The Music – 5-New Order

By Jonathan Quincy Graves

Part 1  Part 2  Part 3  Part 4

Part 5 – New Order

“Never settle for mediocre; aim high,” is one of my mother’s favorite sayings.  She holds this standard up for her own life and applies it to virtually all aspects of mine.  Through high school and college, a “B” in my coursework was never acceptable when an “A” might be attained.  Mom raised me in this philosophy by words of encouragement and praise, as well as occasional trips across mother’s knee when she determined additional motivation was required.

Mom applied this same standard to my social life.  She always insisted on meeting the girls I dated, and “encouraged” me to seek women that met certain standards of intelligence, ambition, and self-worth as exhibited by personal appearance and physical conditioning.  She had no time for, and made it clear I should not waste time on, airheads, delicate flowers, or girls that did not nurture the best in themselves.  Those were not likely to bring out the best in me.

Jenifer met all my mother’s standards.  We met in a senior level Theory of Numbers class, and I was stricken immediately.  A trim figure, with long auburn hair and dark brown eyes, Jen was an inch taller than I and on the first squad of the women’s crew team.  Very attractive, she is one of those women that turns heads when she walks into a room, but she seems to have no problem dealing with the college men around her.  She had a look she would use with great effect that conveyed without words her disdain for childish antics or unwanted pickup-lines.

I can’t imagine what she saw in me, but from my standpoint, she epitomized the “Aim High” edict.  After class one day, we walked to the cafeteria together for coffee, and during our conversation we were both surprised how much we had in common.  Our tastes in food, in music (I no longer listened to the crap that used to drive mom wild), in politics and general values were all in close agreement.  Soon, we were dating, which meant I also introduced her to my mother.  They hit it off immediately, and when I returned home that night, mom spoke nothing but praise for Jen and for my good judgment.

Dating Jen was a joy, and as we became more intimate, the joy only grew.  Ultimately, six months later, I proposed, and to my delight she accepted.  We were to be married two months after graduation.

In the meantime, my mother met Jen’s mother (also a widow) and they became good friends.  As a consequence, we often enjoyed Saturday night dinners as a foursome either at Jen’s house or ours.  It was after one of those dinners, when we were still all sitting around the kitchen table, that I told a joke I recently heard and thought was especially funny (you know, the one about the dildos and the thermos).  The conversation up to that point had been light and amusing, and it took me a moment to realize I was the only one who was laughing at my story.  Looking around, I realized all eyes were on me, and none of them were approving.

“Roger, that was in very poor taste,” mom said, breaking the silence.  “Why ever would you tell such an off-color story at the dinner table?”

“Oh, come on,” I responded, trying to regain the mood, and still amused by the punch line, “it’s funny.  Don’t you get it?  See when the blond in the sex shop asked for the plaid dildo…”

“That is enough, young man,” mom interrupted sternly.  “You’ve gone well over the line this time.  Go change into your pajamas and meet me in the living room.”

All thoughts of merriment were chased from my stunned mind.  “Come on, mom, it wasn’t that bad.  There’s no reason to overreact,” I said, not moving from my chair and trying to talk my way out of the quagmire I’d jumped into.  I was told to change into my pajamas when a spanking was imminent.  I could not believe mother would spank me in front of Jen and her mother.  Correction.  Deep inside, I did believe it.  Mother never backed down when a spanking was decided, I just did not want to believe it.

“Are you going to do as you’re told, young man?” mom asked.

I continued to sit there, a deer in the headlights, until my mother stood up saying, “Very well, have it your way,” and removed a pair of pruning shears from the utility drawer.

Startled into action, I jumped up, said, “No, no, that’s not necessary, I’m going, I’m going,” but as I scrambled out of the kitchen, I saw mom head for the back door, shears in hand.

In all the years since mom started to discipline me, I only refused a spanking from her one time.  She caught me with beer once when I was seventeen and ordered me to report to her in the living room for a very severe spanking.  I went to my bedroom to put on the required pajamas, but then I sat down on the edge of my bed, too fearful of the intense paddling I’d earned to go back down the stairs.

My mother called up for me once, but I had been too nervous to even answer her.  The longer I sat there, the more impossible it became for me to move.  Finally, after about twenty minutes, mom stormed into my room, a long flexible switch in her right hand.  She grabbed my left arm, jerked me from the bed and walked me around so I was standing upright at the foot of the bed, my knees up against it.  She then pulled my pajamas to my ankles and applied the switch with all her strength to my naked bottom and the backs of my thighs.

With mom holding me by the upper arm, and the bed up against the front of my legs, I could squirm, and kick, and hop up and down, but I could not escape the cruel switch that relentlessly whipped across my defenseless backside.  She applied that supple branch with rapid strokes until finally, mercifully, it broke.

“Are you ready to come down for your spanking now?” she had asked me.

“Yes, ma’am,” I said, tearfully.

“Then move,” she said, “I am right behind you.”

I have never again refused or even tried to delay a spanking… until now.

The sight of mom heading for the back door with the pruning shears in her hand echoed through my mind as I raced to change out of my clothes and into my pajamas.  The thought that my fiancée and her mother were downstairs waiting to see what happened next added to the tension, but the memory of what an angry switching feels like drove almost all other thoughts from my mind.

Meanwhile in the kitchen…

“Are we about to witness what I think we are?” Jen asked her mother.

“Yes, dear, I believe we are,” her mother answered.  “That young man of yours is about to learn a needed lesson about deportment in polite society.”

“It’s really a pretty funny story,” Jen said, “but why in the world he would choose this time and place to tell it is beyond me.  I’d spank him myself if we were already married.”

“Oh, no doubt Evelyn will do a more than adequate job for you tonight, and I expect you will have plenty of chances, to deal with that mischievous young man in the years ahead.  I hope you realize the responsibility you are taking on.”

“Don’t worry, mother, Roger is a good soul at his core, he just needs to be reminded of it now and then.”

My mother came back in the door, carrying a long whippy branch from our apple tree.  She’d stripped it of leaves and twigs and carried it to the sink to finish cleaning it off.  “I don’t know what got into the mind of that boy of mine tonight, Margie” she said to Jen’s mother.  “I apologize on his behalf for any embarrassment he caused.”

“Don’t let it trouble you,” Margie replied.  “I’m just glad to see you believe in nipping such activity in the bud.  Jenifer would have been over my knee in short order, feeling the back side of my hairbrush if she told the kind of story Roger did—if she told it in mixed company, that is,” she finished with a laugh.

All three women laughed.  “‘I’ll take the plaid dildo…’” Margie quoted through her laughter, “where does that boy get such great stories.”

“I have no idea,” Evelyn said through her laughter, “but he is about to learn that there is a time and a place.”

By this time, I was standing next to my mother’s spanking chair in the living room.  I moved it out front and center where she likes it, being as helpful as possible to make it clear I was not stalling to avoid this spanking.

Jen had seen me in various stages of undress before, but she’d never seen me in my pale blue short-bottomed spanking pajamas.  The thought made be blush, and for the first time before one of mom’s spankings, I felt my member rise.  ‘Damn,’ I thought.  ‘That’s just what I need to top off the evening—end up standing naked in front of my mother, Jen’s mother and Jen with a spanked bottom and a big woody.’

I heard laughter from the kitchen (as if they were aware of my thoughts), then there was silence and my mother led the other two women into the family room.  She carried her paddle and clearly intended to use it.  Behind her was Margie, and last came Jen, holding and stroking a long supple switch through her fingers.

“All right, let’s get to it,” mom said as she sat down in her chair.  “I don’t know what got into that brain of yours tonight, my boy, but at the dinner table, in mixed company, is no place to be dragging out such smut.  Since you don’t seem to have learned that lesson, since you cannot seem to control your childish actions, I intended to provide you with a little correction and a reminder for the future.”  With that she reached out and pulled my pajama bottoms to my ankles.

“Step out,” she said, “you won’t need these for a while.”  Blushing deeper, I did as directed, and she removed my pajama bottoms completely, folded them and placed them on the floor next to her chair.

“Now would you like to apologize to our guests before we begin?

‘No,’ I was thinking.  My cock was at about half-staff despite my best efforts to get it to deflate, and I had no desire to face Jen and her mother.  Given the consequences of refusal, however, I turned toward the couch where the women were seated and said, “I’m sorry for my inappropriate behavior at the dinner table this evening.  Please accept my apology.”

Margie looked from me to her daughter.  They apparently voted Jen spokesperson before coming out of the kitchen.

“We accept your apology,” Jen said with a smile, “we know you meant no harm, but you know better.  So, after your mother expresses her disapproval with her paddle, I will reinforce it with this switch.  We’ve all agreed that a hot bottom will be the most effective means to teach you to curtail your boyish tendencies… at least in public,” she added with a grin.

While the full import of Jen’s words unfolded in my brain, my mother took hold of my arm and pulled me down over her lap.  The paddling that followed was not the worst of my life.  Far more embarrassing and just as painful was the lengthy switching Jen gave me as I laid bottom up over the back of the couch.  Between my mother and my fiancée, they certainly did make me face the music.

The End !!

Copyright © 2006 by Jonathan Quincy Graves.  All rights reserved.  Please do not repost or use for any commercial purpose without written approval from the author.