A Different Birthday
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: 09 Nov 2017
I knew it, and could not believe it was happening. I was trapped in a no-win setting with no exit until late February of the next year. Leaving my tutor’s residence, I drove back to Mike’s auto shop as he had instructed.
When I arrived, I walked quietly and slowly inside. Depressed and feeling ensnared, I wanted, needed, Mike to sympathize, empathize, encourage me. By now I knew him well, and better than to allow myself any illusion he would indulge me in my bog of self-pity.
Is that you, Clay? he called out.
Yeah, Mike. Listen, I’ve got to tell you about this situation with Mr. Martinet, I began.
Your tutor?! Yeah, what in the hell are you doing upsetting that man, Clay?! He’s good enough to set up a special schedule, just for you, to ensure you are ready to pass the part you failed last time!
He’s not charging us, guarantees you will pass if you do everything he tells you. And what do you do?! You piss him off by not preparing, not paying attention, not listening, just flat out disobeying, inflaming him! Geez, Clay! Are you on some suicide mission?!
Mike, it’s not like that, I responded.
Oh, really?! Well, please enlighten me, will you, bright boy? You’re the college and law school grad. Maybe you see something different than I do. Maybe you can explain how a guy who needs all the help he can gets flaunts his defiant insubordination of the man who can, and wants to, help you pass! It’s shameful and makes no sense, Clay!
Because to me, it looks like you’ve got some wild-hair streak to anger the person who has the reputation and the ability to get you over this hurdle and pass the part of the bar you couldn’t before. Do you have some kind of career death wish, Clay?!
You know you have to pass this part. You know everybody else who worked under Mr. Martinet passed, but you. Why was that, Clay?! Come on, you’re a smart kid! You can surely figure out why you alone failed the part you were struggling with, and he was devoting extra time and special attention to help!
Your history all through that preparation was under preparing, under achieving, and just generally being a repeated pain in the ass to Mr. Martinet. Frankly, I’m shocked he’s willing to take you back and work with you again, not mentioning arranging much more to help you.
Now, you seem to think you can go right back to the same kind of insolent, stupid behaviour! Well, think again, Whiz Kid! You have to pass this, Clay, unless you just want to be known as a law school graduate, but never a lawyer!
Mr. Martinet can get you there! His performance is not in question, Clay! You are not going to screw this up, turn this opportunity – graciously offered to you – into garbage!
From the time I first met you, Clay, it’s become more and more clear that you have suffered from the absence of a Father in your life. Maybe the self-destructive, self-hurting things you do are your way of trying to strike back, lash out, for lacking a Dad.
It doesn’t help you, only hurts you; but you’ve been let go, and allowed to get away with that kind of behaviour. Not so much since you’ve been living with Greta and me, and have had some authority imposed on you.
Even that is going to change. I can’t psychoanalyze you, but I can, and will, do something you’ve
probably needed for many years. Step into your life, be the guiding and demanding Dad you need, make you toe the line, behave, and know you will suffer the consequences if you don’t.
You are going to study, work hard, devote yourself, mind and body, to cooperating and doing whatever he tells you. If you don’t, you will be one extremely sorry, sore young man.
Five months is long enough to get it done. It’s also a long time to be in the cross hairs of constant,
unrelenting punishment and discipline. But it’s up to you, mister!
If you want to try your hand at alienating the man who can make it happen, push you across the line, you are going to find your butt so busted and burned you’ll wonder why you every considered rebellion and noncompliance.
Whewww! Mike was irate and I was the object of his fury. That was the least of it.
He stopped his work completely, turning out the garage lights, putting the
CLOSED sign on the door,
and marching me into the office. He was so mad, he did not wait to order me to strip.
He literally pulled my clothes off me, while I cried out, calling
Mike! Mike! Please! Listen, Mike, please. I can explain! Please don’t dooo this! I’m sorry! Mike,... give me a chance... please!
When I was utterly denuded by him in the office, standing naked, red-faced, with harshly reddened butt and thighs, tears leaking from my eyes, he grabbed my arm, sat down, and hauled me roughly upside down across his lap.
If he had anything more to say, he was saving it, as he commenced the fierce, hard, and long licking with the brush. No amount of teeth-clenching resolve could stifle the loud, howling shrieks that escaped from my mouth, followed by gagging sobs wrenching and wracking my perspiring body.
The ferocity of the licking had me bouncing and bucking, while screaming and screeching in unimagined pain, and deeper, demeaning shame and humiliation. Despite my longing to talk about, to defend myself in, the situation with my tutor; I realized it was not going to happen.
I was going to be decimated in disgrace and agony, until I could do nothing but surrender to tears and uninhibited bawling, to being punished for my misbehaviour, and to the prospect of much more, and worse, I did not shape up and change. What was not going to be permitted was me carrying on some
idle chatter to try to excuse my conduct.
The effect of the licking Mike had interrupted his business to deliver was my complete collapse, capitulating to his authority, to the stern, harsh punishment, and to the need and desire to change my conduct, work hard, obey what I was ordered, and please Mike, the no-nonsense
Daddy who had taken over total charge of me.
Amidst the pre-eminent longing for the flaming pain searing my mounds and thighs to case, I lost focus, even consciousness, of everything else. My bawling and blubbering sobs were unceasing torrents that broke over my mind, emotions, and sweaty body.
At last, I realized I was lying still, heaving and shaking while squalling, hanging in total subjection over Mike’s lap. When at last I struggled to pull myself up off his lap, I could hardly see for the tears which were flowing from my eyes. My every movement brought fierce, agonizing pain to my backside and upper backs of my legs.
Get yourself dressed and up to the house, Clay. Whatever Greta may have for you for lunch you take with you to your room, and buckle down immediately to serious, determined studying. Understand, son? Mike directed and asked.
Son. His use of that term while inflicting the longest, hardest, most painful spanking he’d ever administered to me (and he’d delivered a lot), took its toll on me.
I wept, more quietly and suppressed, but more profusely, while I gingerly and uneasily stepped back into my briefs, jeans, pulled on my t-shirt and polo shirt, a bent over grimacing contortions while I pulled my socks and shoes back on.
By the time I was ready to leave and head up to the house, Mike was back in the garage, with the lights on, and the
OPEN sign on the door. I made my way, tears still streaming, feeling like a very bad, naughty, spanked child, and Mike’s
Go to the contents page for this series.