| The Jack And Danny Chronicles part seven Author: Cat Daniel’s Inferno |
“No, damn it Jack, what is wrong with you? Sod off and let me die in peace!” As expected I felt decidedly out of sorts next morning. The alarm went off like a fire bell and I groaned in agony as it reverberated around my cranium. Sticking my head under the pillow I prayed for a merciful release. Jack seemed to be under the illusion that I was going to get up, get dressed and go into college. I, on the other hand, felt that I might possibly never get up again and I fully intended to lay still for several weeks on the off chance that I would then feel human again. Jack was insistent I vacate the bed, hence my outburst. “Shower, come on, it’ll waken you up.” Whisking back the duvet, he grabbed my hand and literally dragged me out of bed. I found myself in the shower spluttering and shrieking under a freezing stream of water. When Jack was satisfied that I was fully awake, he hauled me out, briskly towelled me with what felt like sand paper, grabbed me by the hand once again and marched me, protesting, back to the bedroom. He seemed a little out of sorts with me. I couldn’t think why. I glared at him angrily as he released my hand. Snatching the towel bad temperedly out of his hands, I tried to rub some feeling back into my cold limbs while muttering under my breath. “Get dressed,” he said sharply, “or we’ll both be late.” “Fuck off Jack, I told you, I’m not going, I feel like shi...” Sitting on the bed he yanked me quickly over his lap. My goose pimpled bottom flinched as his hard hand set about warming it up with, to my mind, excessive zeal. There were no words, no lecture, just sharp spanks punctuated with yelps from me, and little grunts from him as he put considerable effort into whacking his palm against my hapless rump. Already feeling sorry for myself, it wasn’t long before I was in tears. When he finally lifted me from his thighs, I clamped my hands to my throbbing cheeks rubbing them furiously. On the up side, the pain in my bum served to detract from the pain in my head and the griping nausea in my guts. Jack towered over me like a skyscraper, “that was for swearing at me and being generally unpleasant; it’s not my fault you’ve got a hangover. You’ve got five minutes to get dressed and present yourself downstairs.” I didn’t know what was worse the hangover, my sore lip, the spanking or the fact that Jack was obviously very pissed off with me. I dressed and trailed miserably down to the kitchen, carefully parking my glowing behind onto a chair before parking my aching head against my hand “Sorry.” Jack, in process of making tea, gave no sign of having heard me. He went over to the fridge took out a carton of orange juice poured a large glass and plonked it down in front of me along with two painkillers. “Swallow those, they might take the edge off.” “Thanks,” I looked at him gratefully. He looked at me unsmilingly. I downed the pills and the juice. “I really am sorry Jack,” I tried again, “I just felt so awful when I woke up, I didn’t mean to be obnoxious and I’m sorry about yesterday, about Tris...” “Oh no. Stop right there!” Jack raised a hand and effectively halted my collective apology attempt. “You and I have not even begun to explore the events of yesterday. If you think for one second that the spanking you’ve just had clears the board for everything, then you can think again. We’ll be discussing Sundays little debacle in intimate detail when I get home this evening.” I scowled ferociously as he placed a plate of scrambled eggs and toast in front of me with instructions to eat, as I’d had nothing since breakfast the day before. My stomach heaved in protest at the first forkful and I made a frenzied dash for the bathroom to renew my acquaintance with Mr Shanks. Oh God, did I feel ill. My body was determined to let me know that I had abused it shockingly. I could almost feel my liver pulsating indignantly as it attempted to deal with the toxins I had foisted upon it. My brain had dehydrated to the size of an instant potato granule, angrily bouncing around the free space inside my skull with the spiteful intention of letting me know it was annoyed with me for having consumed a lifetimes alcohol units in one evening. I’d forgotten quite how horrendous a full-scale hangover could be. “I can’t believe you’re making me go to lectures when I’m ill,” I pouted resentfully as Jack leaned across me and opened the car door. “You’re not ill Daniel, you have a self-inflicted hangover. You don’t deserve the consideration due to the honestly sick. Make sure you eat something decent for lunch, and drink as much water as you can manage; it’s the only thing that will clear your head. I’ll see you this evening.” I considered slamming the car door, caught the look in his eye and wisely decided against it. I hoisted my bag on to my shoulder, trudged to the uni library, found an uninhabited corner by the Sociology section and went to sleep. I awoke at noon, staggered to the canteen, cadged a couple of painkillers from a girl on my course, downed them with a tepid polystyrene cup of coffee, considered attending afternoon lectures, then caught the next available bus home. Crashing face forward on to the couch I slumped into a mini coma. “Owwwwch!” I rolled off my perch, hitting the deck with a resounding thump. “Ja-ack,” I rubbed at the handprint on my left buttock and gazed at my beloved reproachfully. “How long have you been lying there?” He demanded, hands on hips. I glanced at the clock, mentally condensing four hours into twenty minutes. He reached down to help me to my feet, “come on, Sleeping Beauty, you can wash up the breakfast pots while I make dinner, just something light and easy to digest.” I’m not hungry,” I stared sullenly at the lightly steamed fish and vegetables he had produced. “It’s good for you, so eat it, then we’ll have a little chat.” I felt decidedly got at, and it wasn’t fair. None of this was my fault. It was all down to that prize dickhead Tristan. If he hadn’t decided to up sticks and move to this part of the country I wouldn’t be in trouble with Jack all the time. And it was partly Alison’s fault for turning up at the eleventh hour and whisking me off into her distant past. And Georgie and the others must have noticed that Al and I were drinking too much, they should have stopped us. I prodded crossly at the fish. “Stop playing with that fish Daniel and eat it.” I blew out my cheeks and sighed despondently. Come to think of it, some of the blame had to be apportioned to Jack himself. He shouldn’t have made friends with Tristan in the first place, and he definitely, definitely shouldn’t have waved that wretched hairbrush under my nose. It had caused me to panic and run. I was the innocent party in all this, although Jack just didn’t seem to appreciate that fact. I stared at the haddock with deepening disgust. Jack knew that fish was my least favourite food, closely followed by vegetables. I was a junk food kind of lad. I stabbed again at the piscine offering with my fork, willing it to swim off my plate and return to wherever it had come from: presumably the fish counter at Morrisons. “Don’t sit poking at it, eat it before it gets cold.” I decided it was time to make a stand. I laid my fork down, “I don’t really care for fish and I hate vegetables and I’m not eating them Jack, okay?” Jack fixed me with a steely look, “fish is good for the brain and God knows you need something to help kick yours into gear.” He pointed a warning digit; “you’re not leaving this table until that plate is clear. Your stomach needs more than just alcohol and acid to chew on or you’ll end up with an ulcer.” I folded my arms mutinously. Jack paid me no further attention. Calmly eating his own meal, he then rose to take his plate and cutlery across to the sink. I also made to rise. “Sit,” Jack stabbed a finger at me and then at the chair I had half vacated. “I told you, you’re not leaving the table until that plate is clear. You’re just being awkward for the sake of it.” My hands did a foolish thing. I was cross with them really. They should have discussed their intentions with me beforehand, if you get my drift. I watched in dismay as they picked up the plate and tipped the contents onto the kitchen floor. Mistoffelee’s was delighted, even if Jack wasn’t. “There,” my mouth also acted on its own behalf, smiling sweetly and saying, “the plate is all clear now.” “Clean it up.” Jack’s voice was distinctly Siberian, I shivered, but pressed ahead with defying him, once started it’s a hard process to stop, and anyway, Jack had to learn that I had rights and he couldn’t call all the shots in our relationship. I pointed at the cat. “Mistoffelee’s is managing perfec...” “Clean it...now,” he didn’t raise his voice, but the tone he used was somehow more alarming than decibels. I hesitated, my Adam’s apple bobbing nervously as I swallowed. He made an almost imperceptible move in my direction. I cracked. “Okay, okay, I’ll clean it up, but only because I want to. Christ, you’re so pernickety at times!” Grabbing reams of kitchen paper I scooped the mess from the floor, putting the ruined vegetables into the bin and the decimated fish into the cat’s bowl, much to his relief. Jack, arms folded, silently watched as I rubbed the floor clean. Once I’d finished and he inspected it to make sure it was done to his satisfaction, he said two words in his not to be argued with voice. “Get upstairs.” I got. My stomach clenched as Jack walked into the bedroom. He was holding the hairbrush in his hand. “Jack,” I got to my feet. “You’re not serious about using that thing are you?” He said nothing, moving across to the bed and sitting down on the spot I’d just vacated. He placed the brush neatly on the bedside cabinet. “Come here Daniel.” I shook my head. He was out of his tree if he imagined for a second that I was going to deliver my person willingly into his hands. “Look Jack, I’m sorry, I really am. I shouldn’t have tipped the food onto the floor like that, its just I was upset cos you made me get up today and I really felt ill and I do dislike fish, you know I hate anything with scales and...” “Come here please Daniel.” I stayed where I was and he began to count. “One.” I began twisting my hands like Uriah Heep on speed, (‘ever so humble Mr Kinross,’) “Please don’t be mad at me Jack,” my whine reached fever pitch. “I’m not very well you know.” “Two.” Oh shit! I hated him counting. I don’t know why, but it put the fear of God into me. I always capitulated before he reached the mystical number of three. Why, Jack’s favourite word suddenly sprang to mind. Why did the prospect of him reaching the count of three worry me so much? Would he incinerate me with a look, blast me onto another planet? What would the count of three bring that was any worse than what he already intended to do? My eyes strayed towards the bedside cabinet and I got my answer, I had never before had the Sword of Damocles dangling over my head, or, as in this scenario, the hairbrush of Tristan dangling over my arse. Jack’s hand stung badly enough, I dreaded to think how much more sting would come from an object like that. I began to edge backwards towards the door, planning my escape route. Lily would hide me. Jack wouldn’t dream of storming the bastions of an old age pensioner’s abode. I’d lay low until... “Three.” The number pealed through the room like a funeral bell. I half expected to see a ghostly coach and horses gallop past me followed by Marley’s ghost rattling chains. I made a move, but not fast enough, alcohol had sadly jaded my reflexes. In a twinkling, jeans and pants were pooled about my ankles and my bared buttocks were poised over Jack’s lap. His hand thundered across them like a freight train. I prayed that someone would pull the emergency stop lever, but they didn’t and I bawled at full lung capacity as he lit up my rear. The cat, which had followed me upstairs in the hope that I’d continue flinging fish about like a demented disciple, flattened his ears and fled. I heard the unmistakeable thud of the cat flap as he exited the building in double quick time. I so wanted to go with him. My prayers were finally answered, the thundering ceased for a single merciful minute. “That was for trying to perform yet another of your disappearing tricks, it was also for disobeying me and making me count to three. You do not defy me like that,” said Jack grimly and immediately resumed thundering, lightening and generally storming my tender backside. The hand fell silent again, but not the voice, “and that was for the little tantrum in the kitchen this evening; we’ve discussed your childish tantrums before Daniel, and we agreed that they were not to be tolerated.” I hiccupped an apology through my tears and he rubbed my shoulders and back. In my naivety I thought it was all over. “Danny,” his voice was serious, “before we proceed. I want you to know something. I had no idea what was in that box yesterday, the contents were as much a surprise to me as to you. I promise you, I haven’t discussed this aspect of our relationship with Tristan. He’s old Public School, he has old-fashioned attitudes, and he’s acting on those, rather than anything he’s got from me. I’ve packaged the brush up and I’ll return it to him at the first opportunity.” Puzzled, I twisted my head to look at his face, then at the bedside cabinet where the hairbrush was menacingly hunched, “then what’s that, Scotch mist?” “That’s something I bought at lunchtime today. I’ve been thinking for some time that perhaps I needed to buy a paddle, or similar. To get back to the matter in hand: you could have seriously injured Tristan yesterday, that food was hot, though fortunately not as hot as it might have been. He was lucky, if that’s the right word, to escape with very minor scalding.” Jack was quiet for a moment, and then said ominously, “I don’t consider a hand spanking to be sufficient to convey the seriousness of the incident.” I said nothing, burrowing my face into the bedcovers, stubbornly fighting off a wave of shame that I’d actually caused bodily harm to someone, even someone as ghastly as Tristan, I hadn’t meant to. I’d only meant to mess his clothes up; the thought he might be burned hadn’t occurred to me for a second. “Have you anything to say Daniel?” I remained silent, but not for long. “Aaaaagh!” My head snapped up and my legs shot out straight behind me as something other than Jack’s hand suddenly contacted my already sore bottom. It hurt much more than I even imagined it would. Gripping me firmly around the waist, Jack raised his right knee projecting my vulnerable buttocks higher into the air. The back of the hairbrush smacked into the lower curves of my bottom with scorching intensity. I was in shock. Jack employed his vocal chords along with the brush, “I want you to tell me why you’re getting this spanking?” “If you don’t know,” I screeched hysterically, “how the fuck am I supposed to know, I’m not psychic.” I immediately regretted my verbal rebellion as the brush walloped the same spot in the centre of my tortured backside three times in rapid succession. “This is NOT a joke, do you understand that?” Was he for real or what? Was I bloody laughing? Didn’t I know it wasn’t a joke more than anyone? My bottom was blazing merrily enough for a troupe of boy scouts to sing songs and toast marshmallows around. Altogether now... ‘ging gang gooley gooley whatsit...’ Jack repeated the question, “why are you getting this spanking?” “Cos you’re a hard hearted, unfeeling son of a...aaaagh...owwww.” I roared in earnest, possibly even in Fred, as that damned brush whacked still harder across my rump. Oh God, tears poured from my eyes. It hurt, it really bloody hurt! Jack undaunted by my sobs, gasps and pleas for leniency, continued in his self appointed mission to turn my bum into molten lava. He was determined to play Virgil to my Dante forcing me to recognise my sins, “you-are-getting-this-spanking-because?” His voice fell silent. Oh Christ, I wriggled and squirmed, it was obviously fill in the blanks, fucking crossword time: three across, three down: young male reprobate. “Bad lad!” I howled, “I was a bad lad!” The brush scalded my behind, “why?” “I don’t know Jack,” I wailed pitifully, “honest I don’t.” My mouth began operating without the consent of my brain (it’s really horrible when your body parts start overriding the main Pilot and start operating independently) to my horror I heard it say, “can I phone a friend, or go fifty fifty?” “You really don’t know when to stop, do you young man?” The brush acted as emissary for Jack’s ire, “I’ll ask you again, why?” I hated that bloody word with a vengeance. I fully intended to start a campaign to have its use during a spanking banned. Perhaps Esther Rantzen would front it for me…Bratline? I began to state, or rather bawl, the obvious, “I don’t like it, Jack I don’t like it. I don’t like the hairbrush.” “Good, then I just might have found something that will make you think before acting.” Jack continued to apply the wood to my bottom with the fervour of a sixteenth century missionary converting natives to Christianity. I surrendered completely and began listing my sins and making lavish promises never to misbehave again. At that point I would have said anything to stop the rise and fall of that brush on my bottom. It was several minutes before I realised that the onslaught had ceased. I lay limply across Jack’s lap, chest heaving with sobs, snot and tears dripping from my chin onto the bedspread. I’d never sit normally again, certainly not on the pile of burning embers that had replaced my bum. Where was Steve McQueen when you needed him to hose down your Towering Inferno? A famous quote from the film sprang to mind: Building owner:(bottom owner in my case) is it bad? Fire chief O’Hallorhan:(straight faced) it’s a fire. All fires are bad. Yeah, tell me about it man. They don’t write dialogue like that anymore –thank God. Jack stroked his fingers through my hair, “you know you were in the wrong; don’t you Danny?” I nodded. I wasn’t about to disagree with him, not while that hairbrush was still within reach. “Tristan didn’t deserve the level of abuse you gave him, did he?” I shook my head obediently, while mentally crossing all my fingers and toes and thinking, no, the bastard deserved much more. “You’re going to apologise to him without reservation, aren’t you?” I nodded my acquiescence, keeping my mental fingers and toes tightly crossed. “And you’re never going to behave that badly towards him again are you?” I shook my head silently, adding crossed eyes to the other crossed appendages, just to be on the safe side. I fully intended to check the contents of my piggy bank at the first available opportunity, in order to ascertain whether I had enough to hire a hit man. “Good, I’m glad we’re clear on that.” Jack helped me onto the bed and lay down beside me, gently rubbing my back and frazzled bottom. “Sorry about everything Jack,” I mumbled, drifting towards sleep as his warm hand caressed me soothingly, “about Tristan, getting drunk, chucking fish and skipping all my classes today...” The hand stopped soothing. “WHAT?” Oh bugger! I’d dropped another Danny clanger. Readers of a nervous disposition look away now.………… |