Saturday

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" asked the man. He was about 40, heavyset, much, much bigger than the boy. He loomed over him.

"I- I was j-just . . .swimming."

"The fuck you were."

"I swear."

"Get up, you little fuck," said the man as he grasped the kid's arm.

"Dad, please . . . I- . . . ."

"You know what day it is, you little shit. Don't give me any of your fucking crap." The man started walking with the boy, pulling him up the embankment, away from the stream.

"I thought . . . you had that call."

"I finished the fuckin' call 20 minutes ago. And you weren't there."

"Dad, I- I swear I was coming."

The man squeezed his arm tighter, tight enough to hurt.

"And I swear you're gonna learn, kid. I thought we had an understanding?"

"Dad, w-we did. I understand."

"If you fucking understood you would have been where you were fucking told to be, right?"

"I w-was, Dad, please. I thought your call would be longer, Dad, please."

"You thought wrong. You fucked up, Ian." He dragged the kid over the crest and started toward the house.

"I'll- I'll make it up to you, Dad."

The man snorted. "Too fucking late for that. Hope you enjoyed your little swim."

The boy moaned as the man dragged him along by his arm.

"Dad, please, you're hurting me."

"You get in your fucking room. I want you lying on the bed. Don't fuck with me, Ian."

The boy started to shake now. It always started in his right hand and moved on from there.

"Yes, Dad."

Into the house they went. They separated. The boy trudged unhappily up the stairs to his bedroom. Ian hated Saturdays. He fucking hated them. His mother always worked a 12-hour shift. His stepfather never worked on Saturdays. It was a bad combination.

His room was a mess. He'd been beaten for less.

Ian cleaned it quickly, as best as he could. Armfuls of clothes went to his closet. He tidied for a couple of minutes. But the man's instructions were clear. The boy knew what he needed to do.

The room was presentable, or at least uncluttered. Ian couldn't stop trembling as he lowered his shorts to the floor. He picked them up, too, and put them in the closet. He didn't know how mad the man was. The boy's stepfather was hard to predict. He was volatile, and he had zero patience.

Ian positioned himself on the bed the way he knew he had to. Knees and elbows. Head down. He tugged his boxer briefs off his bottom, exposing his cheeks. The man would decide what to do with them. He always did.

Derek was back soon enough. In his robe now. He was ready. The belt was in hand.

"Where are you every fucking Saturday?" he asked the boy.

"H-here," Ian trembled.

"Are you fucking swimming?"

"N-no."

"No what?"

"No, sir."

"You're never going to learn, are you Ian? You're too fucking stupid to learn is that it?"

"No, sir. I- I'm sorry."

"You're not sorry, yet. But you will be. Head down. And Ian?"

"Yes, Dad?'"

"Don't fucking move. Because if I have to hold you down, you won't be able to sit for a week. Got it?"

Ian moaned. "Y-yes, sir."

It was a familiar position for the man. They had done this before, Ian and Derek, for four years now. Every Saturday. They'd missed only a couple of them over the years, and Derek usually found a make-up day. Kid was almost 12 now. Getting big. Going swimming. Not on fucking Saturdays, he wasn't. Saturdays were for Derek.

He dribbled the belt across the kid's buttocks. The belt knew those buttocks, and the buttocks most certainly knew the belt.

"Where are you on Saturdays, Ian?" asked the man.

"H-here."

WHAAAAAACK!

The boy squealed as the belt hit home. He didn't move.

WHAAAAACK!

WHAAAAACK!

WHAAAAACK!

"Right fucking here, right?" demanded Derek.

The boy was in tears. His ass was aflame.

"Yes, Dad," he whimpered.

WHAAAAACK!

WHAAAAACK!

"Are we fucking swimming on Saturdays?"

"No, D-Dad."

WHAAAAACK!

WHAAAAACK!

WHAAAAACK!

"That's right. No Dad."

WHAAAAACK!

The boy trembled and sobbed on the bed. His butt was red and angry with welts.

"Whose day is Saturday?"

"Y-yours, Dad," the boy whimpered.

"That's . . .

WHAAAAACK!

. . . right! It's my fucking day, isn't it?"

WHAAAAACK!

"Yesssss."

WHAAAAACK!

"Yes, what, you little shit?"

"Yes, sir," the boy sobbed.

WHAAAAACK!

WHAAAAACK!

WHAAAAACK!

The man walked to the dresser, grabbed the cigar he had left there, and stoked it to life. He dropped his robe. He was naked and hard. The boy made him hard. Oh, so fucking hard.

"Get over here and suck me, you little shit," Derek told the boy. He watched as the teary-eyed 11-year-old got up gingerly from the bed.

"Take those fucking briefs off!"

"Y-yes, Dad," the boy whispered as he removed his last article of clothing. He approached the man he feared. He knelt.

"Watch the fucking teeth, Ian," warned the man.

Ian swallowed. Derek didn't like teeth touching his cock. The boy had learned that the hard way.

"Get it nice and wet, kid. It's the only fucking lube you're getting today. Oh, that and anything you picked up from your little swimming lesson."

Shaking, Ian grasped the man's penis and brought it and his mouth to the same point. He took the man's cockhead inside and began to swirl it with his tongue. Derek liked that.

"Good little cocksucker. You are my little fucking cocksucking whore, aren't you Ian."

The boy couldn't speak. His mouth was full of cock. He tried to nod.

"That's exactly what you are. Now suck. Deeper. Make your Mommy proud." He pushed down on the kid's head for a little extra incentive. He let the kid suck and mouth for a while.

"Do my balls. Lick my fucking ballsack, whore."

Ian did it. He turned his head, leaned lower, and licked the man's wrinkly scrotum. He'd done this before, too. So many times.

"Good whore," said the man, as he smoked his stogie and pressed on the kid's head with his free hand. You're my little fucking whore, aren't you?"

"Yes, sir," the boy whispered, then immediately resumed sucking.

"Tell me how much you like it, whore. Tell me how bad you want it up your ass."

Ian pulled his head away. His face looked pale. His expression was blank.

"I l-like it a lot, Dad. Your c-cock feels so good in my ass. I really want it bad."

Lies, all lies. He and the man both knew it.

"Mmmmm, good boy. A born faggot whore, aren't you? You want my big cock up your little whore bottom, Ian? Is that what you want?"

"Yes, Dad."

"Yes, Daddy."

"Yes, Daddy," the kid repeated.

"Yes, Daddy, sir, please fuck my little ass."

Ian hated this. Hated him. Hated his life. Hated Saturday.

"Yes, D-daddy . . . I- sir, please fuck m-my ass."

"On the bed, whore. Legs spread. And Ian?"

The boy rose to his feet. He looked very unhappy.

"Y-yes, Dad?"

"No squealing. Cry all you want, but if I hear any fucking squealing, just once, and I'll light up your ass like the 4^th of July. Got it?"

The unhappy boy nodded most unhappily.

"Yes, Dad."

"Daddy."

"Yes, Daddy."

"Now git up there."

The boy went to his bed. He assumed the position, lying on his stomach, legs spread in a wide V, arms outstretched, tucked under the headboard.

The man puffed his cigar. He loved Saturdays. He loved the sight of Susan's 11-year-old lying naked on his little fuckbed, ready for Derek's cock. Stupid bitch still didn't know why he had married her. Still didn't know how many Saturdays he and her precious Ian had enjoyed together. Approaching a couple hundred times now, had to be.

The kid's ass was still as tight as it had been at 8. Which is to say tight, so sweet and tight around Derek's thick cock. No lube today for swimming boy. Derek would teach him where he needed to be.

He mounted the bed from the foot, savoring the knee walk between the kid's welted ass cheeks, loving the resignation of the prone, soon-to-be-fucked boy. Ian would never tell. Kid wouldn't dare. Derek had shown him what he was capable of. That lesson had been learned.

He pulled the kid's hips up, drawing Ian's knees underneath him. Oh, those welts. He touched them. Ran his fingers over them. The kid had a fine ass. Very fine. Ian was a looker. He wished Susan had made more like him.

He brought his cockhead to the kid's pucker. He still had a little pucker after all these years. It was a miracle of plasticity.

"Tell me you want it, whore. Beg me for it."

"I . . . I wan't it. Please, s- Daddy. Please fuck me."

The man obliged the boy. He had asked, after all. He'd ask again later, too, after the man had recovered. The boy's weekly need was borderline insatiable, but the man knew he would be equal to the task.

Derek smiled. He loved Saturdays.

The End