Date: Mon, 13 May 2013 09:45:16 -0400 From: Quentin Compton Subject: Good Boy I smell coffee. I hear dishes clanking downstairs in the kitchen. Like any 16 year old boy, I have woken up with my hair matted and my dick hard. I consider, for a moment, whether to appease it. I pull the band of my boxers away from my waist. Surrounded by a dark bush, it's pulsing like it's begging for it. The precum starts already without me even touching it. I sigh, tuck it under the elastic band, get up, throw on a t shirt and walk downstairs. I regret my decision as soon as I feel it begin to whither. It goes flaccid and I miss it already. I don't want to be late for school, though, but now it will probably be trouble again later today, especially in Mr. White's class. The math is so easy, all I can do to stay awake is imagine what I'd let that gray haired man with the very beginnings of a pot belly do to me, if only he'd try. My dad is hard boiling eggs and drinking his coffee, which he never offers me. "Caffeine is wasted on the young," he says. "It shrinks your pecker," he told me once. Dad is actually watching for the water to boil, like he has never heard the old adage. He is not wearing a shirt--he's probably just finished his routine in the basement. A layer of sweat is glistening off his back. I move up next to him to get a bowl out of the cabinet for cereal. He turns and looks at me. "Morning, Matty," he says. His voice is deep, but more than deep, it is resonant. It's the voice you hear through walls, even when he's quiet. It's always reaching through me, like a hand, grabbing my insides, grabbing my attention. He takes his actual hand and tries to smooth down my rebellious hair. It's just about the only part of me that is rebellious. I make A's at school. I run track, and I am one of those rare young men who legitimately wants a clean room. So he's smoothing my hair, and I can see his arm pit, all that slightly damp hair framed by pecs, triceps, and teres muscles. He stands a good 6 inches taller than me, and what's more exciting than seeing his pit, the thing I want to taste so badly, is smelling it. It's like cheeseburgers and onions, but it is familiar like the house I'm standing in. It means a kind of safety and a kind of masculine vulnerability. This is a man, and he doesn't stress to keep from revealing it. This smell and the visual of the arm pit and how it makes me fell has me embarrassed, and I look down. Looking down is a mistake. Like they say in the movies, just don't look down. And just like in the movies, of course I go ahead do. I see where my dad's abs stick out enough to pull at the waist band of his gym shorts. Two little windows into his crotch on either side of his stomach. I think without thinking about it, I want to look into those windows. I think, I want my tongue sliding inside them. I keep looking and realize I can see the outline of dad's cock. It's poking at his gym shorts, tenting them, clearly half erect. I want to squeeze it, wrap my lips around it, worship it. I want to stay home and study it and have my father teach me all kinds of things. Let that be my school for the day. I turn around to hide my own growing cock, try to adjust it, put it back under my elastic band without being too obvious and head to the pantry to grab some Cheerios. I can hear my dad breathe a laugh out of his nose. I look down to see that my hard on has fallen out of the slit in the crotch of my boxers. i take the cereal box and bowl up to my room, clearing the stairs in a record few steps. I don't eat it with milk this morning, that's trapped in the fridge, past my dad. I get dressed quickly, grab my backpack, run down the stairs and then go directly out the door without having to face my father again. I get home after a long day at school. I've been sleepy all day, and that means even more spontaneous erections than normal. Probably 20. Dad's not home yet. I lie down on the couch, turn on some tv, and before I realize just what I'm doing, my hand is down my pants, stroking and pulling. I precum so much, my hand starts to actually get pruney. And then I cum inside my boxers. I'm exhausted. I pass out. My jeans are left unzipped, and a telling damp spot is soaking through my underwear. I wake up. There's the sound of silverware clanking against a dish, and I can see my father in his lazy boy recliner, eating. Bare chested. So much blond hair there. I wonder how it would feel against my mostly smooth chest. Everything's hazy. I can hear the anchorwoman. It's the six o'clock news. Without looking at them, I remember my jeans are unzipped. My hour old cum feels cold against my already hardening cock. I reach down to zip up, like there's any chance dad hasn't seen what I've done already. Dad says, "Stop!" Leave `em like that." The voice. I freeze under its influence. I've never heard it quite like that. It is like a bark. It is a command. I want to look up at him, but I don't dare. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see he's sipping a beer. I have never seen him drink alcohol. Ever. I have gone from embarrassed to terrified in just two seconds. "Do not hide what you've done from me. Take off your shirt, and take off those damn paints." A second goes by, and I don't take any action. "Now! And let's look at that mess you made, boy." I'm frozen. No, I'm completely paralyzed. My heart is beating so fast, it's like I just ran a half marathon, and I want to cry. I haven't cried once in the five years since I broke my arm. I just lie there hoping I'll wake up. I focus on the anchorwoman's voice. Something about the stock market. "Matty," my dad says, "I told you to do something." His voice has lost its menacing edge. It's all warmth and safety, and it breaks the spell over me, letting me breathe again. "When I tell you to do something, you say yessir, and you do it, okay?" I nod and he laughs. He takes another sip of beer. The edge returns. "Now, take of those damn clothes, boy." My voice is small, but I manage to give the required response while I pull at my clothes, finding it suddenly impossibly difficult to maneuver out of them. He tells me to stand in front of him. Somehow, my cock is as hard as it's ever been. It's actually painful. It's so hard, it's peeking out of the top of my boxers. I see now that my dad is not wearing his gym shorts, which I'd just assumed he was from my vantage point on the couch. He's wearing a jock strap, and I can barely contain the urge to kneel down in front of him and breathe it all in. But I'm also very scared. I don't dare move without instruction. "Tell me what you are feeling, boy," he says. I look at the clock. "Look at me, boy. What are you feeling?" he asks again. Slower. Like he's trying to maintain his patience. Something like guilt for making him work to do that starts to form inside me. But my bottom lip starts to quiver, and then my chin starts to shake uncontrollably. I start a response. One. Two. Three times. "I, I, I," I stammer. My father's face is stone cold, unaffected. He stands up and circles me. Stopping in front of me, actually spits on my chest. I wish so badly he would wrap his arms around me. Instead, he says, "Pathetic." It's a verdict, a judgement passed and I can't help but let a shrill, small, "Daddy," escape my lips. I'm whining. And it is pathetic. I feel it before I can realize I actually see it coming. It stings. I know my cheek must be red, and now I feel tears, hot and running down my face. My dad has just slapped me. "Tell me what you are feeling, or you'll get another." I just blubber and gasp. I stammer again, and he slaps me again. Harder. Finally, I find my voice, overcorrect, and nearly shout, "I feel scared, sir." And then he picks me up in his great arms and lays me across his lap on the couch. I am sobbing. I am burrowing into his chest. I want him to hold me forever. He grabs my head and forces me to look at him. I see the warmth that is my father again and not the vacant stranger from earlier. "Good boy. I'm proud of you. It's hard, sometimes, to say how we feel and to admit what we want." He kisses me on the forehead and goes on. "Now, baby boy, tell me what you wanted to do when you came into the kitchen this morning." "Nothing, sir," I blurt, "just to get to school on time is all." He taps me just lightly on the cheek, not a slap, just the reminder of a slap. he leans down and over to whisper in my ear. "Tell me, boy. Don't be scared. This is the safest plaace you can ever be. Tell me what you wanted to do this morning." He grabs my hard cock through my boxers and I realize for the first time our bare chests are touching. This realization makings me start dripping precum. So much shows through the fabric. He whispers right into my ear, and goosebumps run down my whole body. "Tell me, boy, and I'll let you do it. Whatever it is. Daddy will make it happen." "To taste your arm pit, sir." He squeezes my balls a little too hard, and I gasp and arch my back. "Good boy," dad breathes. I see dad grin, and everything inside me breaks, and I'm not scared at all inside this one moment at least. "I'm gonna let you eat my pit for a while, son, but also be talking. You think you can keep listening?" I nod quickly. Then--I smell HIM. It is catnip. It is home. It drives me crazy. It is the sweetest smell. I think of horses and chess. And I am tasting all of it. And then I remember I'm supposed to be listening to my father. He's pulled my cock through the slit in my boxers, and I don't even notice I'm so focused on his arm pit. Now he's pulling down, and I'm hard and it hurts so badly, and whimper. "Ah," dad says, "now you're listening." "Yessir." My voice is muffled, so I nod in a big motion, hoping he understands. "Good," and he goes back to stroking my cock. "This cock is not your anymore. Whose is it, boy?" "Yours, sir," I say. He pulls my head out from himself and kisses me lightly on the mouth and keeps me just as close when he says, "Good boy." Then he puts my head back under. "You do not touch it without my say so. Not even to piss, boy. If you need it cleaned in the shower, you get your daddy, understand, boy?" I moan, but nod real big again. My father is doing this thing with the palm of his hand on the tip of my cock, and it is the single best sensation I have ever felt. "If you cum without my permission, I will know, and you will be punished." He takes one of his ands and slaps me on my hard stomach. I gasp, and arch my back. My dad laughs, but it's not a mean laugh. "I'm going to cum," I panic. The stoking stops and I'm basically about to cry I want to feel his hand on my cock again so badly. I'm whining and thrusting wildly into the air. The tip of my cock is aching, and I feel see full in my balls, it feels like the most painful floating. "No, bitch," he says. And then I DO start to cry. he takes my head back out and with two hands forces me to look him in the eyes. "Baby boy, you ASK daddy if you can cum, don't tell him. It's alright, boy." And he rocks me and my erection doesn't quit. "Can i please cum, daddy?" I ask softly. Testing out the words. He puts me back on his armpit and strokes my cock, rubbing the head like before. I start to shoot, he says, "Good boy," over and over again. And I feel like one. I feel like a good boy. Dad tells me to go take a shower, and he's gonna call for a pizza. He's sure I have homework he to do and nothing is strange.