After another spanking for messing up at the job, Joe earns his father's respect.
Brothers - Part 14
by Graham
Series: Brothers by Graham
Josh ended up being in the hospital for 16 days. While he remained there, Joe worked steadily with their Dad on the job, trying to become familiar, and proficient, with the duties and tasks routinely required of him. He made undeniable progress, while suffering a couple more whippings for his foolish lapses and mistakes. Each time, after humping and grinding himself to an orgasm on his Dad’s knee during the blistering, Joe cried like a baby, squalling and promising to do better.
When he came home, Josh had to be carried into the house, up the stairs, and placed in his bed on the lower bunk. Despite the outstanding physical condition that Josh was in before his accident, his Dad, Ron Fischer, picked up his oldest, adult son, and carried him dangling over his shoulder, into the house and up the stairs, like a lanky rag doll.
Josh required help with everything, including getting to the bathroom, cleaning up and bathing, and feeding and dressing. Joe instinctively knew he was expected to do that, but just as instinctively had the impulse to do so anyway.
While they were all at work, Joe would catheterize Josh so he could empty his bladder during the long day. When Joe and their Dad returned home at night, Joe would immediately remove the catheter and help Josh to the bathroom, afterward bathing him fresh for the rest of the day. Besides bathing and shampooing Josh, Joe also shaved him.
As the older brother – the oldest child, and son – Josh was at first a bit self-conscious and embarrassed about being helplessly in the debt of his younger brother. In rapid time, however, Joe had developed a routine with Josh that they both understood, and expected, which enabled Josh to get the help he needed, and Joe to supply it without delay or questions.
During that same time, the Christmas season was underway, and Joe was asked to get his Sunday School class of 7 year-olds prepared for the Christmas Eve program. There were songs to learn to sing, and a prophecy selection to memorize and recite. Many evenings, after he came home from work, and on Saturday afternoons, Joe would go meet with the children, spend a half an hour to an hour with the kids, helping them learn the songs and the Bible excerpt. During that same time, asked to sing a solo of a song that would be a conclusion of his kids’ performance, Joe agreed, but said nothing to his parents about it.
Christmas Eve, Joe and his Dad worked only until 1 p.m. Joe had to be at the church no later than 6 p.m., to be sure everyone in his group of 7 year-olds was ready to go by the 7 p.m. program time. Coming home early, Ron Fischer was steaming mad about another mistake his second, oldest son had made on the job. Joe had spilled a five gallon container of semi-gloss, trim paint, which required stoppage to clean up, and left them short, and would require an additional purchase of paint.
"I’ve told you over and over, Joe, that to make money on these jobs, we have to keep costs down. Now, you’ve gone and wasted paint so we’re going to have another extra, unplanned cost. I’m beginning to wonder how I’m going to get this to sink into your head, son. What about it, Joseph?"
Once more feeling very inadequate for this job, and ashamed of another screw up on his part, Joe sat quietly, looking down at his lap, not speaking.
"I asked you a question, Joseph. What’s it going to take to get through to you?"
"Ah, Daaaad, I’m so sorry. I, ah, don’t know, . . . ah, I’m, ah, just sorry, Dad."
"Sorry isn’t cutting it, son. I tell you, and tell you, and you act like you’re hearing and heeding; but then you go and do another stupid, damn thing that costs us more, and puts everybody behind. And all you can do is sit there and say you’re sorry again."
"Well, I am, Dad. What do you want me to do? Act like I don’t give a flip?" He was trying to make the point to his father that he really did feel awful, but instead it sounded like a sarcastic smart ass you really didn’t care, but just didn’t want to be hassled about his error.
"That’s it, Joseph. You’re getting your butt blistered, young man. As soon as we get home, you get yourself up to your room, get yourself ready, and wait for me. You’ll wish you had cared more – a lot more – before I’m done with your hide, mister. Maybe that’ll sink in – from your fanny to your brain."
"Daaaad, please, nooooo," Joe pleaded. "I said ’I’m sorry,’ and I am. Really, Dad! I mean it! I’ll do better! You’ll see, Dad! Give me another chance, Dad! Please, Dad! Don’t spank me again, Dad! I’m sorry! I ammm, Dad! Pleaaaase, Daaaaad!"
"You heard me, buddy boy. You’re in for a real butt scorcher. Maybe I’ll not only get through to you, but also put a stop to that kind of high-handed, smart ass talk. You boys are not ever going to get away with that kind of talk. Mark my words, boy," Joe’s Dad admonished as they pulled into the driveway. "Now get out and upstairs, and get yourself ready – if you know what’s good for you."
Joe’s face and neck and ears were deep red, and tears were pushing against his eyes as he stepped down out of his father’s truck, slammed the door behind him, and raced stomping into the house. A short while later, Ron Fischer came in and was greeted by his wife. "What’s the matter with Joe now?" she asked.
"The darned boy made another screw up on the job that’s going to cost us another overage, and slowed us down on the work besides," he answered. "I’m beginning to worry that he may not have what it takes; and on top of that, he cops another attitude. I’m telling you, that boy’s not going to have any flesh left on his behind the way he’s going."
"Now, dear. Have you considered how bad he must feel every time he makes a mistake. You could just deduct the extra cost from his pay, you know."
Ron Fischer paused to consider his wife’s advice for a moment. "That’s too easy on him, Mary. This boy has got to learn his place and keep it, and keep a watch on his attitude and mouth. Nothing else is as effective to bringing a wayward young man whose gotten too big for his britches back into line like a good, hard whipping – and that’s what he’s going to get."
With that retort, he marched up the stairs, straight into Josh’s and Joe’s bedroom, where he found Joe sitting on the side of his upper bunk bed in only his boxers. His clothes, and socks and shoes, were in a pile on the floor. Josh was lying in his bunk, nearly immobile in his casts, but with eyes wide with fearful anticipation.
When their father ordered Joe to get down and stand before him, he was like a robot that jumped onto his feet. Ron Fischer pulled out the same, old desk chair, sat down, and gestured for his son to come stand before him, between his legs. Joe hesitated only for a split second before complying fully.
Standing right in front of his Dad, and between his open legs, Joe shuddered slightly, out of fear as much as the cooler air. He sucked in a deep breath, as his stomach drew in concave, when his father pulled down his boxers over the young man’s aroused, protruding penis. Then, feeling himself maneuvered around to the side of his father’s right leg, he sighed with hopeless futility as he was pulled downward and across his father’s lap. He was bobbled like a toy on his father’s knee, until he was adjusted and positioned on his Dad’s left knee and thigh, bare buttocks aimed upward, a steady, ready target.
The beginning smacks, as the back of the hair brush collided with the upended youth’s bare buttocks and thighs, startled, then stunned, Joe. The by-now-all-too-familiar pain sizzled from his rump to his brain, broadcasting that he was being punished, in pain, helplessly subject to harsh discipline. He began apologizing and pleading, begging for mercy and a shortened session, promising he would learn and do better, confessing that he was bad and didn’t do a very good job.
Even while his heart and mind and mouth were voicing all those concessions, Joe’s penis was growing larger, thicker, hotter and hungrier, while he ground down, inflaming his craving drive against his father’s knee and leg. In short time, he cried out uncontrollably, spurting forth ejaculate on himself and his Dad’s leg, followed by sobs of shame, and then wailing shrieks and screeching screams of pain as his bottom was sat afire by the unending spanking of the hair brush.
His resistance crumbled all at once. He collapsed over his father’s knee, and with a mournful wail, the tears poured forth. Weeping and wriggling with each skewering smack against the super-sensitive nerve endings of his buttocks, thighs, and sit spots, he bawled like a five year old, but the pain didn’t lessen and the brush didn’t stop.
At long last, his father ended the spanking, but left Joe hanging and bawling across his legs. When Joe’s sobs began to subside to whimpers, Ron Fischer pulled the young man up off his lap, pulled down the sheet and blanket on the top bunk, and swatting the fire-engine red, bare backside of his son, ordered him to quickly clean up the familiar mess he had made, and then jump into bed.
All at once, they both became aware of Josh’s forgotten presence, as they turned to see the oldest, adult son with streaming tears on his face.
Joe tried to object that he needed to get cleaned up, and would have to leave for the Christmas program in a few hours, and still had to get Josh cleaned up; but his father quashed those protests with another, punishing volley with the hair brush.
"You do what I say, Joseph. I’ll take care of your brother," he barked sternly. Joe quickly retreated to the bathroom, returned to clean up the floor, and then clambered up into his bed, and buried his face into his pillow, and his father pulled up the sheet and blanket over the naked, young man’s glowing, raw, red behind.
Around 5 p.m., Joe was awakened by his father’s voice standing down next to his bed. "Better get up, Joe. It’s 5 p.m., and Mom says you’re supposed to be at the church by 6."
Joe opened his slightly swollen, still reddened, blue eyes and spied his Dad standing, staring up at him with a somber look on his face. "Joseph, get up!" Mr. Fischer now shouted at his son Joe slid out on his stomach from under the sheet and blanket, dropping nude onto the floor before his Dad. "Better hustle it, son," Ron Fischer advised, and Joe jumped into a run out of the room, down the hall, and into the bathroom.
Thirty minutes later, with damp hair, he was dressed in khaki pants, a long-sleeve dress shirt, with untied tie, and dress shoes, scurrying down the stairs into the kitchen. His Mom and Dad both looked up to see their handsome, cleaned-up, second oldest son coming through. "Wheee-whew," Ron Fischer whistled a teasing whistle at his son.
"Oh, honey, don’t you look so nice," his Mom said.
"Ah, thanks," Joe mumbled sheepishly. "Ah, Dad, ah, can you tie my tie for me?" he asked.
"Of course, Joseph. Come over here," his Dad replied, gesturing for Joe to walk up close in front of him. Then, taking the tie in his hands, he threaded it through the loops to tie a knot that he slipped up under Joe’s chin. "You need to learn how to do this yourself, Joe," his father reminded him for the countless time.
"I know, Dad. I will, but . . . I sure don’t have time now. Oh, hey, where’s Josh?"
"He’s on the couch in the living room. Daddy got him bathed and cleaned up while you were sleeping," his Mom replied.
"Okay, thanks, Dad. See you at the program," he added as he raced out to his Bronco to head on over to meet his kids, and be sure they were ready.
That evening was a surprising treat for all of Joe’s family (except Josh, whose injuries required him to remain at home). The 7 year-olds under Joe’s guidance, sitting around him as he sat on the floor with them, sang clearly their well-rehearsed songs, recited their passage accurately. Afterward, they sat with eying adulation of Joe as he slowly and lyrically sang a Christmas tune with a surprisingly melodious tenor voice. That part of the program concluded with a spontaneous eruption of applause.
After they had returned home, while awaiting Joe’s return to begin their family’s Christmas Eve traditions, Joe’s Mom and Dad remarked about his work and performance at the Christmas Eve program. They agreed that neither one of them knew he had such a gifted, emotive voice; and that he had done a splendid job with the young kids in his class.
Stating that he was blown away with the pleasant shock of Joe’s singing, Ron Fischer admitted, "I sat there stunned, thinking what a basically good kid he is – in spite of the bonehead things he does sometimes – in fact, what really good sons we have in both him and Josh – and wondering if maybe I am being too strict, too tough, with him."
"Well, I know you mean well, and want the best for both of them; but Joe is pretty reliable, even for as young as he is -- even if he is a bit more emotional than Josh. He’s been a big help to me and the little kids when you and Josh are away for so long," Mary Fischer responded.
"Maybe I’ll try easing up a bit, back off some, and let him prove himself," Ron Fischer mused aloud.
At that moment, Joe came in the house, and the rest of the family – except for Josh – congratulated him on doing such a good job with the kids and with his singing. Joe was caught off guard and blushed deeply spontaneously while revealing how pleased he was with the praise by the smile lighting up his face and eyes.
That Christmas Eve they sat around the tree, drinking eggnog and talking freely about Christmases past. Near midnight, Mr. Fischer announced it was time to get to bed, or Santa might bypass them. "Joe, help Josh to the bathroom and into bed, and then you do the same, son. Oh, and again, Joseph, you did a really fantastic job tonight, son. I’m very proud of you."
Joe’s spirits soared with the approval and approbation, and he eagerly went to help move his big brother upstairs, to the bathroom, and then into bed. Lying on the top bunk, Joe thought, tomorrow is Christmas! -- feeling as excited as a young boy.
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