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A Different Birthday
Part 43

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: 15 Dec 2017

When Mr. Martinet and I arrived back at Mike’s and Greta’s house, I was still unconscious and asleep. Unbeknownst to me, Mike reached into Mr. Martinet’s car, hauled me up and out into his arms, and carried me into the house, to my room, and put me down, still asleep, into my bed.

Mr. Martinet followed Mike and watched everything. So this is where Clayton does his studying, is it? Did you find he was diligent in coming in here and doing the work? he asked.

Oh, yes, sir, Mike answered. Like you, Mr. Martinet, we run a tight, orderly house here, and just as with you, Clay knows he has no leeway to fail to do what s expected. Only, we have less need to discipline him to keep him at it here.

They both looked down at me, unconscious with fatigue and exhaustion. Well, I hope you’ll let me know as soon as Clayton gets his favourable results, Mr. Martinet told Mike.

Of course. We are deeply appreciative of everything you did, the great lengths to which you went, to help Clay. Your confidence makes us optimistic.

As they walked to the door, Mr. Martinet replied. With Clayton, I will have enhanced my reputation. Getting someone as difficult as he was to stay focused, both last time and less so this time, will encourage others to let me help them.

Besides, I’m confident in my work and results, and also in Clayton’s work and efforts this time. Sometimes it took some prodding, but he buckled down, focused, and kept the goal before him. I know we will be celebrating in a couple of months.

The tutor left, got in his car, and drove home. The next day I did not get to sleep in because I had a 9 a.m. appointment to get the cast off my left hand.

Although I was tired, and could have slept much longer, I was excited about regaining the use of my left hand, even though I knew I would have some physical therapy to practice. Also, over the next couple months of waiting again, I would be able to work with Mike in the shop every day, helping out.

We left the doctor’s office after 11 a.m., with my hand free of casts and ready to exercise back into full, useful shape. Mike suggested we stop by a deli for lunch, which Greta appreciated. I was really in a happy mood, and glad to sit and eat with them, to appreciate the unrestricted use of my hand again.

We got back, and Mike opened the shop late, at 1 p.m. I walked down with him, and asked for some work to do to help out. He gave me a few easy things, which I did, albeit a little slower than before I fractured my metacarpals.

Over the weekend, I began my hand physical therapy exercises. Typically, Mike took charge, supervising and overseeing my performing them.

Whenever I had a free moment, he reminded me to go get the equipment and use it. A major therapy item was a rubber ball that would fit within my hand, so I could squeeze and release it, over and over.

Within a week I had regained enough strength and flexibility to start taking on more involved and substantial work at the shop. I got up with Mike every morning and spent the entire day, all week long and on Saturdays, helping him with the work on the vehicles in his shop.

Because I had no more studying to do, and was working long, hard, full days with Mike, I assumed my strict schedule was at an end, and I would no longer be held to my academic curfew. When I learned that was not so, it really upset and angered me.

If I want to go out, and stay out late, as long as I get up, and am able to work and do a good job, I should be able to decide for myself, set my own rules now, I told Mike in disagreeing with his insistence that the same curfew remained in place.

It’s not fair. I listened, did what you said, followed your rules, obeyed them to a ’T’, well almost to a ’T’, I argued back. Now I should be able to enjoy the same freedom and choices other people my age get to do.

Look, Clay. We are glad you are healthy, and have extra time to socialize and do other things besides studying; and we’re willing to make accommodations and go along with your doing things.

But you forget that many of the conditions imposed on you were before you began studying for the bar exam, and were for your safety. You remember what horrible things happened to you, and you were not willing, were afraid, to report it.

Our agreement was we would go along with your decision on that, but only on the conditions that you kept the same curfew deadlines, and kept us informed and aware of where you go, what you’re doing, and with whom you are associating. That’s not unfair or unreasonable, Clay. It’s what you agreed to, and it’s what makes sense to make sure you stay safe and avoid harm.

Even though Mike was right, I hated hearing that, being reminded of the agreed-on conditions, and the reasons for them. I tried a different form of protest.

Well, but now, you and Greta, and I, all need to let me extend and expand, to see and let me try handling more things on my own. So, I need to be able to make my own choices and set my own boundaries, I replied.

No way, Clay. That sounds like a lot of blabber baloney. This is not like you’re a new driver, and we gradually watch you mature and allow you to drive further, Mike retorted.

This is a matter of your safety, of preventing and protecting you from serious, horrible harm that you suffered; and there is no real change. You are just as vulnerable, just as much at risk, as you were before.

And all of that is especially after midnight, in the late night hours, or when you might be out some place where no one knows where you are, what you’re doing, or who you’re with. So for those good, sound reasons, we are going to keep those rules and conditions, Clay, and you’re just going to have to go along with them.

Mike laid down the categorical law. Being free from the stresses of a strict study schedule; and especially with my hand recovering to normal, I really thought, believed, I should be released from the conditions imposed on me.

Damn it, Mike! When am I ever going to be allowed to grow up, be an adult, a man, and not be kept on a leash like child under his parents’ control? This stinks! I shouted.

Well, Mr. Big Shot, law school graduate, almost attorney, Mr. Ungrateful, Mr. Reckless and Careless, I don’t really care how much you moan and groan, young man. All that does is make you sound more like the unwise, untrustworthy kid you are complaining about being treated like.

You live with us, Clay. We care about you, and look out for each other. Greta and I are not about to toss our concern and care, and the strictures to guide and protect, and keep you safe, to the wind. You are still obligated to listen and obey, comply with and meet the confines for living that you yourself urged and agreed to. Understand?

I did not want to understand, and in my pique of frustration, I yelled back at him.

No, no I don’t understand, Mike! I’m way older than most of my fellow students, and most of my friends! They don’t have to live under these rigid rules. It’s bullshit!

Mike had heard and tolerated enough. Grabbing hold of my right arm, he jerked me up closer to himself, and began frogmarching me to back to my bedroom.

I was going to ask you if you wanted, needed, a spanking a while ago. But you kept on to the point of not only being ungrateful, but insolent and recalcitrant, Clay. So you’ve brought on yourself, earned yourself, a licking to put you promptly back in your place, and warn you against any insubordination in the future.

Not stopping even to close the bedroom door, he pulled me to himself as he sat down. With laser-like speed, in no time, he had my shoes and socks off my feet, my jeans down, my shirt and t-shirt off, and my boxer briefs peeled down off my hips and buttocks, slithering down to join my jeans at my ankles.

I knew full well what was happening, and what I had done to cause it. In a panic, I tried to backpedal.

Ah, no, Mike, please, not this! I’m sorry! You can understand how I feel, after everything that’s happened, failing part of the bar exam the first time, breaking my hand,...

Cut out that crap, Clay! That has nothing to do with your disrespect and defiance, not to mention your dishonesty about what you wanted, agreed to. Anyway, your bad, hothead, unruly mouth, along with daring to argue against what you know you are bound to abide by, has gained you nothing but the licking you need to clear the air, and set you straight, young man!

He pulled me down and across his lap, this time pinning me on his left knee between my legs, with his right leg under my left one. Pushing me forward and slanted on his knee that separated my legs spread apart, he raised his right leg slightly, which lifted my left foot up off the floor.

The same, longstanding tool of discipline, the hair brush, began its work on my butt and upper legs. I had actually gone almost 3 weeks without being spanked, and it was an initial blow to my ego, pride, and self-concept to find myself back on Mike’s knees, getting my rearend blasted and blazoned with the emblems of a stern, unsparing spanking.

It was also a very quick reminder of the hurting pain and demoralizing shame from having to take the fiery smacks of the brush smiting my buttocks and the backs of my thighs, while I whined, protested, before bursting into regretful tears and squeals, eventually ascending to high-pitched, young, boyish sounding shrieks and sobs.

As always, once forced to apply discipline, Mike was thorough and unrelenting in his administering it to me. Soon I forgot about any other self-interest I might have other than the ending of the conflagration consuming my rump and back thighs.

Begging and pleading, promising and assuring I would accept and abide by the conditions in place on me, I longed for an end to the inferno searing, scorching singeing my behind and legs. When Mike shifted his target to the hyper-tender, undercurved sit-spots, and the sensitive flesh of my inner thighs, as usual, I broke, caving in, surrendering to his authority and dominating control.

When I was so frantic, and too hoarse, that nothing wailed and cried out had any affect on Mike’s delivery of the spanking he determined I needed and deserved, I fell limp and unresisting. I sobbed and bawled with each additional, almost endless spank swatting my hiney.

At last, the trial by fire inflicted on my backside ended. I lay heaving and shaking, crying and squalling uncontrollably. Mike sat patiently for a couple of minutes before lifting me up off his lap to stomp and bounce around in painful disgrace.

Standing up, he pulled back and open my bed, waiting while I crawled face down onto the mattress, my wet, weeping face buried in my pillow, my arms and hands back clasping my tortured, flaming behind. I was not a 33 year old adult, but the sorry, remorseful, penitent, spanked, boy that always emerged during a spanking.

As he had done so many times over the past 3½ years, Mike pulled the sheet and blanket up over me, patted the back of my shaking head, before saying goodnight, and leaving me to weep myself to sleep in my bed.

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