Claiming Credit
A Short Story
By Fabian Black
Copyright © 2024
Fabian Black Fiction
Main Cast
Ruben Jackson.
Age: 38
Height and build: trim and toned 6’1”
Eyes: turquoise blue
Hair: soft grey, wavy. Started going grey when he was 25, didn’t let it bother him.
Facial Hair: close trimmed beard, also grey.
Mitchell Bowen.
Age: 23
Height and build: average 5’8”
Eyes: green
Hair: dark brown shaggy crop
Facial hair: none, clean-shaven
Relationship Status: couple
Relationship Type: Top/brat, domestic discipline
A Short Story
By Fabian Black
Copyright © 2024
Fabian Black Fiction
Main Cast
Ruben Jackson.
Age: 38
Height and build: trim and toned 6’1”
Eyes: turquoise blue
Hair: soft grey, wavy. Started going grey when he was 25, didn’t let it bother him.
Facial Hair: close trimmed beard, also grey.
Mitchell Bowen.
Age: 23
Height and build: average 5’8”
Eyes: green
Hair: dark brown shaggy crop
Facial hair: none, clean-shaven
Relationship Status: couple
Relationship Type: Top/brat, domestic discipline
story inspired by a writing exercise with a long ago acquaintance
INTRODUCTION
Mitch craves approval. He wants to be in control of everything all the time, but isn’t really equipped to be so. He tends to act on impulse and subsequently makes poor choices which then spiral way out of control.
Ruben is calm, self-assured and thoughtful. He wants Mitch to learn how to control his impulses.
In Claiming Credit, trouble arises when Mitch drags his feet over completion of a project for work. It’s up to Ruben to find out why.
If stories featuring M/M power exchange and discipline practices offend you, then please go no further as the following story is unlikely to be to your taste. If it isn’t your thing then do the adult thing and move on. Thank you.
Mitch craves approval. He wants to be in control of everything all the time, but isn’t really equipped to be so. He tends to act on impulse and subsequently makes poor choices which then spiral way out of control.
Ruben is calm, self-assured and thoughtful. He wants Mitch to learn how to control his impulses.
In Claiming Credit, trouble arises when Mitch drags his feet over completion of a project for work. It’s up to Ruben to find out why.
If stories featuring M/M power exchange and discipline practices offend you, then please go no further as the following story is unlikely to be to your taste. If it isn’t your thing then do the adult thing and move on. Thank you.
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Claiming Credit
“Ruben, is that you?”
“Who else is likely to be in the house using my phone, sweetheart. Of course its me.” Ruben spoke calmly, even as his Top’s antennae picked up strong signals, as it had all too often of late. “Is something on your mind? Do you want me to come to the office? I don’t mind.”
“No, of course not, and why do you always assume something is wrong? You’re paranoid if you ask me. I told you last night and again this morning, there’s nothing wrong. If I’m edgy it’s because you’re always questioning me. It’s like living with a grand inquisitor.” Mitch tapped his fingers briskly against the edge of his untidy work desk. Licking his lips he tried to sound matter of fact. “I’m just calling to tell you I can’t meet you for lunch after all. I took a number of important calls this morning and I’m slightly behind schedule, so I thought I’d catch up over my lunch hour. I’ll see you this evening.”
“Yes, that’s true, you will see me this evening, but first, you’ll see me at lunchtime, as arranged, and on time. Keep me waiting longer than a minute and I’ll come and fetch you. Now, off you go. There’s no point wasting time on the telephone if you have catching up to do on the work front. I’m eager to see the fruits of your labour. Bye, babe, I love you.”
Blinking back a sudden rush of tears, Mitch stared at the work on his computer, the work he was supposed to put the finishing touches to by lunchtime; the work he’d barely scratched the surface of. It was a synopsis still pretty much in its infancy. He thought he could parent and raise it to maturity, but it was refusing to grow up. He was a crap parent, perhaps because it wasn’t his biological child? Why had he taken it on, why, why, why? He was a fucking moron.
After screen staring for several minutes he stole a glance at the clock on the office wall. Fucking evil timepiece. Why was it even there, ticking down the hours, minutes and seconds? They all had mobiles and computers to tell the time with. They didn’t need a fucking wall clock. Ruben had probably brought it in. It had likely been a gift from Sheila, his sister and business partner. She was obsessed with clocks, bringing one back from every holiday or business trip she went on. There was one in every room at home, even the toilet, and the cupboards were full of them. They had to rotate the ones on show so Sheila wouldn’t get offended and accuse them of favouring one above the other. She was a crazy clock lady. He glanced towards the wall again. Only three quarters of an hour until lunchtime. The hands of the clock seemed as big as oars and the tick was like a drum beat.
Mitch swivelled his eyes across the room, alighting on his colleague. He cleared his throat, saying casually, “Jamal, I don’t suppose you could take over the Sandler project for me? I’ve got so much else to do today. I’m on holiday next week and I have to clear my workload.”
Jamal didn’t even look up. “Wouldn’t dream of it, mate. You wanted the job and you got it.”
“You wanted it too.”
Jamal looked up. “Yeah, but I didn’t get it, did I, you did. Perks of living with a boss who’s related to the other boss. My submission didn’t even get an acknowledgement and neither did Simon’s. If anyone was going to get it I reckoned he would. It was right up his alley.”
Mitch tried to subdue a flush, but it took over his skin anyway. “Are you suggesting I’m not as good as Simon?”
“I’m not suggesting anything, mate, not even nepotism.”
“I know you think I’m a dimwit, but I do know what nepotism means, Jamal. Don’t let Ruben hear you say things like that.”
“Ruben will only hear if you tell him.”
“Regardless of what you think I don’t tell tales.”
“If you say so, mate.”
Mitch was silent for a few moments before saying plaintively. “It wouldn’t kill you to lend a hand when I’m pressed for time. I’d help you.”
“I don’t need any help, and besides, I’ve got my own deadlines to meet. You know Ruben and Sheila. They like things done on time. What’s the problem? Bitten off more than you can chew? There were a few tricky elements in the brief as I recall. I’d have found it a challenge so I’m surprised you put in for it at all.”
“Why? I’m as qualified as you and Simon.”
“You left uni with a third class degree while he has a first and I have a 2.1. We also have hard experience, and that’s what really counts.”
Mitch’s skin grew hot yet again. “My degree would have been better if I hadn’t taken ill in my last year. I was in hospital for a month.”
Jamal felt a stab of remorse for his mean remark. The kid just rubbed him up the wrong way. “Don’t sweat it,” he said gruffly, “like I said, experience is worth more than paper qualifications. What’s your problem then? Struggling with the dimensions?”
“No.”
“You could ask Simon for help when he comes in on Monday, though to be honest he was pretty miffed at being overlooked in the first place so he might not fall over himself.”
“Monday’s too late and I wouldn’t ask him anyway. I’m as competent as he is. I’ve just got too much on today.”
Jamal lost patience, “Then you’ll have to prioritise your work, mate, like we all have to, either that or snuggle up to the boss and get some extra time.”
“That’s unfair, Jamal.”
“Is it?” Jamal shrugged and turned his attention back to his own computer.
Mitch struggled to find a comeback answer, but failed, settling for casting a dirty look at Jamal’s bent head instead. If only he knew how things really went between him and Ruben. Cuddling would not sway him, worse luck.
Placing a hand on his computer mouse, Mitch took a deep breath. He could do this or at least try, and try, and try. Five minutes later he abandoned the mouse, stumped his elbows on the desk and cradled his head in his hands. Funny how everything seemed more interesting than the work he was supposed to be doing, even the pigeon poop on the outside of the office window held more appeal than the work on his screen. It was supposed to have been completed days ago. Ruben had finally lost patience and declared an immovable deadline. He wanted to see something in his office email account by lunchtime today. Boom, boom, boom! That fucking clock was doing his head in. He went back to his work screen, trying to juggle equations that were too complex for his current skill set.
The wall clock signalled midday with an old-fashioned chime.
Mitch indulged in a dramatic misquote. “Don’t ask for whom the bell tolls, it fucking tolls for me.”
“What’s that?” Jamal looked over the top of his computer with a startled look on his face.
“Nothing! I’m going for lunch.”
“Have you finished?”
“Just about, it’s easy really, just a few tweaks to make,” said Mitch loftily, as he shut down his computer.
“It’s taken you long enough. Simon would have nailed it by now.”
“Would he, well bully for him. As you’re so fond of saying, he’s got more experience than me, and anyway, speed doesn’t equal quality.”
Jamal pulled a face by way of reply.
He was waiting in the car park. On seeing Mitch he smiled, got out of his car and courteously held open the passenger side door as he always did. It usually made Mitch feel like a million dollars, but not today. He climbed into the car with the air of a man entering a prison cell for the first time. The door closed with an ominous clang.
Ruben climbed in the driver’s side, closed the door and turned to Mitch, saying bluntly, “Why haven’t I got it?”
“I sent it.”
“I’ve checked my mail several times, love, and there’s nothing there. I even checked the junk folder. How can we discuss something I haven’t seen?”
“Give it time, its probably still in cyberspace. Things get backlogged you know, just like snail mail. It could take hours to come through. God knows what obstacles mail encounters once we launch it out there. Haven’t you heard of ghosts in the machine?”
“I don’t believe in ghosts. Let me check my mail again.” A few moments later Ruben put his phone back in his pocket. “It isn’t there, and the reason it isn’t there is that you haven’t sent it, have you. Don’t lie to me.”
Mitch shook his head, his eyes filling with tears.
Ruben didn’t allow it to influence him. Mitch and tearfulness were a natural combination, classic even. He conjured tears whenever he wanted to avoid responsibility for something. It was an aspect of immaturity, as well as a tool of conscious manipulation. Tears were stock in trade for pretty men and women. They tended to use them as a means to control their lovers. Ruben had no intention of being controlled.
“You promised you’d complete the plan this morning. You claimed all you had to do was tweak a few calculations. I cleared all else from your diary so you could give it your full attention. Why isn’t it done? Why am I yet to see the final draft? Why am I yet to see ANY draft?”
“I keep getting interrupted. I can’t get things done if I keep getting interrupted.”
“Interrupted by whom?”
“Just people.” Mitch gazed out of the car window. “You know? People.” He turned to face Ruben. “Look, time is moving on. I only have an hour. Are we going somewhere for lunch, or are we just going to sit in your car like a couple of robbers planning a heist.”
“By whom and for what reason, Mitch? People have names, so name them and state their business with you. The company isn’t so replete with staff that you can’t recall all their names.”
Mitch folded his arms and looked straight ahead. “We’re just sitting here then, that’s okay because I’m not much hungry.”
“One.”
Mitch’s heart sank as Ruben spoke the number in his trademark quiet, but no nonsense voice. His mind whizzed through a range of excuses, but could find none that would fit the situation and be accepted by Ruben.
“Two.”
Mitch’s buttocks clenched involuntarily as he rummaged around for a suitable excuse before Ruben counted to three. Three was not good. Three meant he’d blown it and discipline was a possibility if not a certainty. It was the way of their relationship. Ruben was boss in the office and head of household at home.
“Jamal,” he said, a little too loudly. He bent his head and closely examined the hands folded on his lap. They looked familiar, then it dawned on him, they were his. He was just viewing them from a nervous distance.
“Jamal?”
Mitch nodded.
“Jamal?”
“Yes, that’s his name, you don’t have to keep repeating it. He’s pissed because I swung the Sandler job.”
“Has he said so?”
“I know he wanted the job.”
“Then he should have submitted his ideas. Everyone got the brief. Everyone was invited to submit ideas. Why didn’t he?” Ruben paused for a moment, a frown wrinkling his forehead. He’d been so pleased when Mitch had presented for the job he hadn’t really given a thought as to why no one else had. It was most odd. “For that matter why didn’t Simon? If anyone was going to go for the job I thought he would with his previous experience in scale model design. It was right up his street.”
“How do I know why they didn’t submit,” snapped Mitch irritably. “I’m not their keeper. All I know is Jamal thinks he can do everything better than me, and so does Simon. It gets on my nerves. They’re too chummy if you ask me, always singing each other’s praises and leaving me out in the cold.”
Ruben put his hand over Mitch’s folded ones. “Sweetheart, if there’s a problem with Jamal and Simon I want to know.”
“Not exactly a problem.” Mitch began to regret dragging his colleagues into the equation. He didn’t want Ruben wading in and making him even more unpopular with his fellow workers.
Ruben looked grimly at his partner. “Is there something going on in the office that I should know about? Professional rivalry might be a good thing, but professional jealousy isn’t. Is there a problem? Answer my question, plainly, or I’ll call both Jamal and Simon in for a meeting and ask them for an explanation. I won’t have a bad atmosphere in the office.”
“No!” Mitch was horrified. “They dislike me enough as it is.”
“I’m sure they don’t.” Ruben’s tone softened. “You got off on the wrong foot, but they’ll come round, love. They’re good blokes at heart. A word from me might help.
“No, Ruben. If you intervene it will only confirm what they believe, that I’m a taleteller or some kind of office plant sent to spy on them. I can handle it.”
“From where I’m standing you’re not handling anything. Tell me why you haven’t completed the work you promised to complete this morning?”
“Aggressively?”
“Yes.”
“How so?”
“That’s it, just aggressively, like in a really mean way.” Mitch picked at his left thumbnail, trying not to cringe. The excuse had been weak even when he was thirteen. “He was trying to scare me.”
“Scare you? How, why?”
“I don’t know, just mean, like he hates me and wants me to know it. Intimidation is what it is.”
“Utter tripe. Jamal shares your office, he can’t avoid looking at you at least once in a while, and he has no reason to scare or intimidate you, unless you’ve given him a reason?”
“Of course not, but he was, and it was putting me off my stroke, slowing me down, stopping me thinking. You know how sensitive I am. He does it on purpose because he’s jealous of our relationship. He thinks you favour me too much because we live together, that’s why I don’t want you butting in. It will only confirm his prejudice.”
“I have never given Jamal reason to doubt my impartiality on the work front and if he does doubt it then perhaps he and I need to have words on the subject. Fasten your seatbelt.” Ruben clicked his own belt into place. “Let’s get lunch out of the way.”
“Where are we going?” Mitch clicked the seatbelt into place.
“The coffee shop by the river. We’ll pop in there for a sandwich.”
Mitch relaxed. The worst was over. He had a flash of optimism. A good lunch might rejuvenate him and bring on an epiphany on the project front. He’d have it signed sealed and delivered by home time.
The coffee shop did a pleasant range of sandwiches and drinks. They took a sunny table by the window, watching with pleasure as an armada of swans floated gracefully by. Mitch popped the last of his cheese and ham panini in his mouth, chewed and swallowed, gulped the last dregs of his Java blend coffee and smiled sweetly at his partner. “I’ll try to finish up this afternoon, Ruben.”
“Try? Is that your best offer? You wanted this job. You went all out to impress Sheila with your ideas and yet you’re dragging your feet in following through. Sheila will be back from Florida next week. How do you think she’s going to react when she finds her trust in you has been misplaced? I don’t get it, Mitch.”
“It’s complicated work, more so than I thought.”
“Yes, but your initial presentation suggested you had all angles covered. You certainly convinced Sheila you had them covered. It’s why she gave you the job, despite your lack of experience in the field. Has something changed?”
“No, of course not.” Mitch tried to initiate a subject change. “Do you want a cake? They do delicious cakes in here. The coffee and walnut is a dream. I’ll pay.”
“No, thank you. I’ve had enough.” Ruben finished his coffee and put his cup down. He gazed at Mitch, admiring the way the sunshine highlighted the copper tones in his dark brown hair. However, now wasn’t the time for admiration.
He cleared his throat. “Listen carefully, Mitch. You won’t just try to complete the work. You will complete the work. If you don’t complete it at the office, then you’ll complete it at home this evening under my supervision.”
Mitch’s temper flared. “If you want to take over the bloody project then just say so. It seems everyone thinks they can do better than me.” If he was hoping Ruben would bowl the job from under him, he was disappointed.
“First of all, young man, don’t use that snappy tone with me. Secondly, what on earth are you talking about? This job was allocated to you, not to me, but to you. I don’t know why you’re making such a meal of it. What’s going on?”
“I just need more time.”
“You’ve had enough time. I strongly suggest you put your head down and endeavour to ignore the distraction being ‘looked’ at poses for you, because any work that has to be done at home, will be done standing up on account of your bottom being too sore to sit on.”
Mitch scowled. “I can’t work under duress. It stifles my creativity.”
“You’re prevaricating and I won’t stand for it any longer, which translates into you won’t sit for it. I warned you last night that continued obfuscation would result in punishment. You’ve been running rings around me all week. I told Sheila I’d cast an eye over the finished work before it gets submitted to the client, but so far I’ve seen nothing, not so much as a rough sketch let alone anything resembling a convincing blueprint. The client needs a blueprint sooner rather than later. The product launch is planned for early next year and they need to get the parts into production. They can hardly launch if the prototype hasn’t been made, tried and tested. Sheila slogged her guts out to get this contract for the company. We could lose a potentially good source of work if we’re not careful. Today, Mitch, no more excuses. You’re out of favours.”
“What favours? I didn’t know you’d given me any.”
“My patience. You’ve tried it to breaking point.” Ruben gave a little shake of his head, making a lock of soft grey hair fall over his eyes. He swept it back with an impatient hand. “I suspect you’ve lost interest in the project. Well, too bad, it still needs to be done and you’re going to buckle down and do it. Maybe a good spanking will help focus your mind and get you back on track.”
“I’ll walk back to work.” Mitch scraped his chair back from the table, dragging his jacket from the back of it, causing a few of their fellow diners to cast a look in their direction.
“I’m going to pay the bill.” Ruben discreetly held Mitch’s wrist, preventing him storming away from the table. “You’re going to wait for me by the car, my bonny lad.”
“I’ll walk, thank you.” Mitch’s green eyes sparked mutiny. “I want to clear my head.”
“No.” Ruben spoke in a very low, but very firm voice. “You’ll wait for me.”
Mitch pulled his wrist free and walked out of the shop. Ruben went to the till point and paid the bill, exchanging pleasantries with the waitress. He dropped a generous tip in the gratuities bowl, bade her a polite goodbye and walked from the café at a sedate pace.
Mitch was not by the car. Ruben was most put out, not surprised, but put out. Mitch was on the run in more ways than one. He gave a sad little sigh. Much as he loved the boy, it had to be said he sometimes lacked moral fibre, preferring avoidance rather than facing up to reality. The restless nights, epic procrastination and general edginess added up to something more than normal deadline jitters. Something stank and it was time to uncover its source.
Mitch recognised the familiar purr of Ruben’s car engine as it drew alongside him. He quickened his pace. The car drove past, but then stopped a little way ahead. Ruben got out, his long legs making short distance of the space between them. He was annoyed to say the least. His thick brows formed a canopy of dark disapproval over his eyes and when he spoke his voice sounded like a whip crack.
“Get in the car.”
Mitch’s stomach contracted, but he glared defiantly at Ruben. “What’s wrong with walking? Do I not even have that choice now, whether to walk or not?”
“We had this discussion two weeks ago, Mitchell. There are circumstances when you do not disobey me. Choice does not come into it. We’re far enough along in our relationship for you to understand that. We were clearly engaged in a discipline situation when I told you to wait by the car.”
Taking a firm grip of Mitch’s hand, Ruben swung him sideways and slapped the seat of his snug, black Levi’s, making him gasp with both fright and indignation at being disciplined in broad daylight in a public place.
“Get in the car, or shall I smack your backside right here in the street where no doubt we’ll draw a fine audience? People do so love to see a spoilt brat getting a well-deserved spanking, and that’s exactly what you are, a spoilt brat who’s been given far too much leeway. My mistake, I should have ended this heel-dragging nonsense days ago. I apologise for not doing so. I’m afraid I allowed affection and a desire for you to prove yourself to get in the way of duty. Get in the car, unless you want your backside to be the star of street theatre.”
Ruben got in the car and started the engine again. They drove in silence, for a while at least.
“Hey.” Mitch’s head snapped around as the car took the second exit off the roundabout instead of the first. “You’ve taken the wrong turn.”
“We’re going home.”
“Why? You’d be going home after dropping me at the office anyway. You’re just going to make me late, which means I’ll get even further behind and God forbid I do that. My boss is a rabid tyrant.”
Ruben didn’t respond, keeping his lips tight together and his eyes on the road. They reached home all too soon.
Ruben parked on the drive and turned off the engine. Turning to his sulky passenger he said quietly, “Whatever elaborate charade you’re engaged in needs to stop.”
Mitch stuck out his chin at a defiant angle. “Charade? I don’t know what you’re on about. You talk in tongues sometimes. I need to get back to work. I don’t want Jamal having a snipe. He thinks he’s the boss of me when you’re not in the office.”
“Leave Jamal out of this. You’ve used him enough.” Ruben gave a weary sigh. “Get in the house, Mitch. I won’t tell you twice.”
“Fine. Have it your way.” Mitch flung open the car door. “I’ll be late back, but hey, you’re the boss.”
“Indeed I am. Get inside; find yourself a corner to stand in. We’re going to sort out this problem once and for all.”
“The only problem is you and your lack of faith in me.” Mitch jumped out of the car and flounced towards the house. Fishing out his keys he unlocked the front door and stormed inside, childishly locking the door behind him.
Ruben winced as he heard the slam of the front door. The boy still hadn’t learned that slamming was off limits. Getting out his phone he called the office to inform Jamal that Mitch would not be back that afternoon, offering a discreet excuse along the lines of something he had for lunch not agreeing with him. He then followed in Mitch’s footsteps, clicking his tongue in exasperation when he found the house door locked against him. God help his brat if he’d put the safety chain on. He hadn’t. After letting himself in, Ruben closed the door, locked it again and then dropped his car keys on the hall table. Slipping off his jacket he hung it on the coat stand.
Mitch was in the lounge, slouched on the sofa with a sulky look on his face. “I hope you’re going to tell Jamal I’ll be late back because of you.”
“You won’t be late back, because you’re not going back today. Jamal has been informed.”
Mitch got a fright as he was taken firmly by the hand and hauled to his feet.
“I want to think the best of you, Mitch, not the worst, and you don’t always make it easy.”
“Fuck!” Mitch yelped a protest as Ruben’s hand landed a solid set of stinging slaps on his bottom.
.
“You, my lad, have had enough of my patience. You’re out of credit. I told you to find a corner to stand in. I did not tell you to sit sulking on the sofa. You are up to something and I want to know what it is.”Mitch found himself close up and personal with the corner of the lounge wall usually occupied by an elegant up-lighter lamp. It had been whisked aside to accommodate him. He tried to turn around, but Ruben was standing so close to him he could barely turn his head let alone his body.
“What’s going on, Mitch? You were excited by this project to begin with. Have you hit a wall and lost interest instead of pushing through? If so, I’m not having it. You do this too often, go in with all guns blazing and then get bored and bale when you hit a snag.”
Mitch’s response was to try to fold his arms, a typical gesture for him when confronted with something uncomfortable. Ruben called it the 3D gesture - Defence, Denial and Defiance. He was having none of it. Grasping Mitch’s hands he pulled then behind his back, crossing them at the wrists. His voice was as harsh as his action.
“Stand up straight, keep your hands behind you and your eyes front. In case you’re in any doubt we are now firmly in a discipline situation. Something is amiss. I want the truth of it.”
“The only thing amiss is you keeping me away from work. I can’t fulfil the bloody deadline from here can I. You go on and on about it and then you throw obstacles in my way. It’s like you want me to fail. Everyone wants me to fail.”
“Rubbish and you know it. You’re determined to drag this out. The only question is why? What’s the game plan here?”
I can’t fucking do it, that’s the game plan, if you can call it a plan. Mitch kept the words inside his head. Thank god, Ruben couldn’t see his face. He was sure it had guilt written all over it, and something else too. Mitch allowed the feeling he’d been keeping at bay to finally come to the fore: shame, deep shame. He’d done something truly awful.
“I don’t want to police your conscience all the time, Mitchell. I want you to police it yourself, without being coerced, but clearly you’re not ready to take on such a responsibility, so coercion it is. You’re going to stand in this corner until you’re ready to tell me what’s going on. You’ll stand still, you will not turn your head, you will not squirm and you will not speak without my permission. You are not allowed toilet breaks. You have thirty minutes to think things over. At the end of that time I will ask if you’re ready to talk. You will nod or shake your head, bearing in mind that a shake will earn you a spanking followed by a further thirty minutes of corner time and so on until you give me a clear explanation for your behaviour.”
Thirty minutes! Mitch scowled. He knew from hard experience that ten minutes standing in a corner could seem like hours. Thirty would feel like eternity. He tried to turn around, intending to make angry remonstration. The only sound that came from his mouth was a series of gasps and grunts as Ruben swiftly doubled him over and laid into his backside with the flat of his hand. It was over in seconds. He was facing the wall once again hands behind his back with Ruben’s calm voice speaking in his ear.
“No turning, no squirming, no speaking, no toilet breaks, those are the rules.” Ruben glanced towards the clock on the mantel, noting the time. “Thirty minutes and then I’ll ask if you’re ready to talk. If no, then the ensuing spanking will be on your bare behind.”
Mitch stood stock still, his eyes riveted on the wall in front of him. He could feel prickling heat from his smacked bottom seeping through his jeans. He swallowed hard, battling tears. Not for the first time he wondered what the hell he had signed up for when he had agreed to a discipline relationship with Ruben. This was his most intense experience so far. He didn’t like it. There was no arousal, no sexy edge. It was pure discipline and it was scary, seriously scary. His knees were actually trembling. He couldn’t see the clock on the mantel, but he could hear it, ticking like a time bomb in an old WW2 movie, only no one would defuse it. It would go off, one way or another. He was in a no win situation. Giving Ruben the explanation he wanted could cost him too dear. Mitch chewed at his bottom lip, the cogs in his brain working overtime. There had to be a limit on how long Ruben could keep him cornered. All he had to do was wait it out. He could do it. He could do this. Taking a deep breath he stood up straight and proud. Let the battle begin. Ruben would give in before he did.
Thirty excruciating minutes later, Mitch questioned his resolve when he found himself face down over Ruben’s knee with his trousers and briefs pooled around his ankles. He closed his eyes and pressed his lips tight together, bracing hands and toes against the floor in preparation for the first smack on his bare bottom. When it came it almost took his breath away, but he made no sound, stubbornly fighting to hang onto some scrap of dignity, as well as his shameful, shoddy secret.
The first smack set a harsh precedent. Slap after stinging slap fell on his backside in a continuous circuit from where his buttocks swelled from his hips to where they moulded into the top of his thighs. Not a single patch of skin on his bottom remained untouched by Ruben’s hand.
Despite his most determined efforts, low moans and grunts of discomfort began to trickle from Mitch’s tightly pressed lips as the heat and pain steadily mounted.
Usually it didn’t take long for Mitch to cave in when being physically disciplined, so Ruben was surprised when he held out beyond his usual limit. His only concession was muted gasps and increased squirming. His boy seemed determined to remain in control. He had to learn he wasn’t in control. Ruben stilled his hand, resting it on Mitch’s glowing orbs. “Have you anything to say?”
Mitch stubbornly shook his head.
“If it’s a battle of wills you want then it’s a battle of wills you’ve got.” Wrapping his arm more securely around Mitch’s waist, Ruben resumed spanking. He upped the tempo, drawing his hand up as far as he could and powering it downwards with all his considerable strength. “I am in charge in this relationship. You, my lad, will not keep things from me.”
Mitch frantically flexed his feet, but it didn’t work as a method of pain control, so he began kicking up his heels in a desperate effort to block Ruben’s hand. The punishment stopped, but only for as long as it took Ruben to haul him over his left thigh and trap his flailing feet by hooking his right leg over them. He then continued applying spank after spank, concentrating them on the lower portion of his bottom, the fleshy sit spot. Mitch began whimpering, trying to slide off Ruben’s knee, but the arm around his body kept him firmly in place. Tears began to squeeze from under his tightly closed eyelids. Just when he thought he could bear it no longer the pain began to recede a little, replaced by a glowing numbness that was easier to tolerate.
Ruben stopped spanking the moment he felt Mitch’s body yield a little. There was no emotional yield though. He had simply reached pain overload. His examined Mitch’s bottom, which flamed red from the hips deepening to crimson at the point where buttocks met thigh. To continue spanking was pointless. A session back in the corner would soon see the colour recede and the nerves regain sensitivity to pain. Leaning down he pulled off Mitch’s shoes followed by his jeans and briefs before manoeuvring him from his lap.
Ruben placed his hands on Mitch’s shoulders. Had he been a less experienced Top he would have doubted his calling there and then. Mitch’s body was trembling and his eyes were big as saucers, framed by spiky wet lashes. Poor lamb. This was his first hardcore experience of what it really meant to be in a discipline relationship and he was finding it difficult to deal with. Hardening his heart and firmly quashing an urge to gather Mitch into his arms, he said, “There can be no secrets between a Dom and sub. Are you ready to talk?”
Mitch shook his head, hoping his tearful appearance would bring respite. It didn’t. He found himself facing the wall again and with the added indignity of having his hands put atop his head so his shirt rode up, exposing his punished hindquarters.
“Thirty minutes. All rules apply. A third refusal will result in a paddling.”
For a few blessed moments the corner felt like sanctuary to Mitch, until the numbness began to pass from his arse cheeks and he became aware of just how sore they were. Sanctuary became a prison. His bottom throbbed, his back and arms ached and he felt horribly vulnerable standing in nothing more than his shirt and socks. Time dragged, marked by the clock ticking down second by slow second. He was conscious of Ruben’s presence in the room behind him, even though he didn’t speak a word, until…
“I’m leaving the room for a moment. I trust you will not move until I get back.”
Mitch felt the emptiness of the room press around him. Every instinct told him to lower his hands and rub his burning backside to gain some kind of relief, if only for a few moments, but he didn’t dare. He stood still, hands on head, listening, waiting, but not for long.
“Thirty minutes are up.”
Mitch’s heart began to boom in his chest and he thought about calling off the whole discipline aspect of his relationship with Ruben. Vanilla had never seemed so good. He didn’t, because it would be a waste of time. Discipline once underway could not be cancelled or opted out of. It was the rule. Such a discussion could only take place when they were both in a calm place and there was no glimmer of discipline on the horizon.
“Have you anything to say to me?”
Mitch remained silent.
“Lower your hands. Turn around.”
Mitch obeyed, giving a sigh of relief at being able to lower his aching arms. Relief didn’t last. His forehead broke a light sweat when he saw what Ruben held in his hands. A paddle, a long curved paddle made from polished oak, almost like a sickle. It was designed, so Ruben had explained, to specifically target the underside of naughty bottoms, the tender sit spot. Mitch had never been paddled. The thought of how much it might hurt made him feel light headed and panicky.
Ignoring the mute appeal in Mitch’s eyes, Ruben repeated his earlier mantra. “There can be no secrets between a Dom and sub. If you have nothing to say then go and bend over the back of the couch. Keep your head down and your legs together. You’ll receive six strokes, followed by another thirty minutes of corner time.”
Six strokes. Mitch swallowed hard, but made no move to obey the instruction, frozen to the spot with indecision. The worst week of his life wasn’t getting any better. He opened his mouth, blurting, “I can’t, Ruben, I…”
Ruben interrupted, his voice sharp. “Can’t? There is no can’t, Mitchell, there’s only won’t. Your choice is simple. Talk or be punished. What’s it to be?”
Mitch kept his eyes riveted on the paddle as he fought an internal battle with his conscience.
“One!”
The number rang out like the doomsday bell, making Mitch jump almost out of his skin. He was caught between hell and a hard place. Moving to the couch he reluctantly bent over the back of it, keeping his head well down and pressing his trembling legs together. His backside was already on fire; surely nothing could make it burn any hotter.
How wrong he was. The first stroke impacted the lower curves of both buttocks like white fire. Ruben had anticipated he would try to shoot upright and placed a hand between his shoulders, keeping him pinned over the back of the couch. Mitch screeched into the cushions. The paddle struck again, branding his cheeks with its evil fire. He couldn’t take a third stroke, he just couldn’t. It was too painful. He couldn’t bear it.
“Ruben!” He bellowed his partner’s name and then burst into tears, sobbing, “Please, Ruben, no more, please. I’ll talk.”
Ruben put aside the paddle at once. Drawing Mitch to his feet and into his arms he held him tight.
Knees shaking, Mitch clung for comfort to the man who had just punished him, his tears soaking into his chest.
Mitch’s hitching sobs soon gave way to a calmer flow of tears and then they too eased.
Ruben stroked Mitch’s hair; saying quietly, “Talk to me.”
Mitch raised his head from Ruben’s chest. “You won’t like it, Ruben. You won’t like me. It’s bad.”
“I’ll judge how bad it is, sweetheart. Just talk.”
“I just wanted to be the best for once, to impress you and Sheila. I’m sick of being the office numbskull.”
“Leave the excuses aside and just talk.”
So Mitch talked.
For some moments after the confession, Ruben remained silent as he mulled over what he’d been told. It was bad. Sabotage. Cheating. Lying. Yes, indeed, it was very bad.
“Ruben?”
“Be quiet, young man. I’m thinking.”
“About dumping me?”
“No, put that thought out of your head at once. You’re not getting out of this so easily.”
“I’m sorry.” Mitch’s tears started again and he tried to pull away from Ruben. “I’m so sorry. I must disgust you.”
“Stop, now,” Ruben held Mitch tighter in his arms. “Yes, I’m disgusted, by your behaviour, not by you. Hacking into a private network to cause mischief is scandalous enough, but claiming credit for another man’s work is beyond the pale.”
Mitch had broken into the company’s computer and deleted his workmate’s submissions before he or Sheila could see them. Suddenly the sour looks he’d been getting from them made sense. They thought they’d been slighted and they had, but not on purpose. To make matters worse, Mitch had then stolen Simon’s detailed outline and tried to pass it off as his own. He just didn’t have the skills to bring it to full fruition.
“It was hardly hacking.” Mitch tilted back his head to gaze into Ruben’s face. “It was so easy to guess the password Sheila set up. Horologist isn’t a great leap of imagination for a clock lover.”
“It was hacking, Mitch, and you deserve to be punished for that alone. The contents of that account are for mine and Sheila’s eyes only.”
“Will you tell Simon and Jamal what I did?”
“I don’t think it will help anything on this occasion.”
“What about Sheila?”
“Definitely not, if only to save your life. If she ever finds out you broke into the system and poked around her personal territory she’ll end you and not quickly.”
“What will you say though? They’ll expect some kind of explanation.”
“I’ll say your finished work wasn’t up to the required standard due to inexperience. It isn’t so far from the truth. I’ll invite Simon to go ahead with his idea and offer a fat bonus for a fast completion, hopefully before Sheila gets back from holiday. I’m sure Simon, and Jamal for that matter, will put lack of acknowledgement for their original submissions down to managerial arrogance. Being badly thought of is part of the territory for bosses. My back is broad enough to take it.”
“Thank you, Ruben.” Mitch’s backside was prickling like a bad case of nettle rash, but still he felt better for having unburdened himself. A gentle kiss on his forehead made him feel better still, but not the stern words that followed it.
“Don’t thank me, pet. I haven’t granted you a get out of jail free card. You have dues to pay and the currency is wood, as in paddle. I think a sound paddling is warranted in the circumstances. Your behaviour has been disgraceful to say the least. Bend over the couch, just as before, legs straight, bottom presented.”
Mitch was ashamed enough of his behaviour to obey without argument, albeit reluctantly. Ruben had prescribed six strokes of the paddle. He’d already taken two, which left four. They’d soon be over and then the slate would be clean. That was their agreement. Completion of discipline equalled a clean slate and no further recriminations or guilt. He lowered himself into position, pressing his knees firmly together, if only to suppress the trembling.
Mitch wanted to take his remaining strokes quietly by way of contrition, but his mouth had other ideas. As soon as the paddle struck his sore backside it opened and roared. Stroke number four came, and went, and so did five and then six, but it didn’t stop. By eight his throat was hoarse from yelling. By ten he had so many secretions pouring down his face he was in danger of drowning in them. Ten marked the end. Thank God! It was over. Twelve savage strokes in all and every one of then deserved, in Ruben’s opinion anyway.
Mitch lay over the back of the couch, sobbing into the cushions, fearing he would never be able to sit on his flayed backside ever again. He made an oath never to do anything that would risk a recurrence of such horrible, painful punishment.
Leaving Mitch to cry out his misery, Ruben returned the paddle to whence it came. Returning to the lounge he eased Mitch to his feet. “Enough now.” Taking a firm hold of his hand he led him upstairs to their bedroom, settling him face down on the bed and sitting with him until the storm passed completely and calm was restored. Mitch broke the silence, his voice like gravel.
“I’m truly sorry for my behaviour, Ruben. It was horrible.”
“It was and it’s been addressed.”
Mitch stretched out his hand for Ruben to hold. “I don’t know what you see in me sometimes.”
“I see a young man who often tries too hard and gets frustrated when things don’t fall into place fast enough. I can see where your motivation came from, not that it excuses anything. You have to prove yourself using your own skills, my love. Simon and Jamal have years more experience than you. It doesn’t mean they’re better than you per se, just that they’ve got more experience. They’ve come up against hurdles and made the jump, just as you will in time. However, you DO NOT get better by claiming credit for something you haven’t done. That’s called cheating and cheats never prosper, if you’ve learned anything I hope you’ve at least learned that.”
“I have. I promise. I’ll never claim credit for someone else’s work again. Simon is clever. I wish I was more like him.”
“You’re you, and that’s good enough for me.” Leaning down, Ruben kissed Mitch on the lips. “I’m going to make tea. I’ll put honey in yours. It will help soothe your throat.”
“I don’t suppose it’ll soothe my backside.”
“Time will do that, sweetheart.”
“Time, huh.” Mitch blew a small sigh. “We’ve got enough clocks in the house, maybe putting them all forward an hour or two might help.”
Ruben shook his head and said solemnly. “Clocks are remarkable things, but they’re not magic.”
“Pity.” Mitch murmured, making a pillow of his arms and resting his forehead on them.
The End.