A drabble is an extremely short work of fiction of exactly one hundred words in length. All the following drabbles reflect aspects of discipline partnerships.

And is There Honey Still for Tea?

Only the gentle rustling of leaves, the distant bleating of sheep and the insistent hum of insects could be heard.  Too full to move after their picnic, the two men lay on their backs in the long grass, gazing up at the azure sky which formed the backdrop to a miniature aerial display.

Despite their clumsy manoeuvring, the extravagantly striped creatures flew with steady determination towards their goal. The buzzing grew in intensity and John sat up suddenly, turning to gaze intently into his partner’s startled eyes.

“Did you put the lid back on the honey jar?” he asked menacingly.


The Sounds of Summer

The sun beat down on his face as he lay with his eyes closed on the river bank.  He could hear the clean slap of blades entering the water as a solitary oarsman sculled by, and the distant thwack of leather against willow as the batsman hit a boundary on the village green.

A plaintive voice enquired for the umpteenth time, “Is it time for the picnic yet?”

Without opening his eyes, he landed a resounding smack on the upturned bottom of the young man lying face down beside him.  “Lie still and enjoy the peace and quiet,” he ordered.


The Englishmen’s Picnic



“Knives and forks?”


“Salt and pepper?”

“I’ve filled the cruet in the hamper.”


“In the airtight container.”

“Main course?”

“I made Coronation Chicken last night… with plenty of curry powder.”

“Great, my favourite.”

“Earl Grey tea?”

“I’ve packed the caddy.”



“Primus stove?”

“Oh no, do I really have to carry the primus stove?”

“Of course.  No picnic is worthy of the name without freshly brewed tea.”

“I could make up a thermos of tea instead.”

“If you do that your bottom will finish up hotter than your curry powder.  Do I make myself clear?”


The Cornish Cream Tea

“We can’t come to the West Country and not have a Cornish cream tea.”

“You shouldn’t be clogging up your arteries with clotted cream.”

“Oh, come on.  We’re only here for the weekend.  This is a special treat.”

“You’ve got your cholesterol test on Monday.”

“So!  It needs to be a realistic reading. I should be eating normally today.”

“Okay, go ahead.  But if the result is worse than last time, you go over my knee.”

“Hey, who’s in charge in this relationship?”

“When it comes to your health, I am.”

“You know, the tuna salad looks very good too.”


In For Service

The guy is coming round this evening to get my insurance details.  So I reckon the best plan is to be out.  There was hardly a scratch on his car anyway.  If there’s no one in he’ll just give up and go away.  It’s Rob’s turn to cook tonight so he’ll be more than happy to eat out.

“Hey, Rob.  Do you fancy going to The Bombay Brasserie tonight?"

“Yes, if you do, love.  Are you sure you want to drive all that way though?"

“I thought we could go in your car.”

“No; my car’s in for service.”



Signature Machine

“I’m ringing to enquire about signature machines.”

“You’ve contacted the right company, sir.  We produce a range to suit every requirement.  You’ll find the machine a godsend for the busy executive.”

“Will it take any pen?”

“Certainly, sir.  Fountain pen, biro, pencil: our machines cope with anything.”

“Will it copy my handwriting precisely?”

“Of course.  Our machines are fully programmable.  The handwriting will be indistinguishable from your own.  Would you like us to send a representative to demonstrate the signature capture?”

“Well, actually, I’m not so interested in copying my signature.  Will the machine reproduce an entire line of script?”



“I don’t like leaving you like this, Tom.   Not when we need to talk… need to get it all sorted out.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.  This’ll give you some space… a bit of thinking time.”

“I’m sorry I lost my temper.  I just don’t know what to do for the best.”

“I understand… but I can’t make this decision for you, Andy.”

“I really must go now or I’ll be late.  I love you.  I’ll send a rose for your birthday next week.”

“Send a rose when you’ve made up your mind. Red for yes or white for no.”



“Oh, just chillax!” Andy said with a touch of exasperation.

“What did you say?  I hope that’s not some new obscenity you’ve picked up from the internet.”

“No, no it’s not,” Andy hastened to explain.  “It’s just means chill out and relax.”

“Then say what you mean, young man.”

“I’m only saying that you’re making a fuss over nothing.  I can sort this out later.”

“If you don’t sort it out now you’re looking at a spannering.”

“What do you mean?” Andy asked suspiciously.

“Just a spanking followed by cornering.  You’re not the only one who can coin new words!”


Breakfast in Bed

Fresh from the shower, with just a towel around his waist, John exuded sex appeal. His hair dripped onto his muscular shoulders and the lingering dampness on his skin made his body glisten. Richard lay back in bed and tried to look alluring.  

The silent invitation worked its magic and John stopped pottering around the bedroom and came to join his partner.  Carelessly discarding his towel, he climbed under the coverlet and rolled eagerly into Richard’s embrace.  There he stopped, conscious of a gritty coating adhering to his damp skin.  “Have you been eating toast in bed?” he asked menacingly.


Corner Time

To think, to reflect and, perhaps, to reconsider.  Is that the purpose?  Without distractions, in silence. Nothing to look at and nothing to do.  Except think.

But he can’t mind read, can’t make me repent.  I can stand still, head held high, eyes front but mind elsewhere.   Free to plan, to speculate and, maybe, to fantasise.  Imagine what we’ll do together, in bed. When we’re done.

When he’s asked me.  Why?  Why did you do it?  And I’ve got no answer, no excuse.  Because I can’t think.  Only feel.  Feel his hand which clears the mind and brings healing repentance.