newdad1

A New D.A.D. - Part 1

Part One: Pre-Training Dad

My name is Gene, and I’ll be nineteen in a couple of weeks. A good piece of writing is supposed to let the reader know the main idea in the first paragraph, so here it is. This is about me, my dad and spanking. If this were one of those multiple choice reading tests, the first question might be:

Choose a good title for this piece of writing:

(a) Gene Gets a D.A.D. Dad

(b) A Boy Is Introduced to Spanking

(c) A Boy’s Side, a Father’s Side and the Backside

After you read this, I’ll be curious to see which title you choose.

Maybe this is helping you too much, but in a way this is an account of how my life changed when my dad (I guess I should say ‘father’ to make it easier to differentiate between dad and D.A.D.) went for D.A.D. training

As anybody who ever went to school knows, the D.A.D. ‘project’ was an attempt to restore order to society and save the planet. Teams of doctors, psychiatrists and scientists put the program together after years of research, and millions of men volunteered for the training. The D.A.D. (Discipline and Devotion) project produced wonderful results. D.A.D. men were amazing specimens. Not only were they incredibly big and strong, a result of the medical treatments that were part of the program, but they were leaders in every sense of the word. They seemed to combine a genuine sensitivity about, and for, people with an informed and intellectual approach to problem-solving. They worked phenomenally well with one another and with other people as well. At the same time, they were basic men, very in touch with their natural instincts, and unafraid to follow them.

What does all of this have to do with Spanking? You know it does based on my little multiple choice question, right? The psychiatrists, scientists and ‘brain-trust’ men who worked on the project figured out a lot of things about behavior and why our planet was in the kind of trouble it was in. What they come up with were a couple of ideas; none of them really new, but they had never been strung together before. These are what they were:

- People had two sides to them; the Logical and the Animal.

- The logical side responded to reason, but the animal side usually didn’t.

- Spanking had evolved naturally from an innate understanding that the animal side responded to more direct contact (like a Hairbrush and your Bare Bottom).

- Used most efficaciously, spanking created the most intimate of bonds between the administrator and the recipient

- Spanking by itself, or administered without the D.A.D. component of ‘Devotion,’ was ineffective in changing behavior.

About fifty years ago, the whole D.A.D. (Discipline and Devotion) movement went globe-wide. The kind of facilities that used to be available only on the ‘famous’ Islands were built in every major city on the planet and were now available to a much larger number of men. Priority was given to government officials and family men.

The training is physical, psychological and medical and takes a number of months to complete. You probably also know that they’re considering an M.O.M. program, but it’s still in the planning stages.

My place in the D.A.D. story doesn’t really start until I turned eighteen. My mom and dad were nice people; they had me pretty late in life (my older brother, Oliver is 27 with his own kids), and we all got along pretty well. That is until I turned fifteen.

Here, I guess, I ought to describe myself and give you some personality description. I’m 5’8" and still growing (I hope); I’m good looking enough to get some significant attention from people I want to pay attention to me. My hair is kind of chestnut brown and wavy; if I don’t keep it short, the front always falls in loops over my forehead.

My eyes are brown (dark brown) and my mom says I have ‘Bambi eyelashes!’ I hate Disney! I have a good body, but I don’t work at it, except for my swimming, and I work pretty hard at that!

I don’t like to read, and I don’t like to write but I’m good at math; I take after my father in that. I like hiking with my friends and having a few beers when I can get them (which I usually can). I smoke sometimes, but with the new vegetable tobacco no one makes a stink about it anymore. My parents hate it, even though my dad smokes a pipe.

I think I’m pretty easy-going, but my mom would not agree. She says that I’m only easy-going when I’m doing what I want to do, otherwise I’m a misery. That’s her favorite word for me - a misery! I love it.

I’m not sure I can write about all of this objectively, even though I’ve read a couple of books about adolescence in prep for this assignment, but I’ll do my best. When I turned fifteen, I got sick of my parents! There it is; that’s how I felt. The books say it’s a classic part of ego-development and unavoidable. The books say that it’s a time when parents have to be ‘walls of strength’ in order to provide structure and limits for someone who is losing those things. The books also say that a father’s role becomes even more significant during the adolescent and developing adulthood years, and I guess it’s true, but my parents were not prepared for it.

My mom dealt with me by saying the same old things over and over until it drove me up a wall. She couldn’t stand my room, or my music, or my own personal hygiene, and she had no respect for my space.

My father was, frankly - useless. He seemed disgusted with me, now that I wasn’t his ‘little’ boy anymore, and both scared of, and angry at, mom and her complaining about me. Mom was always ‘lying in wait’ for him when he came home and pounced on him to "...do something..." with me. She wanted dad to ‘straighten’ me out!

When she would come at him, he would start off trying to be calm, but that only made her angrier and soon they would be shouting at each other. "

"How come you have to dump all this shit on me the minute I walk in the house?" dad would yell.

"Why is Gene my responsibility?" my mother retaliated. "He’s your son, don’t you care about how he treats me?!"

...........And so on.

When they had screamed at each for awhile, dad finally reached a point where he would storm up to my room and ‘read me the riot act’. I have to say that there was something about dad’s anger that always got to me a little more seriously than mom’s. I mean it wasn’t like anything came of it, he always went away afterwards and tried to stay away, but when dad came into my room, he was really there! Sometimes, when he was really sore, he would get a certain look in his eyes and say, "Don’t get too big for your britches, young man; you’re not to old for a good old-fashioned hiding!" Those words always resonated with me, but - as I’ve said - dad wasn’t into following up.

I should describe my father a little, so you’ll see how drastic the change was after the D.A.D. training. My dad wasn’t a big man or particularly assertive. He was a C.P.A., about 5’9", and I’ll guess that he weighed about 180 lbs - with more than a little gut developing. His hair was charcoal gray and kind of thin, and he wore glasses. He was fifty-three years old when he decided that he’d had enough and went for the training.

I wish I could give you some really good turning point that would indicate how a mild-mannered reporter for the Daily Planet decided to become SuperD.A.D., but there wasn’t one. I guess things were just building up inside dad, and one day he came home and told us he was going.

My mom was both surprised and happy. In fact, it was the softest I’d seen her in a long time. She hugged and kissed dad as if he was about to do something incredibly nice to her (Of course, he Was!!), and helped him to pack.

He left very early the next morning, and I’ll never forget his parting words to me. I was still sleeping and dad came in and sat on the edge of my bed. I woke up when I felt his weight press the mattress down and gave him my usual, cheery morning greeting.

"What the fuck....!"

"Gene, I just came in to say goodbye, son. You know I’ll be away for three, maybe four months."

I was never good at marshaling myself ‘of a morning’ and I didn’t go out of my way now. "Yeah," I said. "Have a good time! Take care of yourself."

"I know things haven’t been so good between us, Gene, and I don’t like it."

I stirred uncomfortable under the quilt; I wished he just get the hell out already.

Instead, dad put his hand on my arm. "Remember how it was different when you were a little boy?"

I remembered.

"You were my little buddy, and we had a lot of fun, didn’t we?"

I shrugged.

"But I know now that I let you down in a lot of ways, and I’m hoping to make up for it. You need a D.A.D. in your life, son. A real D.A.D."

Don’t ask me how, but when he said ‘the word’ I knew he was saying it all in caps.

And with that, he left.

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

I’d like to, how do they put it, draw a veil over the next couple of months, but I guess you need at least a summary. Here it is: I was a complete shit and I drove my mother to a nervous collapse.

I guess my no-follow-through dad had more influence on me then my mom or I realized, because when he went out of the house, I really let loose. I stopped caring about my schoolwork and ‘hung out.’ I smoked more and drank a whole lot more; one night I came home so drunk that I just lay in the street vomiting while the neighbors ran for their binoculars.

I got into trouble for some unintelligent driving experiences, and was arrested for being in a place I shouldn’t have been (by law) doing things that my sex ed teacher had declared ‘dangerous and ill-advised.’

My mom tried grounding me, but I didn’t take her seriously. She had my grandparents appeal to me on the phone, and I was really sweet to them and threw them off the track.

Finally, one night, I came home to find my grandparents in the house and my mother out of it.

"Where’s mom?"

"Where you put her!" my grandmother said, clasping and unclasping her hands.

"Your mother had to get away, Gene," my grandfather said, he looked a lot like dad and it made me feel bad. "She’s on the verge of a nervous collapse trying to keep up with your shenanigans."

"What ‘verge,’ she’s had a nervous collapse," my grandmother said, almost hysterically. "She’s had a collapse and now she’s in the hospital."

"She’s not sick, Gene," my grandfather said, sternly, but not unkindly, "not physically. She checked herself in to the Gilhallen Pavilion because she knows she needs help and probably some medication."

"She doesn’t need medication; you need medication," my grandmother screamed at med (maybe she needed some too)!! "You need medication and you need something else......"

I turned to my grandfather who was shaking his head. He looked like he knew what I needed and was debating whether he was young enough and strong enough to give it to me.

Okay.....there was no turning point to when my dad left for the D.A.D. training, but here’s the turning point, right now.

THE NEXT MORNING MY FATHER CAME HOME!! (How’s that?!)

Part Two: Post-Training D.A.D.

They say, in life, that timing is everything. The way it worked out the next morning was a case in point.

It was Saturday, and I planned on doing my usual sleep-in until 1:00 p.m. However, my grandmother had decided that with mom undergoing therapy and god-knows-what-kind of pharmaceutical care, she was going to turn things around.

So, at 10:00 a.m. she got my grandfather to knock on my bedroom door. Bad Move!

Grandpa sat on my bed (like dad had done when he’d left) and put his hand on my arm (like dad had done) and spoke to me quietly and politely.

"Gene, your grandmother wants you to get up and get dressed; she’s making a beautiful breakfast."

I groaned. "God! I don’t eat breakfast." I ‘graced’ my grandfather by opening my eyes as wide as slits. "Look! I don’t eat breakfast. Tell grandma ‘thank you,’ but ‘no thank you.’"

I rolled over in a gesture which clearly meant, "Now get the fuck out! You are dismissed!"

Grandpa didn’t ‘get the fuck out,’ he tried to persevere and adopted a more authoritarian tone. "Gene, your grandmother’s gone to a lot of trouble to make us a nice breakfast and you need to show her your respect by getting dressed and coming down to eat it."

The tone in grandpa’s voice didn’t ‘not’ affect me; it did! But I was beyond tone....I was beyond reason. I followed my animal instincts and did what I knew what drive him crazy. I let him know that his authoritarian voice didn’t bother me.

"Look, I already told you, I don’t eat breakfast. Grandma should have asked me before she went to the trouble; I didn’t ask her to make it....."

And the bedroom door opened.

A MAN stood in the doorway and both my grandfather and I gaped at him.

"It smells good in this house," my father said, and he smiled.

It was my father, but it wasn’t the same man who had left a third of a year ago. I had heard about the physical training and seen other men who had undergone it. But I had never seen the BEFORE and AFTER. Now i t stood there before me.

Five feet, nine inches had miraculously stretched to 6’ 5". My father had grown two-thirds of a foot taller. And he was big. Although he was wearing a gray suit, similar in color to the one he had worn the day he left; he filled it entirely differently. Even in the suit, you could see how massive his shoulders and arms were, and his gut had vanished into a trim waist. His hair was still gray and thin, but it had been cut very close in an athletic/military style that went with the new ‘bod.’ He still wore glasses which meant that he must have refused the corrective surgery that could either banish glasses or correct your vision so proundly that you’d only need a light lens for extra support.

"Dad, why don’t you see if mom needs any help. Gene and I will be down in a while."

Still in a daze, my grandfather nodded at his newly remodeled son and left the room. Dad closed the door and came and stood by the side of the bed.

"I hear that your mother had to go away, son," the father said. "That’s not good, and we’ll have to deal with that. Right now, I’d like you to jump up and get dressed; you know your grandmother’s gone to a lot of trouble."

My mind was racing. How would I deal with this man? His size was intimidating; no doubt about it. But it was still just my dad. Mr. No Follow-Through.

I was going to sit up, but then I decided against it. That would be giving too much ground.

"Hey, dad, you look great!" (Give him that!) "Glad you’re back, but I just can’t get up. I’m cooked, I really am. I had a late night, you understand, and I need a little more shut-eye." I grinned, something I hadn’t offered my parents in a good while ( I thought it would be the clincher) and said, "You have a great breakfast, and I’ll catch ya later. Honest, ya look great!"

"Son, get out of that bed and get dressed and come down for breakfast," my father said. "If you don’t; I will take you out of the bed, give you the tanning you so richly deserve, dress you myself, and take you down to breakfast.....by the hand!"

Embarrassment, anger, frustration, assertiveness....they all rose up in me at once. Pure animal.....no reason.

"Look!" I shouted. "You’ve been away for three months doing your thing, and you think you can just walk in here ......"

That was all, baby. My D.A.D. never changed his expression; he wore a calm but firm look on his face, but he changed his position....and mine.

Dad sat down on the side of the bed (exactly where he’d sat before), jerked back the covers and grabbed me.

The room did a major spin as huge hands, backed with a shitload of muscle, lifted me up and through the fucking air. First I had a glimpse of dad’s face sailing by and then I was looking at the floor.

Dad’s legs were supporting my chest and crunching my usual morning hard-on, and his left hand was on my back pressing down.

His right hand!! Dad’s right hand was suddenly slipping into the waistband of my boxer shorts.

"Hey! Stop! What’re you doin’?" I shouted.

"I’m taking your pants down, Gene," dad said, and he did it. He dragged my shorts down over my butt, over my erect dick and left them looped around my knees. I was bare bottom on my dad’s lap. My dad had put my rear end on display for his own means, and there was nothing I could do about it.

Now, don’t think I just lay there and let him do that to me. No way. I struggled against his legs and that pressing hand for all I was worth and got nothing but gut-strain for my troubles. Dad was Mr. Muscle, and I couldn’t go anywhere.

"I’m going to spank you, Gene, good and hard. And I’m going to do it for three reasons...."

I tried to wriggle around some more, but dad just tucked me in a little closer to his stomach and his left arm wrapped around me like a metallic clamp.

"....the first reason is because you need it. You need it so bad that it’s hard to even think about. You’ve pushed the limits and broken through everyone efforts to offer you some control and now you’re out of control. It will be good and healthy for you to know that you aren’t out of control anymore. You’re in control......my control. The second reason is because you’ve treated your mother and your grandparents with disrespect. I won’t tolerate that, son. If you act disrespectfully, you can expect to find yourself across my knee with your backside paying the price. And it may not always be just with my hand, Gene.

‘Finally, I’m doing this because you’re my son and I love you more than life. I love you too much to let you go to hell and too much to let you slip away from me. That’s why I got the trainin, and I’m going to use it NOW!"

And Dad raised his hand and brought it down!

The sound of my father’s palm making contact with my bare backside literally reverberated through the room. The sound was, if possible, even more intense than the pain that followed. And that pain was intense!! I don’t think it could have hurt more if someone had pressed a white hot branding iron into my rear end, and it certainly wouldn’t have made any more of an impression. I could feel, almost see, my dad’s handprint rising up like a banner. I knew what the banner would say, "I CLAIM THIS LAND!"

CRACK!

Dad walloped me again, and my body jerked as much as it could. I clenched my teeth, but a gut sound escaped just the same.

CRACK!

His hand landed in the same spot, and I gave a little cry of pain.

CRACK!

Again in the same spot, and my little cry was a gasp and an "Oh! Ow!"

CRACK!

Dad’s palm seered the same spot a third time, and tears popped into my eyes. I couldn’t help it. It hurt. It hurt so bad!

CRACK!

I tried to wiggle, to shift my ass so he couldn’t connect with the same tortured area, but I couldn’t and he hit it again.

CRACK!

And again.

CRACK!

I cried out, "Stop! Please!"

CRACK!

Mercifully the hand landed on the other side, and while my mind tried to concentrate on how much pain the first punished spot was in a new area bloomed into my consciousness.

Dad paused and readjusted me. He parted my legs and in one brisk movement, reached between them and pulled my dick back so that it was facing my feet. Now my erection was no longer pressing against dad’s leg. Then dad rubbed my bottom with his huge hand and said, "You know you deserve this Gene, don’t you?"

I didn’t answer at first, and then I said, "You’re killing me dad!"

"No son, I’m spanking you!"

The hand struck again.

CRACK!

The other side of my backside was on fire, but dad was relentless. He ignored my cries and pleadings and walloped me with determination. Even as I kicked and yelled, I had the sense that dad had already determined how long, and how hard, this spanking would be, and that my sound effects wouldn’t alter that design.

Now dad started concentrating on the bottom of my rear end, hitting the tender underpart over and over again.

"Shit!" I thought between yells. "I’ll never be able to sit down if he keeps this up."

CRACK!

He kept it up.

And I began to crack.

My yells and pleadings, "OW! Please! Stop! Stop, dad! Please! It hurts! I can’t take it! Shit! Fuck! Goddamn!! OW!" turned to sobs and whimpers. "Oh, please (sob)! Oooh! Dad! Dad! Dad-dy! Oooh-hooo!!"

Dad rubbed my burning bottom, and my back and said, "I know this hurts, Gene, but I have to punish you. You have to learn that you can’t do the things you do with impunity. It’s a father’s job to direct and guide his son. You’ve been running wild...it’s my duty to tame you!"

And dad continued with his spanking.

At one point in the proceedings, my grandmother knocked at the door.

"David! David!" She called to my father. "You’re going to kill the boy. Please, I’m sorry about the breakfast. Just come down."

"Mom, go back downstairs," my father said, resting his palm on my butt, "I appreciate your concern, but I’m not going to kill Gene, I promise. We just have to get things properly sorted out. Thank you for caring, now go down."

Even from my head down position on my father’s lap, I could hear her retreating footsteps. Dad waited a few seconds and then said, "Now we can get back to our business, isn’t that right son? I love you, Gene-boy, I love you so much."

And dad spanked me.

I know that I was a lot more vulnerable now then I had been; you’d be vulnerable too if someone took your pants down, stretched you helplessly across their knee and whaled the living daylights out of you. But when my dad called me ‘Gene-boy’ and said, ‘I love you so much.’ It hurt me as much as the walloping.

My crying turned to sobbing and my cries to little moans of, "Oh, daddy! (sob) Dad-dy (sob)! I.....I.....I.....I’m ......" And then I said it. "I.....I’m sorry, daddy! (sob)"

My father gave me three more seering licks and stopped spanking me. He still held me in his lap, but he rubbed my back and gently rubbed my butt. It felt good. His hand, which knew very well how to punish, also knew how to soothe.

Then he slowly lifted me off of his knee and even stooped and pulled up my underpant for me. I stood before him, all eighteen years of me, still blubbering and holding on to my burning butt.

"I want you to go to the bathroom, Gene, and wash up. Then come back in here and I’ll help you get dressed. We’re still going to have that breakfast that grandma made."

I almost flared and shouted, "How can I sit down to eat it!" But my logical side overruled the animal. If I shouted at my D.A.D., mightn’t it result in further chastisement. He said he wouldn’t tolerate disrespect. So I held my tongue and limped to the bathroom.

(to be continued)