I Adopt A Son - Part 3

Author: Writer8322@aol.com

A Story Set in the Brave New World of D.A.D.

and told by a D.A.D. (Michael Taylor)

Chapter 3: Adolescent Mischief

I won’t detail the rest of Stuart’s lunch with his new D.A.D. Suffice it to say that my boy squirmed in vain to find a part of his backside that could tolerate contact with the chair, but I had done a thorough job and there was no spot that I left un-blistered. I didn’t say anything, after all there was nothing to say, when Stuart adopted a sort of crouching position in which he crossed one leg over his chair and sort of gingerly sat on that. This position wasn’t pain-free either, because I had also paid a good bit of attention to Stuart’s thighs.

After lunch, I took Stuart home and our real life together began. Father and son relationships on the Island tend to develop around fairly ordinary day-to-day experiences. My D.A.D. training, had encouraged great intimacy between a Man and his boy, because all research showed the importance of physical contact in a Father/son relationship. D.A.D.s were encouraged to bathe their sons and shower with them. Stuart was horribly embarrassed by these ministrations to his naked person, but I didn’t let a boy’s silly notions of propriety get in the way of a father’s duty, and I performed this acts with love, joy and firmness.

One evening when I was giving Stuart a bath and shampooing his hair, Stuart got fussy about soap in his eyes and said a ‘word.’ I have no tolerance for filthy coming out of a boy’s mouth, so I handled that little display of temper with prompt action. The D.A.D. laboratories had produced several products which facilitated father/son discipline. One was a particularly efficacious form of castor oil and the other was a bar of soap that was called "Squeaky Clean." This soap was bright yellow in color and wasn’t used for anything except mouth-washing. "Squeaky Clean" had a particularly nasty taste and burned without causing any lasting damage to a boy’s mouth.

I held Stuart in the tub and lathered my hands thoroughly. Then I pinched the boy’s nose with one hand and inserted the fingers of my other into Stuart’s warm little mouth. Stuart struggled like a catfish, but Daddy kept him well-anchored for the work I needed to do. I meticulously soaped every inch of Stuart’s mouth covering the gums and teeth with a thick coating of Squeaky Clean. I then worked up a second foamy layer of lather and held Stuart’s sweet little tongue in my hand and gently, but firmly rubbed it up and down with Squeaky Clean. You should have heard the fuss my son made, but I made a very thorough job of his mouth-washing despite that even - towards the end - soaping up the bath brush with Squeaky Clean and demonstrating how useful good sturdy bristles could be in cleansing a dirty mouth. When it was done, and I finally allowed Stuart to rinse his red mouth, I decided that his fussing had earned him something in addition. So I gently placed his sopping wet little boy, over my lap and spanked his fanny red with my bath brush.

I’ll tell you one thing, Michael Taylor has a son with very good lungs!

D.A.D.s prepared all the meals for their sons, as part of their nurturance, but I often had Stuart work right alongside me, helping with the meal, which Stuart enjoyed a lot. Domestic moments, preparing food, did as much to bring Stuart into acceptance and appreciation of our roles as his not infrequent excursion to the wonderful world of Daddy’s lap!

A D.A.D. always supervised homework and studying. It had been proven that these attentions not only demonstrated good modeling of important values, but were excellent discipline and training sessions. Like all D.A.D. trained fathers, I always balanced work with recreation, but if Stuart did not concentrate or wasted time or got unduly temperamental about doing his work, I punished him. Punishment during homework time, in our home, meant that Stuart was undressed by me, placed across my lap with his wrists tied together, and given a good whipping with a nice little switch I kept for just that purpose. My son had learned more than one lesson in history and mathematics with a tear-streaked face and a cheerily striped behind.

When we weren’t working, Stuart and I enjoyed swimming at the pool which was part of the D.A.D. residential complex, riding our bicycles through the dome, or playing cards. Both of us loved to play cards. Some of my friends had teased me about this and said, "Sure, go ahead, Michael, turn the kid into a gambler."

Before bed, I always read to Stuart and. afterwards, I liked to sit in Stuart’s room in a rocking chair, and smoke my pipe, while Stuart fell asleep. At first, Stuart felt self-conscious about going to sleep while I sat there smoking and rocking quietly by the side of his bed, but my boy soon found, as I knew he would, that my quiet presence made him feel incredibly secure. The quiet creaking of the rocker and the gentle puffing of one of my favorite briars, filled my son with a sense of his father’s strong presence and Stuart’s sleep was deep and untroubled.

I am an avid pipe-smoker. Since regular tobacco had been made illegal and a harmless vegetable synthetic had been developed, most D.A.D.s were now smokers. Cigars and pipes were a common sight and many boys associated their D.A.D. with his pipe and pipe paraphernalia along with his cigar humidor. I occasionally enjoyed a good cigar, but as far as I’m concerned there is nothing as relaxing for a man as a good pipe.

Stuart was fascinated by my pipes and pipe accessories. He would watch in rapt attention as I cleaned or packed one of my pipes from my ‘tobacco’ pouch or jar. Stuart seemed to study my face when I poised a match over the bowl of my pipe and contemplatively puffed it until the tobacco was glowing.

Once or twice, I had come upon Stuart with one of my pipe’s in his hand or standing in front of a mirror playing ‘daddy’ with the pipe stuck it in the corner of his mouth. He had hastily replaced it in the rack when he was aware of my presence and always smiled playfully as if to say, "I was just playing, Daddy." I would put my hands on my hips and arch an eyebrow and him warning. BOYS WERE NOT ALLOWED TO SMOKE! "And you know what Daddy will do, son, if he ever catches you!"

One afternoon when Stuart came home from school, he found a message that I’d left on the dining room table. It said:

"Son, our car is having starter problems, so I will bring it to the

mechanical area. I’ll bring supper home with me. There’s a

snack waiting for you in the refrigerator and DO YOUR HOME-

WORK before anything else."

I had used my switch, instead of a paperweight, to anchor the note to the table. I think the implication was clear....Don’t you?

Stuart apparently started his work with his least favorite subject, Math! Stuart had little head for Math and it was always a struggle for him. The numbers swam across the page and Stuart got distracted. He would much rather be doing reading or working on a writing assignment or something for history. Numbers were boring as far as my son was concerned. But he knew that I placed a good deal of importance on this subject (also, not my favorite) and that I expected him to work at it.

What I discovered much later, in a very long Father-son talk that I had with Stuart (not the clearest dialogue since the boy was hiccuping and sobbing almost continuously) was that Stuart had done several problems, come across a really hard one, and allowed himself to be distracted. If his old Dad would have been at hand, one or two brisk salutations from the switch would have quickly called Stuart back to task, but without that aid, my son’s distractibility soon turned to mischief.

"I.....I...(hiccup)...just wanted to try it!" Stuart later told me, as he squirmed on my knee.

"IT"...was, of course, one of my smoking pipes.

My son took a pipe from the rack over the mantel and clumsily packed it from my tobacco jar. Then (and to be honest this part tickles me), Stuart sat down in my leather reclining chair and tried to light the pipe. From the number of matches I found on the floor and in the ashtray, he had no easy time doing this, but he eventually got it going and sat back to imitate Dad having a good relaxing smoke.

It was at that moment that I arrived home.

In the manner of all boys caught in a misdeed, Stuart jumped up fumbling with my pipe, and began to stammer an incoherent string of excuses.

"I was just.......I found the pipe.......I wanted to see how the tobacco......"

I took in the situation at a glance and response was, as it should have been, immediate.

"You were ‘just’ were you," I said very angrily. "Well I’ll ‘just’ you!"

I strode over to Stuart and pushed him back into my recliner.

"You want to smoke, son? You’ll smoke!" I thundered. "Here, give me that!"

I took the pipe from Stuart’s trembling hand and lifted the tobacco jar from the shelf.

"First you have to learn how to pack a pipe properly," I said. I tapped the small amount of tobacco that Stuart had clumsily pressed into the bowl into my palm. Then I dipped the pipe into the jar and thumbed a bowl and a quarter worth of tobacco into the pipe. Stuart’s eyes bulged when the pipe appeared again and he saw the ‘mound’ of tobacco rising in a perfectly compacted ‘hill’ out of the bowl.

"Here," I said, "bite down." I inserted the pipe stem in my son’s mouth, and he clamped his molars down on it. I knew it would be heavy from the amount of tobacco I had loaded in it, and the pipe wiggled insecurely in Stuart’s teeth. (It was hard not to laugh at the boy’s discomfiture.)

"Now," I said, "you’re going to smoke every shred of this tobacco, and when it’s done you’re going to smoke two more nice pipefuls. After that, I suspect you’ll have need for a little something I’ve got for you in the bathroom!"

I struck a match against my thumbnail and then held it poised over the generous heap of tobacco rising from the pipe.

"SUCK IN!" I commanded, and Stuart (with tears starting to form in his wide eyes) started to suck.

The tobacco began smoking immediately, as it should when it’s packed by experienced fingers, and smoke clouded from the bowl and from my son’s mouth. Stuart coughed and tried to remove the pipe from his mouth.

I put my own hand over Stuart’s and pressed the pipe back into his mouth.

"Oh no, son," I said, "you haven’t even got your pipe properly lit yet. Suck in, boy! Suck in!"

I continued to hold the match over the pipe bowl and Stuart had little choice. In order to breathe, he had to puff, and as he puffed and puffed and puffed, clouds of smoke filled the room and Stuart gasped, choked and tears (half from distress/ half from choking) ran down his face.

"Guh....(puff).....Da...ad....(puff).....(cough).....please."

"What, son? What? You wanted to smoke, so SMOKE!"

Stuart smoked all right! He puffed away at that first bowlful in the completely unrelaxed manner which I intended him to have. The vegetable synthetic we smoked wasn’t harmful as the original material had been, but smoking was still not a good thing for a kid to do, and I was determined that my son’s taste for it be killed dead.

When the tobacco had pretty much smoldered away, I took the pipe from Stuart’s mouth and repacked it.

"Please, daddy," Stuart said, he looked none too steady around the mouth, "I....I don’t...."

"What?" I asked. "You don’t want to smoke? That can’t be right, because that’s what you were doing after I told you not to. And I want you to have the full experience. Now, Open Up!"

I jammed the pipe back into Stuart’s mouth and struck another match. Miserably, Stuart began puffing, and I must admit that it was hard to continue with the punishment. However, the D.A.D. training had helped us to understand that discipline frequently conflicted with natural paternal instincts to protect and that sometimes you had to move forward intellectually even as your emotions rebelled.

So, I stood over Stuart and made sure that he finished that pipe and a third. The third was really hard. Stuart got out of the leather recliner and actively tried to escape a third dose of the pipe.

"Daddy, I can’t smoke anymore," he said, taking my arm as I packed the pipe for the third time. "I don’t feel so good."

I knew that he hadn’t felt very good when he’d smoked the second pipe, but Stuart hadn’t made up his mind to admit it to me. As he faced yet another round of smoking, he had grown a lot more desperate.

"I’ve learned my lesson, dad," he said, trying to pull my hand out of the tobacco jar. "You don’t need to make me smoke anymore. It’s disgusting! I won’t ever be a smoker......I...."

"Stuart," I said firmly, "you go back over and sit down in that chair. I said you were going to smoke three pipes and you are going to smoke three pipes. Now, sit down while you still can!"

Stuart heard the determination in my voice and saw the steel in my eye. With a single tear streaming down his face and a last appeal of "Daaaaad!" he plunked back down in the recliner.

I was soon standing over him, getting ready to insert the pipe in his mouth much as I had inserted a thermometer in his rectum when he had gotten the flu.

"Sit back, son," I said in false congeniality. "A good pipe should be savored, and I took extra pains with this for you." Stuart saw what I meant. This was the largest bowlful so far and his teeth actually chattered as they closed on the stem of the pipe.

"Do it right, boy," I said, "draw in good and deep. It insures that your tobacco is properly lit and that you’re going to have a nice, deep smoke."

I’d read about people turning ‘green’ but I’d never seen it until Stuart ‘drew in good and deep.’ All the skin around his mouth went deathly pale with a definite green undertone. His eyes were red-rimmed and although he didn’t cough, the smoke wisped from his mouth in a sickly little plume.

I patted my son’s head. "Good boy, son, now you’re learning how to smoke like a Man!"

Then it happened! Stuart threw the pipe to the floor and catapulted out of the recliner. He was down the hall and in the bathroom in a second, with me right behind him.

I held his forehead as he was noisily and prodigiously sick into the toilet. Afterwards I washed his face and he was completely restored. I hated to carry the punishment any further, but I knew that boys soon forget a little vomiting and unless he had a completely negative association, Stuart would soon be toying around with my pipe collection again.

"I’m sorry you got sick, son," I said, sitting down on the toilet seat and drawing Stuart down on my knee. He sat quietly, but looked very, very uncomfortable. "But you really brought it on yourself. Smoking isn’t healthy for a growing boy, and I have to do something now to flush any residuals out of your system."

Stuart moved as if to get up from my knee, but my arm around his waist forced him to keep his seat in Dad’s lap.

"I’m going to physic you, Stuart," I said. "And anytime that you smoke, you can expect the same. Now I want you to open the medicine chest and bring me the bottle of ‘D.A.D.’s Special Castor Oil.’ It’s on the second shelf, and bring the spoon that’s up there too."

Sniffling and shifting from foot-to-foot, Stuart did as he was told and handed me the bottle and the spoon.

"Now, I’m going to take off your pants and underwear," I said. "You won’t be needing them for the rest of the day."

"Why, Dad? Why?" Stuart asked nervously.

"Because you’re going to need to use the toilet in a very serious way. Now take off your shoes and socks and then come over here and let me undress you."

Stuart was crying quietly as he took off his shoes and socks and got noisier when he had to stand between my legs and I undid his pants and removed them for him. I gave him a quick wallop on his bare bottom.

"Stop making so much noise, son," I scolded. "I’m doing this for your own good."

I pulled down Stuart’s underpants, removed them, and then told him to fold his pants and put his underpants in the hamper. Then he was to come back and resume his seat on my knee.

D.A.D. training teaches that the manner in which discipline is administered is possibly more important than the discipline itself. The formality of having a boy follow your explicit directions, of seating him in your lap, or holding him across your knee, all serves to strip away the boy’s sense of control.

In a young adolescent, especially, this loss of personal freedom or body freedom, is important in behavior modification. More than anything, young boys strive for independence, and learning that misbehavior takes away that liberty is a greater deterrent than a hopping red hiney.

I held Stuart securely on my knee and methodically poured a heaping spoonful of ‘D.A.D.’s Special Castor Oil.’ It was thick stuff that slid slowly down a boy’s throat, and Stuart’s nose wrinkled with distaste as he saw the viscous fluid ooze from the bottle onto the spoon.

"Open wide, son, and take your medicine!"

"Dad, please don’t make me..." Stuart whined.

"Open your mouth, boy," I said, "or I’ll put a funnel gag in your mouth and pour this directly down your throat."

Stuart opened his mouth, and I inserted the spoon and slowly tipped its content down the back of Stuart’s mouth. The boy’s reflexes took over and he swallowed and swallowed the thick castor oil uttering a moan of misery as he did so.

I patted Stuart’s back, really trying to support him even as I punished him, and felt him shiver as the taste and sensation of the castor oil passed through his body.

I’ve told you that Stuart combined stubborn temperament with sensitivity. Never had I seen it play out as interestingly as during the dosing of the boy with the castor oil. Despite his misery and fearfulness, not to mention the sensations that had to be coursing through his body, Stuart made some instant decision to try and ‘brave-it-out.’ I knew how quickly ‘D.A.D.’s Special Castor Oil’ worked, but Stuart tried to assume an air of calm.

"Can I get up Dad?" he asked me.

"If you like," I said.

Stuart got off of my knee and tried to appear as casual as a boy naked from the waist down can appear.

I said nothing, but watched him try to stand there and look unassuming. I could almost see his stomach undulating from under his short t-shirt.

"I’m okay," he told me.

"Mmm," I said.

"That wasn’t so bad," he said.

"Um-hm," I responded.

"What’s supposed to happen?" he said with bravado.

"What do you think is supposed to happen?" I asked back.

Stuart’s face contorted as a cramp hit him, but he controlled it and even tried to smile as beads of sweat broke out on his forehead.

"I don’t know," he lied.

"Well then," I said, "I think you ought to go back and get to work on that math homework I saw on the table."

"Can I have.....(another cramp)......can I have my pants?" Stuart asked doubtfully (I don’t believe he wanted them himself).

"No," I said. I took his arm and walked him out of the bathroom and down the hallway.

We hadn’t taken more than ten steps when Stuart jerked back against my pull.

"What’s wrong, son?" I asked innocently.

Stuart was leaning against the wall. Sweat ran down his face.

"I....." he started.

I pulled him along for a few more steps. "You’ll go back to the table," I said, "and sit down and finish that homework."

Stuart jerked against me again, and this time his eyes were opened very, very wide.

"I think I......"

"What son? What do you think?"

Stuart didn’t answer. He was working on an internal problem, and I knew what it was. Then he solved it.

Nearly falling over, and with a very unpleasant rivulet starting down his leg, Stuart pinwheeled out of my grip and back into the bathroom.

The poor kid! I stood over him as he sat doubled over on the toilet seat while ‘D.A.D.’s Special Castor Oil’ did it’s thorough work.

While it was happening, I made use of the experience to drive my points home to my son. I lifted his head and looked into his cramp-wracked face.

"Are you ever going to mess with my pipes again?" I demanded.

"Uuuh!" Stuart grunted. "Noooo, Dad, oooh! "

I held his forehead and kept his face upturned. "So you think smoking is cool?" I asked relentlessly.

"Oh, daddy, no......no, it isn’t. Please."

Still I kept him looking at me.

"And what will Daddy do if he finds out that you’ve been smoking?"

Stuart blubbered miserably, "You’ll make me smoke mo......more (ugh!)....and make me take......Oooooh!....make me take....castor oil."

I released Stuart’s head and he slumped foreward.

I had considered concluding the discipline with a short spanking, but Stuart would never have survived it. He hadn’t enough strength, when the castor oil had finished taking its course, to wipe his own bottom. Well, what is a dad for if he can’t help his son wipe himself. So, I moistened some toilet paper and gently cleaned Stuart’s red, swollen anus. The boy wailed when I wiped him and tried to get away, but I held him securely under my arm and made sure that his small hole was completely clean. I even had to use an alcohol swap to ensure that there would be no infection, and it was good that I had Stuart securely in my embrace, because he bellowed and bucked like a colt when I rubbed out his little asshole with that alcohol.

I rubbed in a little skin oil after the swab and Stuart’s little pucker opened wide to receive that soothing lubricant. I gently inserted one well-oiled finger so that it’s soothing quality would be felt in Stuart’s sore interior as well as exterior. The boy sighed with relief at this ministrations!

I carried Stuart into his bedroom and let him sleep for an hour (he needed it) before waking him up to finish his homework and have supper.

Such is a young nineteen year old’s resiliancy, that by the time we sat down to eat, he was chattering away to me about school as if he hadn’t been sweating and groaning only an hour before.

"There’s going to be band concert next week. Will you come, Dad?" Stuart asked excitedly.

"Wouldn’t miss it, son," I said smiling.

Stuart wriggled a little in his seat, and there was a funny little ‘pat-pat’ sound as his bare bottom moved over chair. My heart filled with love for this boy who was my son.

Stuart must have seen the look on my face, because he suddenly got serious and said, "You really like me, Dad?"

I grinned at my son. "I love you, Stuart," I said.

He grinned back. "I have a solo!" he said.

"I can’t wait to hear it," I replied.

(to be continued)