Date: Wed, 09 Jan 2002 02:42:18 -0500
From: Danny Meyer <sittinhome@hotmail.com>
Subject: TRAINING MY SON -  Chapter 3

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TRAINING MY SON

by Danny Meyer

Chapter 3  -  Other Considerations
___________________________________________________________________

Copyright (c) January 9, 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.
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CHAPTER 3


    It was time for supper.  Lane and I entered the hotel's well-
appointed dining room.  Soon, we were seated and a waiter approached
our table.

    "Good-evening, gentlemen," a pleasant-looking young man said,
"Will you be having coffee, sir?  It's really quite good."

    "No, we'll both have tea, thank you."

    Lane and I looked around the place.  There was mahogany paneling
and gold wall hangings.  It was all beautiful.

    "Dad--there's the lady you helped with the luggage."

    I looked about and saw a young woman whom I'd helped carry a few
bags in, when I'd arrived at the hotel.  She was obviously walking
toward our table prepared to speak to me.  I stood as she approached.

    "Hi, I'm Jane Drexel.  I wanted to thank you for helping me with
my luggage."

    "Miss Drexel.  Pleased to meet you.  Jeffrey Harper.  This is my
son, Lane.  It was nothing at all.  Will you sit with us?"

    "Thank you--just for a moment.  Nice to meet you, Mr. Harper.
You too, Lane."

    "Well, Miss Drexel--all settled in now, I presume?"  With the
absence of a wedding ring, I thought calling her 'Miss' would be
considered proper.

    "Yes, thanks to you," she said.

    "That's good."

    "You have such an interesting accent, Mr. Harper.  Where are you
from, may I ask?"

    "London.  Jolly old London."  Lane cleared his throat, but
suppressed a grimace.  He hated when I said, 'jolly old' anything.
"I assume you're from the States?"

    "Yes.  Wisconsin.  I'm here on vacation for a few weeks."

    "I see.  I hope you enjoy it."

    We chatted amiably for a few minutes, during which time I had the
distinct impression that here was a woman who was husband-hunting.
Then came the standard question.

    "So--what type of work do you do, Mr. Harper?"

    She was stylishly dressed, quite attractive, and had beautiful
teeth.  She had been looking from me to Lane, and back.  Her
expression had dulled somewhat when she looked at Lane, and
brightened perceptibly whenever her gaze returned to me.  I couldn't
help thinking that she would consume Lane, somehow--that for her,
Lane was superfluous.  Perhaps these thoughts were instinctive on my
part, perhaps I was imagining things.  I wasn't sure, but I chose to
see them as a danger signal, and decided to act on them.

    A devious thought crossed my mind.  My line of work was
insurance, and my position as Director of American Operations would
be quite lucrative--but I wasn't going to tell her that.

    "Work?  Oh, sorry," I said, "I--must have drifted away for a
moment."

    "You're probably still tired from your trip," she said with a
perfunctory smile.

    "Yes--well, at any rate, I do research--mostly on new strains of
Cholera and Diphtheria."  Looking very concerned, I leaned over,
placing my hand on Lane's forehead.  "Lane, are you feeling quite all
right?"

    "Sir?  All right?  Yes, I feel fine, dad."

    "Ah, very good," I said smiling, as Miss Drexel's retreating
footsteps faded in the distance.

    "Why did she leave?" Lane asked blandly.

    I had a strong penchant for honesty--I always wanted Lane to be
truthful with me, even concerning embarrassing issues.  I had to lead
by example, I knew, and I found it difficult to lie to him, though I
was sorely tempted, in this case.

    "She left because of what I said to her."

    "You played a trick on her, didn't you, dad?" Lane said, more
than asked--with a sly grin that fell between silliness and wisdom.
I don't know if his grin was simply catching, or Lane had touched a
fatherly nerve, but I found myself smiling, in response.  He just
seemed so alert and exquisitely alive.  I was very glad that, once
again, I had not yielded to the temptation to fib to him.

    "Yes.  How did you know?"

    "That stuff you said--it sounded weird, and when you said it, her
face looked like she had tasted poisoned tea, or something."

    "Such a smart lad you are," I said, gently grazing his ear with
the back of my hand.

    "That tickles!"

    "Well!" I said, stiff-backed and looking down at him--obviously
imitating the ostentatious manner of his grandfather--"You're MY son,
and I'll tickle you if I choose, and I'd better not hear a word of
complaint about it!"  We both burst into laughter.

    At this moment the waiter brought our tea, looking at us both, a
bit oddly.  "We have excellent coffee, sir," the waiter said,
repeating his earlier entreaty.  Here we were, clearly having a spot
of tea, and he was still trying to sell me coffee.

    "Yes, no doubt.  It just wouldn't go with the garlic sandwich I
had earlier," I said, winking at Lane discreetly.  It was an inside
joke--Lane's grandfather smelled of garlic, more often than not.
Now, the two of us were laughing hysterically, and the waiter simply
withdrew--totally baffled, I was certain.

    "He thinks we're daft," Lane said--napkin to his mouth, giggling
away, uncontrollably.

    "Let him.  Perhaps we are.  Who cares what he thinks?"  I said,
trying to gain some sense of decorum--at least before my son did.

    "Well, he was nice," Lane said compassionately.

    "I'm sure."  The fit of laughter had ended, for me, and Lane was
down to an occasional guffaw.  As if a switch had been thrown, his
face turned bland, again.

    "You didn't like her," Lane said.  It wasn't a question but a
statement.  I was stunned.  This time, he really had caught me off
guard.  My mind rushed to find a suitable response, unsuccessfully.
I went to my second line of defense.

    "Did YOU?" I asked, eyebrows raised.

    A smile was the last thing I expected from Lane, at this point.
I studied his face.  At first, I thought it was a silly grin, then I
decided it was a cocky one--as if we'd been playing chess, and he had
just declared checkmate.  I could tell by the way he drew his breath
he was ready to speak.

    "You, first."

    'The little bugger,' I thought--proud of him on the one hand,
metaphorically squirming uncomfortably on the other.  Finally, it
clicked in, and I knew what to say.

    "I wasn't entirely comfortable with her."  That was a catch
phrase that had meaning in our family, and Lane knew it.  It more or
less explained almost anything.

    "Oh," he said, "I didn't like her."  Our eyes met, then I looked
down at my tea.  I decided to let it drop, knowing that if Lane
needed to say more, he would.  I took a sip of my tea and grimaced.

    "Horrid," I declared.

    "Weak?" Lane asked, with an air of wisdom and worldliness that
was quite at odds with his little-boy face.

    "Worse!  Bleachwater."

    "Oh," he said, lifting his cup to give it a try.  "It's not that
awful," Lane declared.  In the past year or so he had taken quite a
liking to tea.  Lane frowned slightly as he swallowed, but managed to
find the tea tolerable.

    "Waiter," I said to the young man, just as he passed, "I think I
will try some of your coffee, after all."

    "Oh, that's wonderful, sir," he said with a smile of gratitude.
>From his reaction, one would think I'd just given him a gift.
"Coffee--coming right up!"

    'They certainly must be proud of their coffee in this hotel,' I
thought, as the waiter left our table.  Lane had been studying the
young man, and leaned forward.

    "He talks funny, dad--doesn't he?"

    "No, son.  That's how they speak, here in the States.  To them,
WE talk strangely."

    "Ah," he said, suddenly serious, looking for all the world as if
he were a college student grasping a principle of higher mathematics.
I was no sooner amazed at his rapid facial transformation, when came
another--a decidedly silly grin.

    "Ah," I said, mimicking him.

    "Where is the coffee coming up from, dad?  Do they keep it in the
cellar?"

    Lane was off, on another round of boyish laughter, and I could
only roll my eyes at him, jokingly--which, unfortunately, only
intensified his giddiness.  Now, he looked like my nine-year-old boy,
again.  I had to admit, his terse joke was rather good.

    "Where else?!" I said, smiling and winking at him, just as an
elderly woman passed our table, staring at me disdainfully.  She had
clearly seen me at the moment I winked and grinned at Lane, and I
instantly felt as if I appeared to be some sort of ogre, preying on
an innocent boy.  I shook the preposterous thought from my mind.

    "What's wrong dad?" Lane asked.  He amazed me with his ability to
sense my state of mind.

    "The lady that walked by--she seemed a bit unhappy," I said,
proud that I was able to express the truth in terms more innocuous
than the disturbance I was feeling.

    "Oh.  Was I behaving badly?"

    "No, not at all, son.  I thought we were having a rather good
time--quite properly."

    Despite the fact that I was charmed with my son's habit of
bravely stepping forward to admit the slightest wrongdoing--a boyish
trait of honesty I found quite beautiful--I gritted my teeth at the
way Lane slipped too easily into a mode of culpability--the precipice
from which we fall into guilt.  I would not have that, for him.  I
was determined to keep my son's thoughts in the positive.

    The waiter brought the coffee and our food--both of which were
quite good.  It was beginning to get dark out, and for me, that
usually induced a sense of lethargy--I simply slowed down.  I had big
plans for hitting the easy chair, or the bed, after our meal.  Lane
and I chatted as we ate.

    "What will we do after supper, dad?"

    "I found this walking tour of the City.  I thought we'd do that."

    "Really?  How far do you have to walk?"

    "Only about twenty miles or so.  It should be fun," I said--as
straight-faced and serious as I could be.

    "TWENTY MILES?" Lane said, stunned.

    "More or less."

    "Dad--that's a LOT!"

    "Oh, not for a good strong lad like you!"

    "Dad?" Lane said, sounding quite concerned, now.

    "Just joking, son."

    "Dad!  You SCARED me!  I was thinking I needed--"

    "I know.  I'm tired, too."

    "Oh," he said, disappointed.

    "Is there something you wanted to do, Lane?"

    "Well..."

    "I promise, I won't go right to bed," I said, enjoying my roast
beef immensely.

    "That sounds good, dad."  He smiled, and suddenly drew backward,
his body sharply striking the back of his chair.  His eyes widened.

    "Lane!  What's the matter?"

    "There's a big BUG in your food, dad!" Lane said, looking almost
nauseated with disgust.

    I dropped my fork immediately, and began to examine my plate.
"Where?  Where is it?" I insisted, feeling a bit uneasy, suddenly.
"It didn't go under that table, did it?" I said, becoming alarmed,
and looking up at Lane.  He was laughing.

    "You little bugger," I said, losing control, momentarily.  Of
course, this slip of the lip on my part was the perfect accelerator
for Lane's laughter, and he progressed to mountainous, heaving
guffaws.

    "You look so funny, dad," he managed to blurt out.

    I stared at him, relieved and somewhat proud.  He had pulled a
good one, and his acting was flawless.  I chuckled along with him,
for a bit, and saw his chest stick out more prominently--he was proud
of himself that he had pulled one over on me.

    "You had me convinced," I said coolly.

    "Were you angry?"

    "No, don't be silly."

    "You were, for a moment, though," Lane said, quite definitely.  I
blushed.

    "Maybe."  I was convinced I needed lessons on how not to let my
emotions show, although with my sales training I thought I had
cleared that hurdle years ago.  "Do you want me to be angry?"

    "That won't be necessary," he said, perfectly poised, and in his
deepest possible voice--doing a reasonable imitation of me when I
politely refused his requests to do something I disapproved of.  This
got me laughing, and rekindled Lane's giggling.

    The waiter began to approach our table, as if about to ask
something, then, seeing us laughing madly, retreated in fear.
Likely, the two of us painted a strange picture, in his eyes.
Eventually, we settled down, and our waiter returned.

    "May I bring you some dessert, gentlemen?" the waiter asked.
Lane grinned, broadly.

    "No," I said, looking at Lane, "we never order dessert."  Lane's
eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets.  This was quickly followed
by a knowing smile.  "But, I'll check with him, just in case," I
said, looking up at the young man.  I turned to Lane, expectantly.

    "I don't know dad.  Maybe I'm too full."  This line was delivered
with none of the expert theatrics of his earlier, 'bug in the food'
performance.

    "That will be all, then" I said, turning back to the waiter, who
glanced at my son.

    "Chocolate cake!" Lane blurted.

    "Ah--he lives!" I said.  "Lane--I thought you said something
yesterday about pie, didn't you?"

    "Oh, that's right!  Cherry pie!"

    I raised my eyebrows to the waiter.

    "Yes, we have that, sir.  Would you like me to bring it?"

    I hesitated--looking from Lane to the waiter and back, taking
quite a bit of time in the process.  I could see my son, who looked
like we was holding his breath.

    "Yes, please bring it," I said.  I could hear Lane exhaling,
vigorously.  "And a small vanilla ice-cream, for me."

    "Yes, sir."

    We enjoyed our desert unceremoniously, and withdrew to our hotel
room, after I paid the check.

    In the room, I set up the chess board, and we began to play.
Neither of us were concentrating that well, and after about an hour
of lackluster play, we simply stopped.

    I lay down on the bed.  I wasn't really tired, nor was Lane, but
I fell into a half-sleep.  Lane's voice brought me to full
consciousness.

    "What can we do now, dad?"

    "I suppose it's time for your spanking.  What do you think?"

    Lane simply nodded.

    "You know, leaving the hotel room while I slept was a very
serious offense."

    "Yes, sir."

    "You could have been killed.  I would have been devastated if
anything had happened to you."

    "I'm sorry, sir."

    "Bring the paddle."

    "Yes, sir."

    As I heard Lane return to the bed, I reached out, with one eye
open.  My hand grasped an unfamiliar shape.

    "What's this?"  I had both eyes open now.

    "A hairbrush, sir."

    "I can see that.  I've never spanked you with a hairbrush--
whatever gave you the idea?"

    "Michael--his dad spanks him with one.  He told me."  Michael was
a schoolmate of Lane's--they were in the same class.

    "Oh--so you compare spankings with Michael, do you?" I said,
realizing too late that Michael was in London, and Lane might not see
him again until they were too old to talk about spankings.

    "Well...yes.  We compared marks on our butts, too.  That was all
right, wasn't it?"

    "Yes, son, that was fine.  Now that we're in a new country, I
wouldn't just bring the subject up, however."

    "No--I wouldn't do that."

    "Lane--a hairbrush is too harsh for you.  It would hurt very
badly."

    "What I did was very bad.  Besides, if Michael can take twelve
whacks with it, so can I."

    "Why are you so eager for this?  I thought boys avoided pain, as
much as possible."

    "Please, dad.  I'm not afraid.  You said, yourself, I have to be
tough.  Besides, I promised Michael you'd use it on me, and I'd write
back to him."

    "Ah!  Wouldn't want to disappoint Michael, now, would we."

    Lane was silent.  I looked right at him.  His eyes were
challenging, but there was a healthy amount of fear there, despite
his declaration.  Still, this was too much, as far as I was
concerned.

    "Lane--I can't base my decisions on what you and Michael did,
especially something as important as your discipline.  I'm going to
use the paddle, now, as I usually do.

    "Yes, sir."  I studied Lane's face.  It was solemn, but there was
a definite look of grave disappointment.

    "All right, son.  I see your need to prove yourself, so I'll make
a bargain with you.  When it comes time for your birthday spanking,
instead of the promised ruler, I'll use the hairbrush.  However, in
case it's too much for you, there will be no set number of whacks.
I'll begin, and when you've had enough, you'll signal me to stop."

    "I want to be tough, dad.  Really tough."

    "If you like, we'll do that once a week until you arrive at a
number that you can be proud of."

    "Thank you, dad!"

    "What would that number be--twelve?"

    "No, sir.  More than twelve."

    "Fifteen?"

    "Twenty."

    "All right.  After your first experience with the hairbrush, you
must set a goal as to how long you think it will take you to reach
your objective of twenty.  Then you must keep a record."

    "Yes, sir.  Can we do it more than once a week?"

    "Lane--there's more to being tough than taking whacks on your
arse.  Oh, sorry--we're in the States, now, I'll have to learn to say
ass, won't I?  Difficult to pronounce with such a sharp 'a.'"  It was
almost vulgar.  I was trying to break the tension.

    "Yes, sir," Lane said, smiling.

    "I'll agree to toughening your ass if you agree to take some
self-defense lessons, and do well with them."

    "Self defense?"

    "Yes--martial arts.  Judo, Karate--those sorts of things.  Ken
Coburn, Assistant Manager of the International Division will be
living fairly close by.  I'm sure he'll agree to giving you private
lessons.  He's an expert."  Ken had visited us on two occasions, when
he visited London.

    "I remember him.  Can I start right away?"

    "Anxious little fellow, aren't you?  There's more to this, isn't
there?"  I could see real fear in Lane's eyes.

    "Yes, dad," he said, tears beginning to fill his eyes, "Michael
told me the lads in America were rougher and stronger, and if I
didn't toughen up, I might get beaten at school."

    Lane was sobbing now, and I simply hugged him.

    "It's all right, now.  Together, we'll see to it you can handle
any ruffian who dares to interfere with you.  But, toughening your
buttocks won't do you much good when faced with a bully."

    "No, it's important, dad."

    I studied his face again.  Something was right and something was
wrong.  I had to probe a bit deeper.

    "Lane--you don't really like being spanked, do you?"

    "Well, I--I--no, sir.  But Michael had this book, and it said
that to be strong, you had to take something you hated, and master
it, before you could be really tough.  Is that wrong, dad?"

    "Ah--now, we're getting somewhere.  No, it's quite true.  What
kind of book was this?"

    "I don't know, but it was a really good one.  His dad let him
borrow it."

    "I see.  How long ago did you read that?"

    "A year, I think."

    "And you waited all this time, to use that advice?" I asked,
knowing Lane was not one to hesitate trying out a new idea.

    "No, sir.  I used it on maths--I hated maths, so I worked on--"

    "Oh, yes!  You did splendidly in arithmetic, last year--because
of that book?"

    "Yes, sir."

    I paused.  I felt a tear well up.  A whole year my son had worked
on a project and I knew nothing of it.  The more I tried to suppress
the tears, the more insistent they became.  I quit trying to hide
them.  "Son--why didn't you tell me?"

    "I'm sorry, dad.  It's--well, Michael said...we just decided it
would be best if it were a secret--so we could say we did it on our
own."

    Now, we gripped each other tightly in a hug, and Lane was crying,
too.  "It's all right, son.  You did well."  I could have helped him
in several ways, but now was not the time to mention that.  "I guess
that's a good kind of secret.  It certainly did no harm, and resulted
in some good."

    "Oh, daddy--you're not angry?"

    "No."

    "Then you'll spank me with the hairbrush, now?" he said, with a
peculiar grin.

    "NO!" I said, quickly realizing he'd tried to manipulate me.  I
could not suppress a grin of my own.  I was seeing my own childhood
impudence replicated in Lane.

    "But, you're smiling, now," he said, trying to recover his former
posture.

    "That's because I love you!"

    "Oh," he said softly, coming in closer and hooking his chin on my
shoulder, as our hug continued.  Just the feel and sound of him, as
we were pressed together--knowing he was mine, and such a good lad--
sent my mind off in a thousand pleasant directions.

    "Did you forget I loved you?"  Of course, I was being facetious.

    "No."  We were both smiling now.  I could tell by the sound of
his voice--half dreamy and half on the edge of giddiness.

    "You're getting a bit too cocky for my liking.  I suppose I'll
have to thrash you much harder with the paddle, this time."  With
that, Lane ran to the dresser and retrieved the paddle.

    He threw his arms around me as if I had excused him from a
punishment, but here he was about to get more rather than less.

    "How do you know Michael actually withstood twelve strokes of the
hairbrush?"

    "I--I just know, dad.  Michael wouldn't lie to me."

    I decided to let him have the last word on that.  It would induce
him to think about it, more so than if I gave an answer in rebuttal.
I let the silence drag on, knowing Lane would eventually say
something.

    "I'll take it like a man, dad--I really will."

    "Oh?  Well, if you're going to be manly about it, you better take
the initiative."

    "Oh!  Yes, sir."

    I wasn't sure Lane would understand that, but he did.  He began
undressing immediately, and I noticed he was especially careful
folding his clothes.  His hands and fingers moved with remarkable
swiftness and accuracy.  As soon as his last garment was carefully
laid down, he went to the corner, facing it.  I walked up behind him
and stood about a foot away, just to test his nerves--to see if he
would break the silence, which was mandatory, or somehow became
uncomfortable.  He lasted several minutes before he started
fidgeting--swaying perceptibly from one foot to the other.

    I placed my hand over his heart, and he jumped, frightened.

    "Easy, lad.  I'm just checking your heart rate."  It was a bit
elevated, but I suppose that was to be expected.  I went to the bed
and sat, leaving him to finish out his five minutes.

    I wasn't timing the interval as I usually did, so an estimate
would have to do.  As I waited, I thought about how I would
administer this particular punishment.  Although I had never been
soft on him while spanking, this was the first time I'd planned to be
harsh in any way, and I thought the matter deserved my attention.

    "All right, boy."  That was Lane's cue to come to the center of
the room and face me.

    "Declare."

    "I was not to go off by myself, but I did.  I am being punished
to learn to wait for you."

    "Good.  And?"

    "And--I put myself in danger...and I'm sorry, sir."  I nodded,
and Lane walked across the room to me.

    "Bend."  He slid into position over my knee, with his buttocks
poking up at me.  I was still uncertain about the amount of force to
use, or how to control it.  I normally simply spanked him, each time
presumably with the same force.  Now I had to gauge myself as to how
to reasonably increase the strength of the strokes.  I decided to err
on the side of more, rather than less force.  I could always stop,
whenever I wanted.  "I won't say how many, but this will be a very
severe, manly thrashing, Master Harper!"

    "Yes, sir."  I could feel a slight tremble in Lane's body.

    "But don't worry," I said with my tongue quite in my cheek,
"American hotels have very good doctors, I'm told."

    Now, his tremble was accompanied by a rather nervous exhalation.
I paused for effect, looked down, and saw Lane with his eyes tightly
shut.  I raised the paddle higher than usual.

    SMACK!!  The paddle made an unexpectedly loud, cracking sound,
which surprised me--not as much as it startled Lane, whose body made
an immense jerking motion.

    "Uhh!" came his muffled exclamation.  I was surprised.  I had hit
him hard, and either the whack hadn't hurt much, or he had done an
excellent job suppressing a shout.  I rubbed his reddened cheeks.

    "How does that feel?"

    "Hot.  Your hand feels nice."

    "No pain?"

    He paused for quite some time.

    "Some," he said, almost indifferently.  My heart pounded
momentarily--I felt challenged.  If he was turning this into a
contest, I could certainly win, but I cautioned myself not to get
carried away.

    "I see."

    I delivered the next three whacks with equal ferocity, hoping the
reality of the pain would snap him out of his newfound desire to be
spanked.  To my amazement, Lane's vocalization never exceeded the
power of his first, muffled moan.  I had paused for five seconds
between strokes, thinking this would intensify the result, as it had
when I was caned, at school.  Perhaps pausing was the wrong approach.

    I gave the next four whacks with equal force, but in rapid
succession, and he began to cry out.  I stopped to rub again, then
kept going, never quite getting accustomed to the loud, cracking,
smacking sound.  I could tell he was suppressing tears, now, but
holding up, surprisingly well.

    "Is your rump sore as it can be?"

    He shook his head, and as he did, I could see he was gritting his
teeth.  His slightly sweaty, reddened face and exposed teeth were an
impressive sight.  An aroma arose--I didn't know if it was fear or
just moist, young flesh.  It was entirely pleasant and sweet.

    I continued whacking him with the wooden paddle, varying the pace
as I went.  When his breathing began to become sobbing, I stopped.

    "I think your little buttocks are sore enough, lad!"

    "No--"

    "Not another word!"  Lane's ability to withstand the thrashing
was beginning to unnerve me.  It must have taken monumental
concentration to endure as he did.  Either he needed to redirect his
mental abilities, or I needed a new paddle.  Had he actually become
tougher--already?

    "But, sir--"

    "On the bed--now.  On your stomach.  I'm going to rub some salve
into those buns of yours."

    I was hoping for something more soothing, but petrolatum was the
best I could find.  I rubbed it in gently.

    "Mmmm," Lane moaned.

    "Feel good?"

    "Yes."

    "Any pain if I tap--like this?"  I gave him a mild slap with my
hand.

    "Ahh!  A little."  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.
_______________________________

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)

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