Ron Fischer administers his son a scorching spanking with brush and barehand for getting arrested.

Brothers - Part 10
by Graham
Series: Brothers by Graham

Brothers Spanked by their FatherJosh was awakened Saturday morning by his father shaking him, and asking if he’d heard from Joe, to which he replied negatively. Then, heading into the bathroom, he showered and returned to dress in work clothes for the tasks he knew would be assigned to him for the day. When his cell phone rang, it jarred him, and he saw that it registered a call from the county jail, Josh immediately feared for his brother.

Pushing send, he heard Joe’s strained, desperate-sounding voice. "Josh, ah, I need your help. I’m in jail. It’s a mix-up, but I can’t get out without somebody posting bail for me. They say it’s $5,000, and $500 has to be paid. Can you go and pay it for me, Josh? Please? So I can get out?"

"Okay, Joe, but what happened? Tell me."

"I can’t right now, Joe. They won’t let me talk that long. Just please pay the $500, so I can get outta here and come home. Please, Josh."

"Okay, Joe. I will. Count on it. I don’t know how long it’ll take, but count on it."

"Thanks, Josh – a lot. I love you, man."

"Yeah, me too," Josh replied as the phone hung up.

At breakfast, Josh was struggling with what – and how much – to tell their Dad. Ron Fischer was voicing his concern and worry about Joe – along with how much trouble the young man was in. When he asked Josh if he’d heard from Joe, Josh decided the whole truth was the thing to do.

His father’s face was one of shocked, dismayed upset to hear that his second son was in jail. Josh could not tell him why, because Joe had not had the time to tell Josh. When Josh said $500 was needed for bail, to get Joe out, their Dad exclaimed, "$500?! That’s a lot of money – especially right now."

"I can do it, Dad. I’ve got it saved," Josh interjected.

"He oughtta sit in there for whatever he did to get himself arrested," their father muttered.

"I know you’ve got work for me to do today, Dad; but le me go to an ATM, get the cash, and go pay the $500 so Joe can get out. Then, I’ll come right back and start working."

"Okay, Josh. But if you have a problem, call me – understand?"

"Right, Dad," Josh agreed, grabbing his wallet and his keys, and heading out to his Blazer.

Almost an hour later, Josh was at AM-PM Bail Bonds, paying over $500 as bond, learning what the charges were, and being told it could take several hours before his brother would be released. Josh gave them his cell phone number and asked them to call him when they knew Joe was going to be released.

Then he drove back home, and joined his Dad in the jobs he had planned for both boys to do that Saturday. He told his Dad what he had learned from the bail bondsman, that Joe had been arrested at Griff’s Roadhouse and charged with felonious breaking and entering a commercial establishment.

"What?!" Ron Fischer exploded his query. "How’d he do that?! What’s wrong with that boy?! When he gets home here, he is in for worse than he’s ever gotten before in his whole life."

At 4:42 that afternoon, Josh’s cell phone rang as he was helping his Dad replace storm gutters along the house. When he answered it, Joe’s voice spoke. "Josh, where are you? I can leave now. I’ve been waiting. Can you come and get me? Please? Right away?"

Joe told him he was in the holding area of the jail, and Josh said he would be there shortly. He ended the call and their Dad asked if that was Joe. He said, it was, and that Joe was able to be released from jail now.

"Alright, Josh, go get your brother, and bring him straight home. But you tell’im he’s in for worse than he’s ever had before – his butt is going to be scorched, and that’s just tonight."

Josh cringed just hearing about what was in store for his younger brother, but hurried and left in his Blazer. At the jail, he waited until Joe was escorted out, wearing the clothes that had been taken from him earlier that morning. As they walked to Josh’s truck, Joe told him the whole story: how he’d come back to work to find out he was laid off; felt lousy and went to Hernando’s restaurant and bar and drank beer all evening – he omitted the mouthy episode across the bouncer’s lap – and then ended up at Griff’s Roadhouse, fell asleep, and awoke in the middle of the night locked in; he’d set off the security alarm, and the Sheriff’s deputies came, eventually got in and arrested him.

"Where’s your car, Joe?" Josh asked.

"I dunno for sure. Maybe still at Hernando’s? Let’s go see."

"No, Joe, not right now. Dad said for me to bring you straight home, and that’s what we’ve got to do."

"What about my Bronco?!" Joe demanded.

"We’ll take care of it after supper, but for now we’ve got to get right back home."

As they pulled into the driveway, Mr. Fischer was outside of the garage – waiting. As soon as the boys climbed down out of the Blazer, he called out to Joe. "Joseph, get yourself upstairs to your room and wait there for me." Joe knew at once what that meant, and what it forebode. Nodding silently, he trudged into the house, up the stairs, and into the bedroom he shared with Josh.

Meanwhile, Josh gave their Dad a rapid rundown of what he had learned from Joe had happened. "Thanks, Josh," Ron Fischer replied. "We’ll deal with this. For now, though, go in and help Mom get supper ready. We’ll be down in a bit."

Josh, too, nodded his compliance and left their father to stride slowly, and deliberately through the garage and back into the house. Just as slowly and deliberately, he mounted the stairs leading to his two, adult sons’ bedroom.

The door was closed. He opened it slowly to find Joe still dressed, with only his shoes and socks off. "Why aren’t you undressed, Joseph?" he demanded.

"Why, Dad?" Joe whined.

"Why?! You tell me, Joseph. What happens when you disobey, don’t listen, and break the rules?"

"I’m sorry, Dad. I didn’t mean for this to happen," the lean, 22 year-old kept his head down, staring at his bare, skinny feet, while he muttered his reply.

"Look at me, Joseph Daniel Fischer!" his father barked.

Joe’s head quickly jerked up to stare into his father’s firm, but unquestionably caring, eyes. A mixture of fear, sad regret, and embarrassed shame was evident on the young man’s face. "That’s better, son. Your own good sense should have told you to get outta those bars and get home; and you know what the rule is about being home for dinner, and being in by curfew. Now, I asked you a question: I’ll ask you one more time. What happens when you disobey, don’t listen, and break the rules?"

The boy’s sparkling, blue eyes were filled with terror and the moisture of impending tears, and his bottom lip and chin quivered slightly. "Ah, we, ah, get ... ah, ah, ... spanked." He almost choked up saying that last – the s – word.

Standing in front of his father, he felt himself being tugged forward by the front waist of his jeans to stand in between his Dad legs, while his father swiftly undressed him in no nonsense actions. It was so much more humbling to get a spanking this way – to have to stand still while his father undressed him like a toddler.

He stepped out of his fallen jeans, then his boxers. His pride was crumbling as his self-conscious shame came rushing to the surface – his boxers had just been lowered off his behind, to his ankles – as if he were some naughty little boy! As he bent over to pick up his jeans and boxers, his growing erection was unmistakeable. The now-familiar fear and excitement were plainly doing another confusing number on his youthful, male hormones.

Despite the obvious erection raising up from between his legs, and his red-faced embarrassment at having been stripped naked by his father, Joe stood there naked, defiant, with one hand on his hip, the other trying to cover his aroused genitals, staring at his Dad through plainly sad, blue eyes – foolishly, squarely, and recklessly seeming to dare his father to go further.

That did not set well with Joe’s Dad, who did not like – and was under no circumstances about to tolerate – his younger, adult son’s attitude. Without a word, he grabbed Joe around the back of the neck and roughly guided him over to the right, took the young man by the wrist, and led him gently, but firmly and unyieldingly, down, and across, his lap. He could feel Joe resisting just a little bit — a natural reaction considering what the boy was getting into – but he just continued the downward pull and descent as the young man fell onto, and over, his father’s knees.

Ron Fischer was methodical, having already determined that they were going to be there for a while. Once his young, adult son was securely in his control, Joe’s father picked up the hair brush in his right hand and started lecturing the upended young man. As he spoke, without a pause in his lecture, Ron Fischer would raise his arm and bring the brush down good and hard, so it made a loud whack, triggering a jump by Joe.

Each smack was hard enough to leave behind a nice, deepening, pink blush in the shape of the back of the brush. It drove Joe crazy that his Dad always took his time, didn’t get into a rhythm right away, and so the upended, young man never knew when or where the next whack would land.

Each time, being pulled sprawling across his father’s lap, had the unnerving effect of making Joe feel shame, resentment, anger, upset, and fear. Feelings of humiliation and resentment washed over Joe as he spread out across his father’s knees, while the cool air of the room danced on the bare flesh of the overturned young man’s back, buttocks, thighs, legs, and feet.

Yet, at the same time, the position he was lying in strangely made him also feel secure. He hated this happening to him; yet he felt a weird, almost welcome, acquiescing submission. Both of these feelings were inevitably overridden by the craving desire of his heightened arousal, as his erection ground around and drove into his father’s leg and knee on which he was pinned. His aroused member rushed with excitement as it touched, and he felt himself settling down over, his father’s thighs and knee of authority. Now in place, he squirmed, shivering with cold, fright, and desire.

As the syncopated smacks struck and sizzled his buttocks, thighs, and hyper-sensitive sit-spots, the young man became infuriated, leading to a revolt of emotional outrage and physical struggle against the powerful man whose hold was inescapable. He screeched as the hard wood connected with his backside. Knowing it was hopeless, nevertheless, Joe tried to break free.

"Damn it, Dad! I haaaaate youuuuu!" Joe screamed, momentarily yielding to the outburst of his emotions. It wasn’t fair! It seemed like lately he was getting a whipping almost every other day, and here he was getting whipped again. He knew he didn’t hate his Dad, and his father knew it too: he was just blowing off steam. But, nonetheless, the mouthy disrespect was a major mistake that Ron Fischer would never allow from any of his sons.

"Watch your language, boy," his father replied. "That was a big mistake, Joseph Daniel Fischer," he said. "That outburst and language just earned yourself another one of these tomorrow, young man!"

"Uh-uh, whaaaa-uht-uh-noooooooo!" Joe choked out.

"It’s that kind of attitude that begs to be whipped right off your hide, boy! You’ve just been let go far too long, become defiant, disobedient and disrespectful, and I’m not having it in this house – not from you, your big brother, or anybody else. You will do as I say, Joseph – or else – and that or else can be everyday – or more if you keep on!"

For his part, Joe knew without question what his attitude and talk would produce. In the heat of his brief instant of flared-up rebellion, he ignored the known reality that he was only inciting his father to blister him harder; but he didn’t care. He was frustrated and tired of feeling like a delinquent, little kid that needed to be spanked. He wanted to be treated like an adult – like a man, which he knew he was – and he blurted it out.

"Daaa-aaaad, I’m 22! ... an adult! You can’t keep spanking us, Daaaad! Aaaahrrrghaaa-ow-ow! One day I’m gonna be too big for you to whip, Dad! ... and I won’t take it any more!"

"Don’t be so sure, young man. Right now, though, you’re a little brat with a nasty mouth that’s just earned yourself another, naughty boy’s spanking tomorrow night, too. You know that, too, Joseph." The young man, once again in the throes of being punished with a spanking, cringed, inwardly resisting, and unwilling to acknowledge, what deep down he knew to be true.

"You will learn how to behave. I don’t care how old you are: if you talk like that, you’ll get punished; and in this house – as you and your brother know full well – that means a spanking," he dressed down the juvenile protests of the young adult hanging upended, naked, over his lap.

"Aaaw, ow! Daaa-aad, nooooo, ow! ... c’mon!" Joe tried to object.

"Oh, yes, Joseph. Be a good boy, stay out of trouble, do as you’re told, and you won’t get a spanking; but as long as you keep acting like a little brat, break the rules, disobey, I’ll keep right on whipping your butt, no matter how old you are? Do you hear me, Joseph! That goes for your big brother, too!"

He accentuated his words with a long, hard set of smacks that had the young man bouncing and wriggling around on his lap, grinding and bucking against the knee on which he was fixed. Long familiar with the writhing, squirming, evading motions of his young sons’ while being spanked, their father was always patient, making sure that boy, whose tormented, overturned rump was being re-positioned correctly– exactly where his father wanted the young man before delivery of the next, series of hard spanks – understood that the older, stronger man was in charge, and the whipping was not about to end anytime soon.

In this way, Ron Fischer ensured that every blow was effective and that this awkwardly flailing, upended, young adult would be unlikely to forget this experience in a short while. His strength and the force he concentrated on Joe’s hapless bottom, seemed to increase in ferocity in direct proportion to the boy’s squirming and groaned expressions of pain. With determined indifference, he continued to batter his second, adult son’s wriggling rump; and, the more the young man fought and resisted, the harder and more determined the smacks became.

Joe bucked and gyrated, trying in vain to thrash about and avoid the next lick of the brush, or to get it to fall on a less sore area. His hips began to dance and squirm on his Dad’s lap. The youngster’s small, flat, muscular mounds, now bearing the darkening marks of the hair brush, sought refuge from the remorseless pummeling to which his father was subjecting them. No matter which way he writhed and threw his hips and bottom – to the left, right, forward or backward and up – the old hair brush, always seemed to anticipate his moves and descended to deliver contact with perfect aim each time.

His face, deepening red, showed perspiration, and pain and his eyes opened wide as the pain cumulatively registered. His struggles to protect his young rearend were valiant and fierce, but to no avail. His eyes snapped shut with each, hard, methodical pounding of his buttocks and thighs. Between strokes, he eyes re-opened wide, along with his mouth, emitting unintelligible grunts and muttering, as Joe became more and more vocal, increasingly drowning in tear-streaming sobs and bawling.

His father spanked him high, low, left, right, inner, under. The trouncing was typically thorough, landing every blow by the brush with a zeal that reflected a righteously indignant party delivering unmitigated retribution to a deserving backside. There was nothing Joe could do but take it, as the whipping rained down on, and across, his rump and upper legs with a vengeance.

At the same time, these desperate, violent, futile maneuvers were also calculatingly humping and driving his wild, inflamed rod against his father’s knee and leg, raising the feverish pitch of his hungering desire for release. Each and every time, Joe was horrified at his body’s betrayal of him. Why did this excruciating pain at the same time stimulate and propel his penis so?!

He tried every thing he could to get it to stop growing. Compelled to concentrate on the spanking by the punishing pain and sorrowful shame that seized his consciousness, he became preoccupied with thoughts of how much it hurt – how awful it was – getting a spanking!

Yet, in the midst of – and despite – the blistering pain, his youthful, male member grew, increasing to its full length. Each time he felt another smack, the heightening, ultra-sensitive head, and long, hard shaft, of his penis slid against his father’s leg and knee, triggering an electric jolt of something that actually felt like pleasure – and he bore down harder and aggressively on that knee, humping and grinding his spear onto, into, and against it.

In the same changing movements that the hated spanking produced he was also garnering a gathering craving, fomenting and triggering a mounting need to climax in an exploding ejaculation. His head was a jumbled jangle of overloaded sensations. Pain and pleasure intermingled, mixed, and commingled until they were indistinguishable. As much as it hurt, and despite the anger, sorrow and remorse Joe was feeling, he was intensely, wildly aroused, reveling in the moment’s grip of overwhelming passion.

His mind was swimming in the confusion and shame of blurring, commingling pain and pleasure. He shouted and screamed in pain eclipsed by euphoric pleasure and delight, erupting with round after round of an orgasm, discharging one powerful shot after another from his demanding, masculine tool as he came and came and came and came.

"You know, Joseph — you and Josh know — I love you boys; but we have rules in this house for a reason, and I expect . . . you to follow them . . . all of them, . . . not the ones you pick and choose . . . and I mean all the time, . . .not just when it’s convenient . . .is that clear?" His father continued lecturing and spanking to punctuate and emphasize what he was saying, seemingly unaware of what had happened.

"Aaaarghaaaa-ow-ow-aaaaa, ye-eess-huh-uh–ow-aaaaaaa–uh-Daaaa-aaaaaad!" the young man wailed.

"Your Mom, your brother, and I work hard all day, . . . Joseph, and we . . . have a right . . . to expect you . . . to pull your weight around here. . . . Isn’t that fair?"

"Aaaaaaa-aaaaaaaaa-hissssshiss-aaaaaa-ow-aaaaaaah-ye-esssss-ow-aaaaaaa-ow-ow-aaaaaaaa, Daaaa-aaaaad-deeeeee! Ooooo-aaaaaa-uh-uh-waaaaaaa!" the young man sobbed.

And so on, and so on, until he got tired of talking and just spanked. He didn’t try to keep any idea of the count, but just held on tight and paddled Joe’s backside until it was red, hot, and raw. He had determined that, after so many whippings, and Joe still acting up, and disobeying, and even daring to reveal some resistance and defiance, he was going to keep this young man over his knee, pivoted on it, for a good long time – long enough to burn the message indelibly into his brain by way of his butt; long enough to give him plenty of time to think about why he was in this position again – as so often – while he suffered and squirmed and dripped tears and snot onto the floor just below his face and nose; long enough for him to work himself up into a sweaty, sorry, helpless frenzy as his father methodically roasted his rump.

This night, Ron Fischer had additional plans for his younger, adult son. He gave his vanquished son one last stroke – the kind where you whack really hard, then press down hard on the butt-cheeks – then set the brush aside. As usual, Joe did not try to get up right away, but waited and continued lying over his Dad’s lap until released, sobbing and shaking, sniffling and feeling sorry for himself, and embarrassed about once again having shot his male pistol and made a mess all over himself, his father, and the floor.

Ron Fischer next placed his left hand squarely on his younger, adult son’s lower back, holding him down on the lap over which he was draped, then took that arm and hand and wrapped them around and under Joe’s back at his waist. With his right hand, he began to deliver a devastating set of smacks to the boy’s very sensitive and sore bottom.

"This behaviour has to stop, Joseph – and it’s going to stop." The voice spoke in a stern, no-nonsense, commanding tone as he blasted his son’s blistered backside. "I’m your father, and I’ll spank you as long, and hard, and often as it takes to change your attitude, your actions, and your speech. I’ll whip your backside until it’s blistered every day of the week – twice a day, if that’s what it takes – to teach you how to speak and act. It’s a father’s duty to raise his sons right, Joseph, and I refuse to give up on you. Do you hear me, son? I will never give up on you –or your brother."

Bursting out into heavy sobs again, Joe couldn’t believe it! He was getting another spanking – a hand spanking – on top of the other spanking he had just gotten with the hair brush. Feeling his father’s stony hand singeing his excoriated, blistered behind made him feel all the more like a badly behaving, little boy who’d earned himself several spankings for his misbehaviour.

He couldn’t help himself. He began squalling and wailing again, uncontrollably. His father spanked him for a good, long time, maybe more than a half hour. Bucking and writhing in his grip, Joe lost all sense of time and awareness of anything other than the calloused torment his father’s hand inflicted on his super-sensitive, painful, stinging butt cheeks and thighs.

But the flesh on flesh, of his father’s powerful hand making striking hit after hit on his bottom and thighs – and especially the inner buttocks and thighs – unexpectedly began stirring the sobbing young man to another excited condition. As his sticky, wet penis became aroused and growing again, he began squirming, scraping, and grating himself once more against his father’s wet pant leg and knee. He didn’t want to be doing this, didn’t want it to happen; but increasingly, as he sobbed and writhed under the smacks of his Dad’s hand, he was rubbing and grinding his dick to another flash point of climax.

While continuing the battery of hand spanks to his son’s inner cheeks and thighs, Ron Fischer spoke in a firm, commanding voice. "What’re you doing, Joseph?! What’s going on with you again?!" he questioned. Still reacting to the fiery swats, and in the throes of stimulated desire, Joe did not speak, but shivered and trembled slightly as he continued to cry, twisting and squirming under the smacks being administered.

"Joseph! What’re you doing?!" his father demanded again, aware of Joe’s sexually stimulating movements. He reached further over his son’s waist to grasp in his left hand the slick, wet, hard pole of his son’s penis. Feeling his son’s erection stiffen and thicken with engorgement, Joe’s father tightened his grip around the base of his young son’s shaft, which suddenly and instantly felt so good to the boy at the moment, he almost forgot he was being spanked. The pain on his bottom was excruciating, sending radiating alarms of agony to his brain; but his shimmying pole, feeling mounting, counter, craving pleasure, transmitted its hungering demands as well.

The tip of the young man’s fully extended, engorged, vibrating rod was now rubbing, enkindled, against his father’s knee and leg with each blistering blow to his incinerated bottom. He could feel himself reaching the point of orgasm, and tried to steel himself not to move with every strike; but his hungering body betrayed him. "Please! Please, Daaaddy, pleeeeeeeez! Huh-uh-puh-uh-uh-leeeeeze-uh-Daaaaa-uh-uh-deeeeeee!" he begged, trying in vain to not move against his father’s knee and leg.

As he ground his penis on the knee over which he was impaled, he also slid his rod up and down in his father’s grip. All at once, the touch of that hand’s hold on his manhood triggered an instant trip wire that set off the explosion of another ejaculation. "Nooooooooo-aaaaaaaa-staaaaaahp!" he yelled!" Ooooo-uh-ow-ow-huh-uh-pleeeeez-uh-uh-I’m-uh-guh-uhnnaaa-uh-cummmmm-uh-aaaaaaaaaaaghaaaaaaaa-aaaaaa-yeaaaaaaaaa!"

Gasping and calling out in nonverbal sounds that were shock, protest, and exclamations, the young man shot again and again into his father’s hand and onto his leg, onto himself, and onto the floor. His father continued spanking him all the while he humped and pivoted, and spurt and shot on his father’s knee.

The barrage of spanking smacks from his father’s hand accelerated and intensified. The young man had now abandoned any more resistance or struggle, resigned to his rump being pummeled and roasted with fiery, searing severity., while wailing incoherently, bawling sobs, "Huh-uh-waaaaaa-uh-aughaaaa-uh-noooo-uh-uh-moooooor-uh-uh-I-uh-caaaan’t-uh-uh-Daaaaa-uh-uh-deeeee! Huh-uh-waaaaa-uh-ooooo-uh-I’m-uh-pleeeeea-uh-waaaaaa-uh-uh-I’m-uh-suh–uh-arrrrre-uh-uh-eeeee-uh-oooooo-uh-waaaaaa-uh-puh-uh-leeeeez-uh-uh-Daaaaa-uh-deeeee-uh-uh-waaaaaaaa!"

When finally he was satisfied that he had administered the punishment to his son that he intended – and that the boy needed, and deserved – Ron Fischer stopped. He lifted the skinny, squalling young man up off his lap, and raised him up to stand on his bare, narrow feet, bobbing and bouncing up and down, naked, his penis dripping from two orgasms, his hands plastered on his scalded, burning bottom. Mr. Fischer picked up Joe’s boxers and wiped his wet, sticky hand.

"You hurry into the shower and clean yourself up, son, and then get back here and clean up this room. And I mean hurry, if you don’t want a second trip over my knees tonight."

"Then come downstairs for supper. After that, you’re in bed for the night, Joseph."

Taking his sobbing, dancing son by the skinny bicep, he led him out of the bedroom, down the hall, to the bathroom, where, delivering four more swats to the boy’s angry, sore bottom, he steered him into the shower. With each one, Joe hollered, but then scampered into the shower, where he could be heard sobbing through the downpour. Afterward, he dried himself (gingerly around his butt and the back of his thighs), returned with a wet towel to clean up the floor, before pulling on a clean pair of boxers, loose basketball shorts, and a t-shirt over his head.

Slowly and sheepishly, he walked downstairs barefoot, to join his family for what for Joe was a silent dinner. After dinner, his father came over to him, pulled him up out of his chair by his arm, and immediately led him back up the stairs, into the bedroom where, under his father’s watch, the sullen and subdued young man crawled into bed for the night.


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