By Wynnchester
“I’m going to enjoy this,” Swan said with a smirk. “I don’t know why you put yourself through all this. You never win.” Brother Swan was right. Every time we make a bet I’m always on the short end of the stick, literally. We’re frat guys so we always bet licks, or wood as we say. Sports, cards you name it, we bet. I bet a lot to get better at betting, or so I thought. Swan always bets me because I’m no good at it and he likes swatting my wide, plump rump. “You know the drill, Brother Drew,” Swan said while grinning. “I almost feel sorry for you. What’s this, seven, eight bets in a row? Cuz, I didn't think you had any skin left on dat azz.” I was lucky there was some. Swan knows how to swing wood. He’s made my toes curl on a couple of occasions. The last time he brought smoke! I almost lost it. He hasn’t made me cry yet, however. I was determined this wouldn't be the day, either. The frat house was empty except for us. 
We knew everyone’s schedule so we had a couple of hours before some of the brothers were out of class. We nearly had this down to a science. It’s not like we were trying to hide anything. All the brothers do it as well. We just don’t like having an audience. Our brother’s also like to be hands on. If some wood is being swung, everyone wants a piece of the action. “So, you want me in the usual position,” I asked sheepishly. “Yeeessir,” he said quickly. My room’s at the back of the frat house. I lucked out because even if someone came in, you wouldn't hear anything with the door closed. It’s an old house so the doors are thick as well as the insulation. It’s a large room, big enough to have an arm chair. That’s where Brother Swan wanted me – in that chair. I placed a couple of pillows in the seat cushion. This would raise my butt up nice and high, so Swan could make contact with both cheeks. “Get to gettin’,” he said, anxious for me to receive my punishment. “Don’t rush,” I snapped. “You ain’t the one about to get splinters.” He couldn't hide his amusement. “That’s what you get for losing,” Swan said. “You know you can’t beat me at nuthin’, Cuz. “Really? Seriously, really,” I asked. “I can take more wood than you any day,” I said, nearly yelling. “Sure you can, Cuz,” he said slyly. “Thing is, I never lose so get to gettin’,” this time with his hand on my shoulder trying to force me over in the chair. “And this time you gon’ cry.” “Hold, up, ho-ho-hold up, bruh,” I said. “Tell ya, what,” I said. “I got 20 coming. If you cain’t get me to cry by 20, you take 20. If I cry, you stop at the lick I start crying on and I’ll take 20 more from there.” Swan was interested.
He knew I’d never cried before but the last time I came close, real close. He’s thinking he could get me up to about 17 or 18, really lay one on me and then have 20 more shots. “OK, Cuz, you got it,” Swan said. I took my position, which was pants and drawers around my ankles, knees up on the cushion (one in front of each arm), hands griping the back of the chair and behind lifted up by the pillows. “I’m bout to serve a course of rump roast,” Swan said as he pulled the paddle back like a major league batter. The first swat landed with a booooom! “Yeeeeeeouch,” I screamed. “Whatcha screaming for,” Swan said barely winded. “That was a pop fly. I ain’t got to the home runs yet, Cuz.” Swan killed me with that, “Cuz” stuff. He was also killing me with Black Betty, the board we usually used on pledges. She was old, but hurt like a mutha. It was about three and a half feet long, an inch thick and four inches wide at the business end. There were holes, of course, but countersunk. It was piano black and lacquered. Not a color of our frat, just use black for the drama. Baaammm! Baaammm! Wham! Swan had found his rhythm quickly. He was hitting base hits, doubles and triples on my ass. He was pounding me like Hammering Hank all the while I’m screaming and writhing on the chair in almost unbearable pain. But I made up my mind. I was winning this bet if it meant not sitting for a week. “What’s. . Whop . . The . . Whop . . . matter . . .smack. . Cuz,” Swan said, this time almost breathless. “You ain’t had a beatin’ like this before bro. I’m bringing smoke and got plenty more before the fire starts,” he said in an almost maniacal voice. “I’m loving this dog. . bam. . .bam. . .baaammmm! “Ouch. Oooooo. Ouch, Swan, you killin’ me,” I yelled. My rump felt like is was glowing. That would be a sight. I’m a deep chocolate, but Swan has put some color in dat azz on several occasions. “Whoa, dog, woooooooo.” I hollered. “You trying to get you mama to hear you back in Texas. She cain’t help you Cuz, can she” he asked between licks. “I ain't yo mama but I’m yo daddy, ain’t I, AIN”T I,” Swan yelled. He was enjoying this for sure. So much so, he had lost count. But I hadn't. “That’s 17, ouch. . . .18 . . .ahhhhhyeeohhh . . .19. . . woooooweeeeooh. . .20!!!!!!” I looked back at Swan and he looked puzzled. “Naw, dawg, that cain’t be 20, I just got started,” he said hurriedly. “Naw, Cuz, it’s my turn, dawg,” I said triumphantly. “Wait, now,” Swan said trying to back up. “You know I was just playing, just playing, Cuz. Swan was nervous. I could hear it in his voice. He’d not lost a bet to me in a long, long time. But he wasn’t getting out of this. That latte-colored, arrogant butt was about to get changed to a deep, crimson red. “Naw, Cuz,” putting much emphasis on “Cuz” this time “You lost, get to gettin’. “Aiiiiite, aiiiite,” Swan said as he fumbled with his belt. “Gimme some room, bruh,” he huffed. “I’m gon’ do dis. I pay my debts.” He walks over to the chair and assumes the position I just left. “Like this,” he asked nervously. “Yep,” I said. “That’s perfect. Face the wall and don’t look back. “And now stepping to the plate, recently out of retirement, Mr. Barry Bonds,” I said with a chuckle. “Not Bonds, dawg, awwh come on son” Swan pleaded. I was deaf to that. My sole, singular mission was to hit as many home runs as possible. “Swing batter, batter swing,” I said as I drew the bat behind my head. My follow through was perfect. I hit Swan square in the biscuits. “Kaaaapooow.” My first lick was a grand slam. “Yeeeeeeeeeeooooooooooooooch,” Swan screamed. He was on his feet holding his aching ass. “Man, that ain’t fair. I didn’t hit you that hard, Cuz.” he said. “Oh, you hit me a lot harder than that, bruh. It just hurts worse when you lose. Get back in da cut.” He did so quickly and I continued my rear assault. I put more muscle in the second swing than the first. Ooooohhhh mmmyyyy dddaaaammmmnn,” Swan yelled. He was clutching that arm chair like it was his last brew. The next three were singles and doubles. I felt a little sorry for him because he was begging and pleading so. The next lick was a game winning grand slam that sounded like dynamite. “Ahhhhhhhhhhhh, Cuz, please,” Swan begged. I had him and I wasn’t letting up this time. “Really, Cuz,” I said a little winded. “We ‘bout to play ‘question and answer,’ son. What’s my name . . .bam. . . .huh. . . .bam, bam, what is it,” I screamed? “It’s Drew, Brother Drew, ooowww, come on bruh,” he said moaning and groaning. “Spell, it Swan, spell it,” I ordered. “Whack. . .D. . .whack. . .R. . .whack, whack. . .E, W, come on man, plee. . eee. . .eee. . ase,” Swan said. I finished his beating with grand slams. His face was buried in the seat cushion. His screams were muffled but still loud. “Last one, Cuz. Get that rump up, make it stand at attention,” I said. He raised his battered bubble butt a little and was perfectly still, as if to say “do your worst.” So I took the challenge. I got in my Ken Griffey stance wiggled the paddle and let fly. I didn’t use the same board Swan did. My personal paddle had our frat’s letters carved in the wood. I did my best Griffey imitation and landed the lick with crushing force. “Wooooooooooiiiiiiieeeeeeeyeeeeoooouch,” 
Swan screamed jumping about three feet in the air holding his red rump. I hit him hard enough to tattoo the letters on his cheeks. They were almost hard to see. He was glowing red on both sides – almost perfect circles. “You wait ‘till the next one, Cuz,” he said gingerly raising his pants over his tail. “Oh, we gon’ bet on something again,” I asked. “I ain’t goin’ out like this Drew,” Swan said. “Bruh, now it’s on!”
We knew everyone’s schedule so we had a couple of hours before some of the brothers were out of class. We nearly had this down to a science. It’s not like we were trying to hide anything. All the brothers do it as well. We just don’t like having an audience. Our brother’s also like to be hands on. If some wood is being swung, everyone wants a piece of the action. “So, you want me in the usual position,” I asked sheepishly. “Yeeessir,” he said quickly. My room’s at the back of the frat house. I lucked out because even if someone came in, you wouldn't hear anything with the door closed. It’s an old house so the doors are thick as well as the insulation. It’s a large room, big enough to have an arm chair. That’s where Brother Swan wanted me – in that chair. I placed a couple of pillows in the seat cushion. This would raise my butt up nice and high, so Swan could make contact with both cheeks. “Get to gettin’,” he said, anxious for me to receive my punishment. “Don’t rush,” I snapped. “You ain’t the one about to get splinters.” He couldn't hide his amusement. “That’s what you get for losing,” Swan said. “You know you can’t beat me at nuthin’, Cuz. “Really? Seriously, really,” I asked. “I can take more wood than you any day,” I said, nearly yelling. “Sure you can, Cuz,” he said slyly. “Thing is, I never lose so get to gettin’,” this time with his hand on my shoulder trying to force me over in the chair. “And this time you gon’ cry.” “Hold, up, ho-ho-hold up, bruh,” I said. “Tell ya, what,” I said. “I got 20 coming. If you cain’t get me to cry by 20, you take 20. If I cry, you stop at the lick I start crying on and I’ll take 20 more from there.” Swan was interested. He knew I’d never cried before but the last time I came close, real close. He’s thinking he could get me up to about 17 or 18, really lay one on me and then have 20 more shots. “OK, Cuz, you got it,” Swan said. I took my position, which was pants and drawers around my ankles, knees up on the cushion (one in front of each arm), hands griping the back of the chair and behind lifted up by the pillows. “I’m bout to serve a course of rump roast,” Swan said as he pulled the paddle back like a major league batter. The first swat landed with a booooom! “Yeeeeeeouch,” I screamed. “Whatcha screaming for,” Swan said barely winded. “That was a pop fly. I ain’t got to the home runs yet, Cuz.” Swan killed me with that, “Cuz” stuff. He was also killing me with Black Betty, the board we usually used on pledges. She was old, but hurt like a mutha. It was about three and a half feet long, an inch thick and four inches wide at the business end. There were holes, of course, but countersunk. It was piano black and lacquered. Not a color of our frat, just use black for the drama. Baaammm! Baaammm! Wham! Swan had found his rhythm quickly. He was hitting base hits, doubles and triples on my ass. He was pounding me like Hammering Hank all the while I’m screaming and writhing on the chair in almost unbearable pain. But I made up my mind. I was winning this bet if it meant not sitting for a week. “What’s. . Whop . . The . . Whop . . . matter . . .smack. . Cuz,” Swan said, this time almost breathless. “You ain’t had a beatin’ like this before bro. I’m bringing smoke and got plenty more before the fire starts,” he said in an almost maniacal voice. “I’m loving this dog. . bam. . .bam. . .baaammmm! “Ouch. Oooooo. Ouch, Swan, you killin’ me,” I yelled. My rump felt like is was glowing. That would be a sight. I’m a deep chocolate, but Swan has put some color in dat azz on several occasions. “Whoa, dog, woooooooo.” I hollered. “You trying to get you mama to hear you back in Texas. She cain’t help you Cuz, can she” he asked between licks. “I ain't yo mama but I’m yo daddy, ain’t I, AIN”T I,” Swan yelled. He was enjoying this for sure. So much so, he had lost count. But I hadn't. “That’s 17, ouch. . . .18 . . .ahhhhhyeeohhh . . .19. . . woooooweeeeooh. . .20!!!!!!” I looked back at Swan and he looked puzzled. “Naw, dawg, that cain’t be 20, I just got started,” he said hurriedly. “Naw, Cuz, it’s my turn, dawg,” I said triumphantly. “Wait, now,” Swan said trying to back up. “You know I was just playing, just playing, Cuz. Swan was nervous. I could hear it in his voice. He’d not lost a bet to me in a long, long time. But he wasn’t getting out of this. That latte-colored, arrogant butt was about to get changed to a deep, crimson red. “Naw, Cuz,” putting much emphasis on “Cuz” this time “You lost, get to gettin’. “Aiiiiite, aiiiite,” Swan said as he fumbled with his belt. “Gimme some room, bruh,” he huffed. “I’m gon’ do dis. I pay my debts.” He walks over to the chair and assumes the position I just left. “Like this,” he asked nervously. “Yep,” I said. “That’s perfect. Face the wall and don’t look back. “And now stepping to the plate, recently out of retirement, Mr. Barry Bonds,” I said with a chuckle. “Not Bonds, dawg, awwh come on son” Swan pleaded. I was deaf to that. My sole, singular mission was to hit as many home runs as possible. “Swing batter, batter swing,” I said as I drew the bat behind my head. My follow through was perfect. I hit Swan square in the biscuits. “Kaaaapooow.” My first lick was a grand slam. “Yeeeeeeeeeeooooooooooooooch,” Swan screamed. He was on his feet holding his aching ass. “Man, that ain’t fair. I didn’t hit you that hard, Cuz.” he said. “Oh, you hit me a lot harder than that, bruh. It just hurts worse when you lose. Get back in da cut.” He did so quickly and I continued my rear assault. I put more muscle in the second swing than the first. Ooooohhhh mmmyyyy dddaaaammmmnn,” Swan yelled. He was clutching that arm chair like it was his last brew. The next three were singles and doubles. I felt a little sorry for him because he was begging and pleading so. The next lick was a game winning grand slam that sounded like dynamite. “Ahhhhhhhhhhhh, Cuz, please,” Swan begged. I had him and I wasn’t letting up this time. “Really, Cuz,” I said a little winded. “We ‘bout to play ‘question and answer,’ son. What’s my name . . .bam. . . .huh. . . .bam, bam, what is it,” I screamed? “It’s Drew, Brother Drew, ooowww, come on bruh,” he said moaning and groaning. “Spell, it Swan, spell it,” I ordered. “Whack. . .D. . .whack. . .R. . .whack, whack. . .E, W, come on man, plee. . eee. . .eee. . ase,” Swan said. I finished his beating with grand slams. His face was buried in the seat cushion. His screams were muffled but still loud. “Last one, Cuz. Get that rump up, make it stand at attention,” I said. He raised his battered bubble butt a little and was perfectly still, as if to say “do your worst.” So I took the challenge. I got in my Ken Griffey stance wiggled the paddle and let fly. I didn’t use the same board Swan did. My personal paddle had our frat’s letters carved in the wood. I did my best Griffey imitation and landed the lick with crushing force. “Wooooooooooiiiiiiieeeeeeeyeeeeoooouch,” Swan screamed jumping about three feet in the air holding his red rump. I hit him hard enough to tattoo the letters on his cheeks. They were almost hard to see. He was glowing red on both sides – almost perfect circles. “You wait ‘till the next one, Cuz,” he said gingerly raising his pants over his tail. “Oh, we gon’ bet on something again,” I asked. “I ain’t goin’ out like this Drew,” Swan said. “Bruh, now it’s on!”
LOL! I haven't laughed so hard in my life! Pay back's a BITCH! LOL!
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