Cat's M/M Discipline Fiction


Jon and Kit Stories


Three: Wednesday



“Remember I’ve got Parent meetings tonight, Kit,” Jon fastened his briefcase and slipped his house keys and mobile into his pocket, “I doubt I’ll be home before half past eight maybe even nine. I’ll grab something to eat at college. You make something decent for yourself when you get home from work and then get straight off to bed.”

“There’s nothing wrong with my memory, Jon, so reminders on both scores were hardly necessary.” Snatching his jacket from the end of the banister Kit left the building, his exit telling a tale of someone disaffected with life in general and his loved one in particular. The loved one’s long legs, usually so admired by Kit, ensured that the man attached to them caught up with him before he reached the garden gate. He found himself being firmly escorted back into the house.

“It seems to me,” Jon’s voice was like ice as he closed the front door behind them, “that you need a short refresher course on door closing etiquette. I’ll demonstrate, you observe.” He then opened the front door and closed it again, “see, quite simple.” He indicated the door, “your turn, open it please.”

Kit moistened his lips took a deep breath and opened the door.

“Thank you, now close it.”

Kit was seriously tempted to slam the door just for the sheer, suicidal hell of it, but he didn’t. He complied with the request, closing it with exaggerated care while mentally reciting the A-Z of all known swear words and obscenities and inventing a few of his own.

“Was that so very difficult?”

Kit shook his head.

“Then what was your problem earlier?”

Kit shrugged.

“Bad temper, sheer bad temper over what happened last night,” Jon supplied the answer seeing as Kit was unforthcoming. He took his elbow, steering him firmly into the living room. “You have a tongue in your head. If you believe you have a genuine issue with me then use that to express it and I’ll use mine to answer it. Slamming a lump of wood into a hole is no substitute for the English language, not one that I’ll tolerate anyway. That’s a lesson I thought you’d learned long ago, perhaps some revision is in order.” He pointed at the arm of the leather sofa. “Bend over.”

As far as revision went it was bite size, short and sharp and soon executed…six strokes from the sole of Jon’s slipper. Afterwards Kit closed the front door with careful consideration and walked the relatively short distance to the vet’s surgery he worked in. By the time he got there the sting in his backside had faded to faint warmth, but his heart was heavy and he felt utterly miserable. In addition to the slippering Jon had also presented him with a demerit, the first on the new page of his punishment book, he having just cashed in ten the evening before.


By keeping both praise and criticism to a minimum, to the chagrin of some sixth formers and relief of others, Jon managed to be on his way home by eight.

As he entered the house he could hear the television sounding from upstairs, so knew that Kit was obediently abed. After calling a greeting, which fell dead in the air, he slipped off his jacket, hung it on the end of the banister along with his tie then went into the kitchen.

Its pristine state and lack of cooking odours told him that dinner had been overlooked. A cursory glance through the fridge and in the pedal bin confirmed that not so much as a sandwich had been made and consumed. If it wasn’t for the fact that hunger tended to be a major trigger for Kit’s migraine headaches he would have just shaken his head and let him get on with going hungry, but it was and Jon wasn’t, especially not in view of the fact that Kit had already had two migraines that week. The headache on Sunday had given way to another on Monday when it shifted to the other side of his head and although it hadn’t been bad enough to warrant an injection, it had been bad enough to keep him off work and bedridden for most of the day.

The trigger for the headache became unpleasantly apparent on Sunday evening when Jon went outside to take the guinea pigs from their run in order to safely pen them for the night. He picked up Fred only to find himself showered with guinea pig diarrhoea. He had not been amused.

Investigations brought forth a reluctant confession from Kit that Fred had raided a bag of chocolate peanuts and raisins that he had been eating. In Fred’s case there was a simple truth involved, guinea pigs were not designed to eat chocolate at all, no matter how sweet their tooth and how much they liked it.

When it came to migraine sufferers, his migraine sufferer in particular, things were slightly less simple. Kit loved chocolate and had formed a habit that required a daily fix long before he began to be plagued by migraines as a result of a head injury. He had been devastated when it became obvious that chocolate was one of his food triggers. Rather than totally excluding it from his diet, painstaking, in the literal sense, record keeping, indicated that eating a small amount of his favourite thing once, at most twice a week as opposed to everyday didn’t bring on an attack. As Kit had already consumed his upper limit chocolate ration for the week, Jon had not been pleased to discover that he’d eaten the extra peanuts and raisins.

They’d had heavy words on the subject of rule infringement and self-control on Tuesday morning, more than words. Jon had told Kit to record another demerit and removed his chocolate ration altogether for two weeks. They had even heavier words along the same lines on Tuesday evening when Kit audaciously bought a pack of beer on the way home from work and Jon told him he wasn’t allowed to drink it. Moreover he had made him open each can and pour it down the sink and had then given him another demerit bringing the total to the terrible tragic number of ten.

If Kit was unwise enough to earn himself ten demerits within a thirty-day period, he was penalised, in this instance by a week of early bedtimes and a review of his attitude, which was found wanting. Jon warned him, if he collected ten demerits for a second month in succession, not only would the usual penalties be enforced, but the tawse would also be brought into the equation.

Jon calmly took pay of a dour look from the occupant of the bed as he walked into the room bearing a tray of sandwiches and tea. “Tuna, ham salad, or both.” He set the tea on the bedside cabinet and the tray on the bed, “and you can take that look off your face, young man, because the only choice you’re being offered is one of selection not rejection, so put your mind to eating instead of arguing.” He began to unbutton his shirt, “any news from Colin regarding Sam?”

Kit shook his head. “Col needs to forget about him.”

“Easier said than done, love,” Jon slipped off his shirt, “I’m going for a shower. I won’t be long. Make sure you eat those sandwiches.”

Picking up a sandwich and reaching for the mug of tea Kit felt comforted. He liked it when his partner looked after him. “That was nice, thanks,” he gave a small smile as Jon returned to the bedroom and began rummaging in the chest of drawers for clean boxers. He drained the last of his tea and set the mug and empty plate back on the tray ready to be taken downstairs admitting, “I was starving.”

“Then why didn’t you make yourself something to eat when you got in from work? Who were you spiting, me or yourself?” Jon pulled on a t-shirt.

Kit shrugged, “I wasn’t hungry then.” He didn’t mention that when he got home he had called Colin, who had snatched up the phone almost immediately, saying ‘Sam?’ in such a hopeful, longing way that Kit’s stomach had turned and after the briefest exchange he had made an excuse to put the phone down. He hadn’t felt like eating after that, his appetite strangled.

“What’s on your mind, Kit, what’s going on?”

“Nothing is going on.”
Folding his arms Jon gazed thoughtfully at his partner. From time to time Kit went through pushy periods. He needed the reassurance that came with being firmly put back in place. Such periods often coincided with the drawing to a close of the academic year. Jon was usually extra busy with college work, exam papers and meetings and such like and Kit sometimes felt sidelined and neglected, and then guilty for feeling that way.  He persisted. “Is there a problem at work, or is it something on the domestic front, something I’m doing, or perhaps not doing?”

“I’m fine.” Kit picked up the TV remote and aimed it, flicking through the channels.

“Don’t brush me off like that,” Jon sat on the bed removing the remote from Kit’s hand and switching off the television. “You’ve been snappy, distracted and recalcitrant all week. Is all the boundary pushing an indication that you feel neglected and need more of my attention?”

Kit was suddenly tearful, “well a cuddle would be quite nice. You’ve done nothing but heap hot coals and black marks upon me lately.”

“And whose fault is that?” Jon’s tone was severe, but he wrapped his arms around Kit and snuggled him. “You’re the one wording and sending out the invitations, love, and you know me, I’m a stickler for protocol and I never decline to rsvp.”

“I wouldn’t be offended if you declined to reply just once in a while.”

Jon gave a gentle laugh, “it’s not the way I work, love, or the way we work, we’ve set a pattern for ourselves and I know just how offended you would be if I changed that pattern by declining to reply.”

Convention decreed that Kit serve his sentence alone and after a brief cuddle and kiss Jon stood up prior to going downstairs to get on with his own evening. Before going he said seriously, “something is bugging you, Kit, and I don’t believe its end of term syndrome, in which case it’s something else. I want to know what that something else is.  I suggest you think carefully about it while you’re up here. With that in mind it’s probably best that the television stays off.”

“Probably,” Kit’s dark brows raised themselves quizzically, “does that mean you’re only offering a suggestion and I can accept or reject it?”

“No, it means the television stays off, not just this evening, but for the duration of your bedtime punishment, neither are you allowed to read. Goodnight, Christian, we’ll talk in the morning.” Jon went out closing the door behind him.

Kit stared sourly at the back of the door, he’d asked for that he supposed. Lying down he hooked his arms behind his head and turned his thoughts to sex. If he could get a good fantasy going he might be able to fill some of the time in a pleasant manner. However his mind proved impotent in that respect and he found himself thinking back to the night in the restaurant instead.



Copyright Cat/Fabian Black 2010