Quillon's Covert (6 page)

Marty released Martin’s hand, stepped around him, and, with some effort, managed to unhook the paddle from the wall.

Handing it to his dad, he said firmly, “Seventeen. If it’s okay with you, I’d like to get this over with, unless making me wait is part of the punishment. And, if it is, I accept that too.”

Martin never looked forward to delivering punishment. But what had just passed between them made this time even worse. No, he had no desire to prolong this. It was best to get it over with and enjoy the rest of their time together.

He nodded briefly. “Now is fine.”

Considering his son’s condition, his casts, he doubted Marty would be able to brace himself against the counter.

With a tilt of his head toward Marty’s arms, he asked, “Over my knee, or can you support yourself standing?”

Marty scrunched his eyebrows in thought. “Knee.”

Martin moved to the sofa and set the paddle down on the coffee table. As he took a seat on the edge, he felt a hesitance regarding the pending punishment—a hesitance he’d never felt before. Glancing up, he couldn’t help but notice again how his boy had grown into a young man. The once lanky teen had developed into a strong athlete, and he couldn’t help but think Marty had gotten his wish; though he was smaller framed, like his mother, he looked more like the man he longed to be each day.

“Son,” Martin started, but had to stop and take a breath. He needed to be strong, to get his head on right. It had been three years since they’d shared this punishment space, and Marty had been a boy then. Now a nearly grown man was preparing to bend over his knee. Martin had been two years younger than Marty was now the last time he’d felt this same paddle at his father’s hand. After a few moments, he continued. “Let this be the last time, okay.” He’d meant it to be a statement, but it came out sounding much more like a question.

Marty nodded and his rich, confident, “I’ll do my best, Dad,” gave Martin some solace that this would in fact be the last time.

Marty stepped up, started to bend at the waist, but with the casts, it was obvious he wouldn’t be able to put his body over Martin’s knees and control his descent without the use of his arms. Martin watched as he started to kneel, but then decided he couldn’t achieve the correct angle to get himself into position that way either. Jesus, talk about awkward, Martin thought.

“Um, cuh-cuh-could you…s-s-sit all the way back, Dad?”

Martin nodded, pulled his knees together, and pushed his back up against the sofa. Once in place, Marty knelt next to him, his knees pushing the cushions down with his weight as he prepared to lie across his dad’s lap.

“Cuh-cuh-can you help me lie down?”

Martin was no longer sure who was more embarrassed. Without answering, he leaned forward and wrapped one arm around his son’s back while holding the palm of his other hand to Marty’s chest, easing his son onto his lap.

Marty stretched his casted arms above his head, where they nearly hung off the end of the sofa, and gave an unmanly
ow-ow-ow
!

“Dad?” he panted. “Can you spread your legs a bit…my nuts…are getting squished between…”

He sighed in obvious relief when Martin spread his knees and Marty’s junk fell between his parted thighs.

“Fuc…” Marty started, but caught himself. “I mean,
jeez
, that hurt!”

Martin felt it coming, even brought his hand up to cover his mouth and quiet the noise, but the laugh reverberated through his body. When Martin looked down and saw his son peering up at him with an arched eyebrow, he lost the fight and barked out a laugh.

Quickly he apologized. “I’m sorry. It’s so
not
funny, but—”

Marty chuckled. “No, it is. It’s the most ridiculous spanking I’ll ever have.”

One of Martin’s hands had been resting on his son’s back, and the other now sat casually atop his ass. He playfully gave it a squeeze. “You do realize there’s no way I’ll be able to swing the paddle like this, don’t you?”

A smile spread across the exposed half of Marty’s face. “Ah, so my plan wasn’t half bad then, huh?”

Before either of them knew it, the only sound in the room was the air conditioner’s overworked fan. The tense moment was punctuated by Martin’s question.

“So, my hand, then?”

When Marty indicated his consent with a small nod, Martin briefly ran a palm along his son’s strong back, before ending the brush with a pat to indicate they were beginning.

“Seven,” Marty counted as Martin’s hand struck.

Although his discomfort was clear, his son wasn’t in agonizing pain either. But, then again, that was never the point of punishment. Martin’s goal had never been to hurt his son, but rather to bestow humility. The act of submitting to punishment was humbling enough. Indeed, he never varied the strength of the blows based on the level of his anger or disappointment. Sure, the wallops had grown stronger as Marty aged, and Martin meant for them to sting like a bitch—maybe even burn for a few hours—but his intent would never be to truly hurt his son.

Martin chose a fresh spot on Marty’s right cheek.
Slap
…

“Eight” came the quiet response.

Right above his left cheek, almost at his son’s lower back, was his next selection.
Slap
…

Marty seemed to utter something sounding like a cross between a whimper and a moan, but Martin wasn’t quite sure exactly what it was.

“Nine.”

“Fourteeeen,” Marty breathed out, and what Martin had thought might be his son’s lengthening dick after strike twelve was no longer in doubt.

Slap
…

Marty ground his hips into his father’s lap—driving his hard cock into Martin’s inner thigh. “Jeez! Fifteen.”

Slap
…

“Yeees,” Marty hissed. Belatedly adding, “Sixteen.”

Slap
…

Martin pulled his stinging hand away and rubbed it across his damp brow.

Marty’s flushed face held a heated expression. “Fuuuck,” he moaned. “Seventeen.”

Without thinking, Martin brought his hand down hard against his son’s red ass. “Language, Martin Junior.”

Marty’s hips ground hard into his dad’s lap and the dazed grin on his son’s half exposed face couldn’t be missed. With his cheek pressed to the sofa, Marty husked, “Eighteen.”

Martin hoisted his son off of his lap and onto the cushion next to him, where Marty immediately sank back onto his haunches, his hard dick jutting out between the two of them. His son’s impressive package took Martin’s attention before he studied the boy properly. Marty’s pupils were dilated, sweat covered his face, his chest rose and fell in an unsteady rhythm, and he still wore that dazed, heated grin.

Marty finally broke the strange silence with the expected apology. “It was wrong for John and me to take his father’s car without permission. It was wrong for me to get behind the wheel and drive without a license. We’ve talked about when it’s okay to smoke pot and when it’s not, and it was wrong for me to smoke and drive. You know I’ve talked to Coach Davis, and he’s willing to hold the Little League assistant position for me until I get out of these casts. Every penny I earn this summer will go toward paying you and Mom back.” He paused and shook his head. “All of it was wrong, and you have my apology, Dad.”

Martin, unnerved by the entire spanking, and particularly his son’s still erect dick, said the first thing that came to his mind. “Well, although that wasn’t quite the punishment I’d expected it to be, and—” Tilting his head toward Marty’s crotch. “—I think I can safely say that’ll be your last spanking. I accept your apology. Now, how about you see what you’re able to do as far as unpacking the rest of the supplies from the truck?”

Marty’s eyes almost shyly darted to his crotch. “Um…can I…try and do something about this first?”

Martin got up and took the few steps over to the refrigerator. After grabbing a six-pack of beer off the counter, he set it on the top shelf. “Outside” was his somewhat rattled response.

Marty / 16

What the fuck just happened?

Had he really just popped a bone while his dad punished his ass? Who does that?

“You alright there, Wood Master?”

Marty awkwardly adjusted his sketchy grip on the bag of groceries. “I can manage.”

“Don’t overdo it.” Martin grinned, purposefully ignoring Marty’s struggle, while sitting on the stairs spooling a new line on his reel. Of course Martin wouldn’t offer to help him lug things inside. And why should he? Marty was the dumbass who’d broken both arms. He was still thankful his best friend, minus a few scrapes, had been unharmed. Joyriding, he thought, and smoking pot while doing it, had been a seriously fucked up idea. The bag nearly slipped from his tenuous grasp as he climbed the stairs. Yeah, he knew he deserved everything his dad planned to dish out, and probably a lot more.

After hauling the rest of the groceries into the kitchen and unpacking them, he pulled the fresh linens out and set about making the bed. What should have taken only a few minutes saw dusk approaching as he edged the mattress back into place with his knee. Martin had lugged the outdoor furniture out of the shed and onto the side deck and front porch. Marty looked out the front window, wiping his brow along his bicep, and watched as his father finished stringing the hammock in its customary spot between two trees down by the lake. The air conditioner’s cooler breeze blew across his sweaty stomach and caused him to shiver as Martin made his way up to the cabin. Although it was getting slightly cooler inside, it wouldn’t become really comfortable until night fell.

Martin pushed open the door and wandered toward the kitchen sink. “Hey.”

“Back atcha.”

Martin’s head tilted curiously at him, and Marty chuckled. “The voice is still freakin’ you out too, huh?”

Martin grinned. “It really is. It sounds like you, but different at the same time, ya know?”

He couldn’t help but notice his dad’s chest hair matted against his sweaty skin, making his body seem even darker than it was. Marty busied himself with adjusting the air conditioner’s vents and tried his best to keep his eyes from landing anywhere other than on his father’s naked body. The sound of tap water running was interspersed with splashing noises, and he glanced over to find Martin spread-legged, hunching over the sink, dousing his entire head under the cool water.

Bent over like he was, Martin’s thighs were parted and his heavy nut sack, hanging low from the heat, swung between his legs. Again Marty looked away, wondering how his eyes always seemed to find his dad’s nuts while admonishing himself for even looking. Martin shut off the tap, ripped several paper towels off the roll, and ran them over his face and hair.

“Um,” Marty began.

Martin lifted an eyebrow and swiped the paper towel at his neck.

“I’m gonna…go to the bathroom, if that’s okay?”

“Why wouldn’t…” Martin started but then understanding dawned in his dark eyes. He pulled open the refrigerator. “Yeah, sure…I’m just gonna grab something cold to drink. I’ll fetch the lantern and meet you at the shower.”

It wasn’t dark yet, but sunset wasn’t far off. Marty hesitated a moment. As much as he needed to use the bathroom and wanted a shower, he’d also been slightly dreading the thought ever since they’d arrived. There was no way he could bathe himself. Back at home, his mom had rigged up a
sponge on a stick thingy
that he used in the bathtub to clean all of his unreachable spots. He hadn’t taken a bath since he was a kid, but the tub allowed him to keep his casts dry while still managing to get himself clean despite his arms’ limited mobility. He knew there wouldn’t be that option at the cabin—Dad would have to help him—and that both excited him, and filled him with dread. “Sure,” he finally answered. There was no way around it, so he may as well get it over with.

“Grab the toiletries on your way down, if you can manage,” Martin said. “I’ll head around back, get the water to the shower turned on, and then meet you down there.”