Quillon's Covert by Joseph Lance Tonlet, Louis Stevens Read Free Book Online Page A

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