Cat's M/M Discipline Fiction


Jon and Kit Stories


One: Saturday Night


As he paid the taxi driver Jon watched from the corner of his eye as Kit all but bounced up the path into the house. “Thanks, goodnight.” He shut the cab door and walked up the path at a more sedate pace, closing the front door and locking and bolting it behind him.

“I told you, didn’t I, I told you he was a using little creep?” Kit was cock-a-hoop, flinging his jacket over the end of the banister with such energy that it sailed onto the stairs instead.

“Pick that up,” Jon pointed at the jacket, “and keep your voice down. It’s late, you’ll disturb the neighbours.”

“Sorry,” Kit grabbed the jacket and flung it at the banister the opposite way. It missed again, sprawling wantonly across the hall floor this time. “Well good riddance to bad rubbish I say!” His blue eyes sparkled from beneath the points of his gypsy dark fringe. It was the happiest he’d looked all evening. “I’m going to have a nightcap, do you want one, Jon, brandy or whiskey?”

“No thank you, and you’re not having one either. You’ve had quite enough, too much in fact. You were knocking back wine like it was going out of fashion in the restaurant. Don’t think I didn’t notice that you finished off that bottle of champagne while I was outside talking to Colin. You’ll get a migraine if you drink anymore.” Jon took his jacket off, folding it neatly shoulder to shoulder before laying it over the banister ready to be taken upstairs. “I’m going to check on Fred and Ginger, you can get up to bed.” He stooped, picking up Kit’s jacket and putting it with his own.

Kit pulled a face, “what are you so solemn faced about? I thought you’d be as pleased as me that Col has found out the truth about that leech? Best birthday present ever.”

Jon gave him a stern look, “first of all, we have no absolute proof that it is the truth, secondly, even if it is, do you think poor Colin wanted to find it out? You saw his face when we got out of that taxi instead of Sam and you saw it again when we told him that Sam had disappeared from the restaurant.”

Kit shrugged dismissively, “he’ll soon get over it, and it’s for the best. I just don’t know how someone like Col could bear to be near that odd eyed freak...JON!”  He got a fright as he was firmly turned sideways and his partner’s right hand swung smartly against his bottom, landing a short series of stinging smacks to both cheeks. “What was that in aid of?” He clutched his buttocks, as he was about turned.

“It pains me to say this, but Sam conducted himself with far more propriety and grace than you managed in that restaurant tonight. You’ve sulked and moped all evening, and the only thing that’s brought a smile to your face is the unhappy misfortune of our closest friend. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. Go up to bed before I decide that what you need by way of a nightcap is a trip over my knee for a remedial dose of the slipper.”

Kit didn’t argue, but his disaffection was evident by the way he stormed up the stairs, slamming the bedroom door.

Jon made sure the guinea pig’s pen was secure and then he locked up and went upstairs. Kit was curled up under the duvet, but not for long. Pulling back the cover Jon gripped his wrist, pulling him to his feet, “come with me please, Christian.”

Kit’s heart sank as he heard his detested full name. He was seriously out of favour that much was obvious. He was led back to the foot of the stairs.

“What don’t we do in this house, Christian?”

“Stamp and slam,” muttered Kit making a show of examining his bare feet, hating the way that Jon could make him feel like a rule breaking sixth form student.

“So, your memory holds true, I’m relieved about that. To save time I’ll jog your memory on another thing that doesn’t get done in this house. You don’t throw tantrums or act petulantly when you’ve been deservedly reprimanded.”

“I’m Sorry.”

“Thank you, nevertheless you’ve still earned yourself a demerit and if the neighbours do complain about the noise you’ll get another one on their behalf.  Now walk up those stairs properly.”

Kit swallowed and walked decorously up the stairs, conscious of Jon just behind him.

Extracting a notebook and pen from the chest of drawers, Jon silently held them out. Kit reluctantly took them. “I said sorry, and you’ve already punished me.”

“I slapped your clothed bottom a couple of times for bad attitude, hardly punishment, and the demerit is for stamping and slamming. You’re well aware of the consequences that kind of behaviour brings. Write it in and then let’s get some sleep.

Kit resentfully made note of the demerit and reason for it. Thanks to that bastard Sam he’d accumulated six now, another four and he’d be writing lines until his hand fell off, either that or spending a week being sent to bed straight after dinner, or even, Kit shuddered, being assigned ironing duties for a whole month. He handed the book and pen back to Jon resisting a childish urge to throw them on the floor in disgust, knowing only too well that such blatant behaviour would earn him an additional demerit, as well as a sore backside. Jon deemed such behaviour to be a tantrum.

In Kit’s personal view tantrum throwing was a perfectly acceptable pastime, a healthy way of letting off steam. It was just a shame that Jon didn’t share his view. Jon had no objection to letting off steam as such, however, he had every objection to steam letting being accompanied by flying objects and things being kicked. It was Kit’s personal opinion that no decent tantrum was complete without throwing or kicking something.

Jon eyed him grimly as he took possession of the book and pen. “You can remove that sullen expression from your face or else you’ll be recording another black mark in this book tonight.”

Kit tried to rearrange his features into a neutral aspect, but it was hard going. He got into bed as fast as he could, pulling the duvet up over his head so he could scowl in peace. He lay for a while thinking bad thoughts and mentally indulging in a full-scale temper outburst in an alternative universe where Jon wouldn’t dream of disciplining him for it.


Copyright Cat 2010