It's a story I wrote a long time ago, nothing new for those who have read my stories, each one has their own obsessions and mine are clear in my stories... I hope some of you enjoy it. Thanks.

- Don't answer me, cunt.

I grew up with that phrase in my neurons. And I grew up with the fear of my father, whom I barely dared to look in the eye. Besides, he always took it as a challenge:

- What are you looking at, damn it?

My father was always violent. As children, he systematically mistreated my siblings and me, and we believed, our mother too, we heard her complaining in a low voice at night so that her children wouldn't hear, I suppose.

My father was big and even more so for the time. He must have been around 1.85 meters tall and strong. He liked to stay in shape, although at that time it wasn't called that. He said he had learned gymnastics in the military and that kept the body healthy.

I was the fourth of five brothers, all boys. The oldest was ten years older than me, and we followed in a scale of three or four years of interval. My father's violence decreased over the years, without disappearing completely, but the one who "suffered" the most was my older brother, and the rest of us followed behind him.

The first beating I remember clearly of my older brother, I must have been 8 or 9 years old, so my brother was already older. It was a Saturday afternoon when he started protesting because my mother wouldn't give him money to go out because he was "grounded" (my brother worked but gave all his money to my father). My father got up without saying a word, grabbed my brother by the hair, and took him to his room. There, we all clearly heard the belt blows and my brother's moans, not screams, because my father had the habit of gagging us so the neighbors wouldn't hear our screams. After a while, my brother came out with his face wet with tears, and my father called my mother into the room. That was usual. Almost always after a beating, he would call my mother, and they would disappear for a while. Years later, I understood what was happening. My father got off on beating, so he would relieve himself with my mother when he finished. I think "relieve himself" was the right word. One time, years later, I was able to see him after a beating of one of my brothers.

We were alone, him and me. I don't remember what my brother did, but the ceremony was as always. Room, belt noise, and a call to my mother. My brother had gone out to the street right after the blows, and I stayed alone. From the room, guttural noises came out... I approached and, as I put my ear to the door, it slowly opened. After the fright, I looked through the crack and saw my mother on her knees in the semi-darkness. My father simply had his pants down and was holding my mother's hair strongly, forcing her to suck his cock. My father didn't even look at her; he was just concentrated on his own pleasure with his eyes c...