Date: Mon, 13 May 2013 09:45:16 -0400
From: Quentin Compton <compton.quentin@gmail.com>
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.