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Holiday ja vu
Part 4

by Graham

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Copyright on this story text belongs at all times to the original author only, whether stated explicitly in the text or not. The original date of posting to the MMSA was: 22 Sep 2010


Sunday morning, I was awakened by Mr. Daniels, at 7:30 a.m., reminding me to get up and get ready to go to church. I didn't go when I was back on campus during the school year, but I always accompanied my parents whenever I was home. I guess he figured I would be going anyway, even though my parents were away. "I know your Mom and Dad are proud of the way you keep up your church attendance, Ethan," he told me as he pulled my arm to help me up out of bed.

I had not planned on going, but sleeping in instead, and finish the dock refinishing, and get ready for the concert at Upper Saranac tonight. I was unwilling to get up and out of bed, but he pulled me out, swatted my wounded, sore bottom with his hand dispatching me to the bathroom, and telling me to hurry.

Although I was startled and offended by that treatment, I did hurry. I showered, shaved, cleaned up and returned wrapped in a towel to the bedroom I was occupying to dress. That was when I realized I didn't have any dressy, casual clothes with me, and would have to go to my house to get dressed. I put on another t-shirt and pair of shorts, and after a quick, but hardy, breakfast of eggs, Canadian bacon, and biscuits, I told the Daniels what I needed to do and headed back to my house to dress. From there I drove off to church and returned to my house about 1½ hours later.

I changed into work clothes, and walked over to the Daniels' house, where they had a lunch ready, waiting for me. Thanking them, I ate quickly, and then headed back to get out the cans of finish and brushes, and began completing the final applications on the rest of the deck and dock. Mid-afternoon, Mr. Daniels came over and asked me how it was going. I told him I was determined to finish it today, so it could dry and be ready when my folks arrived tomorrow night. He said they would prepare and keep a supper plate for me.

I worked on like a madman. It took me almost 7 hours, but I had it done! I was weary, relieved, and in need of some "down time" to relax. About 8:30 – still with plenty of daylight – I began my almost ritualistic swinging and diving into the lake for refreshment and relaxation.

It was after 9 p.m. when I sat down to a late dinner in the Daniels' kitchen. As I sat down, dressed in clean khaki shorts and t-shirt, I felt weary to the bone. My Dad had left a lot of work for me to get done over the long weekend.

Nevertheless, I was determined to go to the concert – the highpoint of the Memorial Day weekend. The concert was scheduled to begin at 10:30, so at 9:50, I started out the door to meet my friends who were picking me up to go to the bandstand at the upper lake.

The Daniels must have heard me go out the door, because before I had reached my friends' car, Mr. Daniels had hustled to catch up with me. "Just a minute, Ethan," he called out. I turned around, surprised to hear his voice and see him approaching me.

"What is it, Mr. Daniels?" I asked naively. "What's the matter."

"Just this, Ethan. You did not ask about going off, and you really aren't free to do so – after you sneaked out and ran off Friday night."

I was astonished to have him confronting me, in the presence of my friends, forbidding me to go to the concert. "But, Mr. Daniels, this concert is the big deal of the weekend – what we've all been waiting for," I replied.

"Well, that's too bad, Ethan. You should have thought about that over the past few days and nights, instead of behaving like you can do anything you want – regardless."

"Mr. Daniels!" I raised my voice for emphasis. "You can't keep me from going to this concert. I've been looking forward to it, and I'm going," I laid down my desire as an ultimatum, not to be challenged."

"Think again, Ethan. You didn't ask; you ran off two nights ago; your behaviour has been sadly wanting all weekend. So, now, come along. Don't make a scene."

In my exhaustion and fatigue, my patience was sapped and I felt myself becoming emotional: angry, resentful, and apprehensive. "No, Mr. Daniels!" I shouted. "You go. I'm going to the concert, and if it's too late when I get back, I'll sleep in my own house." He was right in front of me, and I actually glared at him.

With more poise, insight, and maturity than I evidenced, Mr. Daniels simply grasped my biceps, and with astonishing strength lifted me straight up, then tilted me forward, dumping me over his left shoulder – the same shoulder he'd transported me on 4 years ago. At once, I was embarrassed and irate.

"Oh, noooo, you don't," I exploded. "Let me down right now. I'm going . . . aaaaah!" His powerful right hand began swatting the seat of my khaki shorts – just like 4 years ago. Hanging upside down, I saw my friends – the same ones who had witnessed this occurrence 4 years ago – first appear startled, then look knowingly, as Mr. Daniels peppered the bottom of my shorts.

"Dude!" they exclaimed. "This is the same thing as before. You better just go, and avoid getting in more trouble."

Humiliated beyond containment, I was also furious and hurled, "Nooooo, damn it! You can't do thisssss! I'm not some kid, you know-oooo-oooo-ow-ow-ow! Staaaahp! Oooooooo-ow-ow-staaaaahp!" But Mr. Daniels simply pummeled my butt aimed upward and ready under my shorts.

My friends looked uneasy and concerned, and began leaving, getting in their car. "Nooooo-aaaaa-ow-ow-noooooo! Dooooon't gooooo-aaaaa-ow-ow-ow-ow!" I called out in my heightening frustration and discomfort. They started their car, turned on the lights, and drove away. I was mortified. Mr. Daniels, however, turned and began hauling me with him.

Having placed me upside down, hanging over his shoulder, began trudging, toting me back to his house. Frustrated, disappointed, embarrassed, angry, and desperate, I began writhing and wriggling around on his shoulder, calling out pleas.

"Mr. Daniels, please, nooooo! Staaaaahp it! I want to go to that concert, I've been looking forward to it . . . aaaah! Oooooo-aaaah-ow-ow! Let me down! Let me goooo-aaaaa-ow-aaaa-pleeeeez!"

In response to my thrashing about and calling out, he heightened the force and intensity of the swats to my overturned bottom. Otherwise, he did not respond, however, but simply continued on bearing me back to his lakefront home.

The old feelings of 4 years ago came back as we headed into the lakefront porch of his place. The feelings of fear, detest, humiliation, and helplessness I'd had as a little kid when I knew I was about to get my bottom tanned. The same feelings I relived 4 years ago when my parents were gone and Mr. Daniels intercepted by horsing around with my buddies, hauled me to his place, and spanked me hard with the hairbrush.

I was overcome with nervousness and sweaty palms, all of it. He was not my Dad; but he had promised my Dad he would keep an eye on me while my parents were away, and he had already whipped my butt several times over the weekend.

In the short time it took to walk to, and arrive at, his back porch, and in my futile exertions and protestations, I had begun to sweat all over – even in the cool, night, Adirondack air. He opened the door and carried me in, closing the door behind us. I glanced over at the couch on the porch – the same couch where he'd warmed my bottom 4 years ago – and immediately noticed what looked like the same, old, wooden hairbrush on the table next to the couch.

He slid me down to stand on my feet, and I trembled as I felt a chill from the cool, lake, night air. Staring intently at me, he spoke:

"Enough is enough, Ethan. I'm determined to make sure we are communicating – that I'm getting through to you. lt's time you had an old-fashioned message delivered to the seat of the problem, so you'll start remembering what happens to young men who behave like naughty, little boys," he said. "Naughty boys get their butts spanked – good and hard – and that's what you are long overdue for." He sat down on the couch in the same spot as 4 years ago.

"Mr. Daniels, nooooo, please," I pleaded. "Not again. You don't need to, I, ah, don't need it. I'll do better, I promise. I'll be good – from now on – you'll see." I was rapidly changing my tune and backpedaling. "Please, I'm not a little boy. Mr. Daniels, please, you've got to stop doing this. I'm way too old to be spanked. Don't treat me like a little kid, pleeeeez! Aughaaa-I-ah-don't want another spang-keeeeng – pleeeeeeez!"

"Sorry, Ethan, your Dad already spoke with me before he and your Mom left. He told me not to hesitate – especially after last time – if you need to be reminded how to behave yourself by getting an old-fashioned lesson, then that's what needs to be done. I sure don't like being the one to have to give you a spanking, but you've brought this on yourself, young man – all weekend long. Now get over here, right now."

I gulped, my stomach drew in sharply, and inwardly I agonized, knowing there was no escape. I shuddered as I slowly walked to him, I could feel my butt twitching under the thin cotton of my khaki shorts. As I got close enough to him, he took hold of my ear lobe.

"From the way things have gone this weekend, I'd say it sure looks like you are long overdue for this kind of consistent discipline, Ethan, and so, now, you're really going to get it," he said. With that, he undid the button on my shorts, zipped them down, and they fell to the floor. Then he pulled my t-shirt up, over my head and off. Finally, he slipped my boxers down over my bony hips, sliding down my buttocks and then thighs, to join my shorts on the floor. There I was, standing before him in nothing – completely bare.

He took me firmly by the arm and laid me across his lap on the couch. He placed his hand on the small of my back to hold me in place and raised his leg so my butt was raised up. I knew better than to squirm, but could not help it anyway.

"This is for your own good, and I want to be sure you remember it, Ethan," he said as he raised his hand and brought it down hard on the bare flesh of my behind. As I'd already been relearned over the past 3 days, he had very strong hands. He continued to spank me again and again right on my naked butt, especially concentrating on the spots right where I sit. I remember thinking, wow! this hurts! – but I can take it – even though my buns were already bruised and sore, and growing more red under this assault from his hand.

He continued to lecture me. "You are going to learn a good lesson, Ethan," he said. "Boys who act out like you have get their butts tanned, and you are definitely going to remember this spanking for a long, long time – maybe forever!" After a while, I began to wiggle and yelp as each hard smack made my butt feel hotter and hotter. It was getting harder to take as the warm sting on my bottom grew more intense with each smack.

Then, for a moment, he stopped. "Am I getting through to you, Ethan?"

"Aaaaa-ooooo-aaaaa-ye-essss, aaaaa, sirrrrr!" I moaned.

"Maybe, but what you really need is the kind of spanking I know will get through to you." With that, I heard him pick up the wooden brush I had seen on the table. He held me firmly in place so I could not move. Until this weekend, I had not been spanked with a hairbrush since he, and then my Dad, had spanked me with one almost 4 years ago. After having it applied to my bottom by Mr. Daniels in the last couple of days, I was in terror of the idea of it happening again. I knew, and remembered now, exactly how it felt, the hard wood burning into my butt cheeks and upper legs with intensity.

He raised his arm and brought the hairbrush down on my overturned, waiting behind with a loud and hard smack, causing me to yell out in pain. When it landed on the sit spot of my already burning butt, I felt the hot sting, cried out and began to kick and wiggle. I tried to move my arm to block the brush, but he grabbed it. "Hold still, Ethan, or this spanking will be much worse than it already is going to be."

Then again, he raised his arm and again applied a hard spank to my bare bottom. Methodically, he applied the hard hairbrush over and over and I was soon howling in pain. He continued spanking until my entire bottom was beet red, and I was raining tears on the rug. But he wasn't quite finished.

He began spanking rapidly, the lower part of my behind, the so-called "sit-spots" where I sit down, while I howled and bawled, as spank after spank rained down. Again, and again, and again, he brought the brush down on the under-curved spots of my round buns. I just couldn't lie there quiet, still. I kicked and wailed, as he kept lecturing me, saying, "the next time you think about misbehaving, and defying what you're told – disobeying – remember this spanking: it's exactly what you bring on yourself, and what you will get every time you act up."

I had no false, adult-ego bravado left to try to protest. I cried and sobbed my heart out as firmly as the flesh on my buttocks and thighs was seemingly being scorched off. Only when he was satisfied that I was one well-spanked, bad boy did he cease the spanking. By the time he finally stopped, my butt was on fire and I lay limp, choking, gasping, trembling, as tears and snot poured from my eyes and nose.

He held me in place, suspended on his knees for a while he gently rubbed my cherry red butt. Before letting me get up off his lap, he delivered another 25 smacks from the hairbrush onto the innermost, sensitive skin of my butt cheeks and thighs. I shrieked and bawled even louder and more uncontrollably.

Not giving me any more time to recover, he lifted me up under my arms, now more like a shaking, rag doll, and stood this squalling, bawling boy on his wobbly, unsteady, but bouncing, feet. My hands, flying to clasp my buttocks and thighs, were roaming wildly over my blistered, agonizing rump and upper legs, trying to extinguish the fiery pain – all the while alternating between doubling over and bending backwards, my penis strangely at full mast, sticking out and up on display for all to see.

After a few minutes, he grasped my left arm and ordered, "Come with me, young man." Reluctantly, with crimson face and bottom, I trudged along, marched by his steering me down the hall, naked, my erection still on display, to the bathroom.

Bending me over forward, my butt sticking out toward the mirror, he ordered, "Take a good look, Ethan!" I craned my head and neck around to see the results of the hairbrush spanking I had just received. My buns and upper legs looked like ripe, red peppers in the mirror, hot and throbbing. My rod was still sticking out like a flagpole. I did not know why – but I hated it, and was humiliated with overwhelming embarrassment.

"Now, Ethan, you stand over there, face in that corner, and think long and hard about all your behaviour that brought that has brought you to this spanking," he said. "What do you think your father is going to say about this, young man?" he interrogated.

My Dad?! I suddenly remembered my father's no-nonsense discipline in the past, and a definitely uneasy apprehension about the imminent future was stirring within me. "Uh-uh-doooo-uh-youuuu-uh-uh-hafta-uh-uh-tell-himmmmm?" I wailed my query.

"Yup, I sure do, boy," he answered in a belittling manner.

"Huh-uh-nuh-oooooo-uh-uh-youuuuu-uh-doooon't!" I squalled. "It's enough! This is enough, Mr. Daniels! I'm sorry! Really, I am. Please! You've punished me – a lot! I've learned my lesson – that's enough!"

"I can't do it, boy," he spoke in that same denigrating manner. "Your father is responsible for you, and he put me in charge while he's away. I can't not tell him. He has a right to know."

"Oooo-hoooo-uh-noooooo-uh-uh-pleeeeez, Mr. Daniels!" I sobbed like a bad, sorry child. "Please, nooo-oooh, please, don't tell him!"

"Sorry, boy. No can do. You're just going to have to face the music – the consequences for your behaviour – when he gets home. Besides, I admire your Dad for not letting his son get outta hand – for administering a good, hard spanking when you need it, Ethan."

I was blubbering waves of sobs like the very naughty child I denied I was.

"Youngsters who misbehave – don't pay attention, disobey – have got to be spanked: they have it coming, and they need it. It has only good benefits for any young man in the long run. A boy needs a thorough spanking now and again, to remind him he has it coming, and why– to get his attention refocused, set his head straight, for a while, get him rethinking his attitude, his mouth, and his behaviour, make sure he understands who's in charge. You qualify on all those accounts, laddie."

"He also needs it to teach him self-control. As hard as it may be to humble himself and accept being put into position when it's needed, it's even harder to hold still and take the pain – and make no mistake about it: getting blistered is painful! Oh, the pain does go away eventually; but while you're getting the licking, it's pretty severe – and for a good while afterward."

"Having to bend over the knee with your pants down or off, while your bare rearend is set on fire, changes your whole perspective and attitude – down to the core of your being: how you think about yourself, about others, and especially about the guy giving you the spanking. Believe it or not, Ethan, other punishments won't do. They just don't have the same effect."

"When you're told to take your pants down or off – or they're taken down or off of you – and you find yourself bent over a knee for a spanking, you've got to give up, surrender, any foolish idea of having some grown up, independent status. Whoever's in charge is reminding you that he's the adult; you're still a kid; and you have no business trying to do anything else but follow his orders, and obey."

"Sure, that's hard to do – especially when your head has become filled with notions that you're an adult, a man, and can do whatever you want. Sometimes it takes being taken down a peg or two, being made to do what the real adult says, and stop trying to bluff that you don't have to. Yes, sir, getting spanked does set a young man's head straight for a while, though."

He was lecturing me philosophically about the value and salutary benefits of being spanked, as I sniveled holding onto my flaming bottom and thighs. Although I hated hearing it, I knew everything he was saying was true. I was being re-taught it by him over this long, holiday weekend – with undoubtedly more lessons awaiting ahead from my Dad.

He pointed to a corner in the bathroom, to where I shuffled with my head bent forward, nose in the corner, and my fire engine red butt sticking out. "Hands on your head, and no rubbing yourself. I'll be back to check on you. In the meanwhile, you just think about what you've done, what you've brought on yourself, and what you've got coming because of it."

At almost 21 years old, and soon to be a senior in college, that was the last thing I wanted to do – stand their like a punished, naughty child –; but I had no choice. Standing there for more than 20 minutes with my face buried in the corner forced me to think about the mess I'd made for myself. When he came back in the room, he let me back out of the corner, told me to use the bathroom and then follow him to the bedroom.

Still naked, I raced self-consciously after him, down the hall into the bedroom, my hands furiously rubbing my hot and stinging buns. He had pulled down my bed for me and told me to get in, which I hastened to do – on my stomach, of course. Pulling the sheet and blanket up over my blistered, bare butt, and my back and shoulders, he inquired, "Do you think you've honestly learned your lesson, Ethan?"

As I lay there on my chest and stomach, my butt burning and throbbing under the bed clothes, I replied, "Haugh-uh-uhoooooo-uh-uh-ye-esss, uh-uh, sirrrrr."

"Well, let's hope so, young man, because if anything happens like this again – especially twice now – you will be back over here getting the spanking of your life – and then you'll still have to face your father." I knew he meant business, and was right – and I was now dreading the encounter with my Dad. Mr. Daniels paused and momentarily rubbed my shoulders and back gently, patted the back of my head of tousled hair, and then said, "Good night, then, Ethan," and walked out.

I managed a mangled "guh-uh-night," as I lay face buried in my pillow, still whimpering from the pain, shame, and anticipation of having to deal with my Dad the next day."

On the Monday following Memorial Day, I was allowed by my neighbour, Mr. Daniels, to sleep quite late – to almost 10:30. By the time I had showered, cleaned up, and dressed in my same work uniform of old, snug-fitting t-shirt, board shorts, and flip flops, the Daniels had a brunch ready for me. I ate it slowly, sitting with discomfort on my badly wounded rearend, feeling silently embarrassed about what had happened to me the night before.

After the brunch, Mr. Daniels suggested I go over and check my work, to make sure there was no area that needed more finishing; and after that try to tidy up my house for my parents. Anxious to get away from my neighbours anyway, I followed his advice, and headed over to my house to conduct a careful and scrutinizing inspection of the ice house, deck, and dock, got out the cans of finish and brushes, and began completing the final applications on the rest of the deck and dock.

Before 4 p.m., I was done and everything was drying. Again I swung repeatedly over and into the lake, letting the cool water soothe my weary, battered butt. The Daniels both came over to see my handiwork and told me dinner would be at 5 p.m., so I hurried back to their house, cleaned up and changed clothes, and joined them for another delicious meal.

 
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