Date: Tue, 14 May 2002 02:53:09 -0400 From: Danny Meyer Subject: TRAINING MY SON - Chapter 4 ____________________________________________ TRAINING MY SON by Danny Meyer Chapter 4 - With Renewed Vigor ___________________________________________________________________ Copyright (c) May 14, 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. ___________________________________________________________________ AUTHOR'S NOTE The story is still in a flashback, four years in the past. At that time, this British father and his son had just moved to the U.S.A., and been only a few days in the U.S. They are still in a hotel. At this time, Jeffrey Harper is 28 years old. His son Lane is about to have his tenth birthday. (The flashback began very early in Ch. 1.) ___________________________________________________________________ At the end of the previous chapter . . . I resumed rubbing. I was quite enjoying rubbing the petrolatum into him, and went on for some time. There was something about the feel of his skin against my hands. "Oh, now I've gone and got us all greasy. I'll have to wipe you off with a--" I was interrupted by Lane's standing up in the middle of the bed, facing me. "Dad--can we take a shower, instead?" I wondered if he had any awareness of his erection. ___________________________________________________________________ CHAPTER 4 With Lane naked, standing on the bed towering above me, I had a view of him at an unaccustomed angle. His head quickly tipped down to meet my gaze. Not only was Lane erect, his face was flushed, lips slightly parted, and his heartbeat was visible in his thin chest. I was suddenly struck with the urgency of my own erection, and decided not to mention his. I was shocked at my condition. "A shower? Maybe," I said. My eyes surveyed his entire body, but lingered at his penis--hard, strikingly red, and larger than I had seen it before. Could it have grown, in so short a time? "Yes, sir!" Lane said, smiling with renewed energy, and it seemed as if his response was also answering my unspoken question. My mind drifted to Lane's reference to his London friend, Michael. Lane had said they'd compared marks from their spankings. I began to see mental images of the two of them baring their buttocks and examining them--the two boys intensely curious. Was that all they had done? And that book! What had he read? "Lane, first tell me more about the book you and Michael were reading. Do you remember the title or the author?" "Book?" he said, beginning to tremble. "Yes." "Oh...book..." he said, his mind obviously elsewhere. "Yes, Lane," I said, as I stood beside the bed and took him in my arms, "the book Michael's dad let him borrow." I began to ease him into a sitting position. "No--my arse is all greasy!" he said, referring to the petrolatum I had rubbed on. Thankful for the warning, I laid him on his stomach. "Good boy for not making a mess. Now about the book--do you remember the author or the title?" I was about to remind him that he had forgotten to use the American word for 'arse,' but decided to remain pertinent. "No, sir." Lane began to settle down on his stomach, and looked thoughtful, at last. "All right, Lane. Tell me what you remember about it." "Ah!" he said, adjusting his penis, which obviously was pressing against the bed at the wrong angle. "Well, it was about becoming stronger than most people, I think--and winning your battles." "Battles? What kind of battles?" Lane looked at me incredulously. "You know, winning fistfights with mates--things like that." "I see," I said, beginning to think he had interpreted the author's words to fit his own particular world--the issues and concerns of a ten-year-old schoolboy. Lane's eyes widened suddenly. "Oh! The word, 'Success' was in the title." "Was it one of those advice books? How to get rich?" "I suppose," Lane said, looking somewhat confused. "There was this part about Spain, a long time ago, and guys were being tortured. And then this one guy decided he was going to make himself really strong, and be able to take it. He did, and after a while he got away. And after that, he never lost a fight." "The Inquisition, I presume." "I don't know." "Is that when you and Michael compared marks from your spankings?" "Yes, sir." "What else did you and Michael do?" Lane blushed badly at this. "Well, we--we compared our......our wees, sir. Then we got dressed and I came home," Lane said, fearfully. "You mean your penises. Boys do that all the time, son--no need for shame," I said, to Lane's relief. "So, what else?" I left the question open-ended, to see where he would go. "He said that if you make yourself strong, you don't worry a great deal." "The man who escaped his torturers said that?" "Yes." "And when you make yourself strong, people don't try to quarrel with you as much." "As much as what?" "As much as if you didn't get the pain." "Pain?" "Yes--the pain makes you strong when you make yourself take it." "Interesting. And you two boys were able to understand all that?" "Well, not all of it, but we liked the idea that we wouldn't get beaten as much, if we got really strong and everyone knew it. So getting spanked is a good--" "I see." I began to worry about how Lane intended to inform others of his strength. "And how will everyone know about it?" "I don't know--I just guessed they'd see it, somehow." I smiled at him. "That's good, son. Very good." "Is it true, dad?" "Well--it sounds as if it would be. I've never tested the theory, myself--at least, not in the scientific way you boys are going about it." I smiled as I said this, wanting Lane to draw confidence from it. I was fairly certain this was all good, clean curiosity and a genuine effort toward self-improvement on Lane's part, but made a mental note to be on the alert for anything untoward in the future. Lane looked somewhat self-satisfied, as his chest suddenly became more prominent. His mood seemed to change in an instant. "Hey! Can we measure ours?" he shouted, referring to our sex organs. "Hey?" I said, looking askance at him, "what kind of talk is that?" "Sorry, dad. I just--" "No, we're not going to measure them or any such thing," I said, fearing the very act might foster an unhealthy interest in bodily matters--at least in this context. I supposed if Lane had asked the identical question under more routine circumstances I might have felt differently. "Yes, sir." "Stand up on the bed as you were before." I was curious to see the effect of our conversation on his body, and began to suspect that my own curiosity was a bit out of line. Lane, however, seemed happy to obey. As he stood, he smiled proudly. Sure enough, his penis was no less erect than moments before. I resumed my former inspection of his body. "Can we have our shower, then?" "If you stand very still." 'OUR shower,' I thought to myself. The boy certainly knew how to choose his words. I looked up at him. He showed no sign of distress from the spanking I had just given him. Lane seemed to suddenly have some muscular development in his arms, and there was visible hair on his legs. "Dad--it's hard to stand still on the bed--it's so soft." "All right--off to the shower with you. Get the water just right, and I'll be in shortly," I said as I began to undress. When Lane got down from the bed, he looked downward at his erection, and turned to face me. "Look, dad--I have a stiffie." I was more than willing to have another look at it, as I finished undressing. I waited for him to mention my erection, but he said nothing. There was silence, but I felt a connection between us. I knelt, and looked closely at his penis. I was embarrassed at my reactions to my son's body. It occurred to me to say, 'My son's growing up,' but I didn't want Lane to associate the path to adulthood exclusively with erections. His foreskin was fully retracted, and his organ looked almost as if it were circumcised. "It certainly is a good one," I said, not knowing why I had chosen those particular words. "It's beautifully red, and it seems larger than the last time." "Yours does too, dad." I was highly embarrassed, yet complimented by the remark. "Really? I thought I was all done growing, but maybe I'm mistaken. I can't imagine how yours managed to grow in such a short time. Maybe the hotel's food really agrees with you." "I ate all my radishes, dad," Lane said, as if he had obeyed an order from the supreme commander. "Good lad. Maybe that's done it." It seemed perfectly natural to grasp his erection and bend it down, a bit, but as soon as I did that, I felt as if I had stepped over a line. "You're right, dad. It feels a lot better when YOU touch it." Now I was thoroughly convinced that Lane was in a phase of sexual discovery. I felt a pulsation in my groin. "It feels even better when you do THIS," I said, throwing caution to the wind, and sliding his foreskin forward and back, knowing full well that my demonstration was quite redundant. "Oh, ohhhh, yes." After recovering from two, rather large jerks of his body, Lane smiled at me. He knelt suddenly, and reached for my penis, but stopped--eyes widening. "What's wrong, son?" "Your stiffie is all wet!" "That's normal, Lane. It's called pre-come." "Oh," he said, mesmerized. I knew there were more questions coming. How could I explain my excitement? "Boys don't get that?" he asked, somewhat tensely. "Not until a bit later on." "Why do you get pre-come?" "Well...when a man has a stiffie for a long time, that happens." "Oh," he said, as if that settled the question forever, and he gently gripped my slippery penis with two fingers, "it slides awfully good with that stuff, doesn't it?" he said in awe. "Yes, it does--comes in handy that way. Now, off to the shower with you. I'll be ready to join you in a few moments." _________________ As soon as I was out of sight, I slid some of dad's slippery stuff on my penis, and it felt so good. I couldn't wait until I could make pre-come, too. My penis did feel bigger, and it looked bigger, too. I thought about the radishes. I thought about how dad's stiffie looked, too. _________________ As Lane disappeared into the bathroom, I realized that since I was naked, I had no reason to delay joining him, but I needed to gather my thoughts. Lane was truly enjoying the new things he was learning, and I was enjoying his moments of discovery--along with pangs of guilt, which, I supposed, were part of every parent's uncertainty. We were both in a playful mood, not to mention being quite aroused. I wasn't sure if Lane had an awareness of any sexual desire on his part, but I had no doubt as to my own need. Lane's fearlessness and ease in these matters was precisely the result I was looking for, and it was heartwarming--despite the fact that I felt I was on the verge of entering dangerous territory. Where was the line between fun, fatherly love, and corruption? I entered the bathroom partly excited, partly cautious and faintly self-chastised. "I'm going to wash you," Lane announced with a serious look, followed by his charming, little-boy grin. All thoughts of objecting had simply vanished. I smiled. "You'll have to be careful, and very gentle, Lane." His face lit up with the knowledge that I was assenting. "With your stiffie?" "Yes. As I've said, it's called an erection." "I'll be very careful with your rection," he said, trying out the new word. "Erection, son." "E-rection. Sounds funny, dad. It's hard to say. Stiffie's much easier. Look--mine's even BIGGER now!" "Hmmmm...I wonder why." "I was wanking," he said, blushing. "Does that make it bigger?" "Yes, that would explain it." "If I wank a whole lot, will I get as big as you?" "No, you'll need to wait for mother nature to start growing you. Then you'll be on your way to getting as big as I am--maybe bigger." "When will that be?" "Oh, you'll start growing more in about two years, I should think." "Two years? I have to wait that long?" "Yes--two years will go by before you know it, Lane." "See?" He said, holding his penis and making it stick out for me. I was kneeling, again. As I stared at his well-proportioned, fleshly tube, I put my hands behind him and began to rub Lane's greasy buttocks. The petrolatum would be difficult to wash off. I wiped my legs with my hands to clean them off, and tried to ignore the layer of grease I had put on him. I leaned forward, and my knee slipped suddenly, causing the side of my face to smash against the underside of Lane's penis. "OW! OW! It hurts! It hurts!" "My whiskers?" "Yes! OW!" My beard had grazed the sensitive flesh. "Sorry, son. Oh, now I've gone and hurt you." "No! It's not injured, is it?" I could hear genuine fright in Lane's little voice. "Of course not. Here, I'll kiss it and make it better," and I did so out of pure habit--although that habit hadn't included his penis, before. I blushed profusely but knew I had to remain calm, as if nothing unusual had happened. "There, all better?" If we hadn't been under the shower, I'd surely have been sweating. "It feels...good now, dad." "I'm glad." "I'm going to wash you, now," Lane said again, quite seriously, "but you must stand very still." He had captured my tone perfectly. Poised with washcloth in one hand and soap in the other, Lane rubbed the soap on the cloth and began to scrub me. The cloth returned to the soap frequently, and he began to tap my ribs with the lathered, cotton cloth. The process became a game to him--rubbing the soap and tapping me--until he resembled an artist taking brush to palette then returning to his canvas. The corner's of my son's mouth began to turn up, betraying his sense of utter playfulness. When our eyes met, he collapsed into the bathtub, deep in laughter. As much as I tried to compose myself, I was unable to avoid my own laughing fit, and nearly fell on top of Lane. Fortunately, I grabbed one of the handles on the wall, and reached down for him. As I did so, the spray from the shower rinsed the front of my body and Lane's face. Lane was on his knees now, and bent his head forward, burying his face at the top of my legs--his hair rubbing the underside of my excited organ. "Oh, sweet Lane!" I groaned. The way his hands then gripped the back of my thighs made me consider the possibility that he had correctly interpreted my exclamation as a response to the recent positioning of his head. Added to this came the thought that he might even be aware of my own sexual arousal or its amplification with the touch of his hair against my penis. I froze with discomfort over the last two possibilities. At this crucial juncture, my son squirmed boyishly, inadvertently stroking my aroused manhood with his silken locks. "Uhhh." I was unable to suppress another outburst of pleasure. ________________________________________________ I wanted to make dad feel good, but I was scared. He kept making these noises and I didn't know what they meant. My dad was so good to me, compared with the way Michael's dad treated him. I didn't know if I could tell dad that part because he was friends with Michael's dad. I just knew that dad made me feel so good in the airplane and last night, I had to do something for him in return. Was I making him feel good? I was very afraid I was making him feel bad. I didn't think it would be good just to ask. ________________________________________________ Lane began to tremble. I put my hands on his back to reassure him that all was well, yet the trembling increased. Soon, he heaved markedly, and I knew my son was crying. Instantly, I raised him from his kneeling position and hugged him. "It's all right, son." I had no idea what "it" was, and I prayed Lane would reveal some clue. "Oh, daddy!" he sobbed. "Are you all right? What's wrong?" It was uncharacteristic of me to ask two questions at once, but my mind was a kaleidoscope of unrelenting confusion. "You--you did......so much for me......so nice to me," Lane managed between fits of crying, "made me feel good......and I just want to make you......feel good, too. I tried, and now I've ruined it." I wanted to shout, 'Nonsense!' in my most authoritative voice, then dismissed the temptation. "Oh, Lane--you're such a sweet, wonderful boy. I swear to you, you've made me feel only good, and I can't imagine what you think you've ruined, but if anything, you've made my life so complete and joyous, especially these past few days. "Honest?" he asked, in that tone a nine, almost ten-year-old boy can achieve. I bent down to get nose to nose with him. "Honest Injun, Lane," I said, remembering some American jargon of my own. "Haha!" he said, smiling weakly, "That's American talk! How did you know that?" I was quite relieved that Lane was recovering from his grief. "Oh--dads are smarter than you think." "I want to make you feel good, dad." "I see. How do you propose to do that?" "Wank you," he said effortlessly, as if he had merely proposed to bring me a book from the nightstand. "Wank me? Now?" I managed to get the words out, but inwardly I was stunned and speechless. I was crouched down, and the water from the shower was hitting the back of my neck. "Yes, sir," he said firmly, then stood, towering above me. I looked up at him and my nose pressed upward on the end of his penis, causing it to bounce. "Oh," Lane said, at the sudden stimulation. "I don't know about wanking me, Lane. That's quite a step for a young boy to be taking." "Oh, please, dad!" he said, tears returning to his beautiful blue eyes. "I just...I mean--" "All right. All right. Don't cry son. I know you want to do something good for me." I wanted this to be part of Lane's education, but of course, the sensual element was also present. "You'll let me?" That was Lane--always making sure. "Yes," I said easily, and stood up, as my heart pounded with uncertainty. 'How could I say no?' His next move surprised me. Instead of reaching for my aching erection, Lane jumped excitedly, and moved in close for a hug, adjusting his penis so it pressed against mine--the two hard things exchanging heat and sharing the pleasure of this forbidden contact. There it was again, the prohibited cruelly pitted against the pleasure, against my goal of having Lane approach his sexuality without guilt or shame. For him it was uncomplicated--in his boyish sense of justice, it was only right that he return the pleasure, in kind, in recognition of what I had done for him. I had to admit, the enjoyment was rapidly flourishing. "Ohh...mmm!" He moaned softly. I surmised I wasn't the only one whose pleasure was mounting. We stood face to face as Lane backed away slightly and looked at my penis. He tilted his head upward suddenly, evidently preferring to watch my face as his hand grasped my erection. By his smile, I could tell that my facial response communicated sufficient pleasure to be gratifying to the boy. At first, Lane stroked me mechanically, watching every molecule of my face for the slightest change. And change it did. I was nearly helpless with desire, and every movement of my body, every moan, Lane knew was a result of his own actions. I was putty in his hands, now. After a minute, his face began to show signs of his own pleasure, and his hand absently reached for his penis, and pumped it painstakingly slowly as he concentrated on his other hand--stroking my manhood, trying different pressures and speeds to achieve the maximum response from me. Lane was succeeding--each stroke of his little hand took me to new plateaus of arousal. His breath came rapidly, and his mouth was partly open. Had it not been for the shower's flow of water over his chest, I'd likely see his heartbeat there, as I had earlier. I silently celebrated the effect of his looking straight into me. Lane's gaze dropped to his penis, and his eyes widened, as if he'd made a sudden discovery. He looked up to me entreatingly, and his hand fell free from his throbbing erection. Obviously, an idea had hit him. I jumped with the surprise of his other hand touching mine. He pulled it gently, then paused for permission to continue. Lane never stopped stroking me, but this business with his free hand was obviously pulling my hand in the direction of his penis. His pleading look intensified. I nodded. It's impossible to describe the nature of the smile that came to my son's face--its warmth, depth, sheer boyish joyfulness. It was not a smile of youthful wild abandonment--it was something more mature, as if he had tapped the reservoir of his future manhood, and brought a knowing, loving quality to this intimate moment. My heart pounded with satisfaction--as much for my boy's loving nature as for the sheer innocence from which he was operating. He had never looked more beautiful to me. As he placed my hand on his most private part, we both moaned with the sudden, electric pleasure. I timed my stroking with his, or he timed his with mine--I wasn't sure. "Oh!" I shouted, stunning Lane momentarily. His recovery was quick, and I suspected he realized my orgasm was upon me. He was somewhat unprepared, however, for the streams of semen that struck his chest and penis, but as they began, he gasped with joy. As I was blocking most of the shower spray, the fluid remained on his shaft and it became a lubricant--one that obviously excited him. I continued my ministrations to his penis, making sure he felt my semen smoothing the way. In the midst of the ensuing moans, groans, and shouts, my beautiful boy came. And what an orgasm it was! "Oh, dad!" he yelled, grasping my arm for balance. His face went through a profound litany of erotic emotions, and it was clear his legs were failing. Scarcely recovered from my own orgasm, I embraced him and held him up. The sheer joy on his face was inspiring. "Ahh, oh, ohhh." I continued to watch him silently, and simply drank him in. His jerks and spasms were charming--the gracefulness of slender youth interwoven with paroxysms of his astonishing feelings. I had a million questions but dare not ask them at this enchanted moment--the throbs of his orgasm not yet subdued, his eyes looking up at me for approval, and each hand occupied with a penis. Lane's breaths were sexually arousing, as they slowly decelerated, and his body slowly transformed from a pulsating, quivering mass to a more normal state. In response, I stood stone still, admiring my son. When his eyes pleaded strongly, I knew it was time to break the silent spell. "That was beautiful, Lane. Astoundingly good." And he smiled. _______________________________ 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]