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A Different Birthday
Part 37

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: 13 Oct 2017


The next morning I awoke late. Rolling onto my back prompted me to flip over fast onto my face and stomach, triggering a sudden awareness and remembrance of the butt-blazing spanking I’d gotten the previous night, and along with the soreness came tumbling the circumstances, on the beach, that led to it.

Feeling deeply humbled and abased, I lay there, extremely upset: with Mike for seeking me out and exerting authority and control over me, including delivering a harsh, hurting, bare licking to me; with myself, for having been so foolish as to fall into circumstances that allowed for me to be treated like that.

Finally, I slid out of bed on my chest and stomach, fleeing for the bathroom as quick as my feet touched the floor. I showered, shampooed, and shaved, letting the warm water assuage my jangled emotions and raw, wounded behind.

Afterward, I dressed quickly and joined Mike and Greta who were sitting at the tiny table, eating the breakfast they had brought back to the room from the breakfast area. On the table was a plate with eggs, sausage, a bowl with a box of cereal and milk, a cup of coffee and a cup of cranberry juice, and two cinnamon, raisin bagels.

Morning, Clay, Greta greeted me. I thought you might be sick, or were going to sleep all day. Are you okay, honey? she kindly and sweetly inquired.

Yes, ma’am, pretty much. Thanks for getting me breakfast.

I began devouring the food like a man afflicted with famine and starvation. The coffee was also something I had acquired a dependency on during law school.

So, Clay, Greta and I are going to the laundromat to do some laundry this morning. You can come along and help out, and it’ll give you and me a chance to talk after we’ve set up the laundry to run.

Mike’s indirect order rubbed me negatively, especially after what had happened to me the night before. The last thing I wanted at that moment was to spend time on some one-on-one, man talk with him. Always, though, I had to consider whether I seemed ungrateful, and whether I might provoke Mike to take action and discipline me further.

If you, ah, need me, I’ll go, I replied.

Of course you can help out. What else were you thinking of getting into? Mike pelted me with a belittling question that made me bit my lip.

So, after breakfast, we packed up and drove to a laundromat near A1A along the beach. I helped pack 2 loads of laundry into the machines, while Greta put in detergent and whitener, and Mike got the coins for the washers and dryers.

After that, Greta sat down to return to a book she was reading. Mike grabbed the back of my neck and said, Clay and I are going outside for a short walk and talk. We’ll be back in an hour or so.

Okay, dear, Greta replied. I walked out of the glass door escorted by Mike’s steering clasp on the back of my neck. Once we were outside, he let go of my neck and told me to stay with him.

He was walking fast, so I did too. While we walked, he opened the subject of the conversation he was intent on having with me. Mike opened up a long conversation which began with him disclosing details he had never discussed before.

He met his first wife, Marie, when he was young, just before enlisting in the Marines. He was naive, but enthusiastic; excited and passionate, yet inexperienced. After boot camp, and 8 months after meeting, they married.

On their wedding night, he was so excitedly aroused he climaxed before they could have intercourse. He was embarrassed and felt guilty, but was happily shocked at so quickly re-loading so they could fully consummate their relationship.

I was shocked Mike was telling me all this, but kept quiet, listening, letting him talk to me without interruption.

They had two boys within 2 years after marrying, both the results of 2 short furloughs he’d had. When he was discharged (honorably) from the Marines, he started his own auto mechanics shop.

She left him quickly and early, succumbing to cancer, to raise those boys then 8 and 6. For many years he was a widower-bachelor, devoted to raising his sons, without any romantic, much less sexual, activity.

When he met Greta, it was sheer serendipity. He had been celibate so long, he just expected to be so indefinitely. She was someone who helped him with his sadness over the loss of Maire, and with the responsibility of raising two boys to young men.

They got married after 6 months. Not willing to engage in sexual conduct together until the marriage commitment, they also did not want to continue to wait.

I’ve never been sorry, Clay, that I presented to each woman I love myself reserved just for them. Each time, I found the right one, and each time I’d saved everything for them. I’m very lucky.

I raised both my boys to become young men who followed my example, and in my footsteps. Both of them are married today and would probably tell you  – maybe more persuasively, since their closer to your age  – the same thing I’m saying.

Don’t sell your wares cheap on the black market. What you have; what Marie and I had, what Greta and I have; is total commitment, without reservation, to each other. It’s wonderful, Clay.

Don’t undervalue yourself; don’t sell yourself short. I’ve lived with sexual frustration, and still held on to what I wanted to be specially and exclusively for the woman I married because I loved her that much.

I was suddenly speechless and self-conscious. Never would I have guessed Mike to open himself and unload like he just had. Perhaps suspecting I might be wondering what this had to do with me, he went on.

Over 3 years ago, Clay, you came into our lives, like a third son to raise. I know you lost your mother young; your Dad was not very involved in your life; so you’ve lacked, and need, a hand to guide you, and a heart to look out for you.

It’s obvious (or should be) we have those for you, Clay. To Greta, you’re just a third stepson to take under her wing, and make sure you’re wise, and safe, and know you’re cared for and loved.

I gulped at that emotional description of her attitude toward me.

You probably don’t know it, Clay, but you’ve come a long way since we first met you over 3 years ago. You’ve grown in so many ways, and are a different person from then.

Our concern about you now, Clay Walker, is that you not regress or deviate from the path you’ve been progressing on so successfully. Sure, I know you’re still young, and you’d like to have a girlfriend, find a wife.

But people like Greta and I, who care about you enough to make sure you don’t jeopardize yourself, can’t sit back and let you stray from the correct course; and we won’t. That’s why you have to realize, and accept, you are our charge for now.

You are to do what we direct, and refrain from what we forbid, while you are in our diligent care. Will that be forever, or the rest of your young life? Of course not. But while you are, we intend to direct you with the guidance you may not have had previously.

I was kind of taken aback by the detailed forthrightness of Mike, who was not usually given to loquacious communication. The personal disclosure of his and Greta’s concern for me also affected me.

You have already, you know, I began a response. He looked at me bewildered.

I mean, you and Greta have already had a big effect on me, Mike. Everything from thinking, and doing, what is right; accepting limitations and restrictions, even to appreciating good accomplishments, and, ah, the results of not so good, ah,...

You mean discipline, Clay? Mike interrupted me to help me complete the thought my self-consciousness delayed.

Ah, yeah,... also that, I responded. Anyway, I’m not ungrateful. In fact, I’m very lucky, and I appreciate everything, I added.

Including getting disciplined? Mike added.

Ah, yeah, ah, yes, ah, I, ah, guess thah-ahts right, I stammered my agreement.

Unusually demonstrative with his words and physicality, he grabbed me around my head and pulled me into his chest, holding my the side of my face against him.

You’re a good guy, Clay; and we aim to keep you that, and further it, while you’re with us. Understand?

Ye-es, I think so, I murmured my answer.

Anyway, this is what were going to do from here on out. Tonight, you’re going to get another licking for your bad judgment and behaviour last night, to...

What?! Why?! Another one?! I understand you, Mike, I got our point. I will do better. I’ll behave, conduct myself better. I promise. You don’t need to spank me again.

Just like with my own boys, when they talked like that, they were trying to bypass the repercussions of their bad behaviour, speech, actions, whatever. That’s always a signal that what is needed is beyond that.

What’s needed is discipline, punishment, that drives an errant young man past attempted evasion, to truly sorrowful regret and an earnest desire never to behave so again. A burning sore bottom always produces that eventually.

So, here’s what’s going to happen, Clay. You’re getting spanked again, after supper, and sent straight to bed early tonight.

For the rest of the week, we are going to have a relaxing, fun time together, but you are going to abide by the curfew and other conditions with which you are familiar living with us, including not wandering off on your own, by yourself, informing us if you want to do something other than what we are doing. Understand?

You do that, and we will have a real good vacation together. You fail to do so, and you’ll have ample opportunity to regret it while nursing a hot, sore behind and an unhappy ego.

When we get back home, as you know, you will abide by the same rules, or face the same consequence. While you’re waiting for your bar results, you will be working with me every day at the shop.

You behave yourself as a responsible young adult, and you’ll find yourself treated accordingly, more and more, Clay. It’s in you hands; but if you blow it, then it’s out of your hands, and in ours. I know you know exactly what I’m saying.

Trying hard to choke back my anger, fear, and emotions, I nodded, Yuh-es-uh-Mike.

Okay then, let’s go back and help Greta fold clothes and take them back to the room. We turned and walked more swiftly back along the beach to the laundromat.

In the afternoon, we found some people down the beach who had set up a volleyball net and were playing. Mike asked if they wanted more players and they took us in, shifting a couple of their players to the other side from where they assigned Mike and Greta and me.

I kicked of my shoes, pulled off my shirt, and in just a pair of board shorts, I jumped in. Mike was in cargo shorts and a t-shirt. We played long, several games, and got excited into the play.

Several times I save the ball from the ground, bouncing it up for a return. Each time, Mike swatted the seat of my board shorts, praising my actions. Although each swat made me blush and feel a momentary, but fleeting embarrassment, I was overall happy to be playing a physically demanding game and doing well at it.

After several, exhausting hours of play, we ended it. One couple, about Mike’s and Greta’s ages, inquired if we wanted to get some dinner with them.

Mike said he and Greta had something they had to do with me that evening, but he would love to have a raincheck for us to eat together. They offered the next night, and it was agreed to as definite.

I trudged along back with Greta and Mike. We stopped at a small place along the beach and got a quick dinner together, and afterward resumed our walk back to the motel.

Once we were inside, Mike told me to wait inside, while he and Greta went outside and chatted for a while, before he returned alone. I gulped, knowing what was next.

At his quiet order to undress, I peeled off my t-shirt and board shorts, standing nude before him. By now, after more than 3 years of this, I knew full well what to do, and what was in store, though something within me twisted and groaned at having to strip down nude in front of this older guy who, remaining dressed, was going to punish me bare.

He pulled out one of the small chairs around the little table and sat down. Now, Clay. You know what’s going to happen. Get over here, across my lap right now, and let’s get this over with.

Embarrassed at what was about to occur, and at being naked before him dressed and waiting for me, I walked slowly over to him as ordered. Before I could lower myself to drape my body over his knees, I was hauled down and shoved further upended, with my face at the motel room floor.

At that point, the punishing implement of terror, the brush, began its horrible assault on my already well-wounded and marked bottom and upper legs. As he delivered an undiminished licking, I lay bouncing, but hanging, over his lap, getting my bare bottom blistered, crying and promising and pleading without a shred of dignity to cling to.

When he finished, he sat for a couple of minutes, letting me wind down my torrential bawling, patting my seared, sore rump with his hand. When I was recovered to the point of whimpering, he pulled me up, walked me to the bathroom to empty my bladder, and led me to the bed that was mine.

I crawled in, still squalling, on my chest and stomach, my face buried in the pillow.

You’re there for the night, Clay. Greta and I are going to walk the beach in the moonlight, but I’m locking the door so no one can come in, and no one  – meaning you  – can go out without being locked out. Do you hear me?

I wailed a crying confirmation.

All right then, Clay. Tomorrow’s a new day, a better one. We’ll look forward to sharing it together. Good night, son, Mike concluded the session and the day, walking out to join Greta for a magical moonlight walk on the beach.

I lay there hurting, crying, feeling depressed and sorry for myself, but the warmth of Mike calling me “son” was not wasted on me despite my mood. As I fell asleep, I kept remembering him calling me that.

 
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