16 June 2011

2: Silence Of The Lamb

The Jack And Danny Chronicles

2: Silence Of The Lamb

In retrospect I should never have drop kicked the leg of lamb across the dining room. I think it upset Jack a teensy bit. That and I called Tristan a pretentious twat. Never goes down well with Jack that sort of language. He’s a bit prim when it comes to swearing. And I suppose sweeping a tureen of delicately minted new potatoes off the table; sending them bouncing across the recently fitted shag pile, was an error of judgement. As was running out onto the drive as Tristan’s car was pulling away, screeching ‘don’t say you’re leaving before dessert? Here, do take it with you and I hope you choke on it!’  Perhaps it was the sight of his favourite fresh cream, raspberry meringue driving away at sixty miles an hour that really upset Jack? On the other hand, giving the old dear who lives next door the finger, as she looked enquiringly over the hedge, just might have peeved him. He’s shit hot on manners is Jack.

The newspaper rustled as Jack turned the page. “Are we ready to talk calmly yet?” 

Great, I shifted my weight from my left leg to my right; he was using the royal we. I was definitely in trouble. Crossing my arms I let out a sigh of misunderstood self-pity.

“Fine,” Jack turned another page. He was obviously speed-reading. “I can wait.”

Sadistic bastard, course he could wait. He was seated comfortably at the kitchen table with a large mug of hot coffee to hand and the newspaper for entertainment. In so far as the Guardian could be considered entertainment. I preferred the Dandy myself.

“Stand up straight, hands by your sides.”

“I am standing up straight,” I broke my hitherto sullen silence. “I couldn’t stand any straighter if I had a brush shank stuffed up my jacksy!”

“You’re in enough trouble, Daniel, do you really think it’s wise to speak to me like that?” Jack’s voice had an edge you could sharpen knives on.

“It’s not my fault, none of this is my fault.” I quelled an urge to punch the wall in front of me. Knowing my luck it would only punch me back.

“Oh, and whose fault is it pray? Did the lamb insist you kick it across the room?”

Great. Sarcasm. I hate sarcasm, especially Jack’s version, delivered in his headmaster talking to naughty schoolboy voice.

He continued. “Were the potatoes possessed by a poltergeist? Did the meringue decide it wished to go for a nice drive out before being consumed, and did our frail octogenarian neighbour really deserve that hand salute you gave her? You could have caused her to suffer a fatal stroke.”

Glancing over my shoulder, I snarled, “she survived Hitler and day trips by the Luftwaffe for Christ’s sake. I’m sure she’ll survive a single raised finger.”

“You’re digging yourself deeper and deeper with that attitude.” Jack went back to turning the pages of the Guardian and I went back to staring silently at the wall, while fantasising about doing a Hannibal Lecter and brutally butchering the odious Tristan. It was his fault I was in trouble with Jack. I gritted my teeth as the scene replayed on the memory tape of my mind…

“Oh, surely you’re not going to attempt to carve that straight from the oven are you, dear boy? It needs to rest for at least fifteen minutes.’

“What?” I glared at him, my hand tightening around the handle of the carving knife, which I seriously considered plunging into his chest instead of into the leg of lamb. He had a knack of making me feel ignorant and gauche.

“The lamb, dear boy, the lamb, surely you know the rule about carving meat straight from the oven? It needs to rest,” he said with a roguish wag of his finger under my nose.

Patronising berk! Being relatively new to the cooking lark I was a bit precious about my efforts, any criticism, implied or otherwise, cut deep. I saw red. “I’m not your dear boy!” I waved the knife dangerously close to the end of his nose, “and why does it need to rest? It’s hardly likely to be exhausted after spending two hours loitering in a hot oven.”

Jack rose to his feet, placing a hand on my shoulder, “Daniel,” his voice was soft, but the hand had a touch of steel in it. “Calm down, Tristan was only trying to help. Cooking is his hobby, he’s just trying to advise you, and besides, that’s no way to speak to our guest.”

“Your guest,” I reminded him, recklessly shrugging his hand away,  “not mine. I’d sooner entertain the Grim Reaper than him.”

“You might just get your wish if you don’t moderate your tone,” whispered Jack, while giving me ‘The Look.’

“Please, Jack, do sit down” Tristan’s unctuous voice cut in. “Don’t fall out with your young paramour on my account. I’m sure that given time he’ll learn to cope with his feelings of inferiority where I’m concerned and realise that I’m no threat to him.” He turned to me with a taunting little smile. “I intended no criticism, dear boy. I’m sure that your culinary offering will be quite splendid. You go ahead and do it in your own unique, charming way.”

I hated the smarmy swine. He was everything I wasn’t. Sophisticated, wealthy, upper class, well educated, immaculately attired, totally in control of his emotions. All things considered he was a complete bastard. For Jack’s sake I swallowed my temper and attempted to redeem myself, mumbling a half-hearted apology. He gracefully accepted, his grey eyes gleaming with malicious enjoyment at my discomfort.

He’d got my back up the moment he set foot in the house with his subtle little put downs. I’m sure he thought of me as Jack’s bit of rough. Something he’d picked up as having temporary novelty value. That was the bit that scared me actually. What if that’s all I really was to Jack? I couldn’t bear the thought that one day he’d tire of me, that the novelty would wear off and he’d go back to someone more his own sort, and more his own age. Someone like Tristan, ‘Tristan’ for fuck’s sake! I didn’t realise anyone outside of Arthurian literature and All Creatures Great and Small was called that for real.  

Faking a smile, I opened the bottle of red wine he had graciously bestowed upon us.
“My dear boy...”

I froze; bottle paused in process of slopping a generous amount into a glass.

“May I suggest you let that breathe a little? I’m sure you noticed it’s rather a fine vintage. Why don’t we start with that unassuming little supermarket wine you obviously grabbed from the shelf at Safeway’s? Whether or not it breathes will be immaterial to how it tastes I’m sure.”

That was it! I banged the bottle down on the table and the rest, as they say, is history. Tristan beat a hasty retreat as I erupted like a French farmer on a picket line and began booting legs of lamb about, while cussing like a British lorry driver trying to get through a picket line of French farmers.

Jack wasn’t a bit impressed by my actions. I could tell by the way he shoved me briskly into a corner of the kitchen, virtually superimposing me onto the plaster.

“It’s not fair,” I yelled, then yelled even louder as he cut short my protests with a volley of sharp swats to my backside. He left me to brood while he went to apologise, on my behalf, to our bemused and ancient neighbour. As far as I was concerned I had been provoked into losing my temper and I was determined not to accept any blame. Couldn’t Jack see the way Tristan wound me up?

Of course I knew it was more than just me being rude to Tristan. It was a hangover from the computer and fire business, that’s what it was. Jack had, as expected, been seriously de-chuffed with me. I had watched as the blood drained from his face down into his ankles. Like the proverbial weeble, he wobbled, but didn’t fall down. After several decades had passed he closed his mouth, cancelled Tristan’s visit (every cloud etc) and channelled his energies into attempting to smack my bottom from its original location at the top of my thighs, to somewhere in the vicinity of my diaphragm, while lecturing me about my foolish and dangerous actions.

Come to Daddy.” There was a multitude of rustlings as Jack folded the newspaper.
I stayed stubbornly where I was.

“If I have to come over there, Daniel, I’ll be even less happy than I am now, which means you’ll be even sorrier than you’re already going to be.”

Jeez, he was talking in tongues. With a heave of the shoulders, a roll of the eyes and a sigh worthy of Harry Enfield’s Kevin the teenager, I sloped across to him.

He began to unbuckle the belt on my jeans, speaking quietly all the while, “filthy language, a temper tantrum worthy of a toddler on a tartrazine high, rudeness to neighbours, all in themselves bad enough. However,” he tugged my jeans down to my knees, “rudeness to a guest in our home is inexcusable. I gave you the chance of opting out, but you insisted on being present. You may not like Tristan, but you will at least be polite to him.”

Rebellion was still flowing through my veins. From there it found its way to my mouth, which opened of its own volition and snapped, “I’d sooner pour salt on the slimy slug than be polite to him.” I tried to pull away, but he handled my slim, five foot six frame with ease. A cool draught played briefly about my bottom as my underpants were tugged down and he swiftly pulled me across his lap. Cool became a distant memory. The hand that slammed against my buttocks felt like it was made of adamantium, first striking one cheek, then the other followed by a slap to the centre, spanking a pattern of disapproval onto my bottom.

“You will apologise to Tristan,” left, right, centre. “You will apologise to Mrs Greenfield,” left, right, centre. “You will apologise to me,” left, right, centre

I howled from the outset. Noble suffering and taking it like a man were concepts that I’d rejected early in life. If I were in agony I wanted everyone within a ten-mile radius to be fully aware of it. Plus, I always hoped that if I yelled loud enough it would put Jack off his stroke and safe my bum some suffering. So far it hadn’t worked.

By the time he allowed me to slide from his lap I would have seriously considered apologising to the leg of lamb and every individual potato I had sent bouncing across the floor.  He let me cry for a while and then calmly drew me to my feet and helped me pull up my underwear and jeans.

“You’re going to clean up that mess you made in the dining room, Danny.”

I wrapped my arms around him, seeking a reconciliatory cuddle. He sighed and put his arms round me, gently rubbing his chin against my hair. “Why do you always think that a hug makes everything magically all right? It doesn’t. You embarrassed me this evening and so far you’ve not offered one good reason why you behaved as you did. There was no excuse for it. I was ashamed of you to be truthful.”

I was crushed. His words hurt more than the spanking. I also felt he was being dismissive of my feelings. He was taking Tristan’s side. Worse was to come. After I cleaned up the dining room, he sent me to bed saying I’d behaved like an obnoxious child so he was going to treat me like one. He didn’t kiss me goodnight, nor did he come up early to keep me company as I had expected. It could only mean that he was tiring of me.

I got up next morning to find the house still and silent. My stomach lurched, was he so disgusted with me that he didn’t even want to spend Saturday in my company? 

There was a terse note on the kitchen table: ‘gone to the office to finish some work. Phone Tristan and make your apologies. We’ll discuss things later.’ I crumpled the scrap of paper up and flung it on the floor. Then I got dressed, threw some things into a bag and headed for Alison and Den’s house.

Copyright Cat/Fabian Black 2011

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My stories focus on M/M relationships, the main slant of which is on consensual discipline between loving male partners. It’s quite difficult to define this kind of fiction. It doesn't quite fit into the category of straightforward M/M erotic romance and nor can it be regarded as BDSM fiction in a classic sense.

Domestic Discipline Romance might be a fair description with still more sub categories under that umbrella with keywords such as: original character slash, domestic discipline, discipline partnership fiction, romantic fic, hurt/comfort fiction etc.

To be honest I don’t really think it’s necessary or even advisable to attempt to classify and define it too closely, because to do so is to risk confining both writers and readers by binding them with rules and regulations about what’s right and what’s wrong in a story that features any kind of power exchange.

I don’t personally think there’s a right or wrong way to write this kind of fiction, it all depends on personal taste, need and interpretation of interest, one size definitely doesn’t fit all and that’s how it should be, we’re all individuals and variety is a good thing.

Some of my stories are written from a tongue in cheek perspective and have elements of madcap humour and parody while others take a more serious look at the role consensual discipline might play in adult relationships.

Cat/Fabian Black


all material copyright Cat/Fabian Black unless otherwise stated.

Please note: I'm British so my stories are written using U.K. English and grammar. Please check the default setting on your reader devices.

None of the stories on these pages are public domain works. They are the intellectual property of the indie writer known variously as Cat, Fabian Black, Tarn Swan, Ester Phillips. They are not to be copied, passed on or reproduced in any way without the prior written consent of the owner and copyright owner