Confessions of a Loser, Part II


by Tawser <Rleehistory@yahoo.com>

Confessions of a Loser, Part II

Tawser

I have never been so scared in my whole life as I was at that moment, lying bare assed and barefooted over Ed's knee, waiting for his hairbrush to start "counseling" my sorry butt. Not that I was looking forward to the experience, but I wished he would just get on with it. The sooner he started beating my behind, the sooner it would be over and I could get off his lap and get some pants, underwear, shoes and socks back on. I had never been spanked before, but, come on, this was a punishment for kids! Even if he was a marine and built like a blonde brick _s_h_i_t_house, how bad could it be? But still I felt so naked and vulnerable, just like a little kid about to get what was coming to him. I could almost feel his eyes examining my butt and the tops of my thighs, carefully considering how to make the punishment as "meaningful" as possible. He paid special attention to the positioning of my rear end. Like I said, he was an artist at this. I flinched every time his bare hands touched my bare posterior. There was nothing erotic about his touch. It felt like what it was, a preparation for some serious punishment. Eventually, he seemed satisfied. I felt so humiliated I started shedding real tears, but after all this was what I had earned. I deserved to be punished for the mess I had made. I was a loser, whose life was spinning out of control, and what else did I deserve but to be in this position, bare assed over the lap of a pissed off marine who was about to take a make a roast—well done—out of my rump? It seemed like the fitting conclusion to a thoroughly wasted life.

Once my ass was in the perfect position for a long afternoon of bare bottomed blistering, Ed didn't waste much time getting down to business. He lifted the brush from my back, where he had placed it while preparing his "canvas." (As an artist, Ed's favorite colors were red, purple, black, and blue.) I felt him stiffen and lift the brush high in the air. I went cold with fear and screamed "No, Ed! Please!!" but before I could even get the words out the brush branded my right butt cheek. The sound of that brush connecting with my rear end was like nothing I ever heard. It echoed off the walls. Thank God most of the tenants in this building are deaf old women, or we would have heard pounding on the ceiling and floor to match the pounding of Ed's hairbrush on my poor butt. But the sound was nothing to the sensation. I howled like a wounded animal. I never felt so much pain in my life. I felt certain I was bruised forever, like those poor bastards in Singapore who have the cane marks on their asses for the rest of their lives.

But just as the brush made blistering, bare bottomed contact, it was like a light went off in my head, a dazzling explosion of clear, blinding sunlight. It was like waking up after a long, restless night's sleep. I have never been "born again" but this is as close to it as I think I will ever get. I felt so awake, alert, and alive! It wasn't just the nerve endings in my ass either. From the top of my head to the soles of my bare feet, I felt like a new man. Sure, a SPANKED man, a man in terrible pain, but at least a LIVING man!! There is nothing to wake a man up, or convince him life has meaning and purpose, like a marine with a hairbrush blistering his bare behind. You want a new lease on life? Forget Billy Graham. Call a marine and tell him to come over with a hairbrush. Just don't expect to be sitting too comfortably for the next few days.

I even screamed "JESUS CHRIST" at that moment, which was not a smart thing to do. Ed was a devout Southern Baptist. I had made a big mistake. "How dare you take the Lord's name in vain!" A series of blistering blows to the top of my thighs taught me to be more respectful. I screamed every time the brush made contact, restoking the furnace in my rear end. I writhed and twisted across his lap, desperate to get up, desperate to escape the scalding pain, but it was no use. At 5'7", I wasn't going anywhere. My bare legs and feet kicked helplessly like windmills. "One more blasphemous word out of your heathen mouth, and I will go get the razor strap my daddy used on me when I REALLY got out of line! Do you want me to do that, son?" Virtually every word was punctuated by another crack of the hairbrush across my cheeks. WHACK! WHACK! WHACK!! "Well, son!" WHACK!! WHACK!! "Are you going to answer me?" WHACK!! WHACK!! WHACK!! "Don't you hear me talking to you?" WHACK!! WHACK!! I was breathless, unable to form words. Fear and pain had taken complete possession of me, but with all the strength I could muster I blurted out, "No sir! Please sir! I promise to be good sir!"

"Ask Jesus to forgive you for taking his name in vain!" WHACK!! WHACK!! "Do you hear me boy?" WHACK!! WHACK!! "Do it now boy!" WHACK!! WHACK!! WHACK!! "Before Jesus sends his avenging angels to take your wicked butt off to hell!" WHACK!! WHACK!! "If you think this is a bad spanking, just wait until Satan gets your foul mouthed butt over his knee!!" KERWHAAACK!! "PLEEEEAAASE JEEEESUS! FORGIVE ME!! I PROMISE I'LL BE GOOD! I DON'T WANT TO GO TO HELL!" (Like I wasn't there already, for Christ's sake! Devils with pitchforks would be a vacation compared to a marine with a hairbrush spanking your bare rump for all eternity!)

There's nothing like a wooden hairbrush to convince a sinner he needs God. "It looks like I am going to have to start bringing you to church with me, boy! You need God in your life, don't you, boy?" WHACK!! WHACK!! "Well, don't you?" WHACK!! WHACK!! "YEEES SIR!! I NEED GOOOOOOOD!!" (This was the strangest conversion in the whole history of Christianity, but _d_a_m_n_ed if it didn't make a true believer of me! The preachers and the priests should be taking notes from this marine. I had heard of baptisms by immersion, baptisms by sprinkling, but baptisms by hairbrush? And Ed didn't even need a water source, because I was baptizing myself in my own tears.)

Ed stopped spanking me for a few precious moments, allowing me to catch my breath. He even started to chuckle. "Well, I think we might have located your conscience. It's right down here isn't it boy?" And he playfully patted me on the butt with the brush. I flinched each time. Even the gentlest tap felt like an attack of killer bees. "It looks like you are starting to get the picture. I might have to take the strap to you at some point, but it looks like the hairbrush is making an impression. I think we'll stick to that for this afternoon at least." Lucky me, I thought but at least had the good sense not to speak out loud. But then the implication of his words started to dawn on me, and took me into new realms of terror. THIS afternoon? At SOME point? Ed was talking as if he expected spanking my bare ass to be a regular gig, and not just a one-night stand. (Starting that afternoon, I would be doing a LOT of standing.) He couldn't mean that, could he? I couldn't take this kind of ass whipping more than once in a lifetime, could I? But before I even had time to follow that terrible thought, Ed lifted the hairbrush again and I was in for a new round of rump roasting.

As you might have guessed, Ed did not believe in warm ups. He never gave me a chance to get used to the pain. That was his intention. He wanted to break me, literally to shatter "Me" to pieces so that he could begin building a new "Me", Ed's "Me." That afternoon he got off to a great start. He did everything in his power to make sure I never got used to what he was doing to my ass. There was no pattern to the whacks of the brush. He covered every inch of my butt, many, many times over till it was just one reddish purple surface of pure flame. After a few minutes of uninterrupted butt spanking, my mind was a total blank. Nothing existed in the whole world except that awful hairbrush and the agony in my ass. It was like Ed's hairbrush was wiping the slate clean for me so that I could get a fresh start in life. During that terrible afternoon, I could not for the life of me have told you who my parents were, or what schools I had attended. I didn't know who I was, or where I was, except over Ed's knee, on the receiving end of the most awful spanking in all of recorded history.

At first, all I could do was scream. Ed sensed the anger and resistance in those screams and redoubled his efforts. Just when I thought he was applying all his strength to baking my bare butt, he seemed to find new reserves that sent me deeper and deeper into this new world of total, helpless pain. Then the sobs started, big, gut wrenching sobs that felt like I was about to vomit all of my internal organs. I somehow, somewhere found the strength to shout, "PLEASE SIR!! I HAVE LEARNED MY LESSON!! I WILL BEHAVE!!" It was no use. The hairbrush just kept rising and falling, like some irresistible natural force. The only sounds in the room, in the whole universe as far as I was concerned, were those of a hairbrush making brutal contact with a naked rear end, and of a man sobbing as if his heart—and his butt--were breaking.

"I don't believe you yet boy! I am going to keep spanking you until you make me believe you!" I was in a panic. How could I make him believe I was going to behave, whatever that meant, when I didn't believe it myself? "I am going to keep spanking your bare butt with this hairbrush until you convince me that you are not a loser and that you are going to start straightening up and flying right!" Flying? If fear and pain were fuel, I would already be to the moon by now! How could I make him believe I was going to change? How could I make ME believe it? But what choice did I have? Unless I did, I would never be able to sit down again! "Tell me you are not a loser, boy!" WHACK!! WHACK!! "Come on, boy!" WHACK!! WHACK!! "Make me believe you are not a loser!" WHACK!! WHACK!! There is nothing like a bare bottomed blistering to make a man—er, boy—truthful, and as bad as the pain was, I felt a terrible resistance to saying what he wanted me to say. "BUT I AM A LOSER SIR!!"

"That's not what I want to hear, son! How much more of this do you want to take! Because my arm isn't even tired yet! My arm and my brush will last a hell of a lot longer than your butt! If you ever want to see a patch of white skin on your ass again, I suggest you reach deep down inside and locate some self-confidence." WHACK!! WHACK!! WHACK!! Believe me, this was the most inspiring pep talk I ever heard. I took a deep breath and screamed at the top of my lungs, "I AM NOT A LOSER!! PLEASE STOP SPANKING ME!! I AM NOT A LOSER!!"

"That's good boy! That's what I want to hear from you. Now, we can enter the final phase of your punishment. Hold on tight. Your warm up is over!" Warm up? That was the warm up? Every time I thought I could never be more afraid or in greater pain, Ed was kind enough to persuade me I was wrong. The last few minutes of the spanking were indeed the most memorable, and I have the blisters on top of blisters to prove it.

The purpose of the final phase was simple but crucial. Ed was determined to keep spanking me until he sensed that all resistance was gone, that I had accepted the punishment, accepted it deep down inside me. I had a lot more resistance in me than I would ever have thought possible, and my butt paid a terrible price for it that afternoon. I have no idea how much time passed, the rise and fall of the brush having long since replaced the ticking of the clock as the measure of time, but eventually I was just a limp, very wet rag. My ass was like a sponge, soaking up the pain with no fight left at all, but it took a long, terrifying time for me to get there. When I finally reached that point, it was as if I were living in a new, much simpler, more elemental world. All the complexities of life that used to scare me so much were gone. Ed's lap, his hairbrush, and my rear end were all that was real. Everything else was a fantasy.

But then it stopped. At first I could hardly believe it. I had started to think that I would spend the rest of eternity in this hell. And then the hairbrush stopped punishing my ass. I just lay there for several minutes, continuing to sob like a hysterical child. Ed let me lay there, not saying a word. I felt the strength and support of his legs beneath me, his powerful, masculine legs. For some strange reason, I felt safe and secure, for the first time in ages, maybe for the first time EVER. For the first time in what seemed like ages my bare feet felt the comfort of the carpet beneath them, and I dug my toes deep into the pile. And it didn't take long for the inferno in my rump to begin subsiding to an intense, almost pleasant glow. It still hurt like hell, and I would feel it every time I made the mistake of trying to sit down for the next couple of days, but the pain was somehow mixed with warmth, with love even. When I finally started to speak, the first incredible words out of my mouth were, "Thank you sir! Thank you sir!" I could hardly believe it. Here I was, thanking Ed for putting me through such torture. Why in hell would I do that?

With surprising gentleness, Ed helped me off his lap and stood me up. I furiously started trying to rub the pain out of my butt. Ed became stern again and ordered me to stop. "Put your hands on top of your head boy!" In a flash I did as I was ordered. "Now go stand in the corner!" He pointed to a corner next to the window. Hands still on head, I did as I was told, although tears still so blinded me that it was hard to see where I was going. Ed just stood there staring at his handiwork for a few minutes. "My God! I could sell your ass right now to the Museum of Modern Art! I never saw so many shades of purple in all my life. You didn't know your new daddy was an art lover, did you, boy? And believe me, son, I intend to go on painting your backside purple until I am convinced that you believe you are not a loser and starting acting like you believe it. Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir."

"Now stand there for the next hour, and when I come back we will start figuring out how to get you out of this mess, and your life back into some kind of shape. Is that understood, son?"

"Yes sir."

"Whether you like it or not, you now have a DADDY boy! Who cares about you enough to whip your bare ass as often as it takes and as long as it takes! Is that understood?" I started to cry again. I was so moved and touched by Ed's words I couldn't speak. He came over to me and whacked my bare ass a couple of times with the brush. "Is that understood boy?"

"YES SIR!!! THANK YOU SIR!! I LOVE DADDY!!" I howled. "I love you too, son. Now don't you move or I will have you back over my knee for another long talk with the brush. And believe me. Your rump is a VERY good listener! And if you think THAT was a bad spanking, I have news for you! Compared to what I used to get from MY daddy, I was just playing patty cake with your behind! Are you catching my drift, son? I have just BEGUN to spank me some butt!"

"Yes daddy. I understand daddy" (I had no idea how often in the next few months I would repeat that mantra.! It would become like a personal creed or motto.) Ed affectionately rifled my hair with his strong hands and then the next thing I knew the door slammed, and I was alone in the apartment, waiting for Ed to come back. I was so happy, despite the throbbing pain that still pulsated through my posterior, to think that I would never be alone again, that I had someone who cared about me, even if his caring involved taking me over his knee and painting my butt every angry shade of red and purple in the color spectrum. That was a small price to pay for love. And somehow I knew Ed really loved me and I loved him too. Maybe I didn't have to be a loser after all?


More stories by Tawser