17 June 2011

4: The Curtain Falls

The Jack And Danny Chronicles

4: The Curtain Falls

“Why?” A perfectly innocuous little word in its own way is why…until you start bunging other words after it that is. Then it’s apt to get complicated and those three little letters become instruments of torture, especially when wielded by a Master like Jack.

“Why?” He calmly repeated the dratted word, but didn’t expand on it. This was a favourite device of his and it drove me barmy. He assumed that I knew exactly what other words he intended to follow on from that tiny verbal starting block. I squirmed uncomfortably and concentrated on tracing the toe of my shoe around a swirl on the carpet. It was the first word that Jack had spoken to me since picking me up from Alison’s house. I suppose I should have been grateful that he was speaking to me at all. I would, however, have preferred it to be any other word but why. Why always led to trouble, for me that is. I remained silent.

  “I’m waiting.”

Bear in mind that I was tired and stressed. Thus far it had been a dire weekend. I was worried about Ally and now Jack was intent on making me squirm like a maggot on a pin. I’m not good with stress. I’m even worse with guilt and for some obscure reason I did feel guilty. Guilt was a new concept for me. I didn’t care for it much and I was fighting it all the way. Jack obviously wanted some kind of confession from me, possibly even penitence. I, on the other hand, wanted to forget all about everything. I wanted to store the disastrous dinner with Tristan away in the: ‘it never really happened folder,’ and if it did, ‘it was nowt to do with me box.’

In retrospect (as ever) I did the worst thing I could do in the circumstances. I stamped. Yes, dear reader, I actually stamped.  “But what are you waiting for?” I yelled, doing a passable impression of Fred Astaire dancing a fandango, “all you’ve said so far is why? Why what? Why’s a word, not a question in itself. You can keep saying why and I can keep saying what and we’ll be here all fucking night!” Alas, the floodgates opened with that one profanity.

I went into Anglo Saxon overload.  “Just ask the full fucking question, I’m not a fucking mind reader and I’m fucking sick of being fucking picked on by everyone. Tristan picks on me. You pick on me. Dennis picks on me, even the fucking cat picks on me. I notice he never leaves a hairball on your side of the bed. I bet if I were taller no one would pick on me. SEE! Even God picks on me, it’s his fucking fault I’m only little in the first place.” 

Incidentally, the second worst thing I could do in the circumstances, linguistically speaking, was multiple fucking.  Before I had chance to utter another expletive I found myself at the kitchen sink foaming at the mouth like a rabid fox, as Jack vigorously brushed my teeth and tongue with a soft toothbrush coated in soap. It was vile, and surely a gross contravention of TTT, the international accord regarding the right to swear profusely without risk of retribution…The Tourettes Treaty.

“I’ve had more than enough of that foul mouth of yours, and more than enough of this childish drama over Tristan.” Jack flung the toothbrush aside. “I’m bringing the curtain down on your little production.” In one fluid movement he unfastened my jeans and pulled them down along with my underpants. Wrapping his left arm around my upper body, effectively pinning my arms against my sides, he pulled me hard against him. Raising his right hand he began to smack my bottom, and smack it hard. I thrust my hips forward in a futile attempt to escape his punishing palm. He alternated spanking my backside with smacking the backs of my thighs, something he’d never done before. It stung like a bitch and I was soon bawling, promising never to swear again.

I tried desperately to twist out of his grip, finally managing to drop to my knees. He simply hauled me back up and increased the tempo. I developed a sudden and fervent affiliation with Joan of Arc. I knew exactly how that poor girl must have felt as the flames of fire licked their way up her legs and lower regions. After several years he stopped the punishment, and I flung both hands behind myself to clutch my smouldering bottom, tears flowing down my face. “It’s not fair,” I whined, “I didn’t deserve that.”

“That’s true, you didn’t. You deserved more.”  Jack pulled up my underwear and jeans (well it was only fair seeing as he’d taken them down in the first place) “We’ll continue this conversation when we’re both in a better frame of mind. I need some thinking space. I’m going upstairs for a while.”

As soon as he’d gone, I turned the kitchen tap on, putting my mouth around it and letting the water run over my revoltingly soapy tongue. Jack had threatened several times to soap my mouth out if I didn’t make an effort to curb what he considered my gratuitous swearing, but this was the first time he’d actually followed through. It was vile and the taste seemed to linger forever.

Mooching into the living room I curled up on the couch, watching telly in miserable isolation, conscious of my sore bottom. I knew that as far as Jack was concerned I had totally overstepped the mark on this occasion. I also knew that according to the terms of our relationship I had deserved the punishment he had handed out. Knowing didn’t make me like it any the better. I still felt Tris was more to blame than I was, the cooking bar steward (note the cunningly disguised swearing) He was trying to put Jack off me by provoking me into behaving badly.

Jack eventually came back downstairs and into the living room, holding Mistoffelees in his arms. He was nicer to the rotten moggy than he was to me. I scowled at one man and his cat. Setting Misty down he gave me a cool look, “are you ready to talk yet?”

Silence gave him his answer and he shook his head. “It’s about time you at least made an effort to behave as if you were at the adult end of your teen years instead of the baby end.”

I stood up, saying haughtily, “I think I’ll have an early night. I’m tired and there’s nothing of interest to keep me down here.”

  “Sulky little brat,” he whacked an exasperated hand across my arse as I walked past him. I glared at him, but the look on his face warned me not to put my lip into action.

I was awoken early on Sunday morning by a call of nature. Afterwards, crawling back into bed, I studied Jack. He was lying on his back, one hand above his head, the other thrown to the side. He was beautiful. My heart gave a little skip at the sight of him. His long dark lashes resting against the rim of his cheekbones, the strong, straight lines of his nose, and the masculine curve of his jaw. I gently traced a finger over his jaw stubble. I loved the shape of his lips and the way they felt when they were pressed to mine. I loved the way his dark hair fell down over his forehead, especially on a morning before he combed it, giving him a boyish look.

My heart quickened with the anxious thought that my outburst might have cost me my relationship with him. He said he’d needed thinking space the night before. What if the thinking had been along the lines of wanting permanent space between us? I had spoilt everything, as usual. Tears brimmed and I brushed them impatiently away, leaning down to kiss him softly on the lips, starting as an arm suddenly came round my waist. A pair of warm brown eyes gazed into mine, and a soft smile lifted the corners of his mouth. 

“That’s a nice way to say good morning,” he murmured, then he saw my tears, pulling me closer against him, “come here, my silly boy, its all right.” 

I snuggled against him as his hand stroked a soothing circle between my shoulder blades. “I’m sorry, Jack.” His hand slid down to my bottom, caressing it through my shorts, then his lips found mine and I felt a familiar surge of pleasure, like little electrical impulses dancing along every nerve in my body. I relaxed into his arms. I was forgiven and in turn I forgave. All was right with my world again.


  “Aw, Jack please,” I dropped my toast back onto the plate, my appetite gone. “I thought we’d sorted all this?”

  “Afraid not, little darling. What we had was a very pleasant interlude, but it was by no means a conclusion. ”He poured us both a fresh cup of coffee, smiled, and asked, “why?”

I sighed the sigh of a soul in purgatory, slouching down in my chair. “I don’t want to play this game anymore, Jack.”

“Sit up straight, Daniel,” he said crisply, “and it is not a game. This is about you accepting responsibility for yourself and your actions.”
“I said sorry.” I pouted, unwilling to accept responsibility for anything.
“Yes, but sorry is just a word if there’s no sincerity, no understanding behind it. I want you to tell me why you have a reason to be sorry. I don’t want you merely paying lip service to the word. I want you to understand the mechanisms that led you to a situation where you’re obliged to feel sorry.”

God, I groaned inwardly, he was determined to get some mileage out of the philosophy ‘O’ level he’d sat in his youth. It was like being shacked up with Socrates. I wondered if we had any hemlock handy.

  “Why?” He pointed a cautionary finger, “and I’m warning you, Danny, even think of a swear word and I’ll spit roast your backside, and not in a fun way.”
My pout reached competition standard. “At least give me a hint as to the content of the question.”

His eyes narrowed. “Why did you choose to behave so badly towards Tristan? You’ve had it in for him since the day you met him. You started making digs the moment he stepped foot in the house last night.”

He put unnecessary emphasis on the word choose to my mind. I defended myself.

“He provoked me.”
“Not good enough and not true.”
“He did!”
“He said good evening to you, Danny and asked how you were and you took a huff and accused him of being unpleasant!”

“He looked at me in a snide way as he said it.”
“And what?”
“Well that’s hardly a reason to scream abuse and throw bits of sheep at him.”

Seemed perfectly reasonable to me, but I didn’t dare say so, “I just don’t like him.”

Jack raised an elegant eyebrow. “I’d never have guessed.”

“He’s trying to turn you against me. I’m sure he wants you back,” it came out in a rush.

Jack’s eyebrow raised itself further and was joined by his other one.   “What do you mean BACK?”

“Well, he’s obviously an old lover of yours.”

“Ah-ah,” Jack shook his head. “Tristan is a good friend. We were at boarding school together. He was a mentor. He is not, nor has he ever been my lover. I’ve told you all this before, Danny. You just have a selective memory.”

“Bet he wants to be your lover though, slimy swine,” I muttered.

 “Do you want to spend the day in bed?”

I looked up hopefully, “with you?”

“With a sore backside.”

I gulped, “okay, I admit I let my dislike and jealousy run away with me. I’m very sorry. I behaved like a yob and I’ll say sorry to him, I promise.”

“You most certainly will.” Jack paused in my interrogation to take a sip of coffee. He put the cup down, and then smiled softly, “why?”

“Jaaack, please, let it go.”

“Why did you take off like that, and why did you feed Alison all that rubbish about my having forsaken you for Tristan? You know how easy it is to hook her. Dennis says she’s been tense for days. She didn’t need you hyping her up even more.”

I’d had enough. As far as I was concerned the subject was dead.  I stood up. “I need the loo.”

“No you don’t.”

“Are you Lord of my bowel movements now? Can I only crap by royal command?”

“Did I not spank you hard enough yesterday evening?”

“Yes,” I nodded emphatically, “oh yes.”

“Then watch your cheeky mouth, or I’ll make last night seem like a loving cuddle.”

He gave me a warning look, asking firmly. “Why?”

I did a full Gene Kelly routine in my mind, you know that one from Singing in the Rain, where what’s-his-face, Donald someone or other, leaps about the furniture and pounds his feet up the wall.

“Well?” Jack’s voice had an edge of impatience to it.

“It wasn’t my fault.”  Drat, my voice had a definite whiny note to it.  “I thought you’d decided I was too much trouble and that you were fed up of me after what I did to your computer. Then Tristan made you angry with me, you sent me to bed, on my own, Jack. Then you went to work and left me on my own again – on a Saturday too. I thought you hated me. I wanted Alison and Dennis to sympathise. I wanted them on my side before you chucked me.”

Jack folded his arms and surveyed me coldly. “Complete rubbish. You had absolutely no grounds for supposing I was going to chuck you. You were indulging in a childish fit of pique and spite. Paying me back for punishing you, even though you got what you deserved. Isn’t that the truth?”

 “Yes, all right, yes! Happy now, or do you want it written in blood?”

“Sit,” he pointed to the chair, “while you’re still able. Let’s get a few things straight. With regard to Tris, he didn’t make me angry with you. You made me angry with you for behaving the way you did. Yes, I was furious over the computer business. I’d specifically warned you to stay away from it, at least until I’d had chance to look at it properly. You’re a menace around electrical appliances, you knackered the other one by fiddling on with it. You chose to disobey me and almost burnt the house down. It’ll cost a fortune to put that room right.”

  “You’re well insured aren’t you...YEOUCH!” I yelped as Jack landed a stinging slap on my thigh.

  “Insurance isn’t the issue here,” he wagged an admonishing finger. “Trust and safety is. You blatantly went against my wishes and you risked not only the house, but also yourself in the process. You could have been electrocuted, or burnt to death, you idiot boy.”  Jack’s eyes, which had been so warm and loving earlier, were now cooler than a polar bear’s bum, “and of course I sent you to bed on your own. It’s hardly punishment if I accompany you and you have someone to chat to all evening. I’m not going to apologise for it. Sending you to bed is a way of emphasising my disapproval of your behaviour. It’s a tool of power exchange. It emphasises my dominance and it also gives you time to think things over. It had nothing to do with me preparing to cast you off. I think you knew that very well. You were trying to find a means of justifying a continuance of the Tristan tantrum, by making me into the villain of the piece.” 

He took a deep breath and ran a hand through his hair. “Daniel, I love you. Just how much I love you has been slowly dawning on me, and that means that I can’t let some of the excesses of your personality go unchecked. Yes, if I thought of you as just a temporary fling, a bit of teen fluff, then I might let you get away with murder, pretend that a hug and a trite sorry made everything all right again. Fact is, Danny, it doesn’t. I’m not made that way. I want more from a relationship than just sex. I want to share my life with you. I’m ready to settle down, love. I’m thirty-two years old. What I need to know is whether you’re ready for a committed relationship of the type we have? A discipline relationship isn’t for everyone, and it isn’t easy. You’re only nineteen. If you want sex without accountability then you must go and get it out of your system. I’ll understand.”

I quickly sat astride his knee, wrapping my arms around his neck. “I’m already committed to you. I’ve lived with you, and all your rotten rules, for almost a year, doesn’t that tell you something?”

  “Six months, Daniel,” Jack smiled as he brushed my fringe out of my eyes, “you’ve lived with me for barely six months.”

  “You’re so domineering and bossy, it just feels like a year,” I kissed the end of his nose to show I was teasing. I liked him being domineering and bossy, though admittedly I liked it slightly less when his hand was clashing with my backside. I felt ridiculously happy at his words. He actually wanted me around, permanently. I cuddled him, “I don’t know what you see in me. I’m hardly Adonis. I’ve got red hair, a temper to match, freckles, and...” 

Jack shushed me with a finger to my lips, “…and the prettiest mouth and the most beautiful blue eyes I’ve ever seen.”

A blissfully long kiss followed this declaration.

Then the rule making, law laying, strict speaking, fun crushing Jack re-emerged.  “I want you to make the best of yourself. I won’t let you mess your life up, Danny. You’ve got to start working harder. Don’t think I haven’t noticed how little college work you’ve been doing lately. By the way, there are still apologies to be made, not to mention addressing the matter of your irrational temper tantrums and appalling bad language. Then there’s your propensity to run away, instead of facing up to the consequences of your actions, and…mmm, that’s nice.”

For once, he let me distract him from cataloguing all my faults.

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