Hot Daddies, page 12
Mr. Pulaski shoved the switch back into Eric’s hands and turned him toward the steps, giving him a running commentary on how lucky he was to have someone who cared enough about him to whip him when he needed it. The look on Eric’s face told me he didn’t share the old man’s opinion. He was muttering under his breath again as he started up the stairs.
Mr. Pulaski was almost to his own porch when he looked up at me and said, “Steve, since I’m letting you use one of my switches, you be sure you do it right. A whuppin’ over clothes never did anybody a lick of good. You make him take down his pants and you whip his ass bare. You hear me?” He pointed his cane up at me. “I’m gonna put my hearing aid in and I expect to be able to hear that switch doing its job. If that boy ain’t yelling his head off, you’re not doing it right!”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Pulaski,” I said, looking Eric right in the eye. “I’ll do just that.”
“Now wait a minute, Steve,” Eric protested as he finished climbing the stairs. I jerked my head at him and he reluctantly walked in the door. “You’re not really going to do what he said, are you?” He was shaking his head, trying to laugh it off. “Damn. He really is a crazy old coot.”
“No, Eric. I’m not going to make you take your pants down,” I snapped. He stopped dead in his tracks at the tone of my voice. I think he was finally realizing just how pissed off I was. “I’m going to make you take your pants off. In fact, you’re going to take everything off. Do it, now!”
As I spoke, I jerked one of the kitchen chairs over into the living room, right into the open space by the screen door where the sound would carry out and down the stairs.
“Now wait a minute!” Eric was trying to sound angry though he sounded more scared than anything. His hands were shaking as I yanked the switch from them.
For a moment we stood, staring each other down. Then I said very quietly, “After all the money problems you’ve had, you know I had real reservations about giving you another chance, especially one that affected my credit history. But as part of my commitment to our home life, I agreed to cosign that loan for you. You agreed to make the payments on time and to take the consequences if you made a payment late. Are you going back on your word to me now?”
Eric looked at me, shifting from foot to foot like he was trying to find some sort of magic answer to pull out of the air. We both knew there was a lot at stake between us. Finally he blew out a long breath and looked away, shaking his head. “No, sir. I’m not going back on my word. I screwed up. I’ll take the whipping.”
He looked back at me and smiled weakly. “I’m just a little nervous, okay? I mean, I’ve never been whipped before, and that thing looks like it’ll really sting!” As he spoke, he unconsciously rubbed the spot on his thigh where Mr. Pulaski had swatted him.
I have to admit, I was relieved. Eric really is a good kid, in spite of how mad he makes me sometimes. I settled down to business.
“Eric,” I said as I took him firmly by the shoulder and steered him to the chair, “this switch isn’t just going to sting. It’s going to burn pure fire over every inch of your bare butt!” He looked up at me, startled. His eyes got even bigger as I stepped back and motioned for him to get ready. “By the time I’m done with you, you’re going to be yelling so loudly Mr. Pulaski will probably be able to hear you without his hearing aid, and you’ll be ready to beg that bank to take your payments early so that you never have to go through this again. Now strip! And I mean everything off but your socks, boy! Move it!”
Eric’s hands were shaking and he was as pale as I’ve ever seen him, but he nodded and started unbuttoning his fly. As I watched, he shoved his jeans down over his hips, kicked off his shoes and worked his jeans over his feet. A minute later, his crisp white jockeys and his T-shirt were also folded in a neat pile on the kitchen table. He stood shivering as I finished peeling the excess leaves off the switch.
“Bend over the back of the chair and grab the lower rung, the one beneath the seat,” I said firmly.
He looked really nervous, but I have to give him credit. Scared as he was, Eric followed my directions, and a minute later, he was in position, his butt in the air and his privates pulled up out of the way so I had a clear shot at his ass.
I did take a minute to admire the view. Eric has a gorgeous ass, full and cream-colored and naturally as smooth as a baby’s behind. But I was determined not to let my interest in his assets distract me. Eric was depending on me to give him the discipline he needed. I was determined to paint his pretty little butt with that switch until he’d learned his lesson.
He suddenly lifted his head up and looked back over his shoulder at me, licking his lips as he stammered out, “Uh, Steve? How m-many are you going to give me?”
I wasn’t going to play that game. “As many as you need,” I said firmly, stepping into position in back of him. “That’ll sure as hell be long after Mr. Pulaski gets tired of hearing you howling.”
With that, I drew back my arm and swung. The branch hissed through the air, landing against that creamy skin with the distinctive swish crack! of a really good switch. I felt the vibration travel up my arm at the contact.
Eric gasped. A second later, a red line appeared on that pale skin and the secondary burn settled in. He let out a startled, “Yeowch!” and straightened up fast, grabbing his butt with both hands.
He turned around and looked at me with huge, scared eyes. “Shit, Steve, that really hurt!”
I nodded my agreement. “You’re damn right it did. And it’s going to hurt a whole lot more before I’m done. Get back into position, unless you need me to tie you down.”
Eric stood there for the longest time, just looking at me. Then he took a deep shaky breath and said, “No, sir. You don’t need to tie me. I’ll h-hold still.”
With that, he took another deep breath, tucked up his privates again, and bent back over the chair. I was really proud of that boy. This time, he knew what was coming, and he was still man enough to take his punishment.
When Eric was back in position, I said, “Are you ready?”
“Yes, sir,” he whispered shakily.
I drew back my arm, and I commenced to whipping that boy’s ass with that switch.
Swish crack!
“Ow! Ow! OW!”
I waited between strokes, letting the first sharp burn then the blaze of the after sting sear into his butt, so that he felt the full effect of each one.
“Oh, please, Steve, please no more!” he cried out after the fourth stroke , twisting against the chair as he stiffened up onto his toes, but he didn’t try to get up again. “Damn, that hurts!”
“I haven’t even started yet,” I snapped, “and it’s supposed to hurt!”
Swish crack!!! He yowled again.
I could hear the tears starting in his voice. But I was determined to make enough of an impression on him that I wouldn’t have to whip him like that ever again.
“You will be responsible!” I snapped. “Do you hear me, Eric?” Swish crack! “You will make your car payments on time,” Swish crack!! “And you will be responsible with your finances!” Swish crack!!!
Each stroke raised a long, dark welt, the edges deeply defined and surrounded by a spiderweb of thin pink lines from the outer twigs. Eric howled with each stroke, his entire butt quickly flushing bright red as I blistered him from the top of his firm young ass to the tender skin where his thighs met his lower cheeks.
Eric was hollering at the top of his lungs by then, pleading he’d had enough and promising he’d never do it again. He was being so loud I’d be surprised if Mr. Pulaski didn’t have to turn his hearing aid off. I knew how much that switch burned. Like I said, my pop made sure I got it when I needed it. But I still whipped that boy’s butt at least a dozen times more. By the time I was done, every inch of Eric’s backside glowed beet-red and looked like it was laced with bee stings. Eric was bawling his eyes out. But he really needed that whipping, and I damn well gave it to him.
Eric didn’t even try to put his clothes on the rest of that night. He walked around naked, snuffling every once in a while and needing lots of hugs and reassurances of my affection. And when he went to bed right after dinner, I jerked him off while I rubbed some cream into his sore, hot butt and told him the matter was over, so he understood the discipline is part of how much I love him.
The next day, Eric apologized again, this time sincerely, for the late payment. He sealed the deal with a blow job that damn near knocked me flat. Monday morning, he set up an automatic payroll deduction to take care of his car payment, though he said he plans to check it each month, just in case. Not the way I do things, but he finally appears to be learning to manage his finances in a way that works for him.
Mr. Pulaski, well, he’s given us his permanent permission to cut as many switches as we need for me to keep my boy in line. Eric even thanked him, though he stood back out of the way of that cane when he did it. But they were both smiling. Like I said, Eric’s a good kid, he just needs his Dad to make sure he doesn’t step out of line.
I’ll write again soon. Hope things are going well in your neck of the woods.
Steve
NEVER SAY NEVER AGAIN
Dale Chase
He is breaking every rule and it’s giving me a hard-on. Sitting at my office desk, I think to lock the door because if I keep on reading his story I’m going to have to address my need, and I am going to keep on reading because it’s the best work I’ve seen in some time. I teach the rules of fiction and students often break those rules and make a mess, but once in a blue moon a kid not only breaks the rules, he throws them out entirely, like he hasn’t listened to me at all but only to himself, following an instinct that overpowers anything anybody will ever tell him. That’s Harley Keith, the eighteen-year-old freshman whose work is at hand.
I do lock the door. My next student appointment isn’t for half an hour and at the rate I’m going, I’ll only need a couple of minutes. I haven’t done this in ages. I’ve kept the proper studentteacher distance for three years, keeping on keeping on, as they say. My cock remains in my pants and I address personal needs in the privacy of my home, but now I’ve been ambushed. It’s his first paper. The school year has just begun.
Sitting back in my chair, I unzip, get a hand on myself, then realize I’ll need a come rag and the thought both amuses and disgusts me. I’m fifty-two, a tenured and well-respected academic. I shouldn’t be abusing my dick but it’s blissfully hard and I’m not going to let it go. In the bottom drawer I find what I’m looking for, the old rag, stiff with three-year-old issue from back when I fell for Cody Morse, also a freshman but let’s not go there. I take up the rag, place it nearby, then pick up Harley’s story in my left hand, get my dick in my right. And I am home.
His sentences run together and his commas are a disaster but his word selection is wrenching in the best way. He writes from a father’s viewpoint about a mother and son who share such a powerful love that the father is excluded. That an eighteen-year-old can capture the father’s concealed anguish amazes me and even though I’m reading the father, I’m feeling the writer so I’m jerking off to a family scene, which makes no sense because in itself it’s not arousing. But Harley is there, onstage and brilliant, writing with such fury that I pump my cock and before I can finish the story I am spurting come in a glorious and surprising release. I work myself until the climax subsides and even then tug and squeeze because I want this boy.
Cleaning up, I am disgusted, and once the come rag is back in its drawer to further stiffen, I take red pencil to Harley’s story, marking his errors, reminding him of rules. Once I’m done I realize I’ve gone too far because it is, after all, brilliant. Reading it aroused me so some credit must be due. I make a margin note that sometimes rules should be broken and that he has a good style that needs to be reined in a bit. Grade: B.
He sits in the second row and doesn’t slouch like most. He also doesn’t come to class wired to earbuds and whatever the others carry in shirt pockets. His posture is erect. There’s no other way to describe that back. And he fixes on me and doesn’t take notes, as if he can absorb what I’m saying so he can discard it.
He is not especially handsome. His brown hair is straight and longer than the others who favor buzz cuts, spikes, and baseball hats worn backward. He is fair skinned and possibly a dweeb by student standards. I cannot tell on this point as he is quite animal to me, crouched and ready to pounce but selective about his prey. And students do prey on old men.
As if sensing my interest, he stops me after class next day to make an appointment to see me. Office hours are from two to four on Tuesdays and Thursdays. I tell him he can have three o’clock on Thursday and he nods, offers a quiet thank-you. He is well mannered, low keyed, yet carries a sexual aura that all but roars.
At home where I have lived alone since Carl died, I attempt my usual order but know it futile. From the moment I step inside I want to come and I want to do it while thinking of Harley Keith. But I look through the mail, turn on the TV to catch the news, change into sweats, put dinner into the microwave. I manage to keep order until around eight when I turn off the TV, get naked, get out Harley’s story—the only one I’ve brought home—and settle onto the sofa with lube and a towel.
He will be relatively hairless, I decide, smooth and pink with a small patch of brown between his legs. His prick will be hard much of the time and I picture him with his hand on it now, stroking in time to my effort. I read his story again, coming partway through, pages scattered to the floor as I shoot a surprisingly good load up my front. And after this I lie spent, picturing the boy hard again because eighteen-year-olds are relentless and I see myself kneeling before him, sucking his cock that tastes of his earlier come. I can almost feel him buck and my tongue involuntarily laps at the absent jizz.
Next day my step is lighter as I attempt to keep down the budding crush or whatever in hell Harley Keith has set upon me. I teach two other classes because it is Tuesday and Harley’s class is Monday, Wednesday and Friday. So I am free of him yet find myself wondering who else he is terrorizing. Does he have Wayland for English Lit? Wayland who fucks everything that moves? Or maybe Jackson, the math guy who’s married but jerks off in the teachers’ bathroom? If I start adding it up, more of the faculty is after boys than girls. I am one of many, even as I feel so apart. What I have for Harley is born of his talent for words, his genius.
By the time Thursday office hours arrive, I’m a happy wreck. My cock hasn’t had such a workout since I don’t know when and there’s a fresh come rag in my office drawer. I jerk off in the shower morning and night. I could barely get it up after Carl died. It was Cody Morse who got my juices flowing again but with disastrous results. And since then there has been a determination to never again so indulge. But now I awaken hard every morning. My cock stirs at the sight of young men and when I see Harley, it fills and aims, begging me to follow. So when I am behind my desk at the appointed hour, I am already hard. And then the boy comes into the room, flushed, hair tousled, ten minutes late.
“Sorry, professor,” he says. “I got caught up in a discussion with a couple of jerks and you know how that is.”
I nod, amused by his easy familiarity. He settles into the chair opposite but not before I get a look at his crotch where I find what I want, the roundness of a half-hard dick.
He is dressed in jeans and a light-blue polo shirt, appearing grown up even as his face looks younger than the rest. His voice is soft, hesitant, an easy baritone. Does he sing? Would he sing for me?
“Now what can I help you with?” I ask.
“It’s about my story,” he says as he pulls it from his backpack. He leans forward, radiating an intensity that builds like a cock rising. “Your comments and all the red. I don’t understand. I mean, I understand there are rules of composition, but this isn’t some essay, it’s life and you said that’s what you wanted. It’s real.”
“And then some,” I offer which seems to puzzle him.
I would like to get up, go around the desk and perch upon the edge as professors do in the movies but we’d have to address my prick and that’s not a good idea just yet so I stay put, attempt to remain academic. “Reality is not the basis of fiction, I don’t care what television says. Listen to yourself, make something up and try to stay within the rules of composition, however constraining they might feel. Your story is powerful, you portray vivid scenes and your characters are well drawn, but there’s an underlying chaos that would make an editor toss it. Sometimes you have to compromise. You can turn yourself loose on the page to some degree but not entirely.”
Oh, how I want to pull out my dick, for this is beyond exciting. It would take just a stroke or two to get off. Or he could suck the thing. I clear my throat as the image sets my heart racing. “I hope you understand,” I rasp. I reach for my water bottle, take a swig. “Please don’t take the criticism personally as it’s not intended that way. I am offering guidance. And I very much look forward to your next story.”
“I’m working on it, but what you said about this one sort of upset things.”
“A writer must develop not only his talent but a thick skin. Criticism will always be part of the writer’s life. You must learn to listen, weigh, sort and choose to embrace it or not. You have talent, Harley. Now work with it, get it into shape, reel it in a bit and you’ll find it works all the better.”
He relaxes with my assurance. He settles into the chair, puts his story into the backpack, smiles. Now would be the time to fuck him. He’d be receptive, grateful, but I keep this to myself. When he rises I do not. “I’m available any time you have questions or concerns,” I tell him and he replies with thanks. And then he is gone.
Leaping up, I lock the door, get out the fresh come rag, and settle back to free my cock. Before I take hold, I replay everything about our encounter, listening to him again, seeing him sit forward as he expresses his unrest. I see the bulge of cock and with this image I grab my own, stroking as he might until I erupt. It is prodigious, as befits my feelings. A promising boy does stir the pot.
