dadearns5

My D.A.D. Earns His Hairbrush - Part 5

Then, one day my dad - that is my D.A.D. - came to fetch me. My Big Brother and I were having a quiet evening ‘playing’ in bed, when there was a knock on the door. Well, it was really more than a knock - it was a pound.

We disengaged, and Max grabbed his robe - pulled it on - and went to the door. I couldn’t see the door from the bed, but I could hear the conversation well enough. It was loud.

"Mr. Heller?" Max said.

"That’s right, young man. I’m Dan Heller, and I’ve come for my boy, Andy."

"Uh, look, Mr. Heller. It’s pretty late, and Andy is asleep. Why don’t you let me bring him to you to.....oof!"

Heavy footsteps came down the hall and a D.A.D. suddenly appeared in the doorway. It wouldn’t be true to say that my father was unrecognizable, but he certainly was hard to recognize.

The drugs that, along with strenuous physical exercise, build dads into D.A.D.s, had done a profound job with my father. He was ENORMOUS!

"SON!" he roared from the doorway. He grinned and flashed the whitest teeth I’d ever seen. Then in three steps he crossed to the bed and yanked the covers off of me.

He seemed completely unsurprised to see me butt naked and only grinned even more broadly.

"My little boy," he beamed scooping me up in his arms as though I were seven years old. He held me in front of him and sort of ‘tossed’ me up and down effortlessly. He held me under the armpits (which really doesn’t feel wonderful when you weight 130 lbs.), dangling a two feet off the ground. Then he pulled me to him and kissed me hard on the lips and hugged me to his chest. The breathe left my lungs and my dick was squashed against Daddy’s rock hard tummy.

My 5’8" daddy had achieved at least an additional foot along with the physique of Hercules. He clearly took pride in his new torso, because he didn’t choose to cover it up much. He was only wearing a pair of blue jeans and boots.

Then he shifted me to the traditional one-arm-under-the-butt carry hold reserved for five year olds, and carried me out of the bedroom.

"My clothes!" I hollered.

My D.A.D. looked at me, grinned again and then gave a bellowing laugh. Something I said had been amusing?? What?

As he made for the door, Big Brother Max tried to talk reason to him.

"Mr. Heller, hold on. Let me get Andy’s clothes! You can’t take him out naked!"

D.A.D. turned and looked at Andy from his incredible height and said, "Turn around, bend over, and grab your ankles, Boy!"

The words of a D.A.D. were law, and - with a red face - Max did as he was told. My D.A.D. took a quick measure of Andy’s robe covered backside, then he reached out and took hold of the hem of Max’ robe. Holding it between thumb and forefinger, he lifted it up and laid it across Max’ back, complete baring his butt.

Then D.A.D. made his hand paddle-flat and brought his arm back like a righteous paddle. The next second he swung it in a full 180 degree arc and gave Max a tremendous, reverberating CRACK across his backside then sent him flying down the hall with a brand on his ass that flashed forth like a beacon.

Max only grunted, which was really stoic of him, and pressed his hands to his seared backside.

"Max!" I called out.

"Quiet, son," D.A.D. said, "daddy knows best, now I’m taking you home."

From my odd point of view, over my D.A.D.’s shoulder, I had a final glimpse of my D.A.D.’s signature on my Big Brother’s behind before I was carried out of the Townhouse.

Although it was nearly eleven at night, there were enough men and boys moving about so that my nakedness did not go unappreciated.

Even in the male environment of the Island dome, where bare-bottomed spankings were daily public occurance, it was still most unusual to see a bare and hairy-chested D.A.D. carrying an eighteen year old boy (even it was his own son) in his arms like a baby.

By the time the transport came and picked us up in front of the Townhouse, I had nearly given up pleading with my father to put me down.

"Dad, let me down, please. I promise I won’t go anywhere. Just let me down."

"No, Andy. No, son. I like carrying you, you’re my little boy aren’t you. ("I guess I was his little boy if contrasts count for anything.") And I haven’t seen you in a long time. Oh, son, I’ve learned so much; I’m going to be a real father to you now; I’m going to make up for everything you’ve missed."

On the transport, my dad did not take a seat, but stood up, holding onto a safety strap, and continuing to carry me effortlessly.

Two other D.A.D.s, who were sharing our ride, whispered to each other and looked as if they were considering coming over and talking to my father, but they didn’t.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Dad had a small house in a part of the dome that was designed to look like a small town suburb. Of course, this was much more attractive than any suburb I had ever seen, because so much planning had gone into its appearance.

A beautiful green common was in the center of the town and streets radiated away from that with beautiful vistas. Each house had a large, generous tract of land, and there were parks and lakes and forests path and bike paths and baseball diamonds and playgrounds strategically placed. It looked a little like heaven.

For me it was going to be a lot more like hell - the kind of Hell that is pictured by German artists with a more than a little sado-masochism in their palette.

The transport left us off right in front of our house and it was only then the dad put me down. He didn’t release me, however, because the minute my bare feet touched our front lawn, dad took my hand and ‘walked me’ down the path and up the steps to our front porch.

"Look, son," dad said, "we’ve got a beautiful glider. In the evenings, we can sit out here and I can smoke my pipe while you play."

"Smoke your pipe!" I exclaimed. "Since when did you smoke a pipe?"

My Olympian father laughed and a million of his super muscles flexed. "All dads smoke a pipe, son," he said, as though it really were common knowlede.

"It’s late! Let me show you your room, then I think I’ll give you a bath and put you to bed."

"Say what?l!" I said.

Dad had my hand again, and it felt disturbingly pixilated in his huge, hairy mitt.

Inside, I saw a beautiful and (I have to admit) cozy-looking living room to my left and a spacious dining room to my right.

Instead of showing me around the house, or just letting me explore on my own, daddy ‘took’ his little boy upstairs and showed me my room. It was a beautifully decorated room......for a twelve year old. There were several bookshelves and a desk. There was a computer table (I liked that!), but the walls had been decorated with sports pennants and posters of kid sci-fi films. My room back home had been nothing like this. Could this be a result of the D.A.D. training?

Then I saw what was laid out on the bed. It was a one piece pajama with feet and (you guessed it already didn’t you) a button-up seat in the back.

"I’m not wearing this!" I said immediately. "You must have regular pajamas, or I’ll sleep in underwear."

"Andy, I don’t like your tone, son," dad said quietly, but he was frowning. "When daddy tells you what to wear, you wear it! Or daddy will put you in it and give you something you won’t like into the bargain."

‘Daddy’ didn’t wait for me to offer a rebuttal, he had my hand again and took me to a large bathroom. Unbelievably, he actually sat me on the toilet seat while he started running a bath.

"Dad, why are you doing this?" I asked. "Why are you treating me like I was ten. I’m eighteen, remember?"

"That’s the problem, Andy," dad said, putting a large fluffy towel by the side of the tub and drawing a little chair up the bathtub. "You went past your rightful childhood into a pattern of behavior that got you into trouble. I’m taking you back to where you can just relax and depend on your daddy and be a little boy again."

"I can’t be a little boy again," I argued. "Big Brother Max didn’t expect me to be a kid. He just...." I couldn’t go on. How could I explain the complexity of my relationship with my Big Brother.

"C’mon son, hop into the tub and I’ll give you a nice bath."

"I can wash myself!" I said.

Dad’s face changed in an instant. His eyebrows arched and furled menacingly and the muscles along his massive arms tensed. He reached out, took me under the arms again, picked me up and put me in the tub.

I started to resist, but dad reached to the side of the sink and took a large, wicked-looking wooden hairbrush into his fist and brandished it meaningfully.

"You just calm down, young man," dad said, "or I’ll use this on your rump until you don’t care any more. Actually, I think you need a taste of it right now."

Dad picked up the fluffy towel and drapped it over his denim-clad thighs. Then he hoisted me out of the tub and, despite my struggles, draped me across his lap. One arm, across my back, held me down while the other held the ‘instrument of torture.’

"Little boys that don’t obey their daddies get the hairbrush," dad said, and he started spanking me.

"Ow, dad, please don’t! Stop!" I cried, shocked by the intense pain that the hairbrush produced.

My father was incredibly strong, perhap stronger than he knew himself, and each WHACK! of the brush not only burned, but bruised. After ten as- pounding spanks, I was bellowing and trying to reach back and cover myself. Dad caught my hand in his and held it in place at the small of my back.

"You are a naughty little boy, Andrew," dad said spanking away with the hairbrush, "and daddy is going to make your little fanny very, very sore."

"Aaah! Dad! I won’t argue! Please (sob). Daddy, please!"

My pleas were in vain for about another five minutes. Then dad lifted me up and put me back, sobbing, in the tub.

The bathwater might have felt good to my rear end, which was oddly numb at the same time as it burned, except that the water was too hot.

"Shit!" I said, as I made contact.

"WHAT?!" my dad said. "What did you say, little boy?"

Dad didn’t wait for an answer. He grabbed a washrag, plunged it in the water and lathered it with a large bar of soap.

One of his hands closed on my neck, while the foamy washrag was shoved into my mouth. My D.A.D. began vigorously washing out my mouth with the soapy cloth. I grabbed at the hand that was soaping my mouth and held it, but my hands were only dragged along in the washing motion.

While I retched and tried to keep breathing, my father worked the soapy cloth all around the inside of my mouth. He scrubbed the top of my mouth, the inside of my cheeks and then he let go of my neck and pinched my nose. With my mouth wide open, and my hands still trying to hold his, he scrubbed my teeth with the soap, just as though it was toothpaste.

"You have a nasty, dirty mouth, son, but dad will get it nice and clean," my father said.

He took the cloth out of my mouth, and I began frantically to rinse my mouth with the bath water. I should have paid attention to what dear old D.A.D. was up to, because he wasn’t done with the mouth washing yet.

While I was frantically rinsing, dad had taken up the bar of soap and worked it in his hands until they were creamy and filled with foam. Then D.A.D. caught hold of my nose again and reached into my mouth. His hand, thick with soap, firmly took hold of my tongue. I choked, but dad was very determined to scrub my mouth thoroughly. He held the length of my tongue, at least as far as he could make it extend, in his hand and manipulated it until it was coated with soap. Then, using his fingers this time, set about a second even more thorough washing of my mouth.

Dad ran his big fingers under my lips and all along my gums, leaving them foamy with soap. He soaped every part of my mouth and teeth and then said, "RINSE!"

My mouth tasted as though it had acid in it and I unceremoniously plunged my head, and open mouth, under the water to try and get rid of the taste as quickly as I could.

When I surface I was shocked to see dad waiting, his face firm and resolute, with the bar of soap in his fist.

"Open!" he said.

Tears streamed down my face, and I was about to protest, but I spotted the hairbrush out of the corner of my eyes and sobbing, I opened my mouth.

Dad inserted the bar of soap, two-third of the way in and said, "Now, close!"

I closed my lips over the acrid soap and my mouth (still bitter and burning) was flooded again with the unmistakable flavor of Ivory.

"Now you’ll keep the bar of soap in your mouth while I get a fresh bar and wash you good, and that will teach you to swear!"

Dad got up and left the room. I sat in the bathtub just like a little boy. Tears ran down my cheeks as I sat in the tub with a bar of soap in my mouth.

In another moment my father returned with a fresh bar and gave me my bath.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

That evening pretty much set the tone for ‘life with father.’ My new and ‘improved’ D.A.D.D.Y. was not just old-fashioned when it came to discipline, he was something new and unique.

My D.A.D.-trained father seemed to believe in the old saw about "an ounce of prevention," because he believed that if you spanked a boy daily, whether he deserved it or not, he would never do anything to really deserve it.

Therefore, every evening, before we had dinner, dad would take me by the hand and have me stand in a corner of his bedroom. While I stood there, dad would take down my pants and briefs and then sit in a chair and smoke his ‘pipe’ and talk about my upcoming spanking.

I could tell that dad had decided that smoking a pipe was in keeping with his new image as a D.A.D., because it was pretty much a constant part of his appearance. He had a pipe in the morning, one after lunch, and several bowl-fulls in the evening. He also made it a general rule to puff while he spanked me.

While I did bare-bottom corner time, Dad - as I’ve said - would smoke and talk about my spanking-to-come.

"Son, you don’t know how lucky you are. If a father doesn’t spank his son, then he doesn’t really love him. And I love the hell out of you."

I wondered if someone would wash pop’s mouth out with soap for saying "hell?"

"In a few minutes, I’ll put you in my lap and give your little bottom a good going over with my hairbrush and you know what, son? When you’re laying across my knee, feeling my hand holding you close to me, and feel my old hairbrush doing a good job on your bottom, you’ll know that you’ve got a dad who cares."

‘If I had been working your tail over regularly before we came to the Island, you might have turned out differently. Now, I’ve got to make up for lost time. Damn it, son, sometimes I think that I’m still not attentive enough. Maybe I oughtta give you a morning and evening licking. What do ya think, son?"

"No, dad, please. I’m learning fine this way. You don’t need to spank me at all."

"Oh, that’s what I was afraid of," dad said, getting up pipe in mouth and coming to take me out of my corner, "you just haven’t learned your lesson yet, son. You don’t understand."

Then, while I began crying in expectation of what I was ‘about to receive,’ I was brought over to my father’ chair and laid gently, lovingly, in his lap and spanked with his hairbrush until my cries reverberated through the house.

Only when my bottom was deeply reddened would dad stop his spanking, and then it was more crying in the corner while he smoked yet another pipe.

Things might have been different if I had continued going to school. I would have compared notes with other boys and found out how different their lives were with their D.A.D. dads, but my father had filled out papers allowing him to give me home-schooling. So my life was pretty much circumscribed by my D.A.D.’s interpretation of the ideal father-son relationship.

As time went on, I began to get more and more nervous. Along with my ritualistic before-supper-spanking, dad found other reasons to give me punishment spankings. Frequently, there happened during the home schooling sessions when I didn’t learn things quickly enough or my written work wasn’t neat enough to get dad’s approval. Generally, I would get another dose of the hairbrush when that happened, but dad didn’t always use the brush. He started becoming more innovative and drastic.

Once, when he declared a piece of creative writing to be vulgar, dad tied me over a chair and whipped my backside with a strap until it was purple. Not only was I unable to sit for four days, but I could scarsely walk for a day.

On another occasion, when I was struggling with physics, dad threatened to "tan my backside" if I didn’t apply myself. I was such a nervous wreck by this time, that I lost it. I threw my book across the room and started screaming.

"I can’t stand it anymore! I’ve got to get out of here!"

"That’s it, young man," dad said. "You see how much you need my discipline."

Dad hauled off and punched me in the stomach knocking me unconscious. When I woke up, I found that I was naked and tied to dad’s bed. My arms and legs were spread like an X and tied to the four corners of the bed. While I struggled to get free, dad suddenly came into the room with a long stick in his hand. He had a jar of vaseline too and was coating one end of the stick with the vaseline.

"You need special help, Andy," dad said. "I’ve tried to be agood father and bring you around, but I see that you need very, very special help."

Dad climbed onto the bed with me and began stroking my bottom. He gently parted my buttocks cheeks and worked some of the lubricant into my asshole.

"This is going to hurt, Andy," dad said, and he pressed the stick against my rectum and began twisting it in.

I did hurt! It hurt a lot! I screamed and struggled, but dad pressed me down with one hand and continued to work the stick up into my ass.

"This is an electric rod, Andrew, and daddy is going to start giving you daily shock treatments. You need it, son, you really do. You just aren’t getting with the program."

My screams were pretty much non-stop, and I guess dad didn’t enjoy it, because he suddenly produced a handkerchief and tied it around my lips.

"There, son, that’s better," he said. "Now here’s the first treatment."

I gave one silent scream as I awaited the jolt that would certainly rip me apart, but it didn’t come.

There was a crash and a very quick, very confusing scene as a group of men suddenly poured into the bedroom.

Several of them, five to be exact, got hold of dad and pulled him away from me. I could hear him bellowing, "Stop! Stop! I’ve got to give my son his treatment; he’s not getting with the program." And then dad was gone, removed from the apartment and - for what would be a very long time - from my life.

Then Big Brother Max was next to me, gently working the rod out of my backside and rubbing my back at the same time. He untied the gag and brushed the wet hair out of my face while two other men untied my hands and feet.

"Andy, are you okay," my Big Brother said over and over again. He gathered me into his arms and held me, while I sobbed half from relief and half from terror, into his chest.

"It only happened once before, as far as I know," Andy was saying as he stroked the back of my head, "that someone went through the D.A.D. training and came out like your father. Nothing’s perfect. I’m so sorry it had to happen to you, Andy."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I live with my Big Brother Max now, and you can guess that I’m happy. My Big Brother explained that he had tried to get my dad investigated after that first night when he came to get me the way he did, but that it wasn’t easy to accuse a D.A.D. of misconduct; it would be easier after this.

My dad is being retrained. If he can be successfully reconditioned then he will come and get me some day, but my Big Brother will be with us. Max, according to the laws of the Island, has filed to become my legal guardian, and I was happy to be his ward.

Big Brothers, like D.A.D.s believe in strict discipline, so I spend some time across my Big Bros lap getting a good ass warming, but the difference is the love and understanding that goes with it. My Big Brother is teaching me about Discipline and Devotion. Whether I’m lying across his knees or in his arms, I learn my lessons very, very well.

THE END