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After the Kick

By Lawrence Kinden All Rights Reserved ©

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After the Kick

"You have to," said Charlie, "or you'll be kicked off the team."

"Says who?" I demanded.

"Says Coach."

My heart did a double take at that. I'd worked really hard to join the football team because my dad had always wanted a boy who was a football star. I'd only made third string as running back but I was also the kicker.

Today, down by two, with seconds to go, I'd kicked a fifteen yarder that should have been easy. But the wind had picked up at the last moment and the right upright had shuddered with the impact. Which was how I wound up in a locker-room full of disappointed and angry boys who wanted to see some punishment.

"Charlie, it wasn't my fault," I tried to explain.

"Don't give me that crap. You missed, and we lost. Either you can come over here and get what you deserve, or you're off the team."

Dad would already be disappointed that I'd missed the game-winning kick, if I got kicked off the team too, he'd be really pissed and might spank me himself. And so I walked hesitantly toward Charlie. It didn't help that he was classically cute with blond hair and blue eyes and a well-built body. He'd divested himself of shoulder pads and jersey leaving him with leg pads and naked above the waist. I felt my body reacting to his good looks.

"Take your pants down," Charlie demanded to scattered snickering. "Haven't you ever been spanked?"

With shaking fingers, I unbuttoned and unlaced my football pants, letting them fall, but left my sweat-soaked briefs in place. If Charlie wanted this to be a bare-bottomed affair, he'd have to do that part himself.

Charlie wasted no time in using those bulging muscles of his. He grabbed my wrist and pulled me down over his lap. I lost my balance and sprawled into position. A moment later he jerked my briefs down to my knees. A chill rippled over my exposed bottom. There were more snickers and a few cat calls. At least my growing excitement was hidden by his thighs.

Then silence.

I felt as though my heart had stopped and I couldn't breathe. As I—as we all—awaited that first spank.

When it came, I wasn't ready for it. I squeaked like a girl and clenched my buttocks and arched my back. Charlie put a hand on my back to hold me down. Then he really got going. The spanks came hard and fast and I could hear him breathing hard with the effort. I began to sweat as I squirmed and gritted my teeth, trying not to embarrass myself in front of the other guys. A football player ought to be able to take a spanking without crying. I didn't manage it.

"Charlie!" I cried, and was met with echoing derision from my teammates. They teased me as it happened and encouraged Charlie to keep going, to make it harder, to make it faster. Charlie responded to their encouragement with enthuiasam, working up a sweat, breathing hard, the up and down of his arm a rhythm of pain and pleasure.

When it was done, I was exhausted. I knelt on the floor, sobbing into my hands; Charlie standing over me, rubbing his hand on his thigh.

"And let that be a lesson to you," he said.

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