Breath-taking

z used hustler by Josman (1)

Danny only had a split-second to decide. Should he drive off to Maureen’s Peak with the sexy stranger and shag him senseless, or should he return the car to dad on time as he had promised.

It was a no-brainer. He opened the car door and let him in. He would face the consequences with dad later.

They didn’t shag; that is go all the way. Instead, Danny sucked the stranger’s eight-inch cock until he shot a load in his mouth. Then he had a second decision to make. The wine taster’s dilemma: should he spit or should he swallow? He swallowed. He couldn’t risk staining the seats in dad’s car. He knew from experience cum stains were impossible to wash off.

Dad was exasperated. He paced the sitting room, looking at his watch every ten seconds. Danny was fifteen minutes late. Then, he was thirty. Dad stood at the front gate peering down the quiet suburban street. No sign of his son. He looked at his watch again. He would never admit it, but he was scared. Had Danny been in a traffic accident? Was his shiny new car damaged? Had his son been hurt?

He’d damn well hurt him when he did get home. It wasn’t that dad wanted to go anywhere in the car; he didn’t. It was his irresponsible nineteen-year-old son that was the problem. Danny had disobeyed dad. Again. It wasn’t just the car, it was everything. He was surly around the house, he wouldn’t do his chores unless his mother nagged him. He came and went as he pleased, treating the house like a hotel. It had to stop and dad was quite sure how to make it.

At last, dad saw the car turn the corner of The Avenue. It looked intact. His son was safe. He hurried back into the house. He didn’t want Danny to know he had been anxious.

Danny parked the car and checked the time. Ninety minutes late. Dad would be mad. Oh well, he thought, it had been worth it. The memory of the stranger’s huge cock was fresh. He felt his own dick tingle. Danny’s usually cobalt blue eyes shone. He put his key in the front door lock and prepared to face the consequences.

“In here. Now.” The fury in his dad’s voice seemed genuine. Danny closed the door, put his cap on a coat hook and went to meet his fate.

Danny’s face was flushed and his eyes sparkling. “You’ve been drinking!” Dad’s own eyes widened. “I can see it from here.”

Danny bristled. He hadn’t been drinking, but he could hardly tell dad what he had been doing. “No, I’ve not,” he pouted instead.

“Come here. Now.” Dad snapped his fingers. Reluctantly, Danny moved further into the sitting room. “Breathe out, let me smell your breath.”

Danny’s face reddened.

“I thought so. Drinking. And driving!”

“No, no ..” Danny wasn’t sure what to say.

“Let me smell your breath.”

Danny sucked in air as if somehow that would take the stink away.

“Breathe in my face.”

“Huff..”

Dad’s nose wrinkled. What was that smell? He knew what it was, but  he couldn’t quite place it. The aroma was sweet and a little sickly.

“Again.” Dad leaned forward towards his son to get the full blast. Danny heaved into dad’s face.

No, dad still couldn’t quite name it. He didn’t know what it was, but it certainly wasn’t alcohol.

“OK,” he conceded reluctantly, “You haven’t been drinking. What was it, some girl?” Dad roared with genuine mirth when Danny’s face went the colour of beetroot.

“I might have known,” dad’s smile was fading. “But it doesn’t excuse your disobeying my instruction and coming home late. I’ve lost count the number of times you’ve disobeyed me or your mother. Well, it’s going to stop and it’s going to stop right now, understand.”

Dad was a master at the upscale St. Francis Independent Grammar School in town. He knew all about discipline – and everything about punishment. St. FIGS was a traditional school: traditional curriculum, traditional uniform, traditional sports and, most of all, traditional discipline. Dad knew the effectiveness of corporal punishment. At school his weapon of choice was the whippy, crook-handled rattan cane. It certainly made its point when whipped across stretched buttocks.

But, that was school and this was home. At school he was the master, at home he was a loving dad. Caning was an impersonal punishment; something delivered quite literally at arm’s length. There was a necessary distance between the punisher and the punished.

At home it was quite different. The father-son relationship was based on love. Dad loved his son and as part of that loving he knew he must punish him. The punishment should not be remote or distant, it should be close. That was why he intended to take Danny across his knee.

“I think you know what must happen now,” dad might be a loving father, but even at home he had the air of the schoolmaster. He would stand no nonsense from the teenager.

Danny stared at the carpet. Of course he knew what was coming. He had lived his whole life under dad’s domination. He had no choice: he must grin and bare it. One day when his studying was over and he had a job and could afford to move out he would begin an independent life. Until then it was dad’s house, dad’s rules.

Danny was transfixed by the grey-patterned Axminster so did not see his dad rummage through the sideboard drawer. He heard the rattle of dinner mats being moved, he knew what dad was searching for.

At last he found it.

“Come stand over here.” Dad was already seating himself in the centre of a long leather Chesterfield couch. Danny’s cobalt blue eyes blinked rapidly. They always did at times like this. His father clutched a large wooden clothes brush. He waved it through the air. “Trousers. Underpants down. Come lay across my lap.”

They were clear instructions. Dad knew they would be obeyed. And, they were. Danny’s cargo shorts had no belt, they hugged his waist beautifully. With the button unfastened and the zip lowered they hurtled to his feet. Danny stood in his gaily-patterned briefs. A sudden panic. They must be stained with his cum. With alacrity he hitched his thumbs in the waistband and with the merest flick of the wrists he sent them south the land on top of his shorts.

Dad tapped the brush against his thigh with impatience. Danny looked on curiously, his father was a tall man and as befitting someone his age he was running to fat.  His lap was large and offered a substantial platform for the teenager to present himself for a spanking. Dad’s arms were surprisingly well-developed; he built his strength through the constant gardening he did at weekends. Dad’s face was grey and lined and his hair thinning, but he insisted in having a combover to disguise his baldness.

Danny took a deep breath and lowered himself over his dad’s knees. He knew the drill. He raised his legs so they stretched out behind him and along the couch. He rested his elbows on the couch so that his head was raised and he could see ahead of him. “Bugger,” he thought. He could see through the open window into the street outside. A passer-by might easily see in.

His cock dug into dad’s thigh so he wriggled his body until he was comfortable; although, of course, what was to happen next would be far from comfortable.

Danny was shorter than average and slim so he fitted this spanking position perfectly. He noticed the curtain sway gently in the breeze. Then, he felt the excruciating pain of a heavy wooden brush crash into the centre of his left buttock. There was very little flesh to absorb the impact. He cupped his hands together and covered his mouth.

Bang-bang-bang. Dad kept up a steady rhythm. Danny blew hard into his hands, suddenly so overwhelmed by the stink of his own breath it made him gag a little.

Danny’s bum was small and dad’s brush so large that the whole of the target area was a mass of dark-pink marks within seconds. Dad always marvelled at how the shape of the oval head of the brush could be reproduced again and again across creamy-white buttocks.

Danny’s bum rose and fell against dad’s legs. The nineteen-year-old had no control of this, it was his body’s natural reaction to the pounding it was taking. Dad gripped him across the shoulders. He was going nowhere – not until dad said so. At first Danny’s bum stung with each successive blow but soon the whole of his arse throbbed. As dad whacked on and on the throbbing grew to an intense ache. His backside was on fire, it felt like he had sat in a bucket of boiling water.

Oh, no! Danny saw a figure he recognised standing in his front garden peering through the window. It was Alan, a pal from down the road. They often tossed each other off when Alan’s parents were at work. Alan grinned so wide his teeth might fall out. He pulled his phone from his pocket and held it high. He would wank himself dry later viewing and reviewing the video.

Dad was not a cruel man, he believed in chastisement not torture, but years of schoolmastering had taught him that for corporal punishment to be effective it had to hurt. Otherwise, what was the point of it?

Satisfied that he had scorched every square-inch of his son’s posterior dad tuned his attention to the back of Danny’s thighs. Whack-whack-whack. That had the teenager writhing and kicking. A dark-blue bruise appeared almost immediately.

Dad took one more circuit around the target area and then landed six more into the fleshiest part of Danny’s cheeks. Then he was done.

He released his hold on Danny’s shoulders and before he could give the instruction, “Stand up,” the teenager was on his feet hopping up and down rubbing away at his burnt flesh. His cock and balls waved around in front of his dad’s face.

“Get dressed. Quickly.” A look, something close to horror invaded dad’s face. Dad watched, his heart thumping as his son struggled into his tight pants and pulled up his cargo shorts.

“Go, go,” dad waved his arms frantically, “Go to your room.” Danny didn’t need telling twice, he took the stairs two at a time and hurtled into his bedroom. Dad gaped open mouthed into the middle distance; staring, but seeing nothing. A rush of vomit touched the back of his throat, but he swallowed it down.

Unsteady on his feet he rose from the couch and walked to the cocktail cabinet. With shaking hands he poured a large gin and drank half of it in a single gulp. It did nothing for his nerves. He took the glass and stood at the open window, looking disconsolately at his beloved garden.

“What is to become of us all,” he wailed. Life would never be the same again. Not now he had identified the smell on Danny’s breath.

 

Picture credit: Josman

 

Other stories you might like

First day at St CIGS

The spanking I thoroughly deserved

A public service

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

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