A New D.A.D. - Part 2

Author: Writer8322@aol.com

Part Three: A Burning Breakfast

When I came out of the bathroom, I was surprised to see that dad had gone ahead and selected clothes for me and put them on the bed. I stared at them in surprise, because none of the articles had come out of my closet or drawers.

There was a well pressed pair of khaki-colored pants, a light blue polo shirt with a collar and brown loafers with matching socks. This was a far cry from the well-aged jeans and disintegrating t-shirt and sneakers which were my usual apparel.

"I bought these for you, son," dad said; his eyes were kind but his face remained very serious. "After breakfast, I thought we’d take a walk and talk about things. I’m going to change myself and then we’ll have breakfast."

"These aren’t my kind of clothes," I said, trying to control my voice so that it was a statement and not a direct challenge.

Dad looked into my eyes and said, very simply, "Sometimes, when we do something together, I may decide what you ought to wear. When I do; you’ll wear it. Other times, if it meets with my approval, Gene, you can use your own taste.

‘People often act according to what they wear; and I’m not going to approve of any clothes that make you look slovenly or as if you didn’t care."

Dad opened the door of my room, but he turned once more before exiting. "Don’t let me come back in here and find that you aren’t read, son." And he left, closing the door behind him.

I had a strong, strong urge to grab the clothes my father had put out for me and tear them to shreds in my hands. But each step, and its accompanying soreness, helped me to rethink that desire.

I picked up the polo shirt and saw, beneath it, a white pair of briefs. "He’s deciding what kind of underpants I’m going to put on? No way."

As a miniature rebellion; I put on the ‘I’m-Mister-Prep’ outfit over my old boxer shorts. I had scarsely finished with the shoes when there was a knock at my door and dad came in. He was wearing a very similar outfit; only his shirt was forest green.

"Hm," he said smiling. "You look very nice, Gene. I’ve got a handsome son, that’s for sure. Here," he said, handing me a plastic hairbrush from my dresser, "you need to brush your hair."

I looked into the mirror over the dresser and took care of my hair my usual way, by running my hands through it and raking it back. It stayed like that, in high waves, for a few seconds and then the familiar loops fell over my forehead.

Dad chuckled. "Your hands aren’t going to keep your hair neat, here, let me."

Dad’s massive hands turned me around and he took my chin in one of his hands.

"Don’t..." I said, "it’s fine."

"It’s not fine, Gene," dad said. "Your hair needs to be brushed. Now stand still."

I took a step back, and dad grabbed my arm in his. He brandished the blue plastic hairbrush in his other hand. "This is hardly a suitable implement," he said, his voice low and his hand on my arm tightening, "but I’ll take your pants down and work you with this brush if you don’t stand still."

I could feel my face burning as I struggled with myself. Dad was gentle, but his size and large hands made me feel so small and controlled. He held my face gently in one big hand and brushed my hair with the other. Then he stepped back to look at me and smiled; but the smile vanished from his face as his eyes fell on a little white pile of cotton on the bed.

"You didn’t put on your underwear," he said.

I was suddenly aware of the fact that I was trembling. "I have underwear on already, dad." Then, as an afterthought, and a possible ‘save’ to the situation, I said, "It’s clean!"

Dad f rowned. "I told you, Gene. When I decide what you’re going to wear, I expect you to wear it. A g rowing boy needs supportive underwear. Now take off your pant and those boxers and put on those briefs."

"Come on, dad, be reasonable," I said, I was whining, but I couldn’t help it, "I’m eighteen; I can wear whatever underwear I want."

"You’re a young boy who doesn’t take very good care of himself as we are both very well aware. Now you take off those pants and put on those shorts before I do it for you. This is not negotiable. AND...." he added as I clamped my lips and grabbed up the briefs in a rage...."AND, I don’t want to see any outbursts of temper about it. I mean it Gene, control yourself or I’ll take control again."

We stared at each other for a minute and then, while dad stood there watching, I had to take off my pants and boxers and put on the briefs. While I was bending over to get the briefs on dad said, "You’re not in as good shape as you used to be, Gene. Aren’t you swimming any more?"

"No," I said.

"We’ll talk about that on our walk. Swimming is a wonderful sport; it takes care of your whole body. You want to take care of all of yourself, son. And I do too." He patted my back.

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

Fully dressed in my ‘dork of the day’ outfit, I was taken by the arm and brought downstairs to breakfast. I felt like a well-dressed offender being brought into juvenile court by the burly parole officer, only the Burly One was now my father.

My grandparents were already sitting around the dining room table when my dad marched me in. My grandmother looked surprised at my outfit but said nothing. My grandfather beamed and said, "You look very sharp, Gene. You and your father both," and he actually winked at my father.

Dad took a pillow from the couch and put it on my chair. Grandpa chuckled and grandma hurriedly fled to the kitchen to get the food.

"I don’t need that," I said, my face burning. I grabbed the pillow and threw it back toward the couch; it didn’t make it.

"If you want to squirm on the chair while you’re eating, that’s your affair, but don’t you throw things in this house, Gene. Pick the pillow up and put it on the couch."

My father and I had a five second staring match and then I picked up the pillow.

When I actually sat down, I was shocked at how much it hurt. The seat pressed against my sore backside and the heat, that was trying to escape, was now firmly repressed. Although I sat as far back on my rear end as I could, I knew that I was, indeed, squirming, and thought I would die of embarrassment.

I glanced over at my grandfather who was making deep throated sounds that could only be repressed laughing. His face was pink, but he brushed his moustache and cleared his throat. I felt dad’s hand close around my arm and I turned to glare at him.

"What?" I said.

"Stop it," he said simply. "If you don’t want the embarrassment of people knowing that you had your backside spanked, then don’t earn it. I offered you the pillow, but you didn’t know how to accept it. So you can just sit and bear it. And don’t blame your grandfather for a ‘hot seat’ that I gave you."

I think that I was on the verge of tears, but my grandmother bustled in at that moment and I was able to blink them back.

Grandma cooked as if she were still living a century in the past; there were platters of scrambled eggs and toast and pancakes. There was also some yogurt, granola and fruit, which my dad assembled into his meal.

"I guess we’ll be leaving now that you’re back home, David," my grandfather said. "Are you going to visit Beth?" (Beth is my mom.)

"I visited her on my way over, but Gene and I will probably stop by tomorrow. They don’t want her to get a lot of visitors yet," my dad said. "Thank you both for coming. I appreciate it and Gene does too, don’t you, son?"

"Yeah," I said.

Dad looked at me for a minute, clearly not in full approval of my brief response, but went on. "Gene and I will help you wash up and then we’re going for a walk."

Everyone ate and some people spoke (my dad, my grandmother and my grandfather), I was too busy trying to shift from one painful section of my butt to another. Would this little ‘family scene’ never end.

"How do you like the way your dad looks, Gene?" my grandfather asked me. "I think I’ll send this old body over to D.A.D. for some training."

"You should," my father said, "it will be good for you. In about six years, Gene will be ready for training."

"Maybe," I said.

Dad looked at me again, but didn’t say anything.

"Well, I guess we can all start clearing," my grandmother said.

My dad immediately began organizing plates and utensils. I gingerly got up, and headed toward the stairs.

"Gene!" my father said. "Where are you going?"

"I have to go upstairs for a minute,"I said. I wanted away from all of them for a few minutes. Besides, why should I clear the table for what had probably been the most embarrassing meal I had ever had to squirm through.

Dad strode over to me and took my arm; once again, I felt his control over me being asserted. I jerked my arm away.

"Look," I said, "do you mind if I go to the bathroom?"

"I don’t mind if you go to the bathroom," my father said sternly, "but you can help to clear the table and wash up first. I don’t think that at eighteen you can have such limited control of your bodily functions that you can’t delay for five minutes."

‘God dammit!’ I thought to myself. ‘Who the fuck does he think he is?’

"Look, I’ll be down as soon as I can, but I have to go now!"

"You didn’t have to go two minutes ago," my father said. "Now get over to that table, Gene, and lend a hand." Dad clamped his hand onto my neck to ‘take’ me back to the table, and my animal brain took over.

I pushed my face into my father’s and shouted, "I have to take a crap!"

The hand on my neck locked in place and I was moving across the room.

"Aah! Let go!"

Dad dragged me over to the dining room table and pulled out a chair. He dragged the chair ‘stage center’ in the room and sat down.

I saw what was coming and tried to get free.

"No, don’t!" I screamed. "You can’t, ugh!"

Dad’s hand turned me across his knees. My legs left the floor, and I was suspended on his lap again.

"Dad," my father said to my grandfather. "There’s a hairbrush on my dresser upstairs, would you please get it for me?"

"With pleasure," said my grandfather and he literally ran up the stairs.

Dad held me down with one hand and reached under me with the other. He unbuttoned my pants with practiced dexterity and then reached for the waistband at my back. While I struggled for all I was worth, I felt the pants jerk free as dad pulled them down to my ankles.

I made some sort of animal sound that was a combination of the pressure of my pants coming loose and a sound of horror at being exposed before my grandparents.

"You can’t do this to me," I shouted.

"You’ve already humiliated yourself by your actions," my father said. "You can expect a bare bottom spanking from me wherever we are, whoever we’re with, when you act that way."

Dad grabbed the seat of my briefs in his fist, bunching most of it together so that I was almost bare-bottomed even before he yanked them down to join my pants around my ankles.

At this point, grandpa came down the stairs and hurried over to the chair where the action was about to take place.

"Here," he said, and I knew he was handing the hairbrush to my father. I had heard about hairbrush spankings, but until an hour again, I had never been spanked, period.

"All D.A.D. dads are issued regulation hairbrushes after their training is complete," my father informed me (like I cared). Physically and psychologically, the hairbrush has a unique effect as a disciplinary tool. You can expect to become well-acquainted with it, son."

I was aware of my grandfather’s shadow still falling over me, and turned my head to see. Grandpa was standing about a foot and half away from the chair where my father sat with me in his lap. Grandpa’s arms were crossed over his chest and he clearly intended to stand there while my backside got walloped.

"That’s a good hairbrush your father’s got," my grandfather said to my upturned face, "I think it’ll do the job, Gene."

I couldn’t believe that he was saying this to me. Was the whole world going crazy?

"Yes, a good session with the hairbrush, will be good for Gene," my father said. "I’m afraid that this is going to sting a lot, son." And dad administered my first hairbrush spanking.

If you’re reading this, and you’ve never had your bare bottom well-spanked with a good-sized wooden hairbrush, then you won’t understand what it’s all about. First of all, there’s the sensation. Each smack of the brush, on a new part of your backside, stings immediately and much more intensely than a smack with the palm, even a king-size palm like my father’s.

When a second hairbrush wallop hits the same spot, the pain is intensified and you will do everything in your power to wriggle your ass to avoid a third. When you cannot avoid that third smack, or the fourth, fifth or sixth, I defy you to keep from crying out.

Secondly, a hairbrush is symbolically an adult domestic grooming item; something a child sees his mother or father using to brush their hair into place; to give them that adult look that all children associate with their parents.

When suddenly that brush is in your father’s fist, and he has you over his knee spanking you with it, you know that the brush belongs to grown-ups and not to children. It is a special tool that your father can use to keep his hair neat and, when called for, to keep his son neat!

Dad was neatening me out in full measure. I don’t think he actually spanked me for longer than two minutes, but - I’ll tell ya - I was sobbing like a baby in thirty seconds.

After a full minute of silent spanking, with me bawling and my tears watering the rug, dad stopped and asked grandpa if he would mind giving us privacy for a father/son talk. "Also, tell mom to leave the dishes. Gene and I will take care of them when we’re done here."

Grandpa reached down and gently patted my red-hot bottom. I could feel, right through his hand, a kind of pride in my growth and - in some odd way - in this male ritual between a father and his son. He said, "Your father’s doing what’s best for you, boy," and left the room.

"Gene. Son," my father said. "You’re going to hear me say the same things over and over, but that’s all right, because I’ll mean them everytime I say them. I love you, son, and I love you enough to give you what you need.

‘I want to do all kinds of things with you; that’s all part of being a D.A.D. I want to play with ya, and get involved in your schoolwork and teach you things about the world that you’ll need to know. But, you need to know that I’m also going to spank your pants off when you deserve it. Now, you know you deserved this spanking, don’t you, Gene?"

I had stopped bawling, and was crying quietly as I was held over my father’s knees. "I...I guess so," I admitted. Why was I admitting it?

"You also know that you need to apologize to your grandparents for your behavior at breakfast and help me do the clean up. That’s right, isn’t it son. You know that’s right?"

I nodded my head.

"I don’t hear you, son," dad said quietly.

I sobbed alittle and said, "It’s right."

Dad patted my backside, and eased me up. He held me in front of him for a moment and I was keenly aware that while tears still ran down my face, my nose was running too.

Dad took out a handkerchief and smiling a very kind smile, wiped my eyes and nose. Then he pulled me onto his lap and held me in his arms. I cried into his chest and didn’t try to get away.

I felt like his little boy again; something I hadn’t felt in a million years. Sitting on dad’s knee, even with my pants and underpant laying around my shoes, with my dad’s strong arms holding me tight, was not a bad feeling.

"God, son, I love you so much it hurts," dad said. Then he chuckled and said, "I guess that’s two of us who are hurting."

Dad stood me up, and said, "Pull up your britches, son, and let’s make it right with your grandparents."

I buttoned myself up and let dad take my hand and lead me into the kitchen.

(to be continued.......PERHAPS)