only.
"What boring underpants. Go into the bedroom [adjacent to studio], and open the top dresser-drawer. That's your mother's panty drawer. Bring a handful of them to me. Do it now."
Sam complies.
"You didn't try to run. Very smart. Here, put this one on. You'll like pink. I think that's French-cut..."
Shaking, Sam takes the panty from Charles.
"Please, sir. I can't. It's too pervy."
"You will do as I say. Or else. Switch that panty for yours!"
The unmistakable kick-coming-soon tone was in Charles's voice. Sam stepped out of drab brief, and into slinky-smooth panty. What a refreshing sensation: the tactile equivalent of a taste of mint!
"There. I knew you'd like that. See how comfy? I may try one myself."
Charles peeled off his thong. His monstrous reproductive gear spilled forth: the blunt mushroom head, the long varicose nozzle, the scrotum like two ripe plums.
"Kneel down, Sammi. I'm gonna baptize you as my punk."
Trembling, and now crying, Sam knelt before the serpentine cock.
"Please, daddy. Please don't hurt me..."
"Shut up, you prissy little bitch. And open your faggot mouth. I'm just marking you as my own. I drank a lot of Gatorade before you came in, and I haven't sweated it all out."
Charles grabbed his cock at the base, aimed it at Sam's upturned face, and pumped an amber stream straight into Sam's nostril. Sam snorted, coughed, shook his head briskly.
"It stings!"
"Of course it stings. I just shot concentrated salt at your mucous membranes. Now stay still."
With less force, Charles urged out a slower stream. The warm liquid splashed on Sam's forehead & cheeks, and ran down his chest & shoulders. Charles moved his penis to write his name letter by letter...
"C...H...U...C...K...There. Now you're mine. Open. O-PEN!"
Sam let his jaw drop. Charles poured about a shotglass of delicious piss down Sam's unresisting esophagus.
"Good boy. Drink it all. Be daddy's urinal. Step-daddy. Pseudo-daddy. Whatever.That's right. You're learning what it's like to serve a stronger man. See how fun it can be?"
Sam nods. Charles strokes Sam's hair, smiles down on him. Sam stands.
"Good piss-punk. Now what did that taste like?"
"Not lemonade."
Charles delivers a resounding backhand slap to Sam's cheekbone.
"What did we forget?"
"Lemonade...sir."
"And it's a bit early in your training to answer me with anything approaching sarcasm..."
"Yes, sir. It tasted like a very salty pretzel, really."
"Interesting. How'd you like a chocolate chaser?"
"What, sir?"
"...to sniff my ass, dingbat!"
"Oh, sir, no..."
Charles is nude. Sam watches his flopping cock as the next kick flies. Sam knows that the word 'no' is forbidden. Sam in unsure whether he said 'no' in order to tempt his daddy's foot-wrath. Maybe. All Sam knows is that it hurts. It hurts when, in the next minute, Charles's instep crushes his balls. It hurts when Charles executes another back-kick (looking over shoulder, taking aim, thrusting foot straight back and curving up)-- especially as this back-kick finds its intended soft target: Sam's breadbasket. It hurts when Charles whips his leg in a sweeping motion to zing Sam's kidney regions once, twice-- first the right, then the left-- and, as Sam lamely raises arms to fend against the heel-blows, thrice, and again! It hurts when Charles's knee slams under his chin. And all the time that slowly engorging cock can be seen! Sam sees the kicks coming. He braces for impact. His hands, forearms and biceps are sore from turning to block the furious kicks. Is Charles angry, though? He seems to be having a blast. He chuckles almost non-stop. And he isn't tiring. Sam's arms become useless. After a while, he is too fatigued to raise them. Now his torso and head are open targets. He loses count of the number of kicks. There must have been 50 or 60 so far. At least. A strong aroma is coming off Charles. The smell of anger? Exertion? Definitely pheromonic. Definitely sexy. Sam is mesmerized by that loose cock, and hardly feels the kicks now.
"For the love of Priapus, daddy, please cover yourself up!"
Charles smiles. He wriggles into a raven's-wing-black tummy-trimmer panty (not that he needs any trimming) about two girl-sizes too small for him. The panty contours around his striving cock and rotund balls. It flatters his perfect butt, like a halved cantalope. The waistline is above his belly-button. The shimmery raven-color is striking against his cafe-au-lait tan.
Sam has collapsed. Charles kneels on Sam's prone body. Sam is groggy. Charles's knee is pressing on Sam's windpipe. Sam struggles heroically. No go. Charles is chuckling. Sam hears that. Not much else. Very little sound enters or leaves this much-padded room. (There are wrestling mats on the floor, as well as attached to two of the walls. Charles uses them to practice his stunts.) Their house is set a half-mile off the main road anyway, so even an operatic yodel for help would not likely be heard by a distant motorist. Sam knows his only way to survive this afternoon (this whole weekend?) is to yield to Charles's demands. He wants to. The urine part wasn't bad. Kinky, yes. But Sam was not unread. He knew medicinal urine-drinking was common in China and elsewhere. There was no health-danger in drinking his step-dad's piss, or even his semen, if it came to that. But there was danger in the continuing kicks. There was danger in anything that occluded your ability to freely breathe...
"Daddy, please. I...can't...breathe..."
Charles relents. He stands. He (inelegantly) kicks Sam in the ear-hole with pointed toe.
"Now suck that foot."
Sam sucks eagerly, fitting five toes into his mouth.
"Good panty-fag. Now next time when I say 'sniff my ass,' you sniff my ass. Give me your arms."
Sam reaches up. Charles grabs his hands. Charles presses his foot under Sam's chin, and pulls Sam's arms. The arms stretch. Charles's leg is fully extended. Sam starts to choke. Sam can't breath. He struggles.
"Don't move! You'll hurt yourself. I know what I'm doing. This won't kill ya, only put you to sleep for a while. Trust me."
Sam looks up. The baby anaconda in Charles's panty has grown even more. Sam can tell: Charles loves controlling a man with his leg-power. Sam is tired of resisting this clearly stronger male, this alpha cockwielder.
"I trust you, daddy..."
Sam goes limp. [TO BE CONTINUED]