Date: Fri, 04 Jan 2002 23:26:07 -0500 From: Danny Meyer Subject: TRAINING MY SON - Chapter 2 ____________________________________________ TRAINING MY SON by Danny Meyer Chapter 2 - At the Hotel ___________________________________________________________________ Copyright (c) January 4, 2002 by Danny Meyer. All rights reserved. ___________________________________________________________________ I encourage you to send email. I'd enjoy hearing your opinions. I'll reply to your email unless you say not to. Thanks. --Danny Please write to Danny: sittinhome@hotmail.com ___________________________________________________________________ YOU MUST BE 21 or older, in most places, to read this type of erotic and sexual story, which includes incest, spanking, other forms of discipline, and sexual activity between males. While there is no brutality or coercion, these acts are considered extreme by many persons. The story is not real, and it does not reflect any real people or events. Any similarity to actual persons or events is strictly coincidental, and unintentional. All acts are consensual, or within the broad boundaries of the strict parental guidance, discipline, and punishment practices of an earlier era. ___________________________________________________________________ MAIN CAST: THE FATHER: Jeffrey Harper, 32*, 5'11" tall, 170 pounds, (180 cm, 77 Kg), blue eyes, dark brown hair, exceptionally good-looking, trim and well muscled, tanned, and a gymnast in his free time. Jeffrey uses a tanning salon, and has included his son in the membership. The father NARRATES, most of the time. THE SON: Lane Harper, 14*, 5'2" tall, 90 pounds, (157 cm, 41 Kg), blue eyes, light brown hair, angelic face, very thin, also tanned, but naturally paler than his father. Lane works out with his dad, quite often. He strongly resembles his father. ___________________________________________________________________ * THE STORY IS NOW IN A FLASHBACK - THE FATHER IS 28, THE SON IS 10 ___________________________________________________________________ CHAPTER 2 "Daddy, daddy!" "Unnh......what?" "Wake up!" I had dozed off after unpacking our suitcases--I was flat on my back on the king-sized hotel bed. Being awakened from a nap was not my favorite thing, but I never complained when it was my son, waking me. I looked at Lane's smiling face, and couldn't help grinning back at him. "Hi, son." "THERE you are," Lane said happily, as if I had somehow materialized, out of thin air. His eyes sparkled, and he always seemed genuinely happy to see me. "Here I AM," I said, smiling but still groggy--and glad that I wasn't wasting any more time, sleeping. I'd much rather be talking with Lane, or taking him somewhere. "You have a stiffie, dad." "I DO? Oh--yes, I do," I said, as my hand reached down to my aching erection--which had yet to see any relief since many days before we had left London. As I lifted my head briefly, I could see I made quite a tent. I was tempted to re-adjust myself, but then I thought it would look like I was hiding it--ashamed, or something. And that was not a message I wanted to send my son, so I removed my hand, and just left the thing sticking up as it was. My head returned to the pillow and I relaxed, although my penis was not in the most comfortable of positions. "You're going back to sleep?" "No, no, son," I said, sitting up, supported on my elbows. "It's big," Lane said softly, with his innocent eyes widening. His hand casually grasped the bulge in my trousers, gently-- effectively touching my penis for the first time. Again, I debated with myself--whether I should object. But, to tell him not to touch it might make him think there's something bad about a penis--his own or mine, for that matter. So I decided to remain silent on the issue. As I smiled--partly because I was relieved to have come to a decision, partly because I was just happy to see Lane--he increased the strength of his grip. "Uhhh," I muttered, involuntarily. Lane snatched his hand away. "Does it hurt, dad?" "No, no, son," I said, sitting up fully now, grasping both his hands in mine, "it feels good." "It does?" "Yes, Lane--that's what stiffies do, they feel good." "Yeah, mine felt good when you rubbed it, and made me pee." "With men, they happen several times a day; with boys, more often. Later on, as you develop, a stiffie will feel good, even without rubbing it--just because it's there." I could tell this was a bit beyond his comprehension, but he accepted the statement at face value. I began to worry that I was explaining too much, but he really seemed quite comfortable with the conversation. _________________ It seemed odd, but I think dad had been having stiffies, all along, but I never really noticed until now. I guess I've had a lot of them that I didn't even know about. Now, I'm starting to feel them, when they happen. I don't know why, though. _________________ "So, it still feels good, dad?" "Yes." "But it feels better when you touch it?" "Yes, that's precisely how it works, Lane. Very good." "Why does it feel good?" "Well, em--it feels good because--well, because a man's body is made that way." "Yes, but why?" "Well, it all has to do with making babies, and making babies HAS to feel good, you see?" I could feel the sweat forming on my brow. "Why does making babies have to feel good?" "Well--if making babies didn't feel really good, people might forget to make them." "Oh," he said, quite troubled at this response. "Why don't I have a stiffie all the time, dad?" "That's a very good question, Lane," I said, stalling--but my words were sufficient to bring a smile to my son's face. We enjoyed our intellectual conversations, such as they were, and Lane especially liked it when he asked a question I found challenging. "Well, let's see--you know how you like chocolate cake, how good it tastes, how special it is?" "Sure." "Suppose you had chocolate cake every day?" "Hmmm, he said," pondering the question as if it were a riddle from the depths of wisdom, itself. His facial expression at that point was priceless. "Well......" "Son, you'd probably get quite accustomed to chocolate cake if you had it all the time--it would be just an ordinary thing, like bread or chips." "Yes, probably," Lane said, partly convinced. Then, his eyes lit up. "Oh, I get it! If I had a stiffie all the time, it wouldn't be special!" "I'm really proud of you, Lane. That's exactly right." This elicited a self-satisfied grin from my son, who casually returned his hand to the bulge in my trousers. I had a feeling he was going to ask to see my erection--and to be consistent, I would have to say yes, but I didn't want him to ask. "Thanks, dad. Do you think I could--" "Why don't we take our shower, now," I said, knowing that would pleasantly side-track him for a while. "YEAH!" We showered together on a regular basis, and Lane specially enjoyed that. I permitted it because I wanted him to learn about his body and sex, the natural way. To my way of thinking, that included seeing my body, as well, under reasonably controlled circumstances, and for him not to attach any wrong feelings to his own nakedness. Lane's eyes were fixed on my bulge. I began to blush--but I knew it was now or never, so I stood and pulled off my bottom clothing in one motion. I could tell by the feel of it as it sprung free from the elastic waistband that I had one of those long-lasting erections. Lane's eyes went wide. "Ohhh," he gasped, "it's big--bigger than ever!" "Yours will be, too, in a few years, if I feed you right." "Feed me right? What would you feed me to make it bigger?" "Lima beans, turnips, squash, radishes--things like that." "Oh," he said, somewhat deflated. My eyes scanned the room for the first time since I'd awakened. There were peanut shells on the floor. "Lane, you've made a mess. Clean it, at once." "Yes, sir." It was unusual for Lane to be so careless, but more importantly, I began to realize that we had no peanuts with us when we arrived at the hotel. "Lane, where did the peanuts come from?" I watched the backs of his ears, as he was bent, picking up the shells, and began to see a red color develop. "I--I--took the key and got them from the restaurant place, near the lobby." "LANE! You not only did something very dangerous, but you disobeyed a direct order!" "Yes, sir. I--I'm sorry!" "You've earned a punishment. You know what to do." What would have been an eager undressing for our shower was now a slow, sullen act. Lane pulled his clothes off deliberately, folding them neatly, as I had taught him to do, while unsuccessfully trying to hold back his tears. When the underpants came off, I could tell he wasn't entirely stiff, but he wasn't soft, either. When he had finished undressing and folding, his back was turned. "Turn to me, and tell me what order you disobeyed." "You told me not to leave the room without you, but I did." "All right." He knew better than to try to make excuses, or justify what he had done. Lane knew the routine, well. Naked, he withdrew to a corner of the room, and faced it. Before administering any punishment, I always had a five minute cooling-down period, to ensure that I never spanked him while I was still angry. This time, I wasn't sure five minutes would be enough. It was incredible to me that he would leave the room while I slept. Anything could have happened to him while he wandered through the hotel, by himself. That thought, alone, made me fearful and angry. "I'm sorry, sir," Lane said, facing the corner. "I know you are. You put yourself in great danger, going out, without me. You could have been kidnapped, injured, or both." "I won't do it again, sir." "I know you won't, Lane." There was no sense in adding that the punishment was to drive the point home--he knew quite well that was the case. "Can we still have our shower, after...after this?" "Yes, of course." I stared at the back of his head, and saw a slight bulge in his face. He was smiling! Some punishment this was going to be--my son standing naked in the corner with his white butt staring at me, and he was grinning happily while awaiting a spanking. I decided that any punishment now would be ineffective. "Come here, son." This was not what I would say, customarily, at this point, and I'm sure I had confused him. He turned around slowly, then hesitated, eyeing the paddle on the dresser. "Sir, what about the pad--" "Forget the paddle, son." He rushed to my arms. "Oh, dad." "I love you son." "It's not fair--I deserve a spanking." "Yes, you do." I said. Sometimes his bravery and sense of justice amazed me. "But--" "I'll make you think about it, and wait till later." He continued to hug me, but sagged somewhat. Lane was definitely one to get a spanking over with and out of the way, as I supposed most boys were. "Yes, sir." I was beginning to get uncomfortable with the both of us hugging, naked--and me still erect. His scrotum began to rub against the tip of my penis. I shivered. "All right," I said--but as I spoke, Lane shifted himself into a quite proper spanking position, over my knee. "Sir--as long as I'm here, why don't you--" SMACK!! SMACK!! SMACK!! I gave him three, fierce whacks on his little, bare butt. They must have stung, mightily, judging by the pain in my hand, and the jolt in Lane's body as I delivered each forceful slap to his milky- smooth buttocks. I became aware of his accelerated breaths, but he made no real sound. For quite a number of minutes, neither of us moved, nor said a word. "Is that all, sir?" "No." I was gently rubbing Lane's bottom, absentmindedly. "Oh," he said, with an odd sort of far-away sound in his voice. "You thought that was your spanking--your punishment?" "Well--I just thought that...what I did was so bad--" "Yes, but no--that wasn't your punishment. I was loving you. Those were love taps." "Oh," he said, in the same wistful tone. SMACK!! "Excuse, me?" "Yes, sir. Sorry." "Better." I became a bit tense. Lane was different, somehow--acting differently. He was too docile, or something. I couldn't put my finger on it. Even though Lane was bent over my leg, I had a good view of the side of his face, and I was studying it. "That feels good......SIR." "The slaps?" "No, sir--what you're doing now." "What am I--oh!" I said, discovering I was still rubbing him. By this time, the heat of the spanking was emanating from him, back into my hand. I guessed that rubbing there would feel rather soothing to anyone. "Thank you, dad," he said, which was a customary phrase, but confusing to me in this context. "Lane--is it that you're asking me for punishment? That you LIKE it when I spank you?" Here came a long pause, and Lane sighed, deeply. "Yes," he said, clearly and deliberately. I was stunned. "Why?" "Because I feel better after you do." "I see." His answer was swift, and the phrasing precise and distinct. I decided to let it drop, although I was highly intrigued. Knowing Lane, I would not have to question. He would elaborate-- unwittingly or otherwise--soon enough. I was still stunned. This time, I was convinced his words were no psychological ploy, but an expression of genuine feelings. His growing ability to detect those feelings in himself and express them was almost frightening. I knew I was in no condition to face that or analyze it--I was still tired from our westward trip across the Atlantic. Yes, he would be ten years old in two days, but mentally, he was well beyond that. Lane didn't simply absorb information. He processed it, analyzed it, matrixed it a hundred different ways, and after doing that, no one could surpass his understanding of it or his ability to use it. With such intellectual capacity at the tender age of ten, he was likely a genius, and would surely grow to the point where he could outsmart me, and probably everyone else. With that realization, my mission became clear. I would have to produce a son so well disciplined--so steeped in genuine goodness, selflessness, and what is proper--that there was no chance for him to go bad. I would have to be very hard on him, which would not be easy for me. Although I had been no slouch in disciplining him, to date, I would have to redouble my efforts--be alert to every possible wrong motive or method of his--even to the point of being harsh, when necessary. There is no giving in to a child's whims, without reaping the harvest of a new Pandora box of chaos and failure, down the road, I was convinced. 'God help the world if such mental power were used for wrong purposes,' I thought. "Let's get our shower, son. I'll decide on your proper punishment, afterward." I had much to think about. "Yes, sir," he said, sliding himself upward, before dismounting from my knee. The underside of my leg caught the tip of his penis. It was hard as a board. I would have to ignore it, for now. We walked into the bathroom. "There, that's about right, eh?" I asked, after adjusting the water temperature. "Yes. Will you wash me?" I washed him, on occasion, and I saw no harm in it--although it was impossible for me to picture myself taking a daily bath with Lane, when he reached the ripe old age of sixteen, or so, much less wash him, then. "All right, son. But, I'd better be careful," I said with a wry grin, "I have something to work around carefully, now." Lane's only response was a wrinkled, quizzical expression. "You have a stiffie, Lane." "Oh. Yes. You still have yours," he said, in that tit-for-tat way that boys do. He liberally soaped his chest and abdomen, despite the fact that he wanted me to do the washing. "Yes. All right, boy--into position. Hand me the soap." Though remaining quite stiff, his erection drooped, very slightly--just enough to give it a perceptible angle, sloping downward, away from his body. I was telling Lane to get against the back wall of the shower and face me, so I could proceed. This was necessary so I could kneel in front of him and begin the washing process with his feet, as was my custom. As I did so, the soap from his upper body dripped off his penis, onto my lips. There was nothing sensual happening, but this soap business was sending images to my brain that my better judgement summarily rejected. Of course, the imagery was totally non-existent, for Lane. Unfortunately, my erection was not entirely in agreement with my higher judgement. I ached to touch myself. "Don't eat the soap, dad," Lane said, laughing. "Yes, right," I said, chuckling a bit, but sounding as cool and detached as possible. By this time I was washing the tops of his legs. Next was the hard part. Lane was completely hairless, as I would expect a boy of his age to be, but his pubic area struck me as particularly bald. His penis had regained its full upward angle of erection--it looked tight and rigid, as if it might break off, at any moment. There was a marked redness. I wasn't certain how much excitement he was actually feeling, but physiologically, my son was quite aroused. "Take a deep breath, son. All your organs are very sensitive when you have a stiff one, as you do." "ALL my organs?" he said. "Yes--your penis and your nutsack." "Nutsack?" "Scrotum--this," I said, as I tickled his ballsack with the tip of my finger. "Ahhh!" he exclaimed--lifting a leg and practically folding in half, at the sensation. I steadied him. "See what I mean?" "Wow! Yes, sir!" I couldn't help laughing, and Lane followed suit. "All right, here comes the washcloth, so, brace yourself, boy." As I washed his privates, Lane shouted, wriggled, and squirmed, until I thought he would fall or collapse under his own weight. I hugged him to me as his foot began to slip, and felt a jolt of electricity as our penises touched. "Uhh!" I exclaimed. As we separated, Lane's eyes were fixed on my erection. "Dad, do you need to wee?" "Yes, I think." "You should wank, then," he said innocently, with an air of the obvious and inevitable--a simple, youthful tone of finality I found quite charming. I wondered if he felt he were instructing me as much as I felt I was being instructed by him. I blushed. I recovered from my fascination, only to find myself facing another dilemma. If I said yes, I would have to wank in front of my son--who was not quite ten years old. If I said no, I might unwittingly inculcate some element of negativity pertaining to wanking or the body--and I desperately wanted him to have only positive thoughts about his body and sexual experiences. His simple, innocuous message echoed in my thoughts, 'You should wank, then.' "I suppose I should," I said. He had me in a difficult spot--his sexual education was beginning to be more trying for me than for him. I wanted to make a point about privacy, but how could I, after what I had done with him in the airplane's lavatory? Lane's face was wide open with sheer expectancy. "All right, son, I will. Mind you, dads usually don't do this in front of anyone--much less their sons." "But it's different with US, right, dad? You're not afraid to do ANYTHING in front of me!" he said, with an air of confident grandness, and face full of joy. "Yes, right." His little speech had my eyes watering with tears. I kissed him on the cheek, briefly. Now, he had me in a real pickle. "Wait--your skin's not back," he said, helpfully, remembering how it was for him when we were at the toilet, on the plane. He simply extended his hand and pulled it back for me. I was so erect, it took little effort. I was frozen with surprise. I prayed I would not blush, too badly. "Thank you son," I said, making a mental note to explain later that the exact position of the foreskin was unimportant, prior to stroking. I nearly panicked as the next thought came to me. On the aircraft, I had stroked him. Would he think to do that for me, now? "Wow," he said, proud of himself, staring at my erection. "What about YOU, son?" I asked, hoping to change the course of events, a bit. "Me?" "Yes. YOU have an erection, too." "Erection?" "Stiffie. Erection is the more proper word for it." "Oh--you mean, like in the lavatory." "Yes. You might do with a wank." "Now? I don't have to wee, dad." "I see. Well, you don't need to wait until then, to wank." I hadn't planned on making a statement of that sort until he was much older, but here we were. "Oh. I guess I will, then. But I'm not sure if I know how--" "Here, grasp it like this, but don't slide, yet." His fingers gripped his penis. I guided his hand into the right position, and controlled the force of his grip. With my hand on his, I moved gently back and forth, feeling the heat from his organ, and his little legs twitching, each time our fingers passed over the glans. I removed my hand and observed my son, stroking himself for the first time. I could not help thinking that this was the opening of a new chapter in my boy's life. I had a sort of thrill--similar to what I felt when I saw Lane walk for the first time. Irrespective of that, I worried that I had taken things too far, and felt a bit tense. "Ohhh," he said, squirming with pleasure, his legs and feet in constant motion. "What should I say while I'm wanking?" he asked. He had said, 'wanking' quite deliberately--obviously testing out the relatively new word. "Well--say anything you like, or nothing, or both," I said nervously. "Haha!" Lane's laugh made me realize my error. I watched his unpracticed hand oscillating with undue speed. "You might do with a bit of slowing down, son." "Oh--yes, sir." I was instantly sorry I had said anything. His hand slowed to a snail's pace. At this rate, we could be in the shower the whole day. I decided to say no more on that subject-- confident that nature would have him speed up, automatically, at the appropriate time. "Dad, aren't you going to--" "Yes, of course," I said, realizing I had not given myself the first stroke, yet. As I began, another problem surfaced, just as the pleasure started to hit me. I reduced my speed, matching Lane's slow pace, to give us time to talk. "Lane--you know a man's body is different from a boys?" "Well," he said thoughtfully, "it's bigger." "Yes, right. Remember when I was wanking you, on the airplane, and after a bit, you felt good, all over?" "Yes." "Well, that's called 'orgasm,' and when a man has an orgasm, it not only feels quite good, but white liquid will come out of his penis." "White liquid? But--" "Yes. It's called semen. It very often shoots out, a bit of a distance." For some reason Lane found this to be humorous, but his glee was overcome by his curiosity. "Why does it do that?" I had to be careful with that question, I knew, instinctively, else we could be bogged down with biological descriptions for the next twelve weeks. "Remember, when I told you that a man puts a seed in the woman, and that is how a baby begins to grow, inside her?" "Yes." "All right--well, the white liquid contains that seed." I could see by his expression, Lane found this to be very odd. "How does it get inside her?" "There is a special opening there, just for that, and it goes in." "Oh," he said, as if that were the simplest thing he'd ever heard. "Yes--I knew you'd get it," I said, as I realized my hand had sped up, a bit, and waves of pleasure were in progress. I saw Lane's hand, moving more quickly, now, and wondered if he felt more pleasure, himself, or was mimicking my movement. "Ohhhhhh!" Lane said, teetering a bit. I wrapped my free arm around his chest, steadying him. His moan and the look of ecstasy on his face would take me over the top, any moment, now. I began making sensual sounds of my own, and for a while, it was as if we were answering each other. Soon, our moans were synchronized. I should say, my moans were synchronized with Lane's shouts. For some reason, I turned toward him. "Uhh!" "Ahhhhh!" We were coming, together. Pangs of guilt were quickly washed away as I looked at my boy's expression of pure pleasure, and his face contorted with six different versions of sensual joy. While Lane's orgasm gripped him, I began to come, in earnest. His orgasm was long, but he recovered sufficiently to notice the last few shots of my semen, hitting his chest and ribs. "That stuff is really hot," he said in awe, trying to speak and catch his breath at the same time, while he reached his hand to touch the fluid. "It tickles--and it's real slippery, too, dad." Unfortunately, I was still quite in the throes of my climax, and could only utter meaningless syllables, as my body lurched with its final pulsation. "Wow, dad. Your ogasmer must feel really good. Mine did, too. It felt better when you did it, though." "Yes--I'm...so glad, son," I said, breathlessly, "Yes, it feels really good." I was insufficiently recovered to fully appreciate or correct his mispronunciation. "A lot of that stuff came out, too. That's good, right?" "Yes." "Why can't I do that?" I smiled, and recovered my breath, enough to answer. "When you get a little older, you'll start to develop. We've talked about that--how you'll get hair, down there, some day, and your penis will begin to grow. That's the time when you'll start to produce semen, inside you. One day, all of a sudden, it will just come out." For some reason, this elicited a furrowed brow and a slight frown, from my son. I was puzzled at Lane's expression, briefly. "It will come out, all by itself? What if someone sees--won't it be shocking?" "Sorry, son. It won't come all by itself. It will happen if you're wanking, or something." And I really didn't want to be questioned on the meaning of, 'or something.' "Oh. Then it makes sense," he said, as if he had solved a problem in arithmetic. I was ever in a state of wonder at the simplicity of a boy's world. "Dad--when you wanked me on the airplane, did you have a stiffie, too?" "Yes," I said, glad that he couldn't see my blush. I still had my arm around him, and felt his body quiver a bit. Only then did I notice he was stroking himself again--or still. "It's all right, Lane, you can stop, now." "Ohh--ohhh--dad! It's a lot......uhhhhhh...stronger, now." "It's ok, son," I said as I held him tightly--my subsiding erection pressed between his back and my abdomen. His body quaked. At the moment of my satiation, my son had reached another peak. "Just let it happen, Lane. Just let it happen." "Ahhhhhhhhh!" I was stunned at the power of his body to squirm and wriggle, as it practically vibrated out of my grip. I had heard that a boy's second, dry orgasm was often more intense, but I didn't recall experiencing that, myself, at his age. My arms were stroking his chest, soothingly. His hand left his penis, as he went off to another world, in the throes of powerful pleasure. My upper arms pressed him into me, and my unthinking hands caressed his organs. It wasn't until Lane began to recover that I realized I had one hand wrapped around his penis, and the other under his scrotum. It had seemed natural, seconds before, but I was shocked at myself. "Mmmmm," he groaned, with his eyes closed, and mouth in a little smile. It was too late, now, for me to suddenly remove my hands. The heat from his organs seemed to burn into them, and I didn't have the heart to change a thing, as he settled down to enjoy his final voluptuous sensations, and caught his breath. I was not entirely surprised, when he recovered more fully, shifted, and I felt a little hand reach backward and grasp my own penis. What could I say? I was holding HIM that way, and in his world, reciprocation was as natural as the air, itself. He remained with his eyes closed, for a long period. "Not going to sleep on me, are you, Lane?" "Oh--no, sir." I finished washing him, and washed myself. Lane was in a daze, and didn't seem to fully come out of it until I had dried him off. He stared placidly, as I urinated. He had a good sideways view of me, but said nothing. We made our way to the bedroom. I was too spent to think about anything but falling backward onto the bed. _______________________________ Would you like me to continue? Please let me know. When you write, please mention, "Son story," or something similar. Thank you. Danny Meyer sittinhome@hotmail.com MY OTHER NIFTY STORIES Incest: cool-kid-brother (CKB) Authoritarian: boyz-brutal-training-school (BBTS) [end of file]