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: 07 Mar 2018
In the morning, I awoke bright and rapt, except for the lingering hurting of my sore, abused bottom. Instantly, it brought back the fact, the reasons for, and the results of the spanking I’d gotten from Mike the night before.
Gingerly, I got out of bed, went into the shower, and returned to dress in my work jump suit. I walked quietly into the kitchen and poured myself a cup of coffee.
Here, sit down, Clay, and eat breakfast. We’ll head down to the shop afterward.
I knew this was Mike’s way of re-establishing relations, so I eased my sensitive, sore bottom (which seemed to be continually aching) onto the chair. We ate quickly, put our dishes in the sink, and quietly walked out, headed to the shop.
Greta got sick last night, so I want to just let her sleep until she feels like getting up, Mike explained. I replied I was sorry, and hoped she would feel better.
Here you go, Clay, Mike said as he handed me a list of vehicles and work to be done on them.
Let me know if you encounter a problem. Otherwise, just return the slip when they’re all done.
I couldn’t help grinning broadly I was so happy to be back helping Mike, and for him to be trusting me again, and me to be doing more difficult and important things than mere oil changes and filters. We worked all day, stopping only for lunch, and trudging back to the house together before 6 p.m. for supper.
This time of working full-time for Mike was unquestionably the happiest time of working I’d ever experienced in my whole life. My work life before law school had been good, but never as satisfying and as much enjoyment as this.
Even working hard, studying for law school, and then the bar exam, were important, and demanding; but they did not leave me with the sense of pride and accomplishment I felt at the end of every day working in Mike’s shop. So, the time waiting for the bar exam results passed quickly and contentedly.
I did not run afoul of Mike’s rules for me, or my promise to stick to them, even when it was inconvenient and sometimes disagreeable with me to do so. Whenever I went out after work, or on the weekend, I had to let Mike and Greta know where I was going, and with whom.
Whenever I was about to leave, invariably Mike reminded me of the rules: be back home by 10 p.m.; call to let them know if I was going anywhere else, and get permission; and since I was driving, I was not allowed to drink.
On occasion, I chafed over those rules, but Mike reminded me,
if you fail to meet the rules, you know what’s gonna happen, don’t you, Clay?
Of course, I did and had to acknowledge it; and so I complied. One night, about 9:45, I called to ask if I could stay out later with some guys who were at a sports bar, and we were watching a college basketball game.
Mike denied my request, telling me I needed to be home
pronto and reminding me I had a full day of work before me tomorrow. I was irked to the point of wanting to kick or hit something, but I did not.
Instead I went back to my friends and told them I was needed back at home. They questioned the need for me to live right away, but I asked them to forgive me and left.
I had to hustle to get home by 10 p.m., but I’d suppressed my irritation by the time I arrived. After greeting Greta and Mike, and after a slice of fresh, baked apple pie and a glass of milk, I was in bed shortly after 10:30.
The next morning, I was up promptly and ready to go with Mike to the shop after breakfast. Each day was a pleasure as I gained self-confidence and feelings of achievement.
Finally, the day the bar exam results were released arrived. It was a Thursday, and I knew if I went online I could find out within a matter of minutes. Instead of doing so, however, I ignored the fact all day long, working at the shop with Mike.
At the end of the day, we headed back to the house, and I got on my computer in my room to find out the results. With heightened dread, I checked my personal identification number, and after that was directed to my results. I passed! I was thrilled.
Without signing out, I got up from my computer and raced out to the kitchen to tell Greta and Mike. They were as jubilant as I, and shared my happiness and relief.
That’s it, Clay Walker! Stop cooking, Greta! We’re going out to celebrate! Is there anyone you want to join us to celebrate this good news? Mike asked.
There were a couple of guys I met for dinner a few times, but I wasn’t sure they would be as excited about this as we all were.
Ah, I dunno, Mike, I responded.
How about Mr. Martinet? Mike asked.
After all, he’s the one that got you ready to carry the ball over the goal line. I liked the football analogy, but wasn’t thrilled about Mr. Martinet.
Come on, Clay. You call him. He’ll be very happy and complimented you would include him in celebrating. Inwardly reluctant, I acceded to Mike’s wishes.
Hello, Mr. Martinet? This is Clay, Clay Walker. I passed the bar exam! I just found out! Thank you so much, sir. I owe it all to you. Would, ah, you want to join us, um, to celebrate? Mike and Greta and I are going out to celebrate. Could you, ah, I mean, would you be able, ah, want, to join us?
He said he would, and Mike told me to tell him we would pick him up in 30 minutes. At 7 p.m., all four of us were in Mike’s SUV, heading to an Italian restaurant, Geno’s.
We piled into the restaurant, enthusiastic, happy, celebratory. We were headed to a booth, when I spotted two of the guys I knew from eating out with them in the past. They waved at me, and Mike informed them I had just learned I’d passed the bar exam.
They called out their congratulations, and Mike asked if they wanted to join our party to celebrate my success. They did, and we all sat down at a large, circular table. Greta was seated on my right, and Mr. Martinet on my left.
We started out by ordering beer and wine. Greta, Mr. Martinet, and Mike all ordered Chianti. My buddies and I all had Peronis. It was a loose, light-hearted, let-hair-down occasion.
My friends teased me, unknowingly, about how may tries I’d had before I finally passed. They were surprised when Mr. Martinet spoke up and told them I’d passed 2/3 the first time, and
would have passed the last 1/3 if he’d studied harder, isn’t that so, Clayton?
I blushed, nodding enthusiastically.
Buh-uht thanks to you, ah, sir, I did this last time, and it worked! I shouted out.
Yes, it did, young man, notwithstanding how much was required to see that you did! I blushed and smiled.
Again, thanks to Mr. Martinet, here, I exclaimed.
We ordered bruschetti before dinner, and more beers, to which we added more when our dinners arrived. I was feeling loose, relaxed, and basking in the warm glow of success and friendly jubilation.
From time to time, one or another would ask me when I would be sworn in, and what I planned to do after that. I had no idea, but told them I’d probably be sworn in in a few days.
Mr. Martinet suggested a judge he knew to do that. Mike invited everyone to attend.
It was after 10:30 when we’d finished our meals and were winding up the happy conversation and occasion. I was about to order another beer when Mr. Martinet grasped my arm and spoke up.
That’s enough, Clayton. This has been great fun, but you need to exercise self-control, young man.
Mike looked over and grinned at seeing me once again under the dominating authority of Mr. Martinet. I twisted my head swiftly to look at Mr. Martinet. I wanted to tell him I could decide that for myself, but he waved away the server, leaving me with my empty glass.
I was just, ah, going to get one to, ah, for, um, the-ah road, I responded.
You don’t need it, Clayton. Just heed the advice you receive. That was what finally worked to achieve this great result, young man. Now, behave yourself!
I was sternly and abruptly rebuked in front of everyone. My face was very warm and red, and I suddenly felt light-headed. Everyone seemed to be staring at me. I didn’t know why?
Are you sick, Clayton? Mr. Martinet asked.
You look very unwell, young man.
Greta looked at me, and Mike asked,
Do you want me to go with you to the men’s room, Clay?
I was jolted by my feelings and everyone’s attention.
No, ah, I can, ah, do it okay, I responded.
Getting up, I suddenly felt very unsteady and my legs were wobbly and weak.
As I started for the men’s room, Mike stood up and hurried over to me. Taking me by the arm, he hastened us both to the men’s room.
We hardly had gotten inside when I called out,
Oooo, I’m, ah, gonna be sick! and began vomiting
everything, my dinner, my too-many beers, all over myself and the floor, before I could reach the toilet.
It took a few minutes before I finally had emptied my stomach. I was sweating and clammy feeling.
Mike began stripping off my clothes: my jeans, my shirt, my t-shirt, my shoes. I was left barefoot, in just my boxer briefs.
Mike rolled up my soiled clothes, telling me to wait for him in the men’s room. He carried them out to Greta, who got up and took them to the car.
After that, Mike went back to the men’s room and got hold of me, putting his strong arm around my shoulders and escorting me gently along, barefoot, through the restaurant, to the car. He put me into the back seat of the car, sitting alongside Mr. Martinet, while returned to the restaurant to pay the bill.
As we drove off, Mr. Martinet reached over and squeezed like a vice my bare, left leg just above my knee.
You see, Clayton, this is what happens when a young man fails to use good judgment and exercise self-control. I expect better from you, Clayton.
I was feeling so lousy and weak, I just listened, but did not respond.
Are you listening, Clayton?
he interrogated me.
This kind of behaviour will only get you in trouble and cause you a lot of regret,
young man. Do you understand what I’m saying?
Yeah, okay, I snapped back. There was a brief, embarrassing pause and silence.
All at once, I felt myself being pulled forward and to my left, then hauled across Mr. Martinet’s knees, my face squashed against the floor of the automobile.
You do not speak to me, or anyone else, like that, Clayton! You know better! You need what you always need to get through to you, young man!
Suddenly, by boxer briefs were skinned off my hips and butt, down my legs to tangle around my ankles. Just as suddenly, I felt a hard hand began smacking my buttocks and the backs of my thighs, sharply, rapidly, and with increasing power and impact.
It was all too much, in too quick of time. I could not get up or off his knees. He smacked and spanked my bum so intensely and swiftly, I was gasping and calling out,
Stop it! Please! Please, no! I’m sorry! No-hooo-aaa-staaahp! Please, no, ah, more, aaa-ooo-huh-uh-spuh-uh-angkeeenghaadaaa! Huh-uh-uh-uh-waaaa-uh-uh-waaaaa!
Hauled and hanging over Mr. Martinet’s lap, I was crying and wailing like a spanked child as he afflicted my backside with the punishment that he and I both knew from our history together always achieved its intended result.
I begged and apologized, promised to listen, obey, do better. He softly replied,
You usually do for a while after you’ve had your bottom blistered, Clayton. I look forward to much improved behaviour by you after this licking is over, young man.
He continued to spank me all the way to his house. When we stopped, he pulled me up off his lap and sat me on my throbbing, sore, bare bottom back on the seat. I was squalling and crying as he congratulated me on my successful bar exam results, and bid me good night.
We drove back home. Greta hurried into the house to put my soiled clothes for laundering in the morning. Mike came around and opened the door for me, pulling me out by my bare arms.
I was naked, having stepped out of my boxer brief. Mike grabbed them up, but instead of handing them to me, he shoved them in his pocket.
With his left hand seizing my left arm, he bent me forward, frogmarching me from the car to the house, all the while swatting and spanking my already well-spanked, well-marked rump and thighs. I shrieked and squealed, protesting, but moving forward with every flurry of spanks to my rearend.
Inside, he steered me to my bedroom, telling me to go into the bathroom, get ready for bed, and get in at once. Still squalling inconsolably, I did exactly that. It was just a few minutes before my crying ceased as I fell asleep.
In the morning, Mike awakened me at the same time for work. I showered, dressed, ate a quick, quiet breakfast with him in the kitchen, then followed him to the shop where I plunged into a full day of work and repairs awaiting us.
Saturday morning, I joined him again, working until after 4:30 that afternoon. Despite my elated feelings at having passed the bar exam, and knowing I would soon be sworn in as an attorney; I nevertheless spent the whole weekend confined to the house, in bed at 10 p.m..
I was paying the price for what Mike termed my
outrageous behaviour, lack of self-control, and disrespect.
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