Date: Wed, 22 May 2013 11:32:36 -0400
From: Quentin Compton <compton.quentin@gmail.com>
Subject: Good boy, part 2

My phone is buzzing in my pocket. Ms. Harmon stands at the front of the
room droning on about elephants or something. It's World History, and
honestly Hannibal sounds like an interesting story, but her voice is
completely monotone. She is a sleep inducing robot in an ancient looking
polka dot dress. The effect is uncanny, the precision of her speech, it's
hypnotic. A shiny gold coin pendulating back and forth. The words are all
bloodshed and tregedy, but her lack of any inflection at all is a cheap
illusionist telling me I'm getting sleepy. Very, very sleepy. And so, if I
weren't already hard, which tends to happen when I'm nearly unconscious, I
definitely am now. The whole class can probably tell. At least that's what
it feels like. They all know this text, almost certainly from my dad, has
got me dripping. I look down. There's a dime sized damp spot on my
crotch. I have leaked through my boxers and through the denim of my
jeans. I slouch as low as I can in my chair. I want to disappear.

The middle aged android with so much caked on make up turns to write
something on the board. Here's my chance to look at my phone. I work it out
as discretely as I can, but my friend Eric, from track, still sees me do
it. He makes a mocking tsk, tsk sound.

<<Bathroom. Edge. Now, boy.>>

I adjust my hard on in such a way I can stand up. Eric makes that damn
sound again. There's a heat in my cheeks. Whether it's from anger at Eric's
antics, embarrassment that he's noticed my wood, or if I'm blushing from
his attention, I can't figure it out right now. I shove my phone back in my
pocket and make a break for the door. Next to it is the bathroom pass,
hanging on a hook. I grab it. Anyone paying even a little attention to my
crotch won't be able to help but notice my erection. I just tell myself
they're all probably in a drowsy stupor like I'd been.

I finally make it into a stall, shove my pants and underwear down, and
sit. I start jerking with my right hand while I text with my left. It's
been eight minutes since dad texted; three minutes more than I'm allowed to
take to respond. Fear makes my hand shake and I mess up typing a couple
times. <Yessir. Stroking now.>

<<Four minutes late, boy.>> I don't correct him. I don't want to be in
anymore trouble.

<Sorry, sir.> And I am. <I'll do better next time.>

<<Take a picture of your cock, son. Send it.>>

I do. I get a picture at the same time--hairy quads, a dirty jock, defined
abs. Slacks hang around the knees. A hand with a gold watch is holding up
an Oxford shirt, revealing the most wonderful blond happy trail. <<Good
boy. Tell me what you're thinking.>>

<I want to trace between each ab with my tongue. I want to kiss the creases
where your legs meet your crotch, sir.> I text more. <I want my nose buried
in your jock, to see what the hair on your stomach looks like wet with my
slobber.>

<<Good boy! Now, finish edging and go back to class.>> I feel pressure,
like I need to pee, like a geyser all through my shaft. But it's all stuck
at the tip. I beat of faster. I hope there's' no one else in the restroom
because I am making loud, wet slicking sounds with my hand, precum, and
cock. I am moaning and can't stop. The toilet seat is making a clacking,
knocking sound while I bounce up and down in a reckless rhythm. Just when I
think I'll cum and dad won't ever know, he texts me. <<Do NOT cum, boy.>>

So, I quit. It's like saying good bye to a friend. Like doing the hardest
thing ever. I look at it, pulsing, keeping time with my body. I whisper,
"Oh shit, oh shit." I double over, breathe funny, and actually pray the
ecstasy stops. I can't cum. I just can't. I'm already facing punishment for
being late to respond earlier. Dad says punishment will be pain, and
unspecified pain keeps me scared enough to stop touching myself though
every instinct and desire tells me to do otherwise. I am fighting against
hundreds of thousands of years of evolved biological imperatives. For my
dad. Precum is leaking down the front of my oh so sensitive cock, tickling
it and taunting it, and finally dripping into the toilet bowl. I text
dad. <I didn't, sir. But I got so close.>

I walk back to class without getting a response. The bell rings. Third
period, nothing. Lunch, nothing. Fourth period, nothing. Then, finally,
fifth period.

Mr. White's geometry class. I'm thinking about the shape of my teacher's
cock, about the angle that cylinder makes when erect. About figuring out
the volume of that shaft, of his balls. Spheres whose dimensions I can
measure with my mouth. It's all for extra credit, which I take, under his
desk, being made to worship his line segment. Maybe while he grades
papers. Right now, though, back in reality, I mean, I notice his hair's not
as neat as it normally is. The vaguest dark circles are showing up under
his eyes. Some stubbles come in, and he's wearing jeans and a polo
shirt. He normally dresses better. Whatever has him out of sorts, I
realize, strangely, I want to do my best to fix.

When my phone vibrates this time, it shakes lose a breif pang of
guilt. Like, by day dreaming about Mr. White, I'm betraying dad somehow. To
secretly make up for the secret cheat, I immediately take my phone out of
my pocket, not caring if it's the most opportune time or not.

Dad texts. <<Bathroom. Edge. Now, boy.>> This is another of the three
classes I'm in with Eric. He makes that damn, mock disapproving sound
again. He waits for me to look at him and smiles. It's all mischief. i
watch, impotent and panicked as he gets up and walks out the door, taking
the single, precious hall pass with him.I feel sick to my stomach. I think
about brown paper bags, because I might be hyperventilating. My mouth goes
dry. I go into autopilot, and it's like I'm watching someone else raise his
hand. Watching someone else get called on. Watching someone else look at
the clock and realize three minutes have already passed. I'm hearing
someone else she he's really gotta go. But, it might just be me.

"Go where?" Mr. White asks. He looks around in fake exasperation. There are
snickers. It is obvious what I mean. I feel young. Very young. I need to go
pee.

"The restroom," I say instead. And then offer, "It's kind of an emergency."

Mr. White is taking off his glasses, really looking at me at me, and I
forget where I am and what I'm even asking. All I'm thinking about are
Mr. White's pale blue eyes. I look into them, seeing them clearly. A
crystal sea. Finally he says, "By all means, Mr. Morrison. Yes, please go
and use the restroom. It's been 15 years since someone has had an accident
in my room, let's not break that impressive record now." I bolt out of my
chair and literally run out the door. I hear chucking around me, and then
behind me, but it doesn't matter. Pleasing dad matters.

In the restroom, stupid Eric is leaning all 180 pounds of his stupid
muscular frame against the sink counter. He's on his phone, definitely not
using the restroom. He sees me come in, and his stupid wide jawed face
resisters surprise. "What the fuck?" he says. Stupidly.

"I can't talk right now," I say. I'm in the stall, now. I'm dropping
trousers. I'm texting dad. <Yessir, jerking in a moment.>

"You feeling okay, Matt?" Eric asks.

<<Three minutes late, boy. Start stroking.>>

"Yeah, maybe just something I ate," I say, and wish more than anything Eric
would just leave. <I can't yet. Someone else is in here too.>

"Whatever, Matt. You did the same thing before lunch in Ms. Harmon's class
after getting a text then too. Plus, you at the same pizza I did for
lunch." He pauses a second.

I get a text. <<Bitch, i don't care who's there. Edge that boy cock. Now.>>
A second text. <<That makes EIGHT punishments.>>

"You got a girlfriend I don't know about?" Eric doesn't quit. And neither
has my ability to precum. I start stroking. The wet, slicking sounds are
back in no time, and I'm too horned or too eager to please dad to slow down
enough to keep quiet.

<Yessir. Stroking.> I text. "Nope," I tell Eric through the door.

<<Edge three times, boy. Take pictures. Hold up 1,w, and 3 fingers each
time you do.>>

"Boyfriend?" Eric isn't letting up. "Come on, I won't judge, Matt." He's
enjoying this probing, there's a playfulness in his stupid voice, but I can
tell he's also earnest about being nonjudgmental. I take too long to
respond, though. I'm trying to figure out dad's instructions. The a.c. goes
off, and it's quiet long enough for Eric to make out clearly the slicking
sounds. "Dude. Are you--" I'm guessing he shakes his head in this brief
moment of silence. "Are you doing that in there?" he finally asks.

"Doing what?" I ask. And I know I must sound out of breath. I let out a
gasp and take my hand away from my cock, like it just turned hot enough to
burn me. And for all I know, it could. The fear of punishment is keeping me
from stroking till release.  Two more pictures to go, two more pictures
I'll have to stay hard for. I hold my index finger next to my cock and take
the first picture.

I start up a second time. I throw my head back in pleasure. My eyes are
shut tight, and when I open them, I expect to see cold, fluorescent
panel. Instead, I see Eric's stupid face. He's climbed on top of the toilet
in the neighboring stall to watch me. He's not saying anything. I look
away. I look down immediately. "What the hell, Eric?" I blurt.

<<GOOD BOY!>> Dad texts.

I've stopped stroking. "That is so hot, man," stupid Eric says. The muscles
in his neck and shoulder suggest he's making back and forth motions with
his arm. Eric,who I've known since we were both in diapers, is jacking off
to me jacking off. I'm trying to understand what that means, or maybe I'm
tryin to block it out of my brain completely. I can't tell. I hold up two
fingers next to my cock and take a second picture. "Who'd you send that
to?" Eric asks. His voice is lower, whispy. He's a little short of breath
now too.

"Your mom," I say.

<<NO cumming.>>

Eric lets out one single, sincere laugh. "Uh huh," he says. "Whatever,
man. I have to tell you. You know your dick is huge, right?" He disappears
back behind the stall. There's grunting noises and some moaning. I am
imagining him shoot into the toilet. I eat my precum.

"Thanks. I guess," I says, because I don't know what the hell to say in
this situation. I start stroking a third time.

I see Eric's feet under my stall door. He's leaving the restroom. I try not
to think about how he doesn't wash his hands. Stupid Eric. I take my time
stroking now, careful to edge but not cum. I wonder if I should tell my dad
someone saw me. I do.

<<Who, boy?>>

<Eric.>

<<Interesting.>> That's all dad has to say about that. <<Let's go, boy. One
more time.>>

Three fingers next to my cock, and I send the picture. I think about
cumming, but am too worried dad will have me send another picture later,
and I don't want to be spent. I need to still be able to get hard for
another possible picture.

I go to my last two classes. I avoid Eric in the halls. That's the rest of
my school day. I ride the bus back to my mom's house. "Honey," she
says. "Uncle Ian stopped by to drop off a bag you left at your father's."

I have never seen the backpack she hands me before. I take the mystery bag
and go up to my room. There's a wet jockstrap inside a quart sized ziplock
bag, a few clothes pins, a tube of something called Boy Butter, and
something black and rubber. It looks roughly the same shape as a miniature
Christmas tree. There's something that looks like a wooden hot dog. I think
it's one of Uncle Ian's claves. My cock is growing again, and I don't even
know why. It's hard more often than it's not, honestly.

I get a text from dad. <<Text when you are done with homework, boy.>> I
finish my homework. I text dad. <<Call me on skype. Now.>>

Just like the picture he sent earlier, i see the middle of my dad. This
time, though, I can see his cock. I see dad's cock on my computer
screen. His cock. I want to cum. I want to eat all the cum. I want to cum
50 times in 50 minutes. i want that cock in my mouth. In my ass. It's hard
and so, so big. It's sticking out of one side of dad's jock. My jaw is
hanging open, I realize, and I can hear my dad chuckle. "Heh, heh. Hi, baby
boy," he says. "You're gonna have to open wider than that to take all this
in your mouth, boy."

His voice. His cock. They own me.. I am in a frenzy. I am glued to my
seat. "Hi, daddy." I say. I want to say more, but I've gone as stupid as
Eric. I instinctively reach into my pants.

"No, boy," Dad says. It's stern, but not mean. "No touching right
now. Strip." I do. When I'm just down to my boxers, dad says, "The boy
needs to start wearing briefs." I finish. He's stroking his mangificent
cock the whole time. I am learning how to properly stroke my own cock
watching it. He takes the whole length of it. He twists at the head. I am
dripping precum on the floor.

"Take the clave," dad says, "and stick it as far back in your mouth as you
can. Farther. Back in, boy! I didn't tell you you could take it out."

It's far enough down my throat I can feel myself gag. I can feel the vomit
reflex. Again and again. I'm embarrassed when tears start to roll down my
face. But dad says, "That's a good boy. Damn. Hot, boy! Fix the camera so I
can see the boy dick and his face too. That's it, Matty. Now, do it again,
and I'm going to countdown from ten." His voice is tender, the sweetest
I've ever heard him be to me. He hasn't stopped stroking, but I wish I
could see his face. He tells me that will come later. After I've earned it.

I stick the wood in my mouth, but don't force it back down. I don't like
the way it felt. I don't like how it made me feel. "Boy, if you ever want
the real thing in your mouth, you're gonna do this, now." So I push it as
far as I had before. "10, 9, 8--good boy!" and then silence. He's drinking
a beer. I've coughed twice, the tears are back, and I'm watching myself on
the computer screen. I look ridiculous naked. My eyes are all panic and
hurt. I moan to fill in the silence and to maybe spur my dad back into his
countdown.

"7," he says. "8. 9. 9. 9. 10," he says and laughs a little. "You like that
down your throat, boy?" I shake my head. Vigorously. Why did he count back
up? "Well, I like it, boy. That's what matters here, am I right?" I
nod. "Good boy!" When he says it this time, I shove the clave all the way
in. I can feel the wood against the back of my throat, I can feel it slip
in through something like a hole to make it back that far. I just want to
make daddy proud. I just want to hear, "Good boy," again.

"Perfect," dad says. "10, 9, 8," he counts all the way down, very, very
slowly. I pull out the clave. It's covered in spit and mucus. I'm surprised
there's no vomit. I want to kiss dad. I want to tell him I love
him. Instead, I just the there.

"In your mouth again, boy. This time you may edge while you're doing it. If
you cum--listen! If you cum, i will leave and you won't see me the rest of
the night." I whimper. I follow his directions. It's in my mouth for at
least two minutes while he counts up and down between 1 and 10. I look away
sometimes, and dad makes me look back into the camera. "I want to see my
boy's eyes," dad says. I'm jerking slowly, trying to match the way dad
works his man cock. I remember eric saying mine was large, but dad's is a
little bigger and definitely thicker. Dad finally makes it down to 0. My
jaw is sore, and the back of my throat feels irritated in a way it's never
been before. I'm strangely proud about it. I wonder how much farther I
could fit something down my throat.

"Boy, I have to turn off my cam and mic," dad says. "Keep following
directions." I whimper. I plead with my eyes. I can see them on the
computer screen. The biggest puppy dog eyes ever. The image of my dad
disappears.

"Where's daddy?" I whine.

>This is part of your punishment, boy. Tell daddy how many minutes late you
were respond to him TOTAL today.

"Seven."

>Seven, what?

"Seven minutes."

>Seven minutes, what?

I wrack my brain. Then I realize what's missing and say quickly, "Sir,
seven minutes, sir!"

>That's right, boy. How many minutes late will you be next time?

"None, sir." I say too loudly. Desperately.

>And then you didn't start jacking off when you were told to at first, did
you?

"No, sir. I'm sorry, sir! Daddy it won't happen again. Promise." I'm loud
enough fora moment I worry my mom will hear. But then, I don't care if she
does.

>We'll see, boy. Now, take two of the clothes pins out. >Good boy. Clip one
on each nipple. >Do it, boy! >You think it hurts now, boy? Just wait. >Do
NOT touch your cock, bitch. Get your hand off, now!

I am all nipples. They are the only thing I feel. They are on FIRE. It feel
like I am being changed. I want to take the pins off. I want to keep them
on forever. I don't know up from down. I am forgetting my own name. Hi, my
name is good boy. Hi, I'm bitch.

>Good boy. The boy looks so fucking hot. Does it hurt?

I nod. I bite my lower lip. Of course, it hurts! >Good, it's supposed
to. >This, boy, is not even the punishment yet, though. >Take one finger
and push the pin off of your right boy nipple.

I feel like I am breaking. Though I know the wood clamp is moving and must
eventually run out of nipple to pull out, it feels like I'll be having to
slide it off for all eternity. It finally drops to the floor. I am seeing
my face contort in ways I didn't know it could on the computer screen. Like
some expressionist painting.

>You did good, boy. That was ONE. Now, put it back on.

"No." There's a deluge of words and pleading building up in me. i can see
myself shaking my head. I am rocking back and forth. "Daddy, please no. It
hurt. It hurt so bad. Can I see daddy? Even just a finger or a toe? Daddy,
I'm scared, it hurt."

>Baby boy, put it back on. I know it's hard, and I'm not angry. But if you
don't put it back on in 30 seconds, you'll earn another punishment,
boy. You can do it, son. For daddy.

"Daddy, please. Anything else," I say.

>Signing out, boy. Daddy is disappointed.

I pick the pin up off the ground and quickly put it back on my right
nipple. It is pain on top of pain. I bounce a little to keep from shouting
out. "No, daddy. Stay. Please stay, sir. I'll be good."

>Push the left one off. Only one finger. Now, bitch. >Breathe,
boy. Breath. >Look INTO the camera, do NOT look away. >Daddy is smiling
real big. Daddy is proud of the boy.

My cock hasn't quit. It is dripping a pool onto the plastic lid dad made me
put down there. I put the left pin back on after I've pushed it off without
even having to be told. Six punishments left. Dad tells me how hot it is,
watching his boy take his punishments so well. I breathe. I breathe the
pain out. I've cried and stopped several times. When I have three
punishments left, dad makes me take the clave, and stick it back down my
mouth like earlier. I feel like I could cum if my hand only brushed against
my cock. I take out the clave.

>Move the cam to the floor, get down on all fours and lick up the mess
you've made. >Stick that ass in the air! >Such a good boy. Now, back up in
the chair.

>You will edge after each of these last three nip tortures, boy. Do not
look away from the camera, understand?

I nod. The pin drops in my lap. I put it back on. I wank. The pin drops, I
wank. I don't have to put it back on. The other, the last pin drops. I
wank. I'm not told to put it back on either. Thank god. Thank daddy.

I'm scared to look at my nipples, to see if they've changed. >Take two
fingers with each hand. Push in on those boy nips and RUB. Do it now, boy!

I'm not prepared for this. My body is doing a summersault inside itself. My
blood reverses the direction the direction it flows in. My head, the one on
top of my shoulders, is going to pop like a balloon, and I am leaking the
most water cum. Actual cum, not precum. But I stay hard. I'm confused. Did
I cum without orgasm? Is that possible?

Dad's face fills my screen. HIs expression is all worry and concern. I want
to kiss him, kiss his nose, kiss his neck, hiss his ears, scratch his
scalp. He smiles. "Are you okay, boy?" His voice. More watery cum leaks
out. "Daddy is VERY proud and VERY turned on, son."

I nod. I think I'm fine. I'm definitely fine now that I can see daddy.

Dad smiles at last, but it's almost sheepish. Like he's been caught doing
something he ought not. It looks strange on him. "Uncle Ian was not eas on
the boy was he?" Dad finally smiles.

Time stops. I get light headed again, but this time it's because I'm trying
to understand what dad just said. Uncle Ian? Who is not my actual uncle,
just a family friend since before I was born. "Look at the boy, he's so
confused." And I can hear him. Uncle Ian said that. I can't see him,
though.

"It's okay, boy," dad says. "Don't worry about it right now. Daddy wants to
work out a load with his son. Just me and him. Ready, boy?"

I nod real big, and dad moves his camera down so it's focused on his cock
again. The jockstrap is off now. I think of the one that's in the plastic
bbag in the backpack mom gave me, but then I forget it. Dad is talking. "Go
on, baby boy. Shoot your load for daddy."

"Put the pins back on your nipples, boy," i hear Uncle Ian in the
background.

I look pleadingly into the camera. "Do it," dad says, but he doesn't sound
happy about it. And so I do, and I hate Uncle Ian in that moment. But I
love dad. "Cum now, boy, start eating it before you quit shooting." There
is cum all over my mouth and chest and stomach and fingers. I've shot all
the way up to my shoulder. I am tired. Dad brings his camera up so I can
see his face. "Need you here to clean me up too, boy," he says. All
smiles. "Good boy." I can see the stupidest, shit eating grin on my own
face plastered on the computer screen. It is the most unreserved, natural
smiled I've seen myself make, and I don't hate it like I hate the way I
smiled in pictures. "Take the pins off, normally, son."

"Thank you, daddy," I say. For just what I'm not sure. For everything,
maybe.

"I'm hopping in the shower, Luke," I hear Uncle Ian tell me dad from
somewhere.

Dad looks straight into the cam, and he starts typing, even though his mic
is on.

>Listen, Matty. Whatever you do, stay away from Eric. Okay?
>He is off limits.

He types that, but he tells me out loud that I'm a good boy. he can't wait
to have me back at home next week. "You'll be sleeping my bed, boy." He
signs off. I'm left alone in my room, but I don't feel lonely.