Date: Sat, 18 May 2002 00:42:56 -0400 From: Danny Meyer Subject: TRAINING MY SON - Chapter 5 ____________________________________________ TRAINING MY SON by Danny Meyer Chapter 5 - Happy Birthday, Lane ___________________________________________________________________ Copyright (c) May 18, 2002 by Danny Meyer. All rights reserved. ___________________________________________________________________ I encourage you to send email. I'd enjoy hearing your opinions. When time permits, I'll reply to your email unless you say not to. Thanks. --Danny Please write to Danny: sittinhome@hotmail.com and mention "son story" or something similar. ___________________________________________________________________ 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 Lane and his dad are still in the shower . . . 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 gradually 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. ___________________________________________________________________ CHAPTER 4 I was admiring the sheer joy and youthful abandon on my son's face, as the two of us stood under the comforting spray of the shower, when I realized I was out of breath myself, and Lane apparently became aware of the sound of our rapid breathing at that moment. The sudden coincidence of awareness made us both smile as we gazed at each other. It was an odd feeling of exhilaration that come over me--watching my boy's heaving torso straining for air as both of us caught our breaths--a sort of vague sense of accomplishment, almost pride, that he was learning about his body in a way I found natural. But it was more than that, I thought, as we continued to grin at each other, like two schoolboys swimming naked for the first time, and rejoicing over the secret fun. We had experienced mutual sexual fulfillment, and Lane was learning about my body, as well as his. It struck me that I was learning about HIS body, too. I supposed that would have sounded foolish to him, had I voiced it--that my son would likely find it strange that I had anything at all to learn from his body--after all, I had been his age once, and certainly he assumed I knew all there was to know about a boy his age. He had no idea, I was sure, how easy it was for a father to forget the innumerable details, discoveries, and challenges of a boy's life at age ten. In any case, it was to my great relief that I found myself at ease, this time, knowing that I was saving my son from the fate I experienced as a lad of twelve or thirteen; from the shock of learning about sex by way of snippets of hushed conversations among poorly informed schoolmates; from the embarrassment of believing outright lies from slightly older boys preying on a younger boy's trusting nature, only to be teased for his ignorance. Well, my son would not be ignorant, and I felt proud to know that his new knowledge would be a protection for him. Our smiles intensified, and we began giggling. All I could do was proudly look at Lane. Had I been so unobservant, or was Lane's chest bigger, suddenly, and his pectorals tighter, more substantial? For that matter, his scrotum seemed larger than usual. His orgasm had been sustained and powerful, yet he was still erect. Yes, I had a lot to learn from him. My mind drifted further, into a feeling I could only describe as one of equality with Lane--that in some sense, we were on the same level. Surely, I was not a man of twenty-eight; I must be thirteen or fourteen, playing with a friend, after school. I was distracted from these thoughts by the volume of his laughter. I crouched down to be closer to his face. Our laughter quieted to self-satisfied smiles. Lane's seemed particularly bright and carefree, yet there was warmth in his face. "I love you, dad," he said, and kissed me full on the lips. My heart raced. Not that it was unusual for us to kiss that way, but it seemed Lane lingered a second or two more than was our custom. 'What could I say?' I thought, as Lane moved back, slightly. "I love you too, Lane." "I know. You made me feel so good and you let me make YOU feel good. That's the way it should be, right dad?" Now some guilt crept in. That was the question I had vaguely been aware of, but was not prepared to answer. Still, I was not going to have my son feel wrong about his body and what it was capable of doing. Certainly, the teaching had value over any temptation to feel shameful. "Yes, Lane. You're learning a lot, too." "Learning?" Apparently any thought of an educational process accompanying this experience was absent from my son's young mind. Now, I had a real dilemma. If I emphasized the instructive nature of what we were doing, I might detract from the bond that was forming between us-- inadvertently belittling the caring emotions we shared, that he obviously treasured. "We're all capable of learning from loving experiences, son. That's the best type of learning, I suppose, when you don't think of the learning part of it." "Oh," he said softly, his grin widening--raising my hope that the love component had registered with sufficient strength. "That's what I was thinking, too--that we were loving each other." Lane's blush accompanied his little speech--along with a victorious, giddy feeling that swept over me. I simply hugged him, and he was more than willing to press himself into me, and become lost in a loving embrace; not that I was pressing any less--more leaning, crouched as I was. "It still feels good," Lane said, as his small but very stiff penis poked boldly into my chest. "I can tell." "You can? How?" Lane said, as he backed away slightly. I merely smiled and openly stared at his beautiful, reddened erection. "Can you guess how?" "Oh! Now I can!" We both laughed. In spite of his outward glee and comfort in all of this, I felt the need to reassure him, lest he have a doubt that all was well. Sure enough, a small furrow began to appear on Lane's brow, just as I spoke. "It's wonderful, Lane." "Wonderful?" Lane asked, his eyes happy yet questioning, "Why?" "For TWO reasons, actually. The first is that your good feelings about this tell me that you're showing the first signs of growing toward manhood." "Is THAT what this is?" Lane shouted exuberantly, while staring at his engorged penis--fascinated--as if in awe of the thing having done something on its own that proved his manhood by default. "It's part of it, son." I was staring, myself. "Wow! But--I thought...I mean--you said that would happen in two years. Is it happening too soon?" "No! Not at all. The growth and the hair--that will happen in two years, but you can learn and start to feel good about these feelings well before the growth occurs." I should have used the word, 'sex,' somewhere in there, but I couldn't bring myself to that. "Oh," he said, smiling, but subdued, "What's the other reason?" "That I love you--and I love seeing you smile and enjoy yourself as we explore these very special things together." "Oh," he said, with his hand touching his scrotum, "Does it have another name?" "That's your scrotum." "No--I mean--you told me that, before. I mean THIS," Lane said, as he bent his hardness downward to catch my attention, "OW!" "Don't try to push it down when it's like that--when it's stiff, I mean." "Does it have another name besides wee, penis, or, e--erection?" "Yes, there are other words for erection, although they're a bit vulgar." Lane's eyes were practically pleading. "I suppose it won't hurt to tell you some of them, but you must promise never to repeat them to anyone." I could not suppress a smile at Lane's open, innocent curiosity. "I promise." "The two most common synonyms are boner and hardon," I said, attempting to sound as academic as possible. I found no evidence on Lane's face that I had even spoken these words. "I think I need to do it again," Lane said with his endearing, understated tone of finality, and with his index finger absently sliding along the top of his penis. "Well," I said, knowing the truth of his words but wondering how to respond. "You do, TOO, dad!" I looked down at my own erection, as desperate-looking as my son's. "You're right, Lane. Those are our manly urges, and we must take care of them--when the time is right, of course." "Can't we do it now?" "We'll see. Right now, we'd better finish washing and get out of the shower before we drown." "We won't drown, dad!" Lane said knowingly, as he playfully poked me in the ribs. "No, but THIS might," I said, standing and thrusting him into position, the shower spraying directly on his hungry little penis. "OW! OW! It hurts!" "Sorry, son." I said, pushing my body between him and the flow of water, "That's one thing about being a boy--you're very, very sensitive, there." It was obvious the force of the shower was too much for his exposed organ. "And you're NOT?" he said, in one of those sudden shifts of attention that came so frequently. "Well, I, er--I'm sensitive there, it's just that...I've taken a few thousand more showers than you, so I'm accustomed to it." "Oh," he said, sensing there was more to it, but dropping the subject. "Dad--how can I tell if I really want to do it again or if I need to wee?" "I suppose I could test you," I said, as a devilish idea came to me. I was really throwing caution to the wind, now, but relishing the feeling. "Test me? How?" "I'll show you. Put your back to the shower, stand perfectly straight and still." I got to Lane's front, reached for the soap and put some on my thumb, which I then applied to the underside of his very hard penis, rubbing gently." "AH!" Lane shouted, as his legs gave out. I reached for him to catch him, but merely managed to break his fall. I was, however, grateful for preventing any injury, as he made a gentle thumping sound, as his rump contacted the bottom of the tub. Lane's laughter was mixed with his reaction to what I had done. "Oh, dad, that felt--I mean--I need to do it again, I'm certain." "I see," I said, helping him up. "Now hold very still," my son instructed, and he repeated the soapy-thumb process on my erection, which was already throbbing. "AH!" I said loudly at the sudden pleasure--convinced I had frightened the boy. I was pleasantly surprised that Lane did not back away nor show any sign of distress. This was incredible--he was learning so quickly--already, he seemed to know the subtle difference between expressions of pain and sexual ones. "I made it feel good, didn't I?" Lane giggled, obviously delighted at the control this had over me. "Yes," I said half-breathlessly, "you did." "Did you like it?" Leave it to Lane to ask the quintessential question at the most awkward of moments. I pushed aside a barrage of thoughts waiting to spoil my enjoyment of these superb experiences with my son. "I loved it!" The grin on my boy's face made me grateful for staying positive and playful with Lane. "I loved it, too, dad." "I suppose you'll want a reward, then." I had no particular reward in mind, but was keeping Lane's thinking in the positive. "Yes, spank me." "Spank you--here, in the shower?" "Well, unless you don't want to. But I'd like it." "I think I'll like it, too," I said daringly. "You will?" Lane said, with a degree of surprise that I expected. "Surely. It'll be more like playing than spanking." I was tempted to add, 'And you have such a cute butt,' in the American style, but I hadn't lost hold of ALL my inhibitions, thankfully. There it was. I had opened the door to guilt. I had admitted to myself that I found my son's back-end attractive. I quickly closed that door with the thought that I most likely wasn't the first father of a good-looking boy who thought his son had a cute arse. "Yes, but you'll still make it hurt, won't you?" I was struck with the pleading sound of Lane's question, but I shouldn't have been surprised. I thought I'd have a bit of fun with him. "Hurt? Oh, son--I don't know about that." "Oh, please, daddy! It's no good unless it hurts." After a pause, Lane gave me a strange look, and composed himself. "I suppose you're right, dad. It wouldn't be good for you to hurt me now." My face had betrayed me. 'The little bugger!' He knew how to play this game. What he didn't know was that a slap on a wet arse hurt more than on a dry one. "Bend! I'll surprise you." "Yes, sir!" Three grunts. That was the extent of Lane's response to my very hard slaps on his wet buttocks. I had the feeling my hand hurt worse than his bottom. "Well?" I said expectantly. "Wow." Lane said in a whisper. "It really stung." "Did you like it?" Now, I had turned the tables, at last. "Yes," he said softly with an odd urgency in his voice. "Turn around, Lane." As my boy turned to face me, I looked at his penis. The angle of erection was high. His breath was accelerated. "It hurt very nicely," he said. "Good. Now let's finish washing." "Yes, sir." Lane reached for the soap as I positioned myself--placing Lane on the other side of me. We faced each other--me with the spray on my back, and my grinning son in front of me. I crouched down, as this was my usual position for shampooing my hair. After lathering, I closed my eyes and leaned my head backward into the water, letting the spray rinse the shampoo out slowly. With my mouth open, water entered, and I had to keep pushing it out. I felt a sudden warmth against my tongue and soon realized it was Lane--up to something, I was certain. As my head moved forward and my tongue reached out searchingly, the warmth ceased, and I opened my eyes. It was plain what had happened. Lane was on tiptoe, bending over me, his hands on the shower wall. My heart pounded. "That tickled, dad--but it felt good," Lane said, laughing. 'My God! What do I do now,' I thought. My mind revisited the earlier image--that feeling of being one of Lane's schoolmates, rather than his father. That was it. Lane was playing. It was natural for a boy to think and act in playful ways--experimenting, even with the unusual and the daring. "It tickled my tongue, too, Lane," I said, with my version of a schoolboy smile. "How did it taste?" "Taste?" I said, hoping the panic in my voice was thoroughly hidden, "It tasted fine, but there was so much water it was hard to tell." "But, it didn't taste bad?" "No, son. Why would it?" Fortunately for me, Lane took the question as rhetorical, which was how I meant it. "Will you wash me now?" "Wash you? You mean you're not finished bathing, after all this time?" I asked, as sternly as possible. For some reason, Lane simply laughed. I was beginning to become self-conscious regarding my transparency. "I'll wash you if you'll wash me," I said, taking the schoolboy image a step further. "Ok. I mean, yes, sir." I knew there was no real necessity for further washing, other than the need to remove the last traces of the petrolatum, which stubbornly clung to Lane's derriere. After washing his underarms, I began, in earnest, with his rump. I pushed his back into the spray for a final rinse, then crouched, holding his hips. As he turned slightly, I was rewarded with the hardness of his penis pressing into my nose. "It smells nice," I said, just to make him feel good. I was certain there was no odor at all, but there was really no way to tell, given that we'd been in the shower so long. Besides, his penis was too high on my nose for any sensory input to be possible. "Oh," he said, half-devastated with disappointment, "you mean you won't wash it?" I answered his question with my hands and the soap--to the sound of delightful, high-pitched squeals. I was having fun with my boy, and now he knew I was. By the look on his face, he was reveling in the sheer enjoyment, aside from the sexual pleasure we both experienced. As the motions of my hand on his excited organ became more articulated, I was rewarded with Lane's little feet, lifting and returning to the tub, in a charming, intoxicating juvenile dance. "Ah, ah! Oh, oh!" the boy exclaimed. The sensations I was causing in his penis must have been overwhelming. "No fair if you break away," I said, sounding more juvenile than he did. "Oh, dad! Ah, AH!" "Can you take it?" "Yes, s-sir!" Lane shouted, as he clenched his teeth. His feet began to beat against the tub as if it were a drum. I stopped, removing my hands from him just as he bent over--that curiously enchanting thing that boys do so intensely when experiencing high levels of sexual pleasure. I rinsed him. "Time to dry off, son." "Will you spank me for real before we do it again?" "Do it again?" "Yes." "Well, it must be after midnight--time for your birthday whacks." "Beating," Lane said insistently. "Lane! I can tell you right now I have no intention of beating you. A beating is a cruel, harsh--" "I know, dad. But, you promised--" "I remember my promise. The hairbrush. But I'm going to spank you--not beat you." "Yes," Lane said with resignation, "and you'll do it hard?" "I promised I would. But you won't like it, son. A hairbrush spanking is very painful." "I'll like it." "Don't be so sure." "I like everything you do to me." I was becoming exasperated with Lane's spanking fetish, if that's what it was. "We'll soon see about that. I've changed my mind. I'm going to give you all twenty whacks, whether you want them or not. Then, you'll see what a truly hard spanking is all about. Is that clear?" "Yes, sir." A bit of fear had crept into Lane's voice, yet, there was his smile. By this time, we were dry and had made our way to the bedroom. Neither of us attempted to put on any clothing. My erection had subsided significantly but Lane's had not. I was looking right at it. "Does it look nice?" Lane asked easily. "It looks--very--strong and manly." "Really?" "Yes. Now get the hairbrush and bring it here." Lane positioned himself over my lap. I decided to test his mettle, while giving him a last-minute out. "Lane--suppose I gave you a choice between another orgasm and a spanking. What would you say?" "Spanking." I brought the hairbrush down upon him with great force. I could tell, with the first blow of the hairbrush to his tender bottom, he was in pain. He tensed. He inhaled sharply. Perhaps the stinging power of the hairbrush surprised him. With the second whack, he emptied his lungs, quickly. His face suddenly flushed. On the third smack in the same spot, he screamed into the pillow. At about the tenth whack, I began to spank the opposite cheek, but his resistance had weakened, and he squirmed violently. With the twelfth whack, his legs began to thrash about. He screamed at the top of his voice now, each blow eliciting the blood-curdling sound. I stopped, and waited to see what he would do. The redness on his white skin was astounding. In several places it was dark in color. I began to feel bad. Had I become an ogre, some sort of sadist? Lane stopped crying, calmed himself, then seemed to be waiting patiently--though still badly out of breath and flushed all over--the rose of his face competing with the deep crimson of his little buttocks. With this show of strength on his part, I decided to deliver the remaining eight blows to the spot where the first ten blows had struck. He was strong. Much tougher than I had given him credit for. He screamed and shook his legs with each stinging slap, but his voice seemed less desperate, more controlled than before. My mind raced ahead in time--visions flashed before me, of me spanking Lane when he was older, a cane in my hand. Another came, this time I was wielding a strap. For the last three whacks, I laid into his reddened flesh with nearly all my strength. I had delivered the last three in rapid succession, and the silence came suddenly. Lane pulled back his crying instantly, as if sucking in the very tears--hiding his distress from me. Lane hung limply over my legs, for some time, but neither of us moved a muscle. When he inhaled deliberately, I knew he would speak. "I liked it," Lane said cheerfully. "You have a stiffie." I sat in stunned silence. Here, I had practically beaten my son's buttocks with twenty painful blows, and he was cheerful. "Yes, I have a stiffie. I suppose we'll have to take care of that, now," I said, with as clinical a voice as possible. "Mine, too?" Lane asked, getting to his feet. "Yes, Lane, yours, too. Unless I wanted to punish you." "Punish me? You could punish me, that way?" "Yes, and you're going to have to wait for that explanation, young man." Apparently, Lane liked the sound of 'young man,' as it brought a smile to his face. "Yes, sir." "Did your spanking hurt?" I asked. "Yes. It hurt horribly." "I see." "That's what I liked about it," Lane said, half smirking. "Lane--stop this nonsense. You don't really like the pain, you told me yourself." "No--well--" lane said, blushing, "I like what the pain is going to do for me. Make me tough." "Happy birthday, Lane," I said with outstretched arms. "Oh, God, that's right! I forgot!" Lane's Cheshire cat grin said it all. My boy was happy. He was officially ten years old. I fell back on the bed, and Lane on top of me. We kissed and lay together, all thoughts of sex play gone. Or so I thought until a little hand touched my erection. We stayed that way for some time-- me shocked that Lane would simply touch me there, unannounced, and both of us breathing heavily. Apparently, Lane was anxious. "Dad--aren't you going to--" "Yes," I said, slowly wrapping my hand around his hot hardness, as the guilt feelings returned. We fell asleep that way. I awoke some time later, to find Lane turned around in the bed-- his head where his feet should have been. I could not suppress a smile--knowing he had squirmed so much in his sleep, and remembering the momentous events of the day. I dared not disturb him, and simply slid a pillow under his head. The room was quite warm, so there was no need to cover up. A few hours later, I awoke to the unmistakable feeling of my son's mouth on the head of my penis. My sudden intake of breath told him I had awakened. "This is all right, dad, isn't it?" _______________________________ 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]