Date: Tue, 2 Sep 2003 10:54:08 EDT
From: David Whittier <sophiacdtv@yahoo.com>
Subject: KICKBOXING STEPFATHER: Part 2

Sam and his stepfather Charles are in the custom-built fitness studio of
their house. Charles had just landed a stinging kick to Sam's groin. Charles is
teaching Sam a painful lesson about spending other people's money. Charles is a
foot-fighting master. He loves to toy with another man's emotions and lack of
defensive skills. That, more than anything-- yes, even more than his nude
wife, Sam's mother-- gets him penilely aroused: the fear that the application of
his powerful kicks brings to another man's face. He saw that fear in Sam, but
something else too, a twinge of desire...for his superb gymnasium-crafted
buttocks. This boy--yes, 23 years old, but still emotionally a boy-- was now under
Charles's kickmaster spell. Charles was going to have some fun...

"That didn't hurt too awfully much, did it, Sammi-poo?"

"Yes. A lot."

"Tsk-tsk. You gonna pee in your panty? I bet you wear panties, don't you? Get
those jeans off and let me see."

"No way."

With no prelude, Charles flings a roundhouse right foot into Sam's left
ribcage; on the second beat, his other foot is up, the instep slapping Sam's right
cheek.

"Way, Sammi-boy. Way. You don't EVER say no to step-daddy. You understand?"

Sam is shaking, becoming terrified. Charles grins. He thinks: the strands of
my web are tightening. This fly is mine. He feigns a groin-kick. Sam winces
and flinces.

"Good. Good. Now you're getting scared of my feet. Which is the way it should
be. You need a daddy to guide and mold you. Obviously your birth-daddy was a
loser. He left when you were nine, right?"

"Uh-huh."

Charles kicks Sam in the shin. Sam drops to one knee. Then Charles's flashing
knee crashes into Sam's jaw, the first knee-blow of this correction session.

"Ow! What did I do?"

"I didn't like that 'uh-huh.' Very disrespectful. I'm not one of your
slovenly frat-friends, You call me 'Sir' or 'Daddy' at all times from now on. That's
non-negotiable."

"Yes, sir."

"Better. But insincere."

Charles whomps still-kneeling Sam in the ear with a heel.

"You gotta mean it, bitch. Or mean daddy long-legs with kick you all night
long. You know your mother's gone to her Aunt Sue's for the weekend. I may not
let you leave this house-- or this room-- for two days. Unless I get the
respect you owe me."

"What can I do...sir?"

"Jeans off."

Sam complies.

"T-shirt off."

Now Sam is in white-cotton Fruit-of-the-Looms only.

"What boring underpants. Go into the bedroom [adjacent to studio], and open
the top dresser-drawer. That's your mother's panty drawer. Bring a handful of
them to me. Do it now."

Sam complies.

"You didn't try to run. Very smart. Here, put this one on. You'll like pink.
I think that's French-cut..."

Shaking, Sam takes the panty from Charles.

"Please, sir. I can't. It's too pervy."

"You will do as I say. Or else. Switch that panty for yours!"

The unmistakable kick-coming-soon tone was in Charles's voice. Sam stepped
out of drab brief, and into slinky-smooth panty. What a refreshing sensation:
the tactile equivalent of a taste of mint!

"There. I knew you'd like that. See how comfy? I may try one myself."

Charles peeled off his thong. His monstrous reproductive gear spilled forth:
the blunt mushroom head, the long varicose nozzle, the scrotum like two ripe
plums.

"Kneel down, Sammi. I'm gonna baptize you as my punk."

Trembling, and now crying, Sam knelt before the serpentine cock.

"Please, daddy. Please don't hurt me..."

"Shut up, you prissy little bitch. And open your faggot mouth. I'm just
marking you as my own. I drank a lot of Gatorade before you came in, and I haven't
sweated it all out."

Charles grabbed his cock at the base, aimed it at Sam's upturned face, and
pumped an amber stream straight into Sam's nostril. Sam snorted, coughed, shook
his head briskly.

"It stings!"

"Of course it stings. I just shot concentrated salt at your mucous membranes.
Now stay still."

With less force, Charles urged out a slower stream. The warm liquid splashed
on Sam's forehead & cheeks, and ran down his chest & shoulders. Charles moved
his penis to write his name letter by letter...

"C...H...U...C...K...There. Now you're mine. Open. O-PEN!"

Sam let his jaw drop. Charles poured about a shotglass of delicious piss down
Sam's unresisting esophagus.

"Good boy. Drink it all. Be daddy's urinal. Step-daddy. Pseudo-daddy.
Whatever.That's right. You're learning what it's like to serve a stronger man. See
how fun it can be?"

Sam nods. Charles strokes Sam's hair, smiles down on him. Sam stands.

"Good piss-punk. Now what did that taste like?"

"Not lemonade."

Charles delivers a resounding backhand slap to Sam's cheekbone.

"What did we forget?"

"Lemonade...sir."

"And it's a bit early in your training to answer me with anything approaching
sarcasm..."

"Yes, sir. It tasted like a very salty pretzel, really."

"Interesting. How'd you like a chocolate chaser?"

"What, sir?"

"...to sniff my ass, dingbat!"

"Oh, sir, no..."

Charles is nude. Sam watches his flopping cock as the next kick flies. Sam
knows that the word 'no' is forbidden. Sam in unsure whether he said 'no' in
order to tempt his daddy's foot-wrath. Maybe. All Sam knows is that it hurts. It
hurts when, in the next minute, Charles's instep crushes his balls. It hurts
when Charles executes another back-kick (looking over shoulder, taking aim,
thrusting foot straight back and curving up)-- especially as this back-kick finds
its intended soft target: Sam's breadbasket. It hurts when Charles whips his
leg in a sweeping motion to zing Sam's kidney regions once, twice-- first the
right, then the left-- and, as Sam lamely raises arms to fend against the
heel-blows, thrice, and again! It hurts when Charles's knee slams under his chin.
And all the time that slowly engorging cock can be seen! Sam sees the kicks
coming. He braces for impact. His hands, forearms and biceps are sore from
turning to block the furious kicks. Is Charles angry, though? He seems to be having
a blast. He chuckles almost non-stop. And he isn't tiring. Sam's arms become
useless. After a while, he is too fatigued to raise them. Now his torso and
head are open targets. He loses count of the number of kicks. There must have
been 50 or 60 so far. At least. A strong aroma is coming off Charles. The smell
of anger? Exertion? Definitely pheromonic. Definitely sexy. Sam is mesmerized
by that loose cock, and hardly feels the kicks now.

"For the love of Priapus, daddy, please cover yourself up!"

Charles smiles. He wriggles into a raven's-wing-black tummy-trimmer panty
(not that he needs any trimming) about two girl-sizes too small for him. The
panty contours around his striving cock and rotund balls. It flatters his perfect
butt, like a halved cantalope. The waistline is above his belly-button. The
shimmery raven-color is striking against his cafe-au-lait tan.

Sam has collapsed. Charles kneels on Sam's prone body. Sam is groggy.
Charles's knee is pressing on Sam's windpipe. Sam struggles heroically. No go.
Charles is  chuckling. Sam hears that. Not much else. Very little sound enters or
leaves this much-padded room. (There are wrestling mats on the floor, as well as
attached to two of the walls. Charles uses them to practice his stunts.)
Their house is set a half-mile off the main road anyway, so even an operatic yodel
for help would not likely be heard by a distant motorist. Sam knows his only
way to survive this afternoon (this whole weekend?) is to yield to Charles's
demands. He wants to. The urine part wasn't bad. Kinky, yes. But Sam was not
unread. He knew medicinal urine-drinking was common in China and elsewhere.
There was no health-danger in drinking his step-dad's piss, or even his semen, if
it came to that. But there was danger in the continuing kicks. There was
danger in anything that occluded your ability to freely breathe...

"Daddy, please. I...can't...breathe..."

Charles relents. He stands. He (inelegantly) kicks Sam in the ear-hole with
pointed toe.

"Now suck that foot."

Sam sucks eagerly, fitting five toes into his mouth.

"Good panty-fag. Now next time when I say 'sniff my ass,' you sniff my ass.
Give me your arms."

Sam reaches up. Charles grabs his hands. Charles presses his foot under Sam's
chin, and pulls Sam's arms. The arms stretch. Charles's leg is fully
extended. Sam starts to choke. Sam can't breath. He struggles.

"Don't move! You'll hurt yourself. I know what I'm doing. This won't kill ya,
only put you to sleep for a while. Trust me."

Sam looks up. The baby anaconda in Charles's panty has grown even more. Sam
can tell: Charles loves controlling a man with his leg-power. Sam is tired of
resisting this clearly stronger male, this alpha cockwielder.

"I trust you, daddy..."

Sam goes limp.   [TO BE CONTINUED]