Sam awakes. Charles, 47, has just choked Sam, his 23-year-old stepson, unconscious with his foot. Charles is what you would have to call a kickmaster,and Sam, after a hellish session of over two hours already, his kick-slave. They are in Charles's home fitness-studio. Sam's mother is gone for the weekend. This is Saturday afternoon. There is fear and trembling in Sam at the anticipation of further kick-i-wicks from stepdaddy. Sam is a map of purplish-orange bruises. Charles is unmarked. Sam is a pallid and flabby 190 lbs, at 6-foot-2. Charles is 5-foot-8 and 140 lbs. of tanned musculature. You could base an idolatrous religion on Charles's six-pack alone, not to mention the perfect cantalope-halves of his ass. These now mesmerize woken Sam. Charles is working his quads on a weight-station, laying face down. The only item of clothing on his body is a black tummy-tuck panty he had Sam purloin from his wife's lingerie drawer. The cougar sleekness of Charles's pumping glutei has Sam in its spell. And Charles well knows it. He watches the younger man in the floor-to-ceiling mirror before him.
"You have a good nap, Sammi-boy?"
"Uh-huh. I mean, uh...yes, daddy."
"Good boy. You're remembering your first lesson in manners: to ALWAYS address me as Sir or Daddy. Now. Can you follow instructions? Come over here and sniff my butt without touching it..."
The two hours of kicks had sapped Sam's will to resist any of his stepfather's directives. He had already taken a piss-bath full in the face. What harm could a little more top-bottom play-acting do, if it kept those terrible feet at bay? Sam does as told, hovering above the taut buns as they contracted and relaxed to the rhythmic clank of the weights.
"Now press your beak in my crack, and take a deep breath."
Sam complies.
"Now describe the odor."
"Some sweat. Cologne-- Stetson, is it? Detergent, probably cuz that panty yer wearing was freshly washed and put away..."
"Panty? What panty?"
"The one yer wearing, sir...?"
"You think men wear panties?"
"No, sir, but..."
"Are you accusing me of effeminacy?"
"No, sir. You told me to get some panties from Mother's dresser."
"Oh, I told you to steal your mother's undergarments so I could wear them? So I'm an accomplice to theft and a sissy, is that what you're saying?"
"No, sir."
"Then what ARE you saying?"
"Anything you want me to, sir."
"That is a gutless answer, but not unexpected. Gutless PUNK!"
Charles whips his leg up and around. The heel chops Sam below the jawline. Sam tumbles backward against the pommel-horse. Charles is up and ferocious. He kicks Sam in the balls. This doubles his victim. Charles pivots 180 degrees, presenting his back to Sam, then applies a headlock. Grabbing a handful of hair, he pivots again, then drives his knee into Sam's exposed chin. Head snaps up. With the flat of his hand, he chops Sam straight across the Adam's apple. The weakling falls against the pommel-horse again. Now Charles grabs the pommels, swings up, and claps a scissor on Sam's neck. His powerful inner-thigh muscles bear down on his soft, unathletic opponent. Charles chuckles demonically. Sam struggles and wimpers. Sam's face is buried in the stronger man's quads up to the cheekbones. The pressure increases. The sweat-slick thighs do not lose their grip.
"Daddy, please...!"
"Shut up, punk, and take your medicine. Lesson two: you NEVER make comments that might be interpreted-- even misinterpreted-- by kick-daddy as implying that he is any less than purely masculine. Is that clear?"
"Yessir!!"
"Good. Now YOU are wearing your mommy's panty, because YOU are a sissy-bitch unable to protect himself against the kicks of a real man. Is THAT clear?"
"YESSIR!! Please, daddy! Please! Some air! I'm choking!"
"A simple gymnastic maneuver, and you fall to pieces. No countermove at all. Pathetic. What if I did one of my routines, using flips and so-forth? You'd be devastated, wouldn't you? Don't answer that. I know the answer, you contemptible faggoty-ass little punk."
Charles parts his magnificent thighs, and dismounts. Sam falls to his knees, wheezing. His head is an irrestible target. Using his leg as a scythe, Charles sweeps it in an arc that, had his tibia been a blade, would have decapitated Sam. The weaker man stands, cringing and sobbing. Charles busts his balls again, with one instep, then the other. He grabs coughing Sam by the shoulders, and jerks his knee up, smashing the testicles. Then the other knee. Right knee! Left knee! Right knee! He releases the shoulderblades, and throws a backhand bitchslap. Sam drops to his knees, grabs Charles around the waist.
"Please. No more. I'm sorry. I'll never disobey or disrespect you ever again for the rest of my life. Just please, please...DON'T KICK ME AGAIN! PLEASE, DADDY!"
Charles chortles.
"Stand up, bitch."
Sam complies. Charles turns his back. He watches Sam in the big mirror.
"Come at me, bitch. Try something."
"I can't!"
"Try. TRY!"
Sam lunges. Charles jerks a subtle elbow backward, watching as the mirror-image of Sam catches it in the throat. Then he hooks his heel into the image's balls.
"Get up, bitch. Try again."
This time the image gets a straight-kick in the breadbasket. Charles in unflappable, and coquettish as ever, with hands on his trim hips, as he kicks backward without looking directly at his target/victim. Sam is sobbing steadily. A big grin spreads on Charles's harsh map. In competition, a properly delivered spinning-back-kick produces knockouts; in the field, it can be lethal.
"Again."
The image raises its arms feebly to protect its vulnerable head. The spinner-- from a starting position facing the mirror and whirling Charles's leg a full 360 degrees (into the target, then back to rest)-- catches Sam in the temple. Of course Charles had pulled his kick. This was a maneuver of profound intimidation, not a combat-blow.
"I beg you to stop, daddy. I can't take another kick. I can't lift my arms. They're too sore..."
The image starts to sob harder, and to shiver, and its teeth to chatter. Sam is terrified at the possibility of a single kick more. Charles notices the shivering
"Good. You seem sufficiently chastened. Now back to kissing my ass. Lie on the floor. Face up."
Charles schoolboy-pins Sam. Reverse straddle, with buttocks resting on the pinee's face. Sam's nose is deep in the humid crack, although fabric still intervenes. As he continues to gulp for air, not-especially-noxious effluvia fill his lungs and sinuses.
"Please, no, daddy..."
Charles hammer-fists Sam's scrotum.
"SHUT UP AND WORSHIP, BITCH! Now, what do you smell?"
"Oh, God! Please don't hit me again. I'll be good. I'll do whatever you ask..."
"Don't you try to bargain with me, sissy. I'll do whatever I want to to you regardless of your opinion. Now tell me."
"Yessir. I think you've been eating mangoes. Or sherbet. Something oversweet..."
"Good sissy. What else?"
"I'm getting traces of pre-cum. Oh, you're all drizzled with cock-goo. Kicking the stuffing out of me is getting you hot, daddy..."
"How do you feel about that?"
"A bit flattered, sir."
"I detect an honest tone at last. You're getting beyond your fear into true thralldom. Now off with this confining panty!"
With a brisk movement Charles jerks the panty free. He shifts the straddle so that Sam's face is now framed, looking ceilingward, in the U of his massive chevalier's thighs. His venous, marmoreal cock now jabs the weaker man's mouth ajar.
"Open wider, little pussy-boy. Yes, you outweigh me by 50 pounds. But you can't outfight me, and your cock is half the size of mine. So you are my rightful fuck-toy, to use as I please. That is the bushido of the kickfighter. Of this kickfighter, anyway. Now open..."
From the meatus of Charles's cock a string of ribonucleic spittle, a happy lubrication of semen, drips down upon the dry swollen lips of his beaten stepson. Sam parts his lips, and engulfs the purple head. He smiles. Charles smiles back, and strokes Sam's hair.
"Sammi-girl, I don't think I'll have to kick you any more..."
THE END?