A LIFETIME JOB: A Short Story Dedicated to Dads and Sons
It wasnt unusual for Johns dad to get home before John did. Mr. Beck worked construction so his days started early, and he was often home by three oclock. His old, reliable black pick-up was in the driveway when John came home. John parked his brown Jaguar behind the truck.
The two men had been living together for about a year and they had developed a particularly close relationship for a father and his adult son. They hadnt lived together since John left for college, and to the surprise of both, they found that sharing a house after fourteen years was remarkably agreeable. They experienced a fresh new camaraderie as men. They worked on household projects together, shared meals at the same table, watched a lot of sports on the tube and even played catch together in the same backyard where they used to twenty-odd years ago. Just two ordinary guys, father and son, living together as grown men. They were equals. It was great!
John had not expected this. When his job transferred him back to his home town, Mr. Beck insisted that John stay at home until he found a place of his own, despite the companys generous relocation package. A temporary stay with Dad sounded fine to him, but John knew that he would have to settle down on his own quickly. He valued his hard won independence, especially around his old man. Mr. Beck was about as traditional as an authoritarian father could be. He was old school and had been very strict with John. There were many household rules and restrictions and Mr. Beck didnt cut him much slack. When John disobeyed is dad, he was punished - it was that simple. Mr. Beck was a firm believer in old-fashioned woodshed discipline and he whipped his boy often.
John loved his dad but he also feared him. Mr. Beck is a very daunting and overpowering man still; and although John, at thirty-four, was a man in his own right, he never dared to cross his dad. Thats why he resolved to find his own place and establish his own life as soon as possible.
Still, John had to admit that life with his dad had been surprisingly agreeable and both found themselves happily compatible. Mr. Beck had loosened up a bit and John sensed that his dad finally respected him. Johns career had taken off and Mr. Beck was proud of his only son; he bragged about him often to his friends. Yes, there were times when he would raise his voice at him, and John would suddenly feel sixteen all over again. And yes, he would offer advice when not asked and he still expected and demanded a certain deference due to him as dad. He had this particular look, a look John knew far too well, a look that said, Son, youre pushing me, and Im going to beat your butt good and hard if you dont stop.
Twice now Mr. Beck shot John the look, and to this day, it still shook him up a bit. Both times the look came with a question, a rhetorical question. Both times, naturally and spontaneously, John responded to his Dads question with Yes, sir. It just came out. Old tapes play long and die hard.
The first time John got the look was when he put money down on an apartment. After being told the news, Mr. Beck informed him, Youre not going anywhere yet, son. We still have some things to work out, you and me, and I want you right here... got it? Before he even had a chance to think, Yes, sir shot out of Johns mouth.
Dad was right. For reasons unknown, living with Dad was for Johns own good. As hard as it was for him to admit, he had never felt so protected, so secure since the last time he had lived under his fathers roof. John wondered about this. It was so oppressive and restrictive when he was eighteen; why did it seem less so now? Perhaps it was because John knew that Dad couldnt bend him over and whip his ass with a razor strop like he used to when he was a boy. After all, John was a full grown man now.
True, when it came down to brute, physical strength, his dad was still a hell of a lot bigger and stronger than John and he could easily subdue him. And also true; that well worn strop still hung on a hook on the back of the bathroom door, just as it had throughout Johns childhood and youth. John remembers being ordered to go get it and bring it to his dad countless times. But that was a life-time ago.
Yet when John first saw the old, black antique strop hanging there, the memory of lifting it off the hook and handing it to Dad made him shudder. But now as John himself shaves, he sometimes eyes the strop in the reflection of the mirror, and all those frequent father son discussions make the sight of it almost nostalgic. Time heals all things, even teenage butts. God, he was tough on me, John occasionally says to himself; I guess I oughta thank him someday. He sure was a controlling son-of-a-bitch, but hell, I turned out O. K. I guess. He sure didnt screw around when it was time for a spanking. My ass would sting and burn for hours. I probably deserved it I suppose, who knows?
The second time John got the look was yesterday. It was Sunday afternoon and they were sitting outside on the front porch. Although John smoked at work, he never lit up at home. Why get the old man going? John often thought, it would only lead to a fight and things are going so well between us.
One day he casually told his friend, Jim, about not smoking at home. Jim had known Mr. Beck since they were both boys and he reminded John about the time Mr. Beck caught them both smoking in the garage. Mr. Beck told Jims dad, and Jim was grounded for a week. John got his ass whipped and even showed Jim the black and blue marks on his tight, smooth fifteen-year-old butt.
John remembered this beating well, and with a sheepish grin, he joined Jim in a chuckle over the memory of it. Jim always got off easy it seemed. So you still dont smoke around your dad, huh? Jim teased him, you worried he might beat your ass all over again? Maybe Ill just go tell him that youve been smoking for months now. That ribbing gnawed at John, but he didnt let on. So to prove something to himself, he decided that, after all the usual demands of a Sunday morning were over, hed smoke outside on the front porch.
JUST WHAT IN THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOURE DOING? barked Mr. Beck, when John casually struck a match to light a Winston.
Whats it look like, Dad? John answered with an unusual mixture of bravado and sarcasm. Then he took a long, purposeful puff.
Mr. Beck stood up, walked slowly over to John, and grabbing the front of Johns white linen shirt he pulled him up out of the porch swing. Then he looked him straight in the eye. There it was, that unmistakable look. As he held Johns frightened gaze he said in a low, controlled voice, I dont know when you started smoking again, and I dont even want to know. But youre going to stop, RIGHT NOW! Have I made myself clear?
Yes, sir. John responded, visibly shaken. He walked down to the first step, put out the cigarette with his shoe, carried the dead butt to the trash and walked back to the porch, all under the watchful glare of his dad. Mr. Beck sat back down, John followed suit and things were pretty quiet on the front porch for a while as they both picked up parts of the Sunday paper and began to read.
Monday was especially hectic for John. In addition to the usual first-day-of-the-week routine, he had two presentations to make to the Board followed by lunch with potential high end clients. By ten oclock hed smoked a half dozen cigarettes before he remembered yesterdays tete a tete with Dad. Ah, _f_u_c_k_ him, thought John, who the hell does he think he is anyway? The phone rang, he handled a small crisis with his normal aplomb and then slipped on his favorite suit jacket and rushed to the Board Room. He was off and running.
Mr. Beck had been to Johns plush corner office many times. Usually these visits were special occasions, days John took his dad out to lunch. It was their custom to celebrate Fathers Day by having lunch at The Palm the day after, and John always took his father to lunch on both of their birthdays. The two men loved the attention they got from the maitre d and waiters at the handful of good restaurants in town; and it was one of the few times Mr. Beck dressed up, and when he did, he always turned the heads of women and men alike. Fact of the matter is, he turned heads in his work clothes too. And on this particular Monday, Johns assistant, Bill, was once again reminded how good looking Mr. Beck was, regardless of what he wore. Bill was both surprised and pleased when Mr. Beck walked stridently up to his desk.
Immediately Bill stood up and greeted him, Mr. Beck, its a pleasure to see you, sir. (Everyone seemed to call him sir.) Im afraid that John has just left for lunch. Is everything OK? Is there something I can do for you, sir?
Everythings fine, Bill. I just submitted some plans across the street and thought that since I was so close, Id drop by and see if I could take my boy out to lunch. Should have called first though, I reckon.
Nonsense, replied Bill, after all, youre the bosss father. How about some coffee, just made, the good stuff?
Thank you, no, Bill, Mr. Beck said in his courteous, old-world style, but would it be alright if I used the phone? I need to get some specs from the field.
You bet, Bill answered, but use the phone in Johns office, and make yourself comfortable.
Mr. Beck made his way past the outer office, opened the heavy mahogany door, walked across the room to Johns desk and sat down in the comfortable, black leather chair. Cant believe I raised this kid, he thought as he picked up the phone. He was one proud papa.
Half way through the call, he noticed an ash tray on Johns desk. There were six cigarette butts in it. This made him lose his train of thought and caused him to ask the man on the job site to repeat himself. After clarification he hung up, got up and walked out of Johns office.
Hey Bill, Mr. Beck said, has anyone been in to see John this morning?
No sir. He spent the morning alone preparing for a couple of meetings and putting out a few fires. Bill answered truthfully.
I see, said Johns dad, thanks for letting me use the phone.
Hey, any time. I know that John will be real disappointed when he finds out that you stopped by and he wasnt here. Bill casually added.
Disappointed isnt the word for it. thought Mr. Beck. Obviously distracted, he left by saying, Thanks again, Bill. Drop by the house sometime why dont you.
Mr. Beck was livid. Genuine anger raged inside Johns dad. That little bastard didnt take me seriously yesterday he thought. Mr. Becks own father had died of lung cancer so he felt especially passionate about smoking. One week before he died, Mr. Beck, the elder, made him promise to quit smoking and never to let John start. Johns dad quit that very afternoon and had never picked up a cigarette since. Mr. Beck, Sr. was as forceful and controlling as his son when it come to raising boys. In fact, it was his razor strop that hung in the bathroom, so it had been used consistently on two generations of Beck sons. Mr. Becks anger only escalated as he drove the truck into the driveway.
Meanwhile, Johns morning presentations and business lunch were so successful that he decided to take the rest of the day off. Bill was busy at the Recorders Office so John didnt get a chance to tell him the good news. Instead he wrote a note: I got what I needed from the Board and hooked three new clients! Have gone home.
John was still flying high when he pulled up behind the black pick-up. Dad will be pleased when he hears about the coup I pulled off today. John thought. He bounded up the porch, skipping every other step and opened the font door. Hey, Dad, John shouted, wait till you hear what happened today. A cold ominous silence greeted him.
Dad... you home? called John. He walked through the hall, placed his suit jacket carefully over a chair and proceeded into the kitchen. Mr. Beck, leaning against the counter with his arms at his side, fists clenched but controlled, stared angrily at the somewhat startled John. Johns quick gait stopped abruptly as he read his dads fiery face. Whats wrong, Dad? Johns voice faltered.
Did you smoke today, son? questioned Mr. Beck in his deep, controlled voice.
No sir! John shot back, You ordered me to stop yesterday and I did. Johns sudden respectful attitude would have ordinarily pleased his dad if he werent so furious, especially now after his sons bold and blatant lie. John was getting in deeper and deeper and Mr. Beck was demonstrating amazing control. He hated lies, especially from his own boy.
I went to your office today, he began, you were out and Bill let me use your phone. Guess what I saw on your desk?
By this time, Johns heart was racing. Oh, I can explain, sir. I had a client in with me this morning for over an hour. The _d_a_m_n_ fool chain smoked and he wasnt even considerate enough to empty the ash tray when he left.
It was all that Mr. Beck could do not to walk over to John and deck him. Two lies in a row on top of smoking! THATS IT! You are in some SERIOUS TROUBLE, boy he said, I think its time for another lesson in obedience.
Now it was Johns mind that was racing. Another lesson in obedience. Thats what he used to say before he whipped me. No, this cant be real, this cant be happening. Im a man for Christs sake; thought John, no ones gonna beat my ass, not even my own father - this is crazy!
Mr. Becks low voice brought John out of thought and back into the kitchen, Go upstairs, get the strop and wait for me in the garage, he ordered.
Youre out of your _f_u_c_k_ing mind. I havent been spanked since I was seventeen and Im sure as hell not going to get whipped now - Im twice that age. You cant beat me. I wont let you! John argued with a sudden rush of adrenaline.
Im going to say this just once more, very clearly. GO GET THE STROP! Its either a whipping or my fists! Mr. Beck replied.
_s_h_i_t_! thought John. The _f_u_c_k_er really means it! John had seen the old man fist fight before, twice. He was quick, strong and John didnt have a prayer against him.
MOVE IT! shouted Mr. Beck and he shoved John with such force that he fell up against the refrigerator. John was angry now, real angry, but he wasnt stupid. He gathered his dignity as best as he could, walked out of the kitchen, into the hall and started up the stairs. He thought about bolting out the front door, but he knew his dad would come after him, tackle him on the front lawn and start swinging in front of the neighbors. He had to obey his dad. He was trapped! This isnt happening. John kept saying to himself. But it was. He reached the top of the stairs, opened the bathroom door and lifted the strop off the hook. _s_h_i_t_! John said to himself again.
John held the strop loosely in his hand as he walked down the stairs, through the hall, through the kitchen, out the back door and on into the detached garage. John knew he was being watched carefully. Well, good, maybe hell cool down a bit sitting there. he said to himself hopefully. John was angry, nervous, embarrassed, and anxious, and much to his chagrin, he noticed a knot had begun to form in his stomach, just as it used to so many years ago. _s_h_i_t_! he said for a third time.
John paced back and forth in the clean and neatly organized garage. His dad was a stickler for order. All the tools hung on the peg boards facing the same direction and the workbench, although used only yesterday, was cleared off completely. That _f_u_c_k_ing workbench! he thought. He always made me bend over it while he swung the strop. Before John had reached his full height, Mr. Beck made him step up on a wooden crate in order to stand high enough to bend over and rest the top half of his body on the bench. There was always this God-_d_a_m_n_ed ritual to his beatings. John remembered. It was all coming back very clearly and John began to notice the cold sweat on his forehead and under his arms. An ass beating was as planned, efficient and well organized as the _f_u_c_k_ing garage!
He walked over to the workbench, dropped the strop and waited for what seemed to be an interminable amount of time. He knew that this was part of the old mans plan and it pissed him off big time. He remembered once sweating out a full half-hour for his dad to come in for the tanning. This cant be happening. Where is that jerk anyway? Lets just get the whole _f_u_c_k_ing thing over with for Christs sake. These and similar thoughts simply drug out the time and made John more anxious.
Finally, he heard the springed screen door open and then slap loudly and forcefully back into place. His dad walked slowly toward him. John looked down at the cold cement floor and began earnestly, Listen Dad, Im really sorry for lying to you, sir. Please forgive me.
I will son, after the whippin. In the meantime, I suggest that you keep your mouth shut and speak only when spoken to. Is that clear?
Yes, sir. John knew that a litany of questions was about to begin. This is just how he used to do it, John thought, Hes trying to work me up, to frighten and intimidate me. God how I hate this son-of-a-bitch and theres not a _f_u_c_k_ing thing I can do about it. Its useless to try to talk him out of it - that just pisses him off even more. Ill just keep quiet, grit my teeth and it will all be over soon. Ill play his silly-assed game. He wont break me. He wont!
Why did you lie to me, son?
Because I didnt want to upset you, sir.
And you dont think Im NOT upset right now?
I can see clearly that you are, sir.
So what did you gain by lying, son?
Nothing, sir..
Oh yes you did, son, you sure as hell did. Youre going to get a much more severe ass-beating now than if you had only leveled with me a while ago.
John, lowering his head, remained silent but he thought to himself, Oh _f_u_c_k_ you, you ass-hole.
Stand up straight when your father is speaking to you! shouted his dad.
Oh great, now hes speaking about himself in the third person; what an arrogant bastard! thought John as he stood up straight, chest out, shoulders back.
It was now Mr. Becks turn to pace as he continued to fire questions at his son.
You remember how your granddad died?
Yes, sir.
How, son?
Lung cancer, sir.
Thats right, son, lung cancer. What causes lung cancer, John?
Smoking.
Yes, right again boy. Smoking. Mr. Beck paused, his hands locked behind his back, resting gently on his own beefy butt. Mr. Beck was one hot man and he knew it. There he stood in his well worn brown work boots, blue Dickies work pants, stitched brown cowhide belt, and short-sleeved work shirt unbuttoned to the second button revealing a bright, white tee-shirt. Suddenly he grabbed John by the shirt, drew his face within three inches of his own and shouted, SO WHAT THE _f_u_c_k_ ARE YOU SMOKING FOR? John could feel the moisture in his fathers breath.
I dont know, sir.
You dont know, mimicked his father. Another pause, more pacing. So what do you think I oughta do about this, son?
Honest answer?
It had better be!
Here was his one shot at getting out of this unbelievable situation. I think that you have made your point loud and clear, sir. And I think that you should accept my genuine and heartfelt apology for lying to you and to trust my promise never to smoke again. I give you my word, sir, as a gentleman and as your only son. Then we could both shake hands and go back inside. John thought to himself, This just might work. After all, its the same kind of smooth talk I used with the Board today. Maybe all he wants to do is just _f_u_c_k_ with my mind a bit.
Another pause. More pacing. Finally Mr. Beck said, John, you know as well as I that Im gonna take that strop and blister your butt. What you need is a little rawhide on the backside, son. Thatll convince you that your smoking days are over. And son, I do accept your apology for lying. But I want you to know that youve really hurt me, and scorching your butt is the only way I know to show you just exactly how much youve let me down. When Im done whipping your fanny Ill offer you my hand; but youre a _d_a_m_n_ fool if you think youre not going to get punished for this.
John suddenly noticed that the lump in his stomach had moved to his throat and his eyes were heavy with tears. _d_a_m_n_ it, he thought, get it together. Dont let the old man see you lose it. Then he got another idea.
But Dad, Im thirty-four years old. For Gods sake, dont you think Im a little too old for this, sir?
No, John, I dont. 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 answers still the same, son. I wouldnt be taking the trouble to beat your ass if I werent absolutely convinced that its exactly what you need. And although I have to admit that Im glad that its your ass and not mine, I do this for your own good. Youve 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 itll 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, its not my pants Id 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 thats the only reason I even bother to whip you. Johns eyes started to tear again. Hed 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. Youre going to be there a while and you know that it will hurt less if you are relaxed.
Yeah, right, thought John, Ive 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 Johns butt cheeks.
One, sir. John winced and shouted out angrily. He thought to himself, _s_h_i_t_, 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, _s_h_i_t_!!! 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 dont you dare move again or Ill add on five! Take it like the man you are. Johns ass felt like it was on fire.
Two steps back, the strop in a vice-like grip, Mr. Beck rushed in on Johns 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, theyre 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 youre 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. Johns voice cracked.
Then in a rough, loving way peculiar to him alone, Mr. Beck said, John, ever since you were a boy Ive always known that this is the only sure way of getting through to you. When you wont learn something through your head, I have to teach you through your ass. Its a language you understand. It doesnt matter how old you are; when you act out like a teen-ager, Im gonna treat you like one and thats a promise. Im still your dad and this is still my job. And its a lifetime job. So dont disobey me because Ill beat you ass when youre fifty if I have to! Whats more, Ill enjoy doing it. Got it?
Yes, sir, I do sir.
Fine. Now stand up, pull down your shorts and lets see how far weve 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. Johns 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 hadnt seen his sons bare ass in seventeen years - John had grown thin, fine brown hair but it was still plump and lily white, now red.
Were coming along just fine, boy, but I want to keep your shorts down. That way, I wont have to work so hard. Its been just as long for me as its been for you since we had this kind of a workout and Im a bit older too, you know. Bend over again, he said in that same low, controlled voice, and stay still or youll 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-_d_a_m_n_ed strop he had been beaten into submission. He wasnt 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! Hes 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 wont cry! I wont cry! I gotta cry! I gotta cry! volleyed the thoughts in Johns brain, as searing waves of pain repeatedly registered within.
Eight...sir. By this time his crying was audible to Mr. Beck, but that didnt seem to phase the old man one _d_a_m_n_ bit. If fact, it pissed him off and he began to hit even harder. The corners of Mr. Becks mouth turned downward in a discernable grimace with each powerful lash against Johns alarmingly red butt.
Nine, sir, Jesus Dad, youre killing me. Lighten up please or I wont have any ass left.
Shut up, boy. Your ass is holding up fine. Your dad knows what hes 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 didnt even try to hide it.
The tenth crack of the loathed strop was somewhat less intense. The eleventh less still. But by this time Johns 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, Im not done. But stand up and turn around; Ive got something to say to you, and I want you to look me straight in the eye. John obeyed.
Mr. Beck continued, John, youve done real well with your life and I am very proud of the way youve turned out. But your success has made you a little too _c_o_c_k_y, 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 youve forgotten that you still have to answer to me. Johnny, youve been needing this strapping for years now and I guess Ive been a little too lenient with you. I apologize for that, son. You deserve more from me. But your daddys 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 Johns beet red butt. Twelve, sir. John whimpered. Were almost done. he thought. But he was wrong.
Son, I told you that you were gonna get one hell of an ass beating. Youre red, real red, but Im 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 Ive gotta make sure. You see, I cant 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! IM SO VERY SORRY, SIR!
Steps. CRACK!!!
YES, SIR, IM SORRY, SIR! I DESERVE THIS AND IM GONNA TAKE EVERYTHING YOU DISH OUT TO ME, RIGHT UP TO THE VERY END, SIR!
Then it stopped. Johns 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 Johns 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. _d_a_m_n_ him! he thought, How dare he?
Hes my dad, thats 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 bull_s_h_i_t_? 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. _s_h_i_t_, Im really getting soft. Im glad my old man cant hear me think this way or Id 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 dont 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 hed 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 Johns dad, as he turned to make sure John couldnt see his own tear fall to the kitchen floor.