Don't Look Back Ch. 02

Discipline and the feel of a leather belt were bound up in some of Marshall's earliest memories. His father hadn't spared the use of the belt with his son, and Marshall could not argue there were times when he flat out deserved it. He was mouthy and bold, and often spoke first, without thinking through what the consequences of his words might be.

He quickly learned that wasn't necessarily the way to go.

First his dad would warn. But only once. If Marshall didn't heed that initial warning, he wouldn't receive any other. The next response would be the summons. That could be verbal, as in his dad calling his name. Or a simple physical touch. Being picked up by the scruff of the neck and laid into position, his pants pulled down and justice meted out.

Sometimes it was the hand alone, stinging Marshall's flesh, inducing a sweet, hot burn that seared inside and out. A flame he quickly learned to relish as proof of his father's love. Other times it was his leather belt. He'd never cried over his spankings, always took them like a man. And his father had treated him like a man. The lesson Marshall came away with was if he broke the rules, he paid the price, and he accepted it.

He always knew his father loved him, even after he spanked him. Afterward, as the flames licked through his flesh—whether administered by hand or by belt—his father would soothe the burning with sweet balm and sweeter words. He never doubted his dad loved him, and he certainly loved his dad. His dad was always there for him, something that couldn't be said for Marshall's mother.

Lee flexed his belt and snapped it taut, the sound ringing out as sharply as the crack of a whip. Marshall's cock was weeping copious amounts of pre-come. He'd have to run a load of laundry before bed, no doubt about it. It was worth it.

"You will use that mouth, boy, never doubt that. You don't doubt that, do you?"

"No, Sir. I don't doubt that at all." He was counting on it, actually. He loved the taste of Lee's meaty cock, loved the texture of it. Lee seldom came in Marshall's mouth, but on those rare occasions he did, Marshall was in heaven.

When he was little, his mother made a habit of running off and leaving Marshall and his father for extended periods of time. Even when she was there, she wasn't there. Marshall didn't miss her, didn't need her. He had his father, and he was loved. She was a virtual stranger on the periphery of his existence. He barely knew who she was—the concept of mother was an alien one to him. Father he understood very well.

His father quit his job and started his own business instead, out of his home, so he could be with Marshall. He took care of the house as well as his son, saw to his every need, cooked and cleaned and made sure he got to school on time. When Marshall didn't thrive in the public school system, his father removed him and homeschooled him instead. And Marshall felt very loved.

Every night they had a ritual. After dinner, once the dishes were done and put away, and the kitchen was clean, they would read together. His dad had taught Marshall to read by the time he was three. He loved those times, sitting on his dad's lap, either listening to his deep, rich voice read his favorite stories, or reading the words aloud to his father himself.

After the story, they took their shower together in his father's own bathroom, dried off, and then they went to bed. But not before giving thanks for what they had. The blessings in their lives. Marshall always considered his biggest blessing to be his dad. And then they'd stretch out in his dad's big bed, both of them warm and bare from the shower, and his dad would lie behind him and put his arm around him, holding him against him.

Marshall felt security, he felt love, and the strength of his father's body so close to his was ingrained into his love for him. There would never be anyone like his father in Marshall's life.

"I'll show you how these knees can take it, boy," Lee drawled, "and then you can just work the grass stains out of my pants. Is that understood?"

"Yes, Sir. Understood, Sir." Wouldn't be the first time. Or the last.

Marshall knew Lee had no trouble with kneeling on the rough ground. Lee was in prime condition, and there were times when he could put Marshall to shame. Marshall just liked giving him a hard time. Yeah, he was still that mouthy little kid at heart.

Grass stains were a small price to pay for what he was about to receive. Thank God for the wide open spaces of Texas, and their private playground, far away from their nearest neighbor.

Lee dropped to the ground, onto his knees, the belt gripped in one strong hand. "Strip," he commanded tersely. "All the way."

Just what Marshall wanted to hear. The spanking he was about to receive would definitely be followed by a fucking. Thank you God, yes, yes, yes...

He wasted no time in divesting himself of his boots, followed by his jeans. He wore nothing beneath. Going commando was his religion. It gave easier and quicker access for Lee, who did not like to be kept waiting. Neither did Marshall.

"Assume the position."

"Yes, Sir."

Marshall laid himself across Lee's legs, the denim rough against his bare skin. He turned his head to avoid getting another mouthful of flowers.

"Spread 'em."

Marshall obliged, widening the space between his legs, feeling the warm breeze caress his pucker. Lee's hand stroked gently across one cheek, but Marshall knew better.

This was just the tip of the iceberg.