The Rulebook: Jackson
By Vizzini83.
No matter how hard Jeremy works, how fair and polite he is, or how diligently he puts his best foot forward and treats others as he wishes to be treated, he is all too often picked on, disrespected, humiliated, and despite all that, somehow even ignored. It seems like the world expects Jeremy to behave one way but rewards everyone else for treating him the opposite way. Not anymore! Jeremy Claven is finally going to get what he deserves! However, before he can begin planning how to achieve that, his mind is still occupied by the events that happened earlier at College.
For instance, his wonderful day began as he stepped off the bus this morning onto the College campus. The star receiver for their varsity team, ‘Dre’ – short for ‘Deondre Brown’ – suddenly pushed Jeremy from behind, causing him to tumble out of the bus and onto the pavement below. Luckily, Jeremy only skinned his palms and bruised his knees from the fall, but it easily could have been a lot worse. Jeremy turned, while still on the ground, and looked up at Dre, about to demand what his problem was, but fell silent once he heard the sudden cacophony of laughter. He didn’t have to look to confirm that the typical crowd of teenagers moving about the campus had all gathered around him and were laughing at him. Dre, for his part, looked down at Jeremy in surprise at first, almost shocked at what just happened; Jeremy only ever really knew Dre from his reputation, for his part, on the College football team, as well as known to have fucked most – if not all – of the hottest girls in the College, and rumor has it, some of the faculty as well. Jeremy had also overheard Dre in the Locker Room on occasion, and he certainly seems to be an extreme misogynist and has a fetish for white girls only – often spouting some ridiculous and offensive ‘Black superiority’ bullshit regarding sports and even sex.
By the look on Dre’s face, looking down at Jeremy sprawled out on the ground, he may not have actually intended to hurt or even push him. Still, his face hardened in response to all the attention that Jeremy’s pitiful position was drawing to him. He turned and walked away, muttering under his breath, “Little bitch-ass sissy!”
That should have been a sign of what kind of day this was going to be; regardless, Jeremy was still taken by surprise when he accidentally tripped a classmate during the day’s swim team exercises. While in the large and humid indoor pool area, his attention was elsewhere as someone was walking past him from behind, and just as he turned around from the pool’s edge, he accidentally hooked the other person’s leg. They fell hard to the wet, tiled floor in a heap, and as they turned over, wincing in pain at their skinned knees, Jeremy’s sense of recent empathy almost caused him to wince as well, and then he recognized their face.
Jackson Donaldson. None other than the one bully in this College who delights in picking on Jeremy the most often. It had been weeks since Jeremy had any run-ins with Jackson, ever since that time he got busted for dunking Jeremy’s head in the locker room toilet; Jeremy had successfully avoided him ever since, and Jackson likely never pursued Jeremy due to some perceived consequence from the recent fallout from his last bit of bullying. Jeremy rolled his eyes at his bad luck; ‘fuck! Me!’ he thought to himself.
The moment Jackson locked eyes with Jeremy, he knew he was screwed. Still, things took a twist when, suddenly, Jackson’s blowhard father, who had recently been showing up to Swim Team practices as some kind of self-appointed coaching assistant, stepped in and accused Jeremy of deliberately causing Jackson to fall! Jackson picked himself up with a groan, his lithe and fit body still glistening from his recent swim just a few moments before. Jackson was expected to go pro, and there were rumors that he was being scouted for an Olympic opportunity, not surprising given his swimmer’s body and good looks, despite other rumors about his dad’s ‘connections’ behind it all. Jackson swept his wet, blonde hair back and then stumbled a bit, off-balance. Suddenly, there were a few giggles at his expense that echoed in the pool, which is what likely drove him to hurl insults at Jeremy, calling him a ‘sissy’ and a ‘faggot’ (that’s the second time today – what gives?!). What made it even more infuriating was that Jackson’s dumbass father chimed in, looking Jeremy up and down, saying, “I’d be ashamed to be your father!”
Tears stung at the corners of Jeremy’s eyes, thinking about that humiliating experience, but then the next one after that was even worse.
Shortly after storming out of the swimming pool hall, Jeremy decided to blow off some steam the same way he usually does, by going for a run – this was still his PE hour technically anyway, so who would care? After running along the outdoor track for almost half an hour, drenched in sweat and huffing like a beast, Jeremy finally plodded over to the water fountain near the bleachers. Since he was distracted, Jeremy didn’t bother to pay attention to the voices from the nearby conversation as he got closer to the fountain.
“Oh my gawd! What is that smell?!” Jeremy heard a familiar voice sneer. Looking up, he immediately recognized Lisa Darling, the girl who humiliated Jeremy at last year’s prom when he gathered the courage to ask her to dance. Since then, she’s always played like she’s some victim of an imaginary stalking and Jeremy was some kind of psychopathic pervert, even though Jeremy avoided her like the plague ever since she humiliated him at the Prom. Lisa stood on the elevated bleachers in front of Jeremy, directly above the water fountain, leaning on the railing in front of her, and staring intently down at him, flanked on both sides by maybe eight or more other girls, several of whom Jeremy recognized from shared classes.
Lisa dramatically pinched her nose and threw her chin up in the air, “Pee-Yuu!! That smells like rotten gym shorts! Is that you?!” she almost shouted over the cackling of her friends, conveniently gathered to witness Jeremy’s latest humiliation. Lisa was well known and very popular in this College, not only because she was drop-dead gorgeous, with her stunning heavy-lidded eyes, sharp angular features, seductive lips often pulled into a cruel grin, and dark hair arranged in a bob, gliding just over her shoulders, above her overly ripe breasts – maybe F-cups – disproportionately swinging from her petite, waifish frame. She practically looked like a porn star, but she was purportedly a straight-A student, likely because her mother was the College principal, and a smoking hot MILF in her own right. Therefore, due to all of these facts combined, Lisa Darling was thoroughly and completely untouchable, a sort of nightmarish ‘little miss perfect’ – and Jeremy had the gall to ask her to dance?! No wonder she’s made him a target ever since!
“Seriously, I’ve never smelled something so awful in my life – it’s making my eyes sting!” Lisa continued, much to her audience’s delight, as they cackled and laughed hysterically, while pretending to be just as grossed out as Lisa was, pantomiming. Jeremy decided to try to ignore her and just get his drink, but as he came closer, Lisa cranked it up several notches. “Oh, GROSS! Look at him sweating! It’s just like… falling off of him!” She pointed at Jeremy’s sweating brow and arms. “Why are you walking around sweating and stinking all over the place?” Take a shower! Don’t you have any shame?!”
The day’s events up to that point had just gotten to be too much for Jeremy, as they would have for just about anybody, and without warning, his lower lip began to tremble at this new humiliation. Lisa grabbed the bleacher railing in front of her and leaned forward, looking at him excitedly, “No. Way! Are you crying?!” Her whole body arched backward comically as she let out an obscenely cruel cackle, “You have got to be kidding me! Is the little sissy momma’s boy gonna cry?” she pouted mockingly. That’s the third time someone called Jeremy a ‘sissy’ today. Just what the hell is going on here?! The other girls screamed with laughter and pointed at the evidence of Jeremy’s shame, his tears rolling unbidden down his cheeks. Unable to take any more humiliation, he turned and ran away. Jeremy finished the day at College and went to the nearby coffee shop before heading home.
Playing back all of the events of the day, Jeremy’s cheeks are flushed with shame and anger. What a fucked-up day! Just… so… fucked!
First, Deondre Brown, the superstar asshole with some weird, racist fetish for white girls and who also dares to openly talk about racist shit like ‘Black superiority over white men’ – in 2025 no less – practically throws Jeremy off the bus for no reason at all, and then has the gall to call him a ‘sissy’ on top of that!
Next, Jackson. Fucking. Donaldson and his weird helicopter-parent of a father get in Jeremy’s face over an accident, and try to start a fight because Jackson can’t be bothered to watch where he’s walking; and what’s with Jackson’s dad being all weirdly judgmental towards Jeremy like that at the end? Even right after his son called Jeremy a ‘faggot’ and a ‘sissy’ right in front of his father! What the fuck is up with those two?
And to top it all off, Jeremy just HAD to run into Lisa Darling today, didn’t he? Literally THE Darling of the whole god damned school, whose milfy mother was the principal, and goddess-like good looks make her the most untouchable & intimidating person alive. Apparently, Lisa has such a sensitive nose that she just had to humiliate Jeremy in front of every other pretty girl he’s ever even known. And even THAT bitch called Jeremy a ‘sissy’ too! That was so bad, she even got him actually to run away crying – he’ll never live that one down.
Hell, Jeremy’s never gonna live any of them down. Not unless…
Jeremy looks down at the ‘Rulebook’, as if only now remembering what it can do. He feels his cheeks begin to heat up again, but this time as a grin gradually starts to spread.
———————————————————————————————————————
The Rulebook lay open before Jeremy on the battered pine desk, a relic of late-nineties minimalist misery, mottled with rings from the coffee mugs and energy drink cans of his brief and unremarkable adolescence. His bedroom, a half-converted attic, pressed in at every angle: the slope of the roof was so severe that even sitting upright in his creaking swivel chair, Jeremy’s hair nearly brushed the low, spackled ceiling. No matter. Here, in this crucible of personal humiliation and ambient dust, Jeremy felt, for once, a sense of command. His fingers hovered over the Rulebook’s faux-leather surface, trembling with an excitement that he could just barely admit was sexual.
His first step, always, was to re-read what had come before. Jeremy believed in process. He needed to see the rules as they already existed, as if reviewing a legal precedent, or scanning an evolving DNA sequence. The pages, which never seemed to run out, contained every scribbled decree and casual wish he’d ever made–each one realized perfectly and in exacting detail, even the ones he had come to regret.
Tonight’s target: Jackson Donaldson, bane of Jeremy’s existence, and, more importantly, Jackson’s strange, overbearing father, Ted. Jeremy placed the barrel of a gel pen to his lips and chewed, savoring the anticipation.
He wrote, in the neat, looping script his mother had praised before she died:
OLD RULE: Ted Donaldson, father of Jackson, is a closeted pervert. His deepest, most shameful desire is to feminize young men and boys, particularly those under his authority or in his care.
The words pulsed for a moment, like old ink taking to a thirsty page. The room seemed to tilt subtly, as if he’d just shifted the tectonic plates beneath the College itself.
Jeremy exhaled, only then realizing he’d been holding his breath. A dizzy, almost illicit pleasure radiated from his solar plexus; it reminded him of standing at the edge of a great height, looking down, just to see what it would feel like.
He continued, penmanship steady:
OLD RULE: Ted Donaldson has been secretly dosing his son, Jackson, with a combination of puberty blockers and low-dose estrogen supplements since Jackson was little. The effects are permanent and irreversible.
He allowed himself a short, barking laugh. That was just the sort of poetic justice Jeremy found irresistible. All those years Jackson had mocked Jeremy’s supposed effeminacy, his lack of masculine vigor–turns out Jackson’s own father had been pruning his masculinity like a bonsai, clipping every new bud before it could flower.
The Rulebook’s paper vibrated under his hand. Jeremy felt his scalp prickling, as if he were listening to some forbidden music. The attic seemed to contract, the air thickening in anticipation of what came next.
Rule three was more specific, and Jeremy smiled as he wrote it:
NEW RULE: As a direct result of the hormone regimen, Jackson Donaldson developed an extremely round, feminine posterior and an anus that is significantly more sensitive than the average male’s. Any stimulation to this area is experienced with overwhelming intensity.
He licked his lips, picturing it in detail. He allowed himself a brief fantasy: Jackson, the invincible swim team captain, always boasting about his conquests, now possessed an ass so plump and girlish it would be the first thing anyone noticed about him, and, more importantly, the most vulnerable part of him.
He considered for a moment, twirling the pen between his fingers. The rules, as written, would already set a thousand invisible gears turning, shaping Jackson’s destiny in ways neither he nor his father could anticipate. But Jeremy wanted more. A true artist always layers the paint.
He wrote:
OLD RULE: Jackson Donaldson trusts his father completely and obeys any order given to him without question, rationalizing it as normal and loving behavior between a father and his son.
And, for the coup de grâce:
NEW RULE: Ted Donaldson’s perversions, once a dark secret, are now focused entirely on his own son. His every waking thought is consumed with the idea of making Jackson his perfect little sissy.
When Jeremy finished the last stroke of the ‘y’, he paused, pen hovering, and marveled at the completeness of his work. He felt a subtle pulse in the air, as if an invisible bell had been struck just above his head. The Rulebook hummed with power.
He looked down at the new rules, admiring their precision. These were not wild, reckless wishes, like the first time he’d tested the Rulebook’s power and ended up making his math teacher grow a literal stick up her ass. These were controlled, thoughtful, beautiful. He imagined Jackson and his father, oblivious to the invisible hand guiding their every word, every thought, every touch.
For a moment, Jeremy was tempted to write something more, to push the boundaries just a little further. He could, after all, make Jackson fall hopelessly in love with him, or force the swim team to worship him as some kind of genderless deity. But no. There would be time for that. Better to savor the anticipation.
He capped his pen and closed the Rulebook with a soft snap. The world outside his window was black and silent. Inside, the air shimmered, briefly, like the horizon on a hot summer road. Jeremy smiled, and in the darkness, his eyes glinted with the promise of justice.
Tomorrow, the world would be different. Jeremy would make sure of it.
The drive home from the pool was never quiet, but today the silence between Ted and Jackson felt more like a living thing than a space between words. The interior of the Audi seemed to shrink with every passing mile, the stale reek of chlorine refusing to fade even though both men had showered before leaving the locker room. Ted gripped the wheel with knuckled intensity, his eyes fixed on the road, jaw working furiously on a piece of cinnamon gum.
“You want to tell me what that was?” Ted said, voice scraping through the cabin like gravel.
Jackson, arms folded tightly over his chest, stared at the blur of sodium lights outside the passenger window. He knew the script by heart: his father’s monologue would be one part disappointment, one part motivational bluster, all smothered under a wet woolen blanket of parental authority.
“I don’t know what you mean,” Jackson muttered, gaze never leaving the window. His tone was flat, but inside he was a furnace of embarrassment and self-hatred.
Ted snorted, a contemptuous little burst of air. “You don’t know what I mean. Jesus, Jackson. You lost the anchor leg by a full second and a half to fucking Brent Narasaki. He’s what, forty pounds lighter than you? His reach is shit. I know you’ve beaten him in practice.” The Audi surged forward as Ted mashed the gas, the engine’s growl echoing his own frustration. “So, you tell me what happened. Or do I need to get a stopwatch and play back the tapes?”
Jackson shifted uncomfortably, glancing down at his thighs. He was tired–bone-tired–but also keyed-up in that post-competition way that made his skin itch. Something else was bugging him, too, a vague sense of discomfort in his seat, like he’d outgrown the bucket leather in the last hour. He straightened, only to realize his knees were now a good three inches closer to the glove box than they’d been at the start of the season. Had Dad moved the seat up again? He glanced over, but Ted’s long legs were sprawled and his posture somehow… straighter than usual, more upright and formal, as if the Audi were suddenly a school bus and Ted was the driver, looming over everyone.
“I just… lost focus, okay?” Jackson said. “I’ll do better at State.”
Ted’s lips thinned. He drummed his fingers on the wheel, and Jackson noticed his father’s hands looked larger, the knuckles more prominent, the tendons standing out like power cables under tight skin. “That’s not good enough, son. You don’t get to have off days — not at your level. Not with scouts in the stands.” Ted glanced over, green eyes burning. “We’ve talked about this, haven’t we? A champion doesn’t have a switch. It’s all the time, always on. You either want it, or you don’t.”
Jackson flinched. His own voice felt smaller in his throat, like his vocal cords were tightening. “I do want it. I just–”
“Then prove it,” Ted snapped, slicing the air with his hand for emphasis. The gesture left a ghostly trail in Jackson’s peripheral vision, as if the car’s gloom were warping around his father. “No more screwing around. You show up, you swim, you win. I don’t care if you have to crawl out of the pool on your elbows; you finish ahead of every other asshole in the water. Am I clear?”
Jackson’s shoulders slumped. His T-shirt felt loose around the arms, and he realized he could now touch his elbows together across his chest with no effort–a feat that used to require real contortion. Even his voice, when he answered, sounded slightly off, softer, the baritone edge blurred away.
“Yes, sir. You’re clear.”
Ted nodded, satisfied. He straightened his collar, which was no longer a simple polo but had stiffened into a darker, more severe button-down, the kind Jackson associated with church, not sports. “Good. That’s what I like to hear. Tomorrow, we’re hitting the gym at five—heavy leg work, then pool. Let’s bring your time back down and keep the edge. Understand?”
Jackson’s mouth opened automatically. “Yes, Dad.” The words came out as a meek little whisper. He flushed, heat rising in his neck. What was happening to him?
As the Audi slipped into the winding roads of their subdivision, Jackson watched his own reflection in the passenger window. For the first time in years, his face looked different–less angular, less aggressively male. The jaw had softened, his cheekbones looked almost delicate, and his hair, which he’d always kept in a close, masculine cut, now seemed to frame his features in a way that was… pretty. Not handsome. Pretty.
He shifted in the seat again, and his ass–he hated to think the word, but it was the only one that fit–his ass felt huge. Like, there was a pillow under him. It was so pronounced that when Ted took the next corner a little too fast, Jackson felt the entire mass of it jiggle beneath his sweatpants. He grimaced, but Ted either didn’t notice or didn’t care.
They pulled into the driveway, the headlights cutting across the garage door and illuminating the perfectly trimmed hedge beyond. Ted killed the engine and turned, planting both elbows on the steering wheel. His posture was now so rigid it bordered on military.
“Remember, son,” Ted said, voice dipping into a new register–deeper, colder, absolute–“You have a legacy to uphold. I will not let you squander it. You are a Donaldson. Do you understand?”
Jackson nodded, and for a split second, he wanted to ask if he could go to bed early, like a little kid. Instead, he just said, “Yes, sir,” and managed not to squeak.
“Good boy,” Ted said, then ruffled Jackson’s hair with a heavy hand. The gesture was so dominant, so patronizing, that Jackson didn’t know whether to punch his father or burst into tears.
He did neither. He just followed Ted into the house, the gap between their heights and statures somehow wider than it had ever been. Ted’s broad back blocked out the hallway lights as he led the way inside, and Jackson, trailing behind, suddenly felt very small and very alone.
The world had shifted. Jackson couldn’t name the difference, but he could feel it in every step.
The door clicked shut behind them, the heavy thud echoing through the entryway like a gavel. Ted kicked off his shoes with a sharp flick of each foot, then squared his shoulders and turned to face his son. The hall was still decorated with the trophies and framed swim team photos from Jackson’s early years, a little shrine to his once unchallenged supremacy. Ted’s gaze swept over the memorabilia, then settled coldly on his son, who was still standing awkwardly just inside the doorway, hands bunched in the hem of his team hoodie.
“Living room. Now,” Ted said, voice as flat and hard as the dining room table he used to discipline Jackson on, back when the boy’s greatest offense was tracking mud onto the carpet.
Jackson blinked, caught off guard by the tone. For a moment, he almost smirked–this was the sort of thing you threatened a ten-year-old with, not a legal adult. But something in Ted’s posture made his blood run cold; he followed, shuffling into the living room with a nervous, adolescent gait. The humiliation of losing his heat at the meet was nothing compared to the humiliation he now felt just standing in front of his father, a nineteen-year-old man about to be lectured like a toddler.
Ted sat down in the middle of the couch, spreading his legs with calculated leisure. He didn’t bother to look at Jackson, just patted his own lap, once, twice.
“Come here,” he said.
Jackson’s heart leaped into his throat. “Dad, what–”
“You heard me, young man. I’m not repeating myself.” Ted’s hand, palm up, hovered expectantly.
The old, ingrained terror of discipline wars with the utter absurdity of the command. “I’m nineteen, Dad,” Jackson blurted, hoping his incredulity would be contagious. “You can’t be serious–”
Ted’s head snapped up, eyes narrow and glittering. “Do you want to add lying to your list, Jackson? Because I heard exactly what you said about me to the others in the locker room. Is that the kind of man you think you are? The kind who mouths off behind his father’s back, then shrivels up in front of a real challenge?”
Jackson could feel his face going hot. The memory was vague, but he recalled making some crack about his dad’s “crazy obsessions” to one of the other guys, trying to salvage some dignity after the humiliating loss. He hadn’t expected it to get back to Ted. He hadn’t expected anything, except maybe for everyone to forget the day by tomorrow.
Now, his father’s hand remained out, steady and inevitable as the tides.
Jackson’s feet moved without his permission. He shuffled forward, still clutching his hoodie, and stood at the edge of the couch. The room was dark except for the TV’s blue glow and the faint halo around Ted’s head from the lamp in the corner. Up close, his father looked impossibly solid, more like a marble statue of Ted than the real man. Even his shirt–black, buttoned to the throat–looked less like clothing and more like armor.
Ted’s grip on Jackson’s wrist was gentle but unbreakable. In a single, smooth motion, he drew his son forward and tipped him neatly over his knees. Jackson fell with a graceless thump, his chest pressing into the couch cushions, his lower half jutting up, ass in the air, and perfectly positioned.
He felt ridiculous. Worse, he felt powerless.
“This is for your own good,” Ted said, voice barely above a whisper. “You need to learn discipline. You need to learn to respect your elders. And, most of all, you need to learn what happens when you disappoint me.”
Before Jackson could protest, his father’s fingers hooked into the waistband of his sweatpants and yanked them down to his knees. The elastic scraped roughly over his thighs and caught on the pronounced, unmistakably rounded swell of his ass. Jackson inhaled sharply as the cool air hit his skin–he hadn’t realized how exposed he would feel like this, how utterly feminine his rear had become.
Ted paused. His eyes scanned the sight in front of him, as if searching for some hidden flaw or test answer. Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, he pressed his palm against the upper curve of Jackson’s ass, squeezing and appraising the shape.
Jackson squirmed, face burning with shame.
“Stay still,” Ted commanded, and the authority in his voice rooted Jackson in place. He tried to turn away, to tuck his face into the couch and vanish, but all he succeeded in doing was deepening his own sense of helplessness.
The first spank landed with a muted, fleshy thwack. Jackson yelped–less in pain, more in shock. The sensation was electric, hot and instantaneous, radiating through his body like a shot of hard liquor. Ted’s palm lingered for a moment before withdrawing, only to come down again, a measured tempo of strikes that sent Jackson’s nerves alight with each new impact.
Jackson bit his lip, trying to stifle the noises. But every spank made his body shudder, and with every jolt, he felt a different kind of heat pooling in his stomach. Or lower.
It was mortifying.
“You will not disrespect me,” Ted said, punctuating each word with a smack. “You will not embarrass this family. Do you understand?”
Jackson nodded furiously, his voice caught somewhere between a whimper and a gasp. “Y-yes, sir–”
Ted’s hand was larger than ever, its weight nearly covering Jackson’s newly ample rear. The slaps were not cruel, not really, but they were relentless. After everyone, Ted’s fingers would briefly press and knead, as if to remind his son exactly who was in control.
The sensations grew sharper, more complex. It wasn’t just pain, not anymore. Each impact sent an involuntary, tingling pleasure arcing through Jackson’s body, converging somewhere in the base of his spine and radiating outwards, down his thighs, up into his chest. He tried to focus on the shame, on the sting, but the pleasure was insistent, greedy. He could feel himself hardening against the rough fabric of the couch, his cock pressing urgently into the cushions with every shift of his hips.
Ted noticed.
“Getting excited from your daddy’s punishment, are we?” Ted said, voice thick with something between amusement and disgust. He delivered another smack, harder this time, and then let his hand rest on Jackson’s burning flesh. “What kind of boy gets hard while being spanked?”
Jackson moaned, helpless. He tried to answer, but the words wouldn’t come. His hands gripped the armrest so tight his knuckles blanched.
“Answer me.”
“I–I don’t know, sir–”
Another slap, another tremor of pain and pleasure. Ted leaned in, voice low and inescapable in Jackson’s ear.
“You’re a weak little boy, Jackson. That’s why you need discipline. That’s why you need me.”
Ted’s free hand slid down, running his fingers along the crease where Jackson’s thigh met his now-pronounced cheek. He patted it, then spread it slightly, exposing the deep, pink cleft and the sensitive, quivering skin around his hole.
Jackson froze. The touch was so intimate, so deliberate, it made his brain short out. All he could do was whimper, ashamed of how much his body craved the next smack, the next touch.
Ted resumed the spanking, but now he alternated between spanking and caressing, squeezing and stroking the swollen flesh with evident satisfaction. Each time he caressed, his finger would graze the rim of Jackson’s anus, sending a new, sharper wave of pleasure through him. Jackson could feel his cock leaking onto the couch, could feel the ache in his hips as they involuntarily pressed down and back, desperate for more contact, more anything.
He wanted to scream, to tell his father to stop, but all that came out was a mewling, pathetic whine.
Ted finally paused, breathing hard. He released Jackson’s hip and patted his ass with finality.
“That’s enough for tonight,” Ted said, as if dismissing a servant.
He pulled Jackson’s sweatpants back up, not gently, and stood him upright in front of the couch. Jackson’s cheeks were streaked with tears–he hadn’t realized he’d been crying, but the evidence was there, damp and hot. He couldn’t meet his father’s gaze.
Ted reached out, took Jackson’s chin between thumb and forefinger, and tipped his head up. “Look at me,” he said.
Jackson obeyed, vision blurry.
“From now on,” Ted said, his words slow and heavy, “you will address me as ‘Daddy.’ Understood?”
The word hung in the air, obscene and inescapable.
Jackson nodded, voice small and ruined. “Yes… Daddy.”
Ted smiled, a genuine, satisfied smile. He released his grip, then wiped the tear from Jackson’s cheek with a surprisingly gentle thumb.
“Good boy.”
Jackson stood there, shell-shocked, as Ted turned away and strode down the hall, footsteps echoing on the hardwood. His ass throbbed, his cock pulsed, and his mind reeled with the impossible reality of what had just happened.
He was a good boy, now—Daddy’s good boy.
The world would never be the same.
The End.
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