The Brat Ch 01 - The Confession

Dear Reader,
I had to make some changes to Chapter 01 as I realized the premise Shane's misbehavior needed some scenes and that the ultimatum made more sense after another element I wanted to include. This is the new Chapter 01, which is more character background than a spanking good time, but you can trust that there will be punishment for bad behavior.
Best,
Bryan

Once you start living with someone, like I had with Mr. Grant, it is easy to fall into old habits.  This was especially true when I bought a new video game system and flat screen television and put them in the guest room.  I had little else to spend my money from work on so I decided on an impulse to get something for myself.  It was easy to play a game for hours at a time in the morning and between classes and work.  I kept up my homework as usual for my new classes but when I didn’t have an important responsibility, when Mr. Grant wasn’t home, I played my games.  It was even better when Ethan was on at the same time.  We chatted a little as we played but mostly we talked strategy. 

Ethan didn’t ask for another session with Mr. Grant and I didn’t bring it up.  He told me about guys he met and that none of them seemed to be into spanking.  He said most of them were too superficial.  He said he liked the idea of someone being athletic, even a little self-centered, but when they started getting judgmental then he had a problem.  Our conversations made me think about my own experiences ‘dating’ and how Tucker had been my ‘fuck-buddy’ but I didn’t miss it. 

Being single, trying to find a new guy every night, hoping one of them would mean something all felt so desperate.  I liked the idea of being with someone, having a home, a warm body to cling to in bed, and the feeling of knowing someone would be there for me.

Mr. Grant seemed to take little notice of my new distraction.  He had been a little different since we got back from Las Vegas.  He reprimanded me, gave me a few corrective smacks on the ass, but we hadn’t had an intense session like the ones we had before and we didn’t talk about Ethan.  We did have sex on a regular basis though, usually after work.  It was the perfect release when we got home and it helped us both get to sleep easier.

It was an ordinary Monday.  We ate breakfast and made small talk.  We showered together, fooled around a little under the water and I watched him get ready for the day.  I walked him to the door, even gave him a peck on the cheek before I went to the couch where I thought about turning on the television before I thought to make sure there were no chores to do.  I was reading over the list when there was a knock at the door.  I was still in my underwear but somehow, for some reason, I didn’t think anything about it as I went to answer the door. 

Somehow I had expected Mr. Grant to be there, maybe he had forgotten his keys.  It wasn’t until I got to the door that I noticed my undressed state so I opened it partially to cover myself in some way.  It could have been a meter reader, the mail man, or even a church group and I wouldn’t have cared.  I was horrified to see it was my mother.  She smiled at me and looked around a little, glanced over my shoulder before she looked me in the eye and cleared her throat.  She smelled of an obnoxious floral perfume that she always wore and was dressed for work. 

Right then my white briefs felt even more ridiculous even though I used to wear boxers around the house regularly when I lived there.  I thought about closing the door on her, just panic and run away, but there was no where to run to and I knew she would knock again.  She had caught me.  I was in a precarious situation and she had definite intent but I thought we might be able to talk it out.

“Good morning,” I said.

“Good morning,” she replied.

I thought for a moment she would speak but instead she let the uncomfortable silence hang in the air.  I was used to her doing this so I didn’t panic.  I just looked her in the eye as I feigned sleepiness.  But she didn’t speak, didn’t even budge.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“Your birthday is coming up and since you’ve been spending so much time over here I thought I would stop by and see how you’re going to celebrate.”

“For my birthday, I don’t know.  I don’t think we had any specific plans.  I haven’t really mentioned it.  I’m not even sure if he knows it’s coming up.  Why?”

“Well, we were planning on getting you a gift and maybe having some kind of part but we weren’t sure if you might want to have it over here, or well, at home.  We’d like it if you came over to visit us, maybe we can get a cake.  I’m not saying you have to spend all day with us but we hardly see you anymore.”

I sighed.  It was another one of her guilt trips partially based in reality.  I should have felt bad about not spending time with them but I was also moving on with my life.  They showed so little interest any other time, any other day. 

“I’ll have to think about it but sure, I can come over.”

“I was hoping to get something a little more certain than that.  Can I come inside?”

The door between us, my state of undress, all felt like minor things.  She had come over for something else, something important, and yet I couldn’t help but feel a little angry.  She was ruining my good time.  I opened the door and invited her inside as I walked away back to the bedroom where I planned to get some pants.  She followed after me.  I didn’t expect her to keep after me like that.  I didn’t bother to close the door before I picked up a pair of jeans from the bed and began to pull them up my legs. 

“What’s that mark on your thigh?” she asked.

I zipped up my jeans and picked up a shirt, careful to determine the front from the back before I pulled it over my head, then down over my chest, adjusted it about my waist so it felt even.  I didn’t want to tell her anything and yet I knew she wouldn’t leave me alone.  I knew she would keep after me.  She was like a dog with a bone.

“It’s nothing mom,” I said.

It wasn’t humiliation but anger that I felt.  She had come over here, barged into the house, and now she was interfering with my life when before it meant so little to her.  Who was she to criticize when she barely said anything before?  I didn’t want to tell her about the spanking.  It felt bad enough that she knew I was gay.  How do you come out as kinky?

“That looked like bruising.  How did you get that?  Does he hit you?  Is that what he does?  Tell me and I’ll call the police.”

“He doesn’t hit me mom.  He spanks me.”

“What do you mean he spanks you?”

“It’s part of the life we live.  It’s part of our relationship.”

“What is that supposed to mean?  You mean it’s sexual.”

I sighed.  Here I was in my boyfriend’s house being interrogated about my sex life.  My face warmed and I clenched my hands together just to keep from grabbing at something, breaking something.  I wanted her out.  I wanted to scare her.  I wanted her to run.  It felt impossibly difficult just to stand there with her staring at me.

“Yes mom, I like to be spanked,” I said.  “Then we have sex.”

That’s when she let out a groan of disgust and walked away.  I didn’t have to break anything after all just tell her.  I looked to where she stood and listened as she walked out of the house.  It felt like a victory.  It felt like a loss.  She would tell my father.  The stereotypical response would be that he’d attack Mr. Grant, possibly have him arrested, but not my father, my father would invite me, us, to a therapy session, maybe at his office, probably over a cup of coffee.  He’d be casual about it, not try to imply that anything was wrong nor that he had any suspicions.  He’d treat, get me to talk, work his way into my comfort until he’d ask me and then he’d study me closely, look for some doubt, something to question.  He had done it before when my grandfather died.  We went to my favorite burger place, then he said it as I was eating.

My mother hadn’t been home when I got back from school.  I suspected, just because all of my friends parents were divorced that he was going to tell me they were getting a divorce.  I thought he’d ask me who I wanted to live with.

“I need to tell you something,” he said.

I had a few fries in my hand and was ready to dip them in ketchup.  I put them to my mouth as if carrying through with what I was going to do would make it all seem normal.  I looked at him.

“You’re grandfather died.  He had a heart attack while playing golf.  He was on the twelfth hole.”

I started to cry.  The ketchup tasted sour and acidic.  It wasn’t just my grandfather’s death but the feeling of having been caught in a trap.  It was the worst meal of my life.  I never felt the same about that burger place. 

That was how my father did things.  I knew that I would be walking through some dangerous territory.  They wouldn’t understand.  If I had to walk through it at all?  Part of me thought about just ignoring the whole thing, cutting them off if necessary, but I couldn’t imagine a life without them.  I couldn’t imagine that how I chose to live my life would be so terrible.  It all felt so frustrating and I knew it would take time to work out just what it meant so I decided to get on with my life. 
I finished getting ready with a spray of cologne and some deodorant under my arm pits and went about my day as usual.  I checked the kitchen to make sure everything was clean and put away, checked the bathroom, and the living room, finally I collected my bag, made sure my books I needed for the day were there as well as my laptop and set out for campus. 

It was an easy, familiar bus trip.  I started thinking about my morning and I had to laugh a little about it to myself.  The thought of my mother seeing me getting dressed and seeing the marks on my thighs was kind of amusing in a dark, sarcastic kind of way.  Like when something embarrassing happens on television, I thought.  Of course there is a big difference between life and television but the thought comforted me.  And by the time I got there I reasoned that I didn’t have it so bad because I lived with Mr. Grant now.  I had a job and money.  They might stop paying my tuition but I could figure something out, probably.  Besides having to drop out wouldn’t be so bad, I told myself.  I could finally get my dream job of being a go-go dancer and/or porn star. 

I got off the bus feeling better about the whole thing and it was far in the back of my mind by the time I got to the library.  Once there I found a quiet spot, took out my books, and began to study.  I didn’t seriously think about it again until I got to work that evening. 

Being a bus boy is a quiet job.  With the exception of a few words to coworkers and a few words to patrons there isn’t much that needs to be said if you’re paying attention.  In some ways the less said the better.  Of course it isn’t a job where I found I could really think too much either and I found myself making a few mistakes here and there, not really paying attention when people spoke to me.  By the end of the night I snapped at Rose when she started to confront me about not cleaning up a table as quickly as I could have.  She gave me this look and I considered whether I should start yelling or walk away.  I decided to walk away. 

By that time things had slowed down and I wasn’t surprised when Mr. Grant came out to the alleyway where I leaned against the brick wall wishing I had a cigarette.  He moved to me quietly.  I could tell he was serious but he was also being gentle.  I admired that quality about him. 

“What’s going on?” he asked.

“Nothing,” I replied.

It was my defense response.  It usually worked with my parents.  Sometimes it meant I didn’t want to talk at the moment but would later, but as I got older it just meant I wanted them to go away.  He shifted on his feet, hands in his pockets, I knew he raised an eyebrow or two of curiosity at me.

“You’ve been on edge all night,” he said.

“You noticed?”

“Of course I did, so did everybody else.  It’s been little things but still, the way you snapped at Rose in there was uncalled for and I want to know what’s going on.  Is it something to do with school?”

“I’m sorry,” I said.  “It’s nothing.”

“Hey, don’t lie to me.  You can trust me.”

Somehow saying it to him felt even more humiliating than the actual incident.  His opinion mattered to me and I wasn’t sure what he would say about how I had acted or what I thought about it.  I also worried he might be embarrassed that she knew my secret, our secret, now and that he might be afraid.  He might worry she would turn him into the police for abuse or confront him, maybe even kill him.  No, not kill him, not my mother, but still it wasn’t good.  I didn’t want to cause him pain.  And yet as I stood there in that darkened alley that felt so much like a confessional I felt like just saying it.  He was a strong man and I thought he might know just the right thing to do, just the right thing to say.

“My mother came over today and she wanted to know what I was doing for my birthday.  We started to talk and were being civil, but then she came in the house and I was getting dressed and she saw my bruises.”

“What happened?”

“She started asking me about it and asked if you hit me.  I told her you spanked me and it became this whole big thing.  She ran out of the house.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, I mean I wish it was a practical joke but it’s not.”

“Did she do anything else?” he asked.

“Not yet,” I answered.

“Well, I’m sorry you had to deal with that.  Is there anything I can do?”

“Got a cigarette?” I asked.

“Nope,” he said.  “There isn’t much she can do.”

“I know, it’s just, I don’t know.  Everything was going so good.”

“It still is.”  He leaned to me, found my lips in the dark and kissed me briefly before he pulled away.  “But we need to get back in there.  We’ll talk about it after work.  Don’t worry about it.  You’re an adult and it’s your life.”

He started to move and I stopped him with one hand against his shoulder.  He paused and turned to me.  I couldn’t make out the details of his face.  I looked over his shoulder to the door that had remained closed, hoped no one was in the alley who could hear, who would care.

“This thing with my mother.  I know I didn’t do the right thing.  I know I was rude and everything but it wasn’t my fault,” I said.

“I know,” he replied before he started to step away.

“I don’t want you to spank me,” I said.

That caused him to stop and turn back to me.  He got close and for a moment I thought he was going to hug me and kiss me.  I could smell his breath and his cologne.

“I’m not going to spank you.  Not for this,” he said, “I’m not trying to hurt you.”

“Really?”

“Of course, I just wanted, I just want, to challenge you.  It’s not about control.  I don’t want to control you.  I want to help you and given the situation I know it was very difficult, but what you said to Rose is a different matter.  You need to control yourself.” 

“I’ll apologize,” I said.

He closed the distance between us and gave me a kiss on the lips. I pulled him into a deeper embrace, pushed my tongue into his mouth for a moment before he pulled away and let out a laugh.

“Let’s get inside before they think I’m sexually harassing you or that we left for the night.  I don’t want them misbehaving.”

He stepped aside and ushered me to the door where he playfully slapped me on the ass before I opened it.  I laughed it off and held the door for him.  The kitchen had a familiar warmth and I knew I was safe there.