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A Different Birthday
Part 38

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: 02 Nov 2017


The rest of our beach vacation at Daytona Beach was really pleasant and relaxing with Mike and Greta. I obeyed their rules for me strictly, and there never was an instant of trouble or unhappiness while we were there.

The closest I came to anything was when I saw a couple of the guys I’d seen with Dana taunted me with a question of whether my Father would let me out to do anything. I grimaced, but ignored them, choosing not to reply.

The last night there, we all walked along the beach in the moonlight a long ways before returning to our room and collapsing wearily into bed. The drive home was melancholy, but the reality of returning to the work-a-day real world set in with every mile northward.

Once back home, I began my 6 day-a-week job working with Mike. I had about 7 weeks before expecting to find out the results of the bar exam.

One thing struck me right away: how much I had learned from him in the past 3 years of helping him out on Saturdays and during breaks. It was obvious he thought so too.

He handed off not only basic jobs, like oil changes and filters, and fluids; but also some more involved work, like brake replacements, exhaust system work, with slips of paper for each indicating what was to be done.

I did each one, and he took a brief moment to look over my work, complimenting for the quality of the job done. It was strange feeling such a surging pleasure and self-confidence from his approval of my work.

Despite not having classes, or bar-review studying, they kept the same curfew hours and other restricting conditions on me. Sunday nights through Friday nights, I had to be in the house by 10 p.m. Saturdays, I could stay out til midnight.

Sometimes during the week I’d meet up with a couple of guys from law school who were still in town. We’d meet and get pizza, have a couple of beers, and relax, infrequently shoot pool.

Without exception, though, I had to leave no later than 9:45 to make it back to Mike’s and Greta’s by 10 p.m. I couldn’t even go to a move that started much after 7 p.m., or I’d have to leave before it was finished, to get back home by 10 p.m. It was frustrating at times.

Saturdays I could be out and gone before 3 p.m., and not have to worry about returning until midnight. It was the one night every week when I felt more like I was an adult. Even then, I usually had to extract myself from my friends, and whatever we were doing, to be sure I was able to be back in the house by midnight.

Whenever I voiced a plea for an exception, and a dislike for the denial, it grated at me. Their reasoning was understandable enouugh. I had to be up, Monday through Saturday, to work with Mike from 7:30 to 6 Monday through Friday, and 7:30 to 2 on Saturdays.

Besides that, Mike told me I was like a son to him and Greta, and they could not rest easy until they knew I was home safely in the nest. Nodding and forcing a smile, I’d reply I understood what he was saying; and I did. It still bugged me to be so controlled and curtailed at my age, however.

Occasionally my chafing exasperation boiled up and over at having to comply with stringent, rigid rules like I was a young adolescent. Those times were not very often, though, because I knew the consequences and always regretted with dread and trepidation the price to be paid.

Over the 7 weeks working and waiting for bar exam results, those incidents of resistance and rebellion were rare. Only twice, during that time did I burst out in infuriated anger, loudly voicing my displeasure at being reined in from the conditions I wanted to set for myself, to conform to those I knew I was required to abide by.

The first time was after the second week back when on a Thursday night, I was out with some guys, and they decided about 8:30 to go to a 9 p.m. movie. I knew that was out of reach for my timetable, but I really wanted to do it.

I excused myself to go to the restroom, and called Mike and Greta, hoping Greta would answer first. She did, and I sighed a suffusing sigh of relief.

Hey, Great, this is Clay. I was whispering. Ah, some of the guys I’m with are going to go see a movie at 9, and, ah,... I was wondering, ah,... I’d really like to go, ah,... and, ah, could I, ah, would it be okay?

Clay, honey, you should talk with Mike. He’s right here. Let me let you talk with him. Oh, damn! I thought to myself. He’s an impossible sell. I heard her whispering to him in the background, although I could not hear what was being said.

Clay! What’s up? Mike brusquely addressed me. What’re you trying to do?

Ah, Mike, ah, some of the guys are going to a movie at 9, and they want me to go with them. Ah, and, ah, I’d like to do it, Can, um, I get an exception to the, ah, 10 o’clock deadline? Please, Mike, ah, I’ll come right home afterward.

I made myself sick begging like a child, but I wanted a break in the rigidity of the regimen I was under.

Clay, you have to get up early and work hard, as you do, tomorrow; and you know the rules. Why’re you calling and trying to get around them. You know we both have to be sharp and able to work hard, and you need your sleep.

Mike! I’m not 7 years old! You make me sound like a little kid who needs guidance to avoid doing harm to himself. All I’m asking is to go with these guys to the movie at 9, and then come straight home, I explained.

I’ll get up on time, work hard, no problem, I promise, Mike, I pled.

Why didn’t you plan this better, Clay. Either an earlier showing, or on a Saturday. That’s the better arrangement, Mike answered.

Geez, Mike! I’m not the only one involved here! In fact, it wasn’t my idea; but there are several guys here, and none of them has to call and get permission to go see a movie!

That’s it, Clay! Nobody else has had happen to them what happened to you, and you begged and agreed to these conditions to keep from having to report it. Now you act like this!

Even if I’d been tempted to cut you some slack, your taking an attitude with me eliminates that! You get off your high horse right away, young man, and get your butt home here by 10, if you understand what’s best for you. Just tell them your work schedule won’t allow it. That’s it!

I was steamed, my pies burning! I was upset, angry, and felt myself on the verge of losing it, and also starting to blubber and cry like the little kid I protested against being treated as. So, I just hung up on him.

After using the bathroom, I breathed a deep breath and walked back to my friends.

You okay, Clay? they asked. You look like you don’t feel so well.

Oh, no, I probably just ate too much pizza, but I’m okay. Ah, I have to work at 7:30 tomorrow morning, I started to explain.

Oh, not again, Clay. You are the biggest downpour on anything! Come on. The movie should be over by 11 or shortly after. You can get right back home, go to bed, and be up for work the next day. Besides, tomorrow’s Friday!

I work on Saturday’s too, I added.

Okay, okay. Go to bed earlier tomorrow night, and catch up and be ready for Saturday, they were convincing me.

Okay, I’m in. Let’s go. In just that split moment I decided to chart my own course, and ignore the mandates of Mike and Greta. We got up and left, heading straight to the theatre.

The movie was Dunkirk, and I knew very little about it. The trailers took up 20 minutes of time, so the feature began at 9:23. We were leaving the theatre about 11:20.

I felt antsy, knowing I was quite late, besides having defied and been rude to Mike and Greta. My friends wanted to go some place and talk about the movie. It was quite a movie to consider and chat about, but I couldn’t do it. I knew I had to get home.

At 11:45, I stepped out of my shoes, unlocked the door and opened it slowly and silently. My longing hope was to pad to my room in my socks, get into bed and asleep, and be up early to show Greta and Mike I could stay out later, and still get up on time.

There was no chance for that. Mike was waiting, sitting on my desk chair in my room, in the dark. I opened the door walked in, and turned on a lamp. Spying Mike sitting there stunned me, I felt like I might jump so high as to go through the ceiling.

Oh, Mike! I called out in a stage whisper. Whoaaa-wow! I didn’t expect you to be there! You really startled me,... I can’t believe it! I rambled on.

Get out of those clothes, Clay! Everything! Take everything off! Now!

Aw, Mike, c’mon, now, be... aaaaah! My start to try to mollify him was abruptly interrupted by him grabbing me and pulling me over his lap, immediately followed by his hard, solid hand applying swats to the seat of my jeans.

Heeey, no, please, Mike! I called upward, my head and shoulders hanging down at the floor.

Do as I say, then. No attempts to wheedle and wrangle!

He pulled me right up fast and hard from his legs, to stand before him. Not willing to wait for me to comply, he unsnapped and unzipped my jeans, pulling them down off my hips, over my butt, and down my legs.

Step out of them! he barked, and I did so, as he pulled them off my feet, taking m socks with them. He pulled my jacked off me, followed by my polo shirt and t-shirt, leaving me in just my boxer briefs, now displaying to my shame a bulging tent in front.

Mike pulled me across and dumped me over his lap, my briefs-clad but elevated and positioned, slanted high as a target. I cannot believe you deliberately defied and disobeyed, Clay. I really expected you to sulk and grouse, but comply. This is so much worse.

His hands took hold of the waistband of my briefs and began tugging them off me, down over my buttocks, down my legs. He had to pause, reach under me, and unsnag my briefs from my stiff, thick, hard-on, before completing the remove of my under wear. I squirmed and stiffened at the touch on my boner.

After that, in wordless silence, he commenced spanking me with the same, odious hair brush, unleashing a licking that in astonishingly short time would break me, bring me to capitulation and compliance, and reduce me to the sorry, regretful state of a sobbing, penitent child.

My total surrender and accession to lying splayed across his lap, shrieking and bawling, lurching and bucking, but remaining confined over his lap, signaled my defeated, resigned acceptance of his corporal discipline; but he did not stop.

Instead, he continued spanking me until my flaming, sizzling rearend and backs of my thighs were searing the full descent to a hapless, spanked, bad boy.

When he finished, he pulled me up off his lap, placed his strong arms under me, and lifted me up to deposit me face down on my bed. Pulling the sheet and blanket up over me as I lay sobbing helplessly, uncontrollably into my pillow, Mike turned out the light and left.

The next morning, at 6:30, Greta called me to get up. Dolefully, I replied I would, and slid out to do so right away.

I hurried through showering, shampooing, and shaving, yet took long enough to afford myself some therapeutic, temporary relief from a purging wank. I dressed in my older, work clothes, and came into the kitchen for a quick breakfast before heading down to the shop.

Breakfast was self-consciously quiet. Mike left before me, and I hastened afterward to go to the shop. Before I left, Greta whispered to me not to linger over Mike’s disciplining me. He really cares about you very much, Clay, she urged.

I thanked her for that, replying I guess I really do know that, even if sometimes it is more painful than pleasure. She laughed and winked at me.

In the shop, Mike handed me my assignments. One was a complete replacement of rotors. It was his way of promoting me to even more difficult, trustworthy work assignments.

At the end of the day, he complimented me on both the amount and the quality of the work I had done that day, and I felt buoyed with confidence and praise. When he next told me I was to stay and go to the office to wait for him, I knew immediately that meant I was going to get another spanking, and before we went back up to the house.

Sure enough, he came into the office a few minutes later, ordered me to undress, and took me bare over his lap. Sitting on the same old couch, he scorched my sore, vestigially spank-marked bum and upper legs until I was the same, sorry, small boy he’d placed in bed early this morning.

Mike told me I would be getting one more Saturday night, and was grounded for the next 10 days. Squalling and weeping, I submitted to his authority and the punishment he dispensed.

Bawling and breaking up, I promised him I would obey, not defy him or Greta again, and apologized for my misbehaviour. In response, he assured me he was confident I was becoming more and more compliant and reliable, even after a rare aberration like last night.

He hugged me, and I reciprocated heartily. Held by him, I was swept by a rush of unexpected emotion, as I suddenly felt, at 33, as if I were his son, Mike were my Dad, and I earnestly and dearly wanted his approval.

Afterward, I quickly re-dressed, wiped my face and combed my hair. We walked up to the house, his arm encircling my shoulders. I was assiduously scrupulous to obey the rules, and whatever he and Greta told me after that.

 
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