6:10 AM, Thursday. Michael got out his room, quietly, leaving his brother sleeping placidly on his bed, for at least 1 more hour until breakfast. He, on the other side, was called up (much) earlier, Mom told him so the night before, so Dad, who always left home around 6:30, could be present. He was already dressed in school uniform (black pants, white shirt, red jersey); a bit sleepy considering he had a tough time falling asleep, a bit nervous ruminating ‘bout what Mom had in store for him. He also felt cold (classic January morning), but knowing he’d feel hotness in not much time. Michael went down the stairs, step by step, noticing the kitchen’s lights on, and Mom and Dad talking about…. Something he couldn’t get from his spot. Before finally entering, he swallowed saliva, regained some courage, and walked in, received by the clearly upset frown of his mother and the mostly indifferent look of his father, both calmy seated down and taking coffee.

Mom and Dad gave Michael the good morning, and Michael gave it back; then he got asked about his sleep. Just a formality. Michael tried to play cool and said fine, but Dad pointed out, his baggy eyes told a different story. Michael just swallowed again, giving proof to his father’s theory he wasn’t as chill as he wished. Mom, once finished with morning salutations, cut to the chase and inquired Michael about his last results in Math, so his father could hear directly from him. It wasn’t like Dad didn’t know already, but he always appreciated his children come clean to him: he cared more about being fair and straightforward about admitting one’s mistakes than the Math result itself; Mom, on the other hand, appreciated both honestly AND hard work, something she felt (correctly, judging about the grade Michael just brough home two days ago) her son was lacking since a couple of months. Of course, Michael knew better than starting with lame excuses right away, as that would only make Dad angrier, so he admitted he failed the exam… Soundly. 30/100 couldn’t be explained from bad luck: the lack of effort in studying was obvious, no ways around it. Michael obviously knew he had been slacking, that result was to be expected considering he had been more time playing around with the boys than doing even the bare minimum to pass. And knew Mom was about to cut short that attitude before it turned a habit harder to change. All those things Michael knew, her mom put into (harsher) words, and Dad, still inexpressive, just agreed with his wife. Even against his odds, their son tried to cool things off for him, admitting he was a bit off those weeks, but that that exam was still a mid-term, and he could get back in tracks with an extra effort on his part. Surprisingly, Mom agreed… but insisted, of course, about putting a remedy to it before Michael took a liking to laze around. That meant: punishment. Even if he knew (sort of) what was coming to him, Michael judged the room well enough to decline picking a fight with Mom when she was THAT mad, even more with Dad backing her up, so he just accepted his fate and prayed it was something he could handle. It wasn’t. Mom brough up from the sink, where he didn’t notice, a glass of now tainted water, with three pieces of hand-cut Ivory Soap in them. -Oh, Mom, really….? - Michael asked, even if the question sounded more like begging. Mom told him to be quiet and put himself on her lap to get thoroughly cleaned out of his laziness. A quick look to his dad, who just pointed mom’s lap, was enough to confirm he was indeed to be severely disciplined. Last night’s dinner, broccoli casserole, flashed in Michael’s eyes, knowing it was already…. Down.

Mom, eager to start, firmly (but gently) took Michael’s arm and closed him to her; unbuttoning his pants and lowering them, alongside his plain white underpants, just below his ass; then grabbed him and put him in her knees. Michael, lying there with his bare bottom in the air, looked around to see dad giving a sip to his coffee and reading the newspaper, but not losing an eye to his son’s incoming punishment. Mom bather her index finger in the glass of water, for some seconds, before parting Michael’s butt cheeks one far apart from the other; his pink anus exposed to everyone there to see (just, dad). Now it felt like a freezing morning… even if that wasn’t about to last. “OHH…” Michael moaned, as Mom’s finger slowly penetrated his asshole. Mom was a slow doer, appreciating the impact the timing had on the psychological aspects of the punishment. Of course, Michael felt the soap lingering, giving the young boy some initial sensations to work with. Michael tried to reason again, but this time Mom’s request of silence was effective enough to convince him to stay quiet for real, at least for a while. Some seconds later, Mom was satisfied with the lube she applied and picked the first soap piece: these homemade “suppositories” were pale green coloured, 2-pounds coin wide & lipstick-like long, and were round and soft, considering the time they spent on the glass. Easy to insert. They also had a VERY strong effect on the receipt’s rectum’s, producing intense discomfort, and a potent laxative effect as well; Michael knew firsthand those effects and was reasonably afraid of them; Mom had him, and his brother, punished with glycerine suppositories from time to time, but those soap sticks were reserved for severe faults. Only enemas were harder. Michael noticed once more his anus open wide, but the chillness he felt was not there anymore; he then felt this (big, in his opinion) suppository entering him. Again: slowly; Mom never rushed these processes for her children to really savour them. Inch by inch, it got sucked inside Michael’s warm rectal tissues, the same time Michael’s face showed his increasing burning in his behind. -Oh, Ma…. Oh…. - He moaned, when finally he was allowed to close his ass; the soap stick entirely buried in. The 1st suppository, as awful as it felt, was not the worse of the bunch. Mom gave Michael no respite, although, and was already getting suppository #2 ready to go. Same story, one more time: Michael’s backdoor opened, and punishment soap bar softly, methodically introduced in his rectum. Itching, burning, cramping getting too strong. But, as said, Michael knew 1st was not the worst: Mom didn’t introduce the soap entirely, just until mostly in, and then, starting, in slow fashion, getting it in, and out. Michael then grasped his punishment in all its glory: the suppository already inside him, melting away, dissolving into goo, was boiling the broccoli casserole inside his colon all over again; the one Mom was working around his asshole was making it hard, and then harder, to handle the chaos growing in his bowels. Meanwhile, of course, Mom started her lecture: a well-elaborated speech ‘bout compromise, daily work, effort, constancy… and the risks of not having all those in one’s life. Of course, said speech had lots of questions Michael had to answer, properly: some of them, just yes, or no; other… he had to elaborate too. And that was hard when half his entire being was focused on sealing back his exponentially growing urges to explode, and this other half, trying to resist the need to let go around the already-ceasing-to-exist piece of soap that lingered between his cheeks and his scorched rectum. With groans and clenches on the way, Michael was able to maintain a “enlightening” discussion, with lots of reminders about his dad’s work ethics… with only helped to remind Michael dad was witnessing the entire event of his ass getting handled properly.

This process felt like an eternity for Michael, who gave more whimpers and moans instead of actual words as the conversation progressed. Lots of times, with some pleas about let be along the way, the boy swore that slip in his daily work wouldn’t happen again, and even more times, Mom (and occasionally, dad) questioned those vows. The hardest mom played, the more desperate Michael was getting, specially considering he had a 3rd suppository in store, and he was having an increasingly challenging time dealing with the ones he already took. Finally, 10 minutes later approximately, after pleading and pleading intensely about his impeding need the use the bathroom, Mom made him swear, pushed the very rest of the suppository in… and passed by the 3rd, let apart for another occasion. Michael could get up, all sweated up, his asshole filled to the maximum, clenched like his life depended on it: as uncomfortable, almost unbearable the burning was, he mostly felt like in any moment he could mess all over himself. Mom asked him to put his pants up, put him in front of them, and asked for a sincere apology. Michael gained enough strength to make one firm, credible promise about this attitude changing for the better… and potty danced asking once more to be let go use the toilet. Mom, and dad, agreed, and Michael breathed deep. One rush, got into the main floor bathroom (door always opened for mom and dad to check if they wanted to), lowered his pants and underpants to just before knees, and loudly placed his ass on the throne. Sighted, deeply. Relaxed, pressure skyrocketing. Then, louder he got once that pressure subsided: the boy exploded on the toilet. He surely had to go. Lots of gas too¡ Relieving himself from the soap, he saw Dad going out to work; then Mom checking on him. Some embarrassment… But he felt anew. After some more minutes ensuring he got cleaned out; he wiped clean, got up, and started his day. That lingering sting on his butt would be the reminder of the promise he made… And better be sure he wouldn’t slack off again¡