Roomate

A Lifetime Job - Part 2

A Short Story Dedicated to Dads and Sons

John suddenly noticed that the lump in his stomach had moved to his throat and his eyes were heavy with tears. "Damn it," he thought, "get it together. Don't let the old man see you lose it." Then he got another idea.

"But Dad, I'm thirty-four years old. For God's sake, don't you think I'm a little too old for this, sir?"

"No, John, I don't. It seems to me you asked that same question in this same garage when you were seventeen, the last time we had to do this. The answer's still the same, son. I wouldn't be taking the trouble to beat your ass if I weren't absolutely convinced that it's exactly what you need. And although I have to admit that I'm glad that it's your ass and not mine, I do this for your own good. You've been asking for this for a long time, believe me. Now be an obedient son and hand me the strop.

Slowly, reluctantly, John did as he was told. Mr. Beck took it and snapped its two lithe sections together twice, loudly and purposefully. The clean, piercing sound echoed against the bare floor and garage walls. John winced. "Guess it'll still do the job, huh?" his dad asked in a manner that required no answer.

John had one more thought, one last minute idea, "Wait, sir. This is an eight-hundred dollar suit, my best, dad, so please sir, go easy on me."

"If I were you, boy, it's not my pants I'd be worried about right now. But you have a good point. It is a nice suit and you look good in it. Only one thing to do. Drop your pants!"

"DAD!" protested John. A dozen or so times, when he had been especially rebellious or headstrong, his disciplinarian dad had spanked him with his pants down, bare assed. But that was when he was a boy!

"I SAID DROP 'EM!" yelled his old man.

John knew that tone and all that it implied. He undid his alligator belt, opened the front clasp, loosened the inside button, unzipped his fly and the perfectly tailored Armani trousers fell to his muscular calves revealing blue stripped boxers.

"Before I start in on you son, I want you to remember that I love you and that's the only reason I even bother to whip you." John's eyes started to tear again. He'd heard this line a million times and he never believed it more than he did at this moment.

"Now bend over the bench, John and try to get comfortable. You're going to be there a while and you know that it will hurt less if you are relaxed."

"Yeah, right," thought John, "I've heard that line a million times too and it always hurts like hell." He bent over and without even being told to, he grabbed the far end of the bench. Some things you never forget.

"Count 'em out loud for me, son."

John waited for the moment of truth, that long dreadful second or two as his dad took two steps back, raised the strop high, came forward full force and brought it cracking down on John's butt cheeks.

"One, sir." John winced and shouted out angrily. He thought to himself, "Shit, that dick-head is starting out hard!"

Mr. Beck walked backwards again and stepped into the second swing, slapping the thin boxer shorts even harder.

"OUCH, SHIT!!! yelped John, "Two, sir." Without thinking, he stood up, a natural and understandable reflex. Natural or not, this pissed off his dad royally and he shouted, "Get back down on that bench NOW, stay there and don't you dare move again or I'll add on five! Take it like the man you are." John's ass felt like it was on fire.

Two steps back, the strop in a vice-like grip, Mr. Beck rushed in on John's stinging butt harder still.

"Three, sir." John could barely get the words out. "Christ Almighty," he thought to himself as his ass burned even more, "they're getting harder each time!"

Two steps back. Another equally hard blow. "Four, sir" cried John. No steps... Mr. Beck paused. John turned around and looked at his dad. "Not even close," his dad warned him. I just got a crick in my arm. I want you to think about why you're getting your ass beat while I work it out. Within seconds, far too soon for John, Mr. Beck was once again ready and in position.

Steps back. Steps forward. Crash! "Five, sir." John's voice cracked.

Then in a rough, loving way peculiar to him alone, Mr. Beck said, "John, ever since you were a boy I've always known that this is the only sure way of getting through to you. When you won't learn something through your head, I have to teach you through your ass. It's a language you understand. It doesn't matter how old you are; when you act out like a teen-ager, I'm gonna treat you like one and that's a promise. I'm still your dad and this is still my job. And it's a lifetime job. So don't disobey me because I'll beat you ass when you're fifty if I have to! What's more, I'll enjoy doing it. Got it?"

"Yes, sir, I do sir."

"Fine. Now stand up, pull down your shorts and let's see how far we've gotten.

John stood up again, pulled his sweat soaked shorts down to his knees and rubbed his hot, stinging ass. "Move your hands, son, and let me see." Mr. Beck said calmly. John's butt was already bright, cherry-red and Mr. Beck noticed a few small welts beginning to rise to the surface, especially on the lower left cheek. He hadn't seen his son's bare ass in seventeen years - John had grown thin, fine brown hair but it was still plump and lily white, now red.

"We're coming along just fine, boy, but I want to keep your shorts down. That way, I won't have to work so hard. It's been just as long for me as it's been for you since we had this kind of a workout and I'm a bit older too, you know. "Bend over again," he said in that same low, controlled voice, "and stay still or you'll get more." Any rebellion, any thought of challenging or resisting his dad had left John after the third sound swing. He readily obeyed. After five sharp and heavy lashes with that God-damned strop he had been beaten into submission. He wasn't broken but he was completely passive now.

John heard the steps, then the swooshing sound of the strop in the air and then the loud crash on his tender, bare ass. "Six, sir." he yelped. God, it hurt! "He's half way done," he thought to himself, "twelve was the usual number, fifteen at the very most."

"Seven, sir." John shouted out. His eyes were full and tears were beginning to drop from his eyelids. "I won't cry! I won't cry! I gotta cry! I gotta cry!" volleyed the thoughts in John's brain, as searing waves of pain repeatedly registered within.

"Eight...sir." By this time his crying was audible to Mr. Beck, but that didn't seem to phase the old man one damn bit. If fact, it pissed him off and he began to hit even harder. The corners of Mr. Beck's mouth turned downward in a discernable grimace with each powerful lash against John's alarmingly red butt.

"Nine, sir, Jesus Dad, you're killing me. Lighten up please or I won't have any ass left."

"Shut up, boy. Your ass is holding up fine. Your dad knows what he's doing. Grab the bench harder and try to relax you ass muscles. We still have a long way to go." Realizing that there was still a lot more to come, John felt a little faint and started to cry again; this time, he didn't even try to hide it.

The tenth crack of the loathed strop was somewhat less intense. The eleventh less still. But by this time John's legs were trembling and he was crying loudly.

Mr. Beck suddenly stopped. "What did that mean?" thought John. "Was Dad done? Could he get up now?" He had counted each time as ordered and they were at eleven. He turned around and looked up at his father through blurred vision.

"No, son, I'm not done. But stand up and turn around; I've got something to say to you, and I want you to look me straight in the eye." John obeyed.

Mr. Beck continued, "John, you've done real well with your life and I am very proud of the way you've turned out. But your success has made you a little too cocky, a little to sure of yourself, especially when it comes to respecting and obeying me. I gave you a direct order yesterday and you disobeyed me, son. Then you lied, not once, but twice. That hurt, John, probably as much as this beating is hurting you. Too much has gone to your head, son. and you've forgotten that you still have to answer to me. Johnny, you've been needing this strapping for years now and I guess I've been a little too lenient with you. I apologize for that, son. You deserve more from me. But your daddy's on the right track again, and you will be too, son, and that I promise. Now back over the bench."

More tears. John squatted and reached down into his trousers' pocket, pulled out a handkerchief and blew his nose. Mr. Beck waited patiently while John bent over again and grabbed the end of the workbench. Then came the sounds of the work boots taking two steps backward, the strop whooshing through the cool garage air, and the loud, hard crack on John's beet red butt. "Twelve, sir." John whimpered. "We're almost done." he thought. But he was wrong.

"Son, I told you that you were gonna get one hell of an ass beating. You're red, real red, but I'm not gonna stop. John turned around with a pleading, desperate expression, but before he could choke out one word Mr. Beck asked. "Are you ever going to smoke again?"

"No, sir." Steps. CRACK!!!

"When was your last cigarette?"

"An hour ago, sir, at the office." Steps. CRACK!!!

"Good, son, real good. But I've gotta make sure. You see, I can't always come to your office and check up on you. But I can and I fully intend to make one humdinger of an impression on that YUPPIE fanny of yours. Do I make myself clear?" Steps. CRACK!!!

"ABSOLUTELY, SIR!" John shouted.

"Am I getting through to you son?" Steps. CRACK!!!

"YES SIR, ABSOLUTELY, SIR!" John shouted even louder. It helped to shout; so John began to shout out with all his might. It was the only way he could take it; the only way he could tough it out. He had lost track of the count so he just kept repeating, "YES SIR, ABSOLUTELY, SIR!

Steps. CRACK!!!

"YES SIR, ABSOLUTELY, SIR!"

Steps. CRACK!!!

"YES SIR, ABSOLUTELY, SIR!"

Steps. CRACK!!!

"YES, SIR! THANK YOU, SIR! I'M SO VERY SORRY, SIR!"

Steps. CRACK!!!

"YES, SIR, I'M SORRY, SIR! I DESERVE THIS AND I'M GONNA TAKE EVERYTHING YOU DISH OUT TO ME, RIGHT UP TO THE VERY END, SIR!"

Then it stopped. John's face was streaked with tears and his swollen butt pulsated with every heart beat. His butt was so sensitive that John could actually feel his pulse from within and beneath the surface of his butt cheeks. He had never known this kind of pain before. It took thirty seconds for him to realize that the strapping had stopped. Mr. Beck had delivered his promise of one severe ass-beating. Clearly, he had broken him. John had taken twenty. And he had taken them like a man.

"You can get up now, boy." John had to push himself up off the bench just to stand up. His face was nearly as red as his buttocks. With great difficulty, he pulled up his shorts, then his trousers and arranged himself as best he could. He wiped his face dry and blew his nose once again. They shook hands and then his father pulled him up close and hugged him tenderly.

John left the garage first. With delicate steps he walked into the house, grabbed his jacket and slowly climbed the stairs to his bedroom. He undressed and looked at his ass in the mirror. The reflection shocked him. His blistered butt looked like two mounds of lean ground beef.

But on closer inspection, he realized, for the first time, how masterful his dad was at beating butt. Nowhere was the skin torn, no signs of blood. Both cheeks were uniformly crimson and neither welt nor mark appeared anywhere beyond the ass itself - no stripes above the tail bone and no marks below that very tender part where the cheeks meet the back of the legs. Mr. Beck had even managed to avoid the sides of John's legs.

Slowly, John changed underwear and put on a pair of loose khakis, normally an effortless task. But even this simple maneuver, this gentle brushing and pressure against his stinging butt hurt like hell. "Damn him! he thought, "How dare he?

He's my dad, that's how." was the true and obvious answer he gave to himself.

John hung up his suit and checked the jacket pockets. He removed his wallet but felt something else in the left inside pocket. He pulled out a half finished pack of Winstons.

By this time Mr. Beck was back in the kitchen. He had thoughts of his own. It really killed him to beat his only son that way. In a very rare moment of weakness he wondered whether he had gone too far. Was all this just his own machismo bullshit? Was he being brutal? Was he taking out all his own hidden insecurities, his own unresolved father/son issues on the butt of his much loved son? After all, John was a great kid.

Mr. Beck came to his senses. "I just saved his life." he realized. "Shit, I'm really getting soft. I'm glad my old man can't hear me think this way or I'd be over that bench myself." The strop was still on the bench; neither of them had remembered to bring it in.

Finally, John joined his dad in the kitchen. Without a word, he handed him the cigarettes. Mr. Beck broke a couple of them in two, handed the rest to John, and John broke each one individually and dropped them into the trash. When John was done, Mr. Beck gave him another bear hug and said, "Congratulations, son". The two of them stood there for a moment looking at each other. Eventually, Mr. Beck broke the silence.

"Why don't you fix yourself a bourbon, John. You look as if you could use one right about now".

"Good idea." said John. He walked carefully, gingerly into the living room to the bookshelf bar and poured a good-sized shot of Jack Daniels into a heavy Waterford tumbler. He rejoined his father. John knew that he'd be standing a while so he decided to raise the glass to his dad. "To my Dad. A man who can be a real tough son-of-a-bitch sometimes, but I love him, God how I love him."

"I love you, too, son." replied John's dad, as he turned to make sure John couldn't see his own tear fall to the kitchen floor.