Perpetuating the Cycle of Discipline Chapter 2
DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fiction involving discipline and sexual contact between males, including father and son. The author does not endorse or condone sexual interaction with minors, or non-consensual sex acts. The author takes no responsibility for your decision to download, view, or possess this work. If you are unable to distinguish fantasy from reality, seek help from a mental health professional.
"Conner, what the fuck happened to your ass?" Aiden blurts out as he sees the mass of bruises criss-crossing my cheeks. It draws the attention of two other guys who look at my exposed ass, but I quickly cover myself with a scratchy white gym towel.
"It's nothing," I say, hoping they let it go, but of course they don't.
I had gotten through P.E. class earlier in the day without incident, but in that class most guys don't shower at all, and almost everyone changes with a towel wrapped around his waist. While it was uncommon to see anyone's bare ass or dick in the locker room after P.E., it's the opposite during football practice. The jocks almost want to be seen, and there's a feeling of togetherness when we let ourselves be naked together, like we're in a special club that appreciates manliness. Usually I like the bonding, but today I just feel exposed and embarrassed.
Brantleigh, our right tackle, grabs the corner of my towel and tugs, exposing me again and drawing more attention. Snickers and knowing grins run down the aisle of lockers as everyone gets a good look at me.
"Fucking asshole!" I shout at him, spinning to hide my bruised ass against my locker and scrambling to get a hand over my dick. My face is red with anger or embarrassment, I'm not sure which.
Suddenly, a ripple of unease runs through the locker room and my so called friends all get quiet and pretend to be interested in anything except the color of my naked ass. They tense up like a herd of gazelle who notice a wolf close by; Coach Thompson is that wolf, and he's staring down the aisle of lockers with his piercing grey eyes.
"Mister Lassen, a word." He says quietly but forcefully.
I want to sink into the floor and die. I snatch the towel up and tightly wrap it around my waist. I slam my locker shut and walk over to coach with my towel held tight.
"My office, son," coach says when I get close, and he nods for me to go first. His eyes are on me and it makes the skin between my shoulders itch. Whatever humiliation my teammates were going to inflict, it would be preferable to what coach was about to lay down. I was still on his shit list from yesterday, and now I was disturbing his locker room before practice.
Yesterday, between third and fourth period, I had witnessed two sophomores ganging up on a freshman. The sophomores were teasing the kid, I guess because he was fat, and I watched as one of them got in the kid's face to say something nasty. Meanwhile, his accomplice subtly reached around fatty's side and cut his backpack strap with a pair of scissors, causing the bag to swing down and dump everything out across the hall. Seeing them ruin his backpack made me furious and I was storming up on them before I knew it. I grabbed the first guy's shirt in my fist and pushed him against the wall with my other arm against his windpipe. I wasn't going to hurt him, but I wanted to put the fear of God in both of them. Naturally that's when Coach Thompson appeared, yanked me off the kid, and balled me out for bullying the underclassmen. He was steamed, and he told me I'd be off the football team if I set another foot out of line. Of course, the two idiot sophomores disappeared without any consequences.
Now coach is going to kick me off the team for getting into it with stupid fucking Brantleigh, even though I was the one getting picked on. I feel the short hairs on my neck bristling from the injustice of it all.
"Conner, what's gotten into you lately?" Coach's tone is softer than I expected. He clicks his office door shut and sits down in a squeaky metal desk chair.
Coach Thompson is a mountain of a man. He dresses like a football coach on a sitcom, with the little polyester shorts and polo shirt in our school colors (white and crimson; go Bulldogs!) We all know he played college ball for three years at FSU, and we've seen videos of him in his prime when he was jacked, but that was eight years ago. Now his barrel chest is beginning to migrate into a belly, and his beefy arms have lost their definition. His tree trunk legs, however, have gotten bigger since his glory days from hauling around his impressive mass. As he sits there manspreading, I can't stop myself from thinking about being bent over his lap and having him spank me. It makes my cock stir under my towel. I haven't been able to get the experience of being paddled by my neighbor off my mind. I need to get ahold of myself.
"It was nothing coach. The guys were just messing around."
"Didn't seem like nothing. Seemed to me like you were about to knock Brantleigh's block off," he stares at me to see if I'll divulge anything, then he goes on. "What's going on with your backside. You injured?"
Shame. A new wave of hot red blood warms my face. I feel that tickle in my crotch again too, but I don't want to think about it now.
"I...it...it's nothing coach." I fumble the words, trying to deflect and hoping he lets me keep a shred of dignity. He just stares at me for long seconds, not saying a word. I can't take the uncomfortable silence and I finally blurt out, "I got...spanked. It's not a big deal."
"Let me see." His tone is gentle now, fatherly.
I'm sure there are rules about teachers being in a closed office with a naked student, but then again, there are also rules about a student with bruises all over their body that a teacher is supposed to report, so I don't know what to think. Do I even count as a child any more, now that I'm 18? At that moment, I just know my coach is telling me to drop my towel and I don't really have another option, so I do it. I unwrap myself. I consider holding the towel in front for modesty, but that seems more pitiful than just accepting my nudity like a man, so I hold the towel at my side and let coach inspect me. The cold air helps me keep my dick from going hard, but it pulses on its own a couple of times and I'm sure coach can tell.
Gently, he reaches out and puts a hand on my waist, guiding me to turn around for him. I stand tall while he examines the aftermath of yesterday's spanking. When I checked in the mirror this morning, my whole ass was rosy with three distinct purple lines where the belt had struck over the top.
Coach's big hand grazes my cheek, feeling the heat coming off of my injury. His thumb strokes over one of the purple lines. The feel of another man's hand on my buttocks brings the memories back up again, with all of their confusing and awkward emotion. I had cried in front of Will, and then I creamed on his leg while he soothed my ass. And while I was dying from shame, Will was gracious and cool, and didn't make me feel worse. I loved him for that small kindness.
"Yeah..." he remarks as he studies my butt, "your pop really gave you a good one."
Coach doesn't know that my parents are split. I open my mouth to explain, but I can't think of a way to tell him that my mom enlisted the neighbor to spank my ass, so I just mutter, "It's not a big deal."
"Does it still hurt? Can you practice today?" He presses his thumb into my flesh, hard enough that it aches a little but not too bad. Getting tackled is going to suck for a couple of days.
"I'm fine. I can play coach."
"Alright. Good man." He pats my flank softly. "Why don't you change in here for a couple days."
"Thanks coach." I manage. He's being surprisingly chill about everything. I turn half way, and I see him standing up and collecting his whistle and clipboard. I guess we're done. Somehow, miraculously, I'm not off the team. No extra punishment for shouting at Brantleigh. Maybe getting my ass beat wasn't so bad after all.
Coach exits and I hurriedly get my things and change into shorts and pads. The team is already doing jumping jacks when I get to the field, and no one says anything as I fall in.
Mercifully, coach has us working on passing drills, running, and mostly stuff that doesn't involve getting tackled or knocked back on my ass. It's still a tough practice, but I'm beginning to feel like things are returning to normal by the end of it.
When we finish, the evening sky is already turning yellow-gold and there's a chill in the air. It feels good to work my body and sweat out some of the stress I've been carrying lately.
Aiden falls in next to me as everyone walks off the field for the locker room.
"Hey Conner, I'm sorry if I embarrassed you before. I didn't mean to make everybody look." He says. Aiden is our second string quarterback, and he's one of the guys on the team I've secretly had a crush on for the last two years. He has a nice body, but what makes him so attractive is his flawless tan skin. In the six years I've known him I can't remember him ever having a single pimple. His chest is hairless, but in a good way, not like a little kid, and he has a faint dusting of light brown hairs on his stomach that converge in a mouthwatering happy trail. All of that, plus the way his cheeks dimple when he smiles and his eyes make cute little crinkles at the corners. It's impossible to stay mad at him.
"Uh, it's ok...forget about it." I always felt like Aiden was out of my reach, even though we were in a lot of classes together and we both played football. He just had an air about him that made him seem unattainable. Whenever we were paired up in classes or practice, I always relished being close to him, but I didn't want to seem too eager.
"You know, my dad still spanks me sometimes," Aiden admits quietly. "He caught me swiping a bottle of rum from his liquor cabinet last month and he went ballistic on me. Sucks."
"Yeah," I agreed. I didn't know what to say. I tried to imagine Aiden bent over getting his ass warmed.
Aiden is lost in his thoughts for a minute but he snaps out of it. "Shit, sorry man. I didn't mean to trauma dump and make it about me. My therapist says I don't regulate my emotions around trusted allies...whatever that means," he trails off and glances over at me with his rich brown eyes.
"It's okay." Did Aiden just refer to me as a trusted ally?
"Are you, like, good? I mean, I know you and I don't hang out a lot but...if you ever need to unload...or...y'know," his awkward offer of help is endearing. And the idea that Aiden is willing to deepen our friendship makes me feel warm inside.
"Thanks man. Really, I appreciate it. I'm good." I tell him earnestly.
As we enter the locker room, the familiar stink of boy-funk assaults my nose. Teen jock pheromones hang in the humid air so thick you can taste it. I stop at my locker, two down from Aiden's, and we stash our helmets and then help one another get our shoulder pads off.
"I'm gonna change in coach's office," I inform Aiden, and I grab my gear bag. He nods in understanding and I slink out of the aisle without anyone else noticing me.
Coach Thompson opens the door when I knock, and he ushers me inside the little room. His polo shirt is already off, although his whistle is still around his neck and burying itself in his dense chest hair.
"Uh, coach, you said I could change in here?" I remind him as the door shuts behind me.
"Conner, yeah of course, c'mon in." Without hesitation, coach unsnaps his polyester shorts and shucks them off. In the weight room coach sometimes goes shirtless or just in a tank top, so we all know he's a huge guy, but seeing him up close in just a jockstrap suddenly feels like I'm face to face with a grizzly bear. I recall the word 'megafauna' from Biology class, and it seems to fit.
My eyes can't help sliding up coach's big beefy thighs. He's absolutely covered in hair, so dense that it makes dark ringlets down his body. At his crotch it's especially thick, where his bush spills out from the left and right of his ample jock pouch. I think I can make out the head of his dick through the mesh. He turns away from me to turn on the water in his private shower, and I get to see the big globes of his ass, perked up by the heavy duty straps under each side, and the dark trench between.
"I'll take the shower first, and you can go second. Unless you're in a hurry?" He asks, and I shake my eyes free from his body and mumble something affirmative.
Coach takes his whistle off and hangs it on a peg, but he keeps his jock on as he steps into the shower cubicle. I realize he doesn't even have a curtain, it's just a three sided tile box. He's not looking at me so I continue to perv on this beast of a man as he takes a bar of soap from the caddy and lathers it up on his chest.
"So Conner, you got college plans after this year?" He calls out over the sound of the spray. Coach lets his hands roam down and he begins working soap into his jockstrap. It feels surreal to be standing ten feet away, with a rapidly growing boner in my shorts, while coach massages his huge bulge and makes small talk. I've watched more than a few porno clips that start off exactly the same way.
"Uh, yeah coach. I'm thinking about Pre-Med, or maybe Sports Medicine." I get my shirt off and sit down to work on untying my cleats.
"Got a school in mind?" He bends down and peels his jock off, unleashing the fat soapy hog between his legs finally. I keep my eyes focused on my shoes but it's not helping. Even the scent of the soap is making me feel horny now. I feel like I might be having a panic attack, but I force myself to remain calm on the surface.
"Uh, I'd like to get in to Penn but I'm still kind of shopping around."
I glance up and see coach has lathered shampoo all through his hair and beard. While his eyes are closed I steal a peek at his penis. He's huge, but proportional to his body and more girthy than long. The balls are big too, and his circumcised head sticks out like an oversize pink acorn on top of it all. Of course there is hair everywhere, like a vintage 80s porn star. I feel a mix of awe and intimidation. I wonder how many girls' pussies have been split open by that monster.
As I'm watching, coach leans into the spray and a cascade of frothy soap sluices down his barrel chest, making sudsy deltas through all that hair, and finally funneling down his abs and over his cock to splash off his manhood. He raises one arm then the other, letting the water spray soap out of the dense mats of hair in each armpit.
His face comes out of the spray and he wipes the water from his eyes with a big paw, so I rip my eyes off of his dripping dick and finish taking my socks off. My cock is as hard as a railroad spike and I don't want coach to see it when I stand, so I just sit hunched on the bench and hope it goes down, but of course it won't.
Finished with his shower, coach grabs his towel and throws it over his head as he steps out onto the cement floor. Water runs down his feet and makes rivulets headed for a drain in the center of the room.
"It's all yours, champ." Coach says from under the towel as he dries his hair off. The motion makes his big dong swing back and forth obscenely.
While coach is still drying his hair, I decide to quickly get in the shower and hope he doesn't see my dick too much. I scrub my shorts and tights down in one motion and hop in the shower with my erection facing the wall. I'm showing him my ass now, but that's a lot better than letting coach know I have a raging hard on.
I reach for the cold water knob to adjust the temperature, but coach has his wet jockstrap looped over the knob so I grab a handful of the wet pouch instead and my hand recoils like it touched a live wire.
"Ope, sorry about that! Let me get that out of your way." Coach apparently saw me grab his jock and he leans into the shower beside me to take it. His hairy chest touches my arm and for a split second I feel something brush my hip and then it's gone. I must have imagined it. There's no way coach's bare cock just grazed my butt.
I'm mortified but I get my composure together and turn the cold water up enough to chill my dick. I soap up fast, just getting my hair, crotch, and pits. As I rinse, I remember to wipe the mud off my calves too, and then I shut off the water and remember I didn't take my towel out of my bag. Damnit!
My boner has gone down enough that I can turn to face coach without too much shame, so I try to cross the small room to my duffel nonchalantly.
While I was showering, coach has put on some black Calvin Klein briefs and a tank top that stretches to contain his meaty chest. He's slapping some kind of aftershave or cologne on his hand and patting it into his neck in front of a little mirror, and I catch his eyes glancing through the reflection at me when I get out of the shower.
With the shower off, the room is quiet again, and coach looks like he's getting ready to say something.
"You know Conner, if you ever need to talk, I'm here for you. I mean, your dad--"
"It wasn't my dad." I blurt out, cutting him off. I've got my boxer briefs back on and a little more confidence now, but I didn't mean to start this conversation. Now that it's out, I have no choice but to press on, "My dad is gone. My nextdoor neighbor did this."
Coach Thompson chews on that for a while while he carefully steps into a pair of Levis and buttons them up.
"Conner, if you ever need an adult to talk to, I mean, about anything son, you know I'm here for you." He makes eye contact and I can tell he's trying to convey deep meaning to me, but I just want to shrivel and escape this awkwardness. At least my boner is completely dead now.
"Thanks. I'll remember that coach." I mumble.
It seems to mollify him and we both finish dressing in silence. When I pick up my duffel bag to go, coach opens the door for me and tells me, "You're a good kid Conner. Feel free to use my office as long as you need okay buddy? And remember what I said."
I mumble another thanks and finally get myself out of there.
My friend Colby gives me a ride home and lets me off at the top of our driveway. As I walk that last fifty yards, I feel a magnetic draw to look over at Will's house across the frog pond. His lights are on, but I can't see any movement.
"I'm home," I shout into the house as I enter. I hear my brother playing video games on the living room TV. Mom isn't home yet so I take the half-gallon of milk out of the fridge and take a long drink straight from the jug. I hate the taste of it, but I need all the protein I can get so I can get stronger.
"Hey, where's mom?" I ask my brother Nolan. He's in a Fortnight game, but they're just dancing around and being stupid at the moment. I feel a sudden wave of brotherly affection so I lean over the couch and kiss the top of his head. Nolan ignores me.
"She's working late. There's leftover lasagna in the fridge." He tells me without taking his eyes off the game. I look down on my little brother and wish I was still his age, when things were still simple and easy. Nolan will be fourteen in two weeks and I can see his boyish features are starting to turn sharper and lean as he starts becoming a man. I wish I could freeze him in time and just keep the carefree little guy I'd grown up with forever. Nolan had always been my sidekick, and I was always his hero. Now with dad away, our bond was stronger than ever, and I felt even more protective of my brother.
"Oh, Mr. Gibson was looking for you." That stopped me cold.
"Will? From next door?"
"Yeah, he came to the back door and asked if you were here."
"Wh--what did you tell him?"
"No."
I roll my eyes in annoyance.
"Did he want me to go over there?"
"Uh-nuh" Nolan is uninterested in the conversation and I'm not getting anything out of him so I climb the stairs to my bedroom two-at-a-time and dump my backpack and football gear on the floor.
Why was Will looking for me? I don't think I'm in trouble again. Maybe he was checking up on me or something? I can't think of a good reason, but my cock is hard again and I know I won't be able to ignore it.
I lay out on my bed and shove my hand into my boxer briefs. I need to take care of all this pent up energy before seeing Will again. Remembering that I jizzed on his leg while he spanked me makes my stomach clench, but my cock doesn't hate the memory. Then I remember Coach Thompson's big pendulous dick in his jockstrap. That subtle bump against my hip when he leaned into the shower next to me. I shimmy out of my pants and pull my shirt up behind my head so I can focus on pleasuring myself. My other hand rubs lightly over my still-warm ass, just enough to feel the warmth there and tickle the fine golden hairs on my backside.
My thoughts drift back further, to my dad.
I was in eighth grade, just a few months older than Nolan is now. I'd been sitting on my parent's bed for about half an hour where mom parked me and told me not to move. I heard dad get home in his truck, and then hushed talking in the kitchen as mom explained what I'd done. My stomach was in knots.
Dad came in and shut the door quietly. He was moving slowly and deliberately. Dad was always slow and stiff for a couple hours after he got home from work. He set a can of beer on the dresser and pulled his flannel shirt off, then his work jeans. He set them aside to wear again tomorrow.
The day it happened, I was too scared to sneak a peak at dad's burly chest or the outline of his dick through his briefs, but it was a common sight around the house and I'd spied on him before. As I relive the memory, I remember the way dad always wore underwear a size too small so they hugged his cheeks and held his package snug against his body. I could always make out the distinct lump of each testicle in his underwear, and I could tell when his dick was pointed up or down. In old photos from his Marine days, dad's muscles were toned and well defined. He still did push-ups and pull-ups every weekend, and his job required a lot of lifting and hauling heavy cement bags and equipment, so he maintained a rugged manliness that I'd always been in awe of.
Dad pulled on a pair of nylon PT shorts, and sat heavily in a ratty wingback chair. He took a long slug of beer before starting in on me.
"Well. Jesus Conner, I don't know where I went wrong with you. Your mother had to take off work early because you were cutting class. Is that true?"
I stare at the carpet, unable to make any words come out. Like a caught fish, my mouth opens and closes without any sound.
"Speak up, son. Come on, out with it."
"Y-yes sir."
He took another drink and waited for me to say more but I just sat there like a lump.
"If you don't start explaining yourself, it's gonna go a whole lot worse for you." He says in a threatening tone.
"I...I didn't want to take a math test." I lied. The truth was far more stupid. My friend John had told us about a high school tradition called Senior Skip Day, and we figured that as eighth graders we were the seniors of our middle school so we should do the same. Our plan was to ride the bus to school like normal, and then slip out when first bell rang and all meet up in the baseball dugouts. The plan worked for my friends but I was unlucky enough to get spotted by the SRO when I tried to cut across the running track.
"Must have been some math test if you're more scared of it than you are of me," dad remarked with a hard undertone. "Do you think what you did was right?"
"No sir," I replied. Dad always made me confront my infractions, and it was easier if I didn't show any resistance.
"Why?" He loved this game. Whatever small mistakes I made, he always insisted I come up with a justification for him to punish me. I hated this part most of all.
"Because," I cast around for something he would accept, "I should have been in class."
"Why should you be in class?" He pressed. I only had a few tries at this before he'd lose his temper.
"Because I should be learning," I glanced at him to see if I was on the right path, but his face was impassive. "And, I should be bettering myself?"
"Are you asking me or telling?"
"Telling, sir."
He chewed on this for a while and stared at me. Eventually he asked, "If going to class is bettering yourself, then what were you doing?"
Now we were getting down to the real issue. I had done this dance long enough to know the steps from here. "Diminishing myself," I answered.
"And?" He knew we were in the home stretch too now.
"And diminishing the family." I didn't see how skipping class affected anyone else, but it was what dad wanted to hear. He seemed to worry a lot about how my behavior reflected on him as a father.
"How do you suggest we deal with this?" His most insidious question, asking me to pick my own punishment. If I guessed too low he would increase it significantly, but if I guessed too high I would be asking for extra pain. A psychologist could build their whole career off this question.
"Ten strokes," I offered, hoping to find the sweet spot. I looked at him again and tried to evince remorse.
"Ten strokes," he repeated. Dad opened his hand and studied his big palm. "I'd say fifteen is more fitting."
Fuck! My heart sank. I'd undershot and now I would get much worse.
"So my fifteen," he looked me in the eye and I swear there was a little glint of sadistic enjoyment, "plus your ten will be twenty five strokes total. Does that sound fair Conner?"
"Yes, sir," my voice cracked and I tried to clear my throat.
"Strip and grab your ankles."
We both stand in the small bedroom and he drains his beer while I take off my tee shirt and unsnap my jeans. For a moment my eyes land on dad's bulge, hanging heavy in his onion skin shorts. I quickly drop my pants and get into a hinge position, presenting my butt for punishment.
Smack!
The first hit staggers me and I lurch forward into the side of the bed. The sting is sharp but it fades.
Smack! Smack!
We both stay quiet as he works, but the crack of his hand on my backside is audible through the house.
Smack! Smack!
"Five," he announces after the fifth stroke. "Have you learned your lesson yet?"
"No, sir." I knew he wasn't really asking if I was ready to be finished. I had tried telling him yes once but he disagreed and doubled my remaining punishment, so now I always played his game until the end.
Dad's strong hand returned to work and the pain grew worse. By the tenth stroke, my ass was burning. He asked me again if I'd had enough and again I told him no, so he continued.
The first ten had ben centered on my ass, warming up the inside half of each cheek. Now, dad's hand started moving around, spreading the fire to each side, and sometimes a little lower. It was a small blessing to get hit on fresh skin that wasn't already screaming in pain.
"Have you learned your lesson yet?"
God, were we on fifteen or twenty? My mind was slipping into a liminal haze and I had lost count.
"No, sir." I answered automatically, like I had muscle memory for being beaten. I tried to hold back tears--dad hated weakness--but they came forth anyway. Dad's hand was a powerful weapon and getting more than fifteen was a rare punishment. Twenty-five was among the worst I'd ever received before.
Smack!
Pain spread through me like lightning in the night sky. The sharp bright crack of the hit, followed by a low rumbling ache as the bruising set in.
Smack!
A deep sob wracked my body and I desperately tried to get it back under control. I couldn't afford any extra strokes for showing weakness today.
Smack!
I desperately tried to keep the sobs under control but his strike took my breath away and I made a pitiful gasping sound.
Smack!
I bit my lip hard to keep from yelping. I couldn't do anything about the hot angry tears or dribbling snot coming out of my eyes and nose.
Smack!
Some ancient instinct told me to just run, or try to fight, or do anything other than take more of this agony. I held my breath to trap my cries inside, but it was almost impossible, like holding a powerful sneeze in.
"Twenty-five. Have you learned your lesson yet Conner?"
My brain swam in dark a lake of pain. The number 25 seemed important; was that the end? Could I really be finished?
"Y-yes, sir," I said in a quivering tone.
"Get up," dad said in a tone that was more exhausted than angry. "Get yourself together."
I stood and he gave me a hand towel to dry my face. It smelled like dryer sheets. Dad stood silently as I composed myself; I knew he hated it when I cried or showed weakness, but today he didn't push the matter. As soon as I could breathe normally without sobs, I stood at attention and waited for his final verdict.
"I don't want to hear about you skipping class again, are we clear?"
"Yes, sir."
"Alright. Get your dressed, and go to your room. You're grounded for two weeks. Your mother will bring you some dinner in a little while."
I nodded and reached down for my jeans. Then I saw the image that would burn itself into my memory for years to come. Dad's cock snaking down the leg of his shorts and making an obvious bulge in one leg. He wasn't rock hard, but his dick was definitely aroused. I tore my eyes away but I could picture it perfectly in my mind. The seam of his Y-fronts were visible through the flimsy nylon shorts, stretched over his ballsack, and then down one side a thick tube at least four inches long.
I lay in bed pumping my cock to the memory of dad spanking me. The way his hand ignited thrills of pain over my ass. How the filmy nylon clung to his plumped up cock in those little shorts. I don't know if he'd seen me staring at it or not, but afterward I had retreated to my bedroom and jacked off thinking about it. After everyone went to bed I could hear dad giving it to mom in their bedroom that night, and I jacked off again listening to his muffled sex grunts. I wonder if he was thinking about spanking me while he was inside her.
I contrasted the memory of my dad with what Will had done yesterday. The feel of Will's leg under me, bumping my cock every time he spanked me. They had different rhythms. Dad's hand was stronger and hurt more, but Will had warmed me up with a long set of lighter slaps before switching to his belt for the finale. Why did I get so horny from being spanked? Did it happen to other guys or just me? I wonder if Coach Thompson ever spanked anyone.
Somewhere in my prostate the cum starts to boil and a powerful climax roars up through my cock. My breath comes fast and my hand is a blur as I tug the sheath of skin around my dick up over the crown and back down at a thousand strokes per minute. Muscles far up inside my pelvis contract and a moment later the pearly jizz flows out and splats all over my abs. I flex my glutes and thighs, almost in a bridge, as I squirt a second rope, and a third. The fourth shot is weaker. I let my body unwind into a toe-curling stretch as small pulses twitch my cock and the rest of my nut drools out over my thumb. With my other hand I draw lazy spirals in the cum on my stomach as the storm of endorphins wash through me.
I enjoy myself for a few minutes before post-nut clarity settles in and I wipe myself off, toss the Kleenex in the waste basket, and put my clothes back on. I look out my window across the pond at Will's house. Mom still isn't home yet.
I decide to go over and see what he wants.
AFTERWORD
Thank you for reading! I've been so happy to receive messages from readers after the first chapter went out. It's fun to hear about your similar experiences, fetishes, and feedback on my writing. I hope this chapter lives up to the first. Your encouragement helps me tremendously, and I try to respond to everyone who writes.
Cheers! grjock@proton.me Copyright 2025
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