Ron Fischers' son Joe is always getting himself into trouble. In this episode, he earns another spanking from his father from coming home way past curfew.

Brothers - Part 8
by Graham
Series: Brothers by Graham

Brothers Spanked by their FatherOn a Monday evening, at supper, Joe mentioned that he and some guys from church were going to go bowling at Superior Lanes, about 8 p.m. He asked if he could stay out later than the 10:30 he was supposed to be in bed, especially since he didn't have to work the next day. He promised he would be up to take his little brother and sister to school the next morning.

His father hesitated to give Joe leeway so soon from the regimen he had recently established for his second son; but their Mom urged their Dad to let him go, reassuring him that Joe was "a good kid" and could be trusted. Josh joined in with their Mom, telling their Dad what a good, responsible, and reliable kid Joe really was. Reluctantly, Ron Fischer agreed, telling Joe he was to be home no later than 11:30 p.m., and was to be quiet and not wake his big brother, Josh, who after all had to work the next day.

At midnight, the boys' Mom had turned in for the night, as she had to work the next day. Their Dad was still up and awake, fuming with anger and feelings of betrayal and being taken advantage of. Suddenly, tip-toeing down the stairs on his bare feet, in just his boxers, Josh was met by his Dad. "Josh! What're you doing up?"

"I woke up, Dad, and, ah, realized Joe's not here. . . ."

"Yeah, so much for being 'responsible and reliable'," he interrupted his oldest son.

"Ah, Dad, I bet I can find him, and bring him home," Josh offered.

"What?! I already have one son AWOL, and you want me to send out another? Besides, unlike your brother, Joshua, you have to work tomorrow, and you need a good night's sleep."

"Aw, Dad, I'll be okay for one day, and if I can get Joe and bring him home it's worth it."

"You've got a good heart, Josh – like you always do. But it makes no sense to have you out running around in the wee hours of the morning, wearing yourself out hunting for your brother who's already in a world of trouble, big-time. So, go on back up and there get back to bed – but thanks, for offering, and caring, Josh."

"Dad! I can find him! I know it! There aren't that many places Joe goes to, or knows, and I know I can track him down without . . ."

His father grasped the hunky, athletic-built young man's left arm, turned him around to face the stairs, and began swatting the seat of the thin, cotton boxers snugly wrapped around his oldest son's lean, hard, protruding buttocks.

"Aaaaaaah, Dad! Ow! I'm just-ow-trying to help! Ow! Ow!"

"I told you no, Joshua! That's not help I want you to give – and it's not what you were told to do! Now get yourself upstairs and back into bed pronto!"

Ron Fischer pelted his oldest son's firm, muscular rump as he walked him up the stairs and back into the bedroom he shared with his younger brother. Besides the increasingly uncomfortable stinging against his nearly bare behind, Josh felt frustrated, and afraid. Propelled along in his father's grip, by a barrage of smacks on his butt, like a wayward toddler, Josh was feeling diminished, humbled, belittled, and ashamed. He jumped, but not too far, being restrained by his Dad's clasp; and he hastened the plodding footsteps of his bare feet on the stairs, down the hall, into the bedroom, and falling into bed.

"Now, you get back to sleep, Joshua. Early morning will be here before you know it. Good night, son," his Dad spoke almost tenderly as he affectionately tousled the dark hair of his oldest son's head, encased in the pillow on his bunk.

As much as he detested both the pain and the embarrassment of still being subjected to corporal discipline by his Dad, he did relish the secure care, love, acceptance, and protection that he felt – and knew – his father had for him.

So, in a distressed and worried, yet muted voice, he replied, "Okay, Dad, good night, . . . but I know I could help,"

"Good night, Joshua!" his Dad concluded the discussion, shutting the bedroom door, and trudging softly, but firmly, back down the stairs.

It was early Tuesday morning, 4:10 a.m., when Joe finally parked his Bronco quietly on the street in front of the house. Wearily, he stepped out and down from the truck, closed the door quietly, and walked soundlessly on the lawn towards the garage. He passed the several vehicles parked in the driveway, including Josh's Blazer.

Unlocking the single entrance door to the garage, Joe walked in and locked it behind him. Then, he unlocked the door leading to the kitchen, untied and stepped out of his shoes, and stepped silently into the house. He closed and locked the door behind him with stealth, walked through the kitchen towards the stairs, to tip-toe up the steps to the bedroom where his big brother would already be long asleep.

As he began walking to the stairway, suddenly, a light behind him at the foot of the steps clicked on, and he felt a forceful clasp of the back of his neck. He turned quickly to stare into the face of his father, staring back and down at him. He immediately felt that terrified anxiousness and dread when you know you've been caught, and there's no escape.

"Daaaad! What're you doing up still?" he whispered inquisitively.

"What're you doing coming in at this hour?! Where have you been, young man?" their father demanded, as he grabbed Joe's right wrist with tight power, pulling and turning the young man back to face him.

"You know, Dad. I met some guys from church at the bowling alley, remember?"

"Yes, but that was hours ago, and you left there without letting us know – and where you were going – which you know you are to do."

"Well, ah, some of us left and decided to go to the movies, too."

"Who, Joseph? You know we are to know who you're with," his Dad reminded him.

"Ah, Paul and James, and, ah, Andrea, and Melanie, and Jessica."

"Jessica Donahoe?" his father inquired.

"Ah, yeah, sure, Dad – ah, along with all of us," Joe added.

"It kinda looks like pairing up to me, son. Who were you with?" Mr. Fischer asked.

"Ah, nobody, ah, really, Dad. I mean, I sat next to Jessica – but we were all sitting in a row in the theatre."

"Yeah, but you being paired off with Jessica Donahoe in any way, Joe, is a couple we cannot allow," his Dad declared. "You know she has a terrible reputation – even if she is now going to church."

"Ah, Daaaad, I behaved – honest. Josh and I are good guys, Dad – really, we are. We both try to avoid bad, tempting situations." Joe turned red with embarrassment at saying this, but also with panicked nervousness inside as he recalled the girl's hands all over him at times during the movie. He'd had to get up and go to concessions as an excuse to get a break from her – but his Dad sure didn't need to know about that, he thought.

"Anyway, Joe, the movies closed hours ago. So, again, where have you been?"

"We just, ah, drove around for awhile. What's the big deal anyway, Dad?"

"Who's 'we'?"

"Ah, just Paul and James and me. We took each of the girls home, then drove around talking," Joe explained, feeling like he was on the spot – which he was – by his Dad's interrogation.

"I'll tell you 'what's the big deal.' You know your curfew, young man – and I allowed you an extended one, at that. Still, a curfew's a curfew, and you and your brother have it for a reason – it's just that simple."

"Aw, Daaad! "Nobody else has to be home so early at night. It's not fair!"

"What isn't fair? You and Josh are Mom's and my responsibility. We have to decide what's in your best interest, and set the rules to see to it. What isn't fair is for you to try to ignore the rules that we've established for your own good, and then expect to get away with it without any consequences."

"But Daaaad," Joe interrupted whining.

"And stop whining, son. You're never going to skate when you disobey and break the rules; and you know the consequences all-too-well by now, Joseph," his father replied. "In the meanwhile, you and your brother will be kept safe, and on the right track, within the boundaries we set for you. When you wander astray of those boundaries – like you sure have tonight! – you know – and can count on it – you're gonna get spanked."

Joe gulped as his breathing automatically accelerated, becoming shorter and nervous. His mind had been thinking about it a lot, simmering, for several weeks now. He'd decided he wasn't going to let this happen again – or anymore. It can't, he resolved. He had to take a stand, assert himself, stop this stuff right off, right now, before it started again; be a man, stake his claim as a man, an adult – that he – and Josh – are too old, and too big, for this stuff – too old to be spanked. He wasn't going to stand for it anymore. He planted his feet, spread shoulder-width on the floor, arms crossed, and squared off staring at his father, as if declaring non-verbally that he – and this – was not going any further.

"Look, Dad, Josh and I are both adults. I'm well over 22 now (really just a few months); Josh is 25; and it's not right that you should still be spanking us. Nobody else our ages still gets spanked – none of our friends." (Joe really didn't know, because he guarded the fact that he was getting spankings from his Dad like a dreaded secret, and would never have let on, much less talked about it, to anyone.) "I'm not going to stand for it – it's not going to happen, Dad!"

"I don't know, or care, what your friends' fathers do, or what happens to them when they misbehave. My interest and my care is focused on you boys, and I don't intend to allow – or to argue about – possible incidents that you could go astray and get in trouble. You boys are my primary concern, and I take it deadly serious. Besides that, you are both living in our house, eating our food, and currently not contributing a penny to the house. So, you are both going to abide by, and comply with, our rules – or else."

"Come-onnnnn, Daaaaaad . . .," Joe whined an impudent reply, yet sounding like he was 6 or 7 years younger.

That did it. Ron Fischer was exasperated, and his patience snapped. Without even bothering to give any credence to, or acknowledge, Joe's purported stand-off, his father reached out with his two, strong hands, gripped his second son's two biceps, and lifted him right up off his feet. "Heeeeey, Daaaad! What're your dooooo-aaaa-inngggg! Cut it outtttt! Noooooooooo!" Joe protested in a boisterous whisper.

His father simply lifted him higher up, pulled him forward, and dropped him, placing him hanging over his left shoulder. "You impertinent little brat!" his father exclaimed. "You have asked for every bit of what you're going to get, young man!"

"Put me down, Daaaad! You have no right to do this! Daaad! Let me down! Daaaad!" he shouted his commands as his father began trudging up the stairs with Joe writhing around, trying to get down off the shoulder he was slung dangling across.

Instantly, ten hard, solid swats pelted the upended seat of Joe's jeans.

"Waaaait-aaaa-minute!" Joe called out in a whispered shout, redoubling his twisting, squirming efforts to get down off his father's shoulder. A dozen more landed hard and heavy against the young man's butt, positioned and aimed so aptly on their Dad's shoulder for ready swatting. "Cut it outtttt, Daaaad!" he called out, still trying to wrest himself off the shoulder over which he was hanging.

Roh Fischer answered by delivering 20 more on his son's now heating up behind. "Stop, Daaad! Stop it! It hurts! You can't do this! Stop it! It's hurrrrting!" Joe declared.

"You just settle yourself down right now, young man – unless you want this to continue right here, and right now," his father instructed.

Realizing what his father meant, and what was intended, Joe quit struggling and hung quietly dangling over the paternal shoulder as he was toted up the stairs to the bedroom he and his big brother shared. When their father came to their bedroom, he opened the door, walked in and then dropped Joe down to stand on his feet in front of him.

"Get those clothes off immediately, and crawl into your bed, young man," his father ordered. "And be quiet! Don't you wake your brother, who, by the way, was also upset and concerned about you. When I get home from work tomorrow night, you're getting a licking, and for the next two nights after that. Now, do you understand me, or do I need to help you get those clothes off and up into bed?"

"No-ooooo, Daaaad! But it's not fair . . .," but his whispered objection was interrupted by a swift, series of swats to the seat of Joe's jeans. "Okaaaay, Daaaad! I'm doing it!"

6 a.m. came way-too-soon for Joe; but he and Josh were awakened by their father's call to them. They got up, cleaned up and dressed, hurried down for breakfast, and Joe felt horrible – tired, foggy-brained, depressed. Before Josh and their Dad left for work, Ron Fischer handed his second son a list of chores and tasks to be done "today – before I get home."

Joe drove his little sister and brother to school, and returned to the empty house. He looked at the list, considered how exhausted he felt. Instead of turning his attention to the list of projects, he stripped of his jeans and t-shirt, stepped out of his flip flops, and crawled back up onto his upper bunk, under his sheet and blanket, in only his boxers.

"Joe! Joe!" The 22 year-old boy, still laying in his bed in mid-afternoon, was brusquely awakened by his mother's voice calling him. Lying on his back on the top bunk, fully sprouting sleeping wood, he opened up his eyes and looked down at the alarm clock. His light blue eyes grew wide when they spied the time: 3:20 p.m. He was supposed to be up hours ago doing various chores his Dad had left for him.

Joe leapt out and off of his bed, landing on his skinny, bare feet, and scrambled to pull some pants on and cover his raised mast, just as his mother entered the room. She glanced around the bedroom, noting the state of Joe's scant attire – in only boxers, tented upward by his erect flag pole –, his disheveled, bed head, and his rumpled, unmade bed. He hadn't even started pulling on the pair of jeans lying on the floor where he'd dropped them, and when he tried to turn away with is back toward her, his Mom grabbed her startled son's arm, surprising him as she turned him back around. Joe's face turned instantly scarlet as his mother stared down at the elevated shaft, burgeoning out against the front of his boxers.

"What have you been doing in here, Joe?" she demanded. "What are you trying to hide?" The young man's red face, ears, and neck deepened in crimson shade. "What are you doing in bed, sleeping, this late? And why aren't the chores that Daddy left for you done yet?" she asked very obvious and understandable questions. "He told me he left you a list and told you they were to be done today – before he gets home. You know you're in for it, Joe – and even worse if I tell him what I found."

Joe's stomach suddenly felt sick, and a wave of anxious nervousness swept over him. "Oh, Mom, pleeeez. Don't tell him. Pleeeeez!"

"Even if I don't, Joe, he's going to see you haven't done anything of what he left for you. You know you're going to get a whipping – maybe more."

"Please, Mom, I'll hurry. I can get most of it done. Don't say anything to Dad, pleeeez."

"You can try, Joe, but I know it's too late now," she said as she walked out of the bedroom. Joe raced into the bathroom, dropped his boxers, and hurried into and out of the shower. Back in his bedroom, he pulled on a clean pair of boxers, a pair of jeans, and an old Billabong t-shirt. With flip flops on his bare feet, he raced down the stairs, grabbed the list and looked it over quickly: Laundry, mop floors, mow, clean out garage.

There was no way he could get all that done in an hour and a half! He raced back upstairs, grabbed his and Josh's laundry, his Mom's and Dad's, and the little kids, and stuffed it all into the washing machine, adding detergent. Then, he raced outside, poured gas in the mower, and began mowing the not little front yard. He probably hit a speed record for shoving the mower around the yard, finishing it in an hour. Back into the house, he pulled the damp laundry from the machine, and pushed them into the dryer, turning it on.

Outside to the garage, he began pulling things out of the garage onto the driveway. It was no use! There was way-too-much to be able to deal with in this short time. He grabbed several things that could be discarded, and placed them out at the street for pickup. After that, he attempted to tidy up the garage, hoping to make it appear like he had truly cleaned it out. Even as he stared at it, he knew his father would not be fooled.

Inside, he was pulling the dried clothes out of the dryer and folding them into separate groups, when Josh walked in. "You're in for it, big time, Joe. Dad's in the garage right now, and he's steaming."

"Help me, Josh. Fold some of these, so I can get them all done," Joe entreated.

Josh began folding clothes hurriedly to help his younger brother. Just as they had all the clothes folded into separate baskets to put away in each location, Ron Fischer burst into the house. "What did I tell you when I woke you up this morning, Joseph?!" he demanded. "Didn't I tell you to do the things on the list I gave you – and before I got home tonight?!"

"Ye-es, sure, Dad," Joe stumbled his answer.

"Then tell me why things are not done? The back yard is not mowed; the garage clearly has not been cleaned out; and Mom tells me the floors have not been mopped! Care to tell me why, mister?!"

"I, ah, . . . ah, . . ."

"Don't bother to try to fabricate some lame story, Joseph. I know the truth. You went back to bed, and laid in the bed until your mother came home late this afternoon."

Joe knew he was caught, knew he couldn't – and shouldn't – lie, and knew he had no excuse.

"I'm sorry, Dad," he said with soft, pleading tone.

"No, you're not, Joseph. Not yet, anyway. But you will be. Josh, you take these baskets of clothes and put them all away. Your brother is headed up to your bedroom."

"Okay, Dad," Josh replied, picking up the baskets and leaving to deliver them.

Grasping Joe's left arm with a steely, firm grip, their Dad pulled the startled young man away from the dryer, and began steering him up the stairs and into their bedroom. Once inside the bedroom, he closed the door behind them and pulled out the wooden, desk chair into the middle of the room.

"Get your clothes off right now!" his father barked his order. Joe just stood there, unyielding. "I'm not going to tell you again, Joseph. Get those jeans down, and the rest of your clothes off, within the next five seconds, or I'll come and do it for you, and you won't like it – but you will pay a price for it, young man."

Joe was terrified, but dogged. No, Daaaad, noooooo! I won't do it! I'm not gonna, and, ah, you caaaan't . . ."

"That does it, young man! That is exactly what you are going to do. You do not tell me what you are going to do or not going to do! We tell YOU what you're going to do, and what your not going to do – and you better do it, or keep from doing it, or your butt will be sizzlin' scorched all the time!

"There's no question about it: you have been let go, and allowed to get way too big for your britches over the past year or so – not only in the way you act, but in your outlook and the way you talk. But no more – that's over now, mister.

At that moment, as Joe was flooded with emotional waves of fear, shame, and anxiety, he was also frantically frustrated as he suddenly developed an erection. If he had been sensible, he would have gotten undressed immediately at his Dad's dictate. Instead, he began backing away and even turned and looked furtively away from his Dad, almost as if he intended to try to make a break for it, and run out the door.

Ron Fischer caught his second son's glance, and from his face and eyes read the boy's mind. "You are not going anywhere, Joseph Daniel Fischer – except over my knee for the next 5 nights straight, and then to be immediately afterward,"

"Noooo, Daaaad!" he protested as his father stepped forward, took the devastated young man's left arm, and led him back to the center of the room. Sitting down, he pulled the front of the young man's jeans' waistband, drawing him to stand between his legs. Quickly, he unbuttoned, unzipped, and undressed his son. With each item of his clothes that was removed, Joe's obviously illusory sense of mature, confidence and resolve as an adult disappeared.

Joe was left standing, shaking, very red-faced, with an erection pointing out and up towards the ceiling. "Nooooo, Daddy, pleeeeez," the boy who would have been a stand-off man was pointlessly pleading in a higher, child-like voice. "I'mmmm sorry, Daddy. I am, realeeeeee!"

His father simply guided the young man around from between his legs, over to his right, and down, sprawled across his lap so fast and far that the youth's hands braced his face from hitting the floor, and his naked skinny legs and feet were left hanging above the floor. Joe's penis, already leaking from inflamed sensitivity was pushed down between his father's legs.

Joe's emotions were already running wild over his mind and body. He shivered with frightened chills and felt scared; he felt shameful degradation and humiliation, like a small, scared, bad boy -- not a 22 year-old man; and, too, he felt the treasonous hunger of his penis captivating his mind with mounting desire and need.

Damn! Why did he have to get spankings – now, at his age – and on his naked, exposed, vulnerable butt?! Not only were these sessions of discipline far beyond anything he'd imagined happening to him, at 22; they were wreaking havoc with his mind, his body, his self-control, and his expectations. If he didn't watch it; if he got careless or forgot; if he got an attitude and showed it; he knew he'd be getting a bare-butt licking.

A gun shot loudly intruded into his thinking as the sound reverberated around the room, followed some seconds later by the shocking, resounding pain to his bottom registering to his brain. Then the shot fired again, more quickly followed by scalding pain on his behind. The shots continued, faster, and harder. Joe was squirming and bumping and bucking around on his father's lap, as the old, wooden brush whacked against his smooth, lean, flat but dimpled, bare buttocks.

"Ooooh, maaaan! Please! Ouch! Ow! Aaaaah! Owie! Ow-ow-ow-ow-ow!" The young, 22 year-old bucked up and down on his father's lap as the hard, unyielding wood paddled the youth's behind, "Daaaa-aaaaaad! Nooooooo-aaaaaaa-Daaaaaa-aaaaaad!" he cried out in protest with each blistering swat of the brush on his bare behind.

"Please! Ooooh! Daaaa-aaaad! Ouch! Ouuuuch! Aaaaaaaaah!" Joe kicked his bare feet as their father spanked away at the seat of the boy's bare butt, leaving no spot unspanked. "It hurrrrtz-aaah-it's-aaaaa-stinging! Uh-uh-hurrrrrteeeng-uh-uh-sooooo-aaaah-much, oooooo-uh-Daddy, aaaaaaaah!" As he kicked, his raging, erect rod became more demanding and hungering for release. Joe cried out for his father to stop not only because it was hurting him so bad, but because he knew and dreaded that he was nearing – even while insistently driving toward – the explosion point again. "Staaaahp, Daaaa-deeee! Oh-oh-oh-huh-uh-ow-ow-ow-ow! Pleeeez-aiugh-staaaahp! Uh-uh-Duh-uh-aaaaa-aaaaa-huh-uh-deeeee-uh-uh-I-uh-cuh-aaaaan't-uh-uh . . ."

Ron Fischer paid no attention to Joe's cries, but kept up the barrage of the brush. Determined to crush this experimenting instance of insolent rebellion, he wailed away on every spot his second son's quivering, reddening rump – especially the sensitive spots on the inside of the buttocks and thighs, and the sit-spots – administering the soundest spanking Joe had ever had – even after the many he'd received over the past few months. He concentrated the spanks on the meatiest part of Joe's skinny, flat behind, turning the flesh darker and darker red.

"Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa! Uh-uh-waaaaaaaaaaa-huh-augh-uh-waaaaaaaaaa!" Tears rolled down Joe's face as their father blistered the boy's buns. The brush stung like a million bee stings landing over and over on his hiney every couple seconds, and he thrashed around on his Dad's lap trying to avoid the burning spanking, and grinding down on his father's knee, at the same time stimulating his penis to exploding heat.

"Ooooo-haaaa-uh-uh-nooooooo-huh-uh-waaaaa-uh-I-uh-uh-ammmm-uh-uh-nooooo-aaaaaaa-uh-uh-cuh-aaaan't-uh-waaaaa-uh-hu-elp it!" Joe's feet kicked faster than they ever had before as his Dad lit his naked cheeks on fire. "Daaaadeeeee! Aaaaaaaaaaaaa-uh-uh-waaaaa-uh-uh-oooo-uh-augh-uh-noooooo-uh-aaaaaa-uh-uh-waaaaaaaaaaaa! Daaaa-uh-uh-deeee-uh-pleeeeeeze-uh-uh-nooooo-uh-aaaaaaaaaeeeeeeaiughhaaaaa!"

Joe completely lost it. Almost losing his balance on his father's knee, he bucked and bounced and humped it, erupting and spewing sperm everywhere, at the same time tears, pouring out of the young man's reddened eyes, ran down his cheeks, splashing onto the floor. Gagging and sobbing through a scream of delirious pleasure, the cracking wall of Joe's struggling, but humiliated, resistance crumbled and fell.

With heightened sensitivity to the biting, blistering smacks, he was willing now to succumb, submit, surrender – if only somehow the pain would be lessened, would diminish, would stop! – He begged, and promised, "I'llbegood! I'llbegood! Owwww-huh-uh-uh-I'll-uh-beeee-uh-gooooooooood! Ooooo-uh-ow-uh-uh-Daaadeeee! I'll doooo-huh-uh-whaaat-you-uh-saaaay, Daaaaa-uh-uh-deeeeee! Aiaughuh-aaaaa-uh-uh-Daaaaa-uh-uh-deeeeee-haughaaaaa-uh-waaaaaaaa!" he wailed until he no longer heard himself squalling his promises and pleas, as the spanking continued incinerating his now extra-sensitive bottom and upper legs.

When his father had finished, Joe lay vanquished hanging over his Dad's leg and knee. He lifted his second son up off his lap to stand on his bare feet. Picking up Joe's boxers, he wiped the young man down and led him back into the bathroom. "The quickest shower, ever, Joseph, and then into your bed for the night!" Joe's empty stomach reminded him he hadn't eaten in almost 24 hours, but he was not going to mention it to his Dad.''

Ten minutes later, Ron Fischer was showered and changed, Josh was cleaning up in the boys' bathroom, and Joe was stretched out on his stomach on the top bunk. He heard their Dad shout at Josh to hurry up, and get finished and dressed, because his brother was in bed for the night. Then, Josh came in, followed by Dad. Josh dressed rapidly, and left at their father's instructions.

"Now, Joseph. You're in bed for the night. I don't want to hear a squeak from you. The next 5 nights will be the same thing for you, young man – except we'll have our talk after supper each night. Then, it's straight to bed with you." He did not wait for a response from Joe: he did not care what Joe's reaction was. The promised course of action was settled. He closed the curtains, shut off the light, and walked out closing the door behind him, leaving Joe lying on his bunk.

Like always, the spanking had really stung – scorching and blistering Joe's buttocks and thighs – especially the inner ones – and his sit-spots. Their father always spanked him hard – until he was broken, sobbing and surrendered. Afterward, the pain from his spankings invariably radiated a hot, throbbing feeling that lingered and lasted far too long, unshakeably brooding over and preoccupying his mind – especially when sent straight to bed following the spanking – requiring inevitably a fierce wank in bed just to bring some calming tranquility to his jangled emotions and jarred consciousness.

After having fallen asleep whimpering with sorrow and shame, however, the next morning he awoke, and despite the jolting pain from his bottom that shocked his brain, he felt a weird sense of having been cleansed, purged, and relieved – like a heavy weight had been lifted off him, and a thick, foreboding fog had been dispelled – and a strange assurance of being accepted and cared for.

Why did getting spankings do that? he wondered. He truly hated them – the eclipsing pain, and especially the humiliation, that was a part of them – being over his Dad's knees, butt bared, blistering agony being administered, feeling so childish and helpless to do anything about it. Yet, he had to admit – at least to himself – that they always yielded those emotional results.

Then there was the other problem – his rod getting aroused and sticking up and out in front of him every time he knew his Dad was going to spank him – and even becoming more and more aroused during the spanking – mocking his pain, shame, humiliation, and dread by seeming to imply that he liked it, that it turned him on!

"Come on, Joe. Get up!" he heard Josh call. He slid out on his stomach, dropping to the floor on his bare feet, and padded to the bathroom along with Josh, to clean up quickly and return to dress for the day.

"Damn it, Josh! Why does Dad have to spank us still?" Joe was almost pleading his question quietly to his big brother, as they pulled on jeans and shirts to go to work.

"Get used to it, Joe. By now you should know: it's Dad – and, he's going to, and you're going to get it from him. You know he still does it to me too."

"That's what I mean, Josh! It's horrible! He's horrible!"

"No, Joe, you're wrong. Sure he still spanks my behind, too; and it's kinda weird for me to still be getting it, being this old – older than you – ; but I know Dad, and trust him completely, Joe – with my life. I know he loves us, wants the best for us; he'd die for us – without hesitation.

So, even though I hate it, I trust him – and take it – 'cause it's who he is, and it's who he wants me to become. And he thinks it'll make me do that . . . Who knows? Maybe he's right. After all, when your butt's stinging and burning on fire, you do tend to start paying closer attention! So, . . . maybe I'll finally learn – and you will, too, Joe. Anyway, get over it. Dad's the greatest – and I mean it, Joe – even when he's blistered my butt and it's throbbing bad."

Joe didn't have a response, and just finished getting dressed with Josh for work.



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