The Jack and Danny Chronicles

The Jack and Danny Chronicles

Fabian Black

Price: $6.95 $5.50



Trouble seems to follow Danny around. From computer fires to escaped arachnids he spreads chaos wherever he goes.

Jack does his best to keep his mischievous young lover in line in this comic tale of misadventures.

PUBLISHED BY: Chastise-Books
ISBN: 978-1-4092-3487-6
CATEGORIES: ManLove, BDSM, Erotica, Fantasy, Romantic Comedy, Romantic Fiction
KEYWORDS: D/s romance, gay romance, M/M, manlove, spanking stories, Top/brat, parody, humour, fetish, domestic discipline

EBOOKS BY Chastise-Books

EBOOKS BY Fabian Black

COPYRIGHT Fabian Black/2010

Excerpt from chapter nine: The Post Office Job:

I tried to ignore the icy trickle of water down my neck and stoically get on with delivering Christmas cards and such like. One thing was for sure, today couldn’t possibly be any worse than yesterday…Holy Shit…I stood rooted to the spot as a huge demonic creature launched itself out of the driving rain and pinned me to the fence of number seventy two Acacia Avenue. Rising up on its hind legs it bayed into my terrified face, slavering venom and drool everywhere. I was in serious danger of losing control of my bowels when a woman’s voice rose above the howl of the wind.

“Just stand perfectly still, love. He won’t hurt you.”

I couldn’t have moved if I wanted to. The dog, a Great Dane, was heavier than me by several tons and it had me just where it wanted me. It made strong thrusting motions against my thigh and I realised that not only was it the size of a donkey, it was hung like one too, and it was determined to have its evil way with my left leg. What felt like a policeman’s truncheon was rubbing frantically up and down my jeans. Any attempts to move on my part were met by bared fangs and menacing growls.

The woman tugged vainly at the rutting monster’s collar. “Don’t worry, love,” she puffed, “he wouldn’t hurt a fly. He’s just a bit frisky at the moment.”

A bit frisky! The back of my head beat a brisk tattoo against the fence as the hound shagged itself senseless against me. What the fuck did she feed it on-Viagra? At last with a low grunt it shot its load and dropped back onto all fours, even so it still stood virtually shoulder-to-shoulder with me. I was shaking like a leaf.

The woman apologised profusely and offered to sponge my jeans. I declined. The rain would wash it off soon enough. I thrust her mail into her hands and beat a hasty retreat before the sex-starved brute took a turn at my right leg.

Apart from an incident with an irate man, who held me personally responsible for the size of his gas bill, the rest of the morning passed uneventfully.

I was halfway through the second shift when it happened. I had just pushed a handful of damp letters through the letterbox of a harmless looking bungalow when something charged down the garden path and attached itself to my person. I frantically shook my leg. Having my thigh shafted by a savage Great Dane was one thing. Hell, I’d been so terrified I’d have bonked its leg if it had so requested. However, having my ankle shagged by a Yorkshire terrier was just not on. I tried to beat the hairy little bastard off with a bundle of letters, but it was crazed with lust for my lower right limb and refused to relinquish its hold. What is it about postal workers that send canines into carnal frenzies? Eyes glazed it humped and heaved, while I danced and hopped about the path like a hyperactive Morris dancer. Only instead of bells I had an overgrown, testosterone charged rat clamped to my talus.

With a last supreme effort I violently shook out my leg. The mutt must have been sated and had loosed its grip, because suddenly it left my ankle. I stared in horror as it sailed through the air, a bizarre and hairy missile. There was a musical tinkling of glass as it crashed through the window of the bungalow. For a moment I was paralysed with fear, staring aghast at the gaping hole in the window. Then I took to my heels and ran like the clappers, before witnesses appeared and demanded to know why I had booted a small defenceless animal through the window of its own abode.


I was trembling from head to foot. My mind’s eye was blighted with visions of an airborne dog, while my auditory nerves were tuned into the tinkling of broken glass. It was the stuff of nightmares. I’d have flashbacks for years to come.

I had no conscious memory of the journey home, only a sudden realisation that I was turning my key in the lock and stepping into the hall with my bag of undelivered mail. I didn’t care. Wild horses would not get me outside again. I made myself a double strength coffee with four sugars and sat down. The thick brown liquid slopped over the rim of the mug, as I tried to convey it to my mouth with quivering hands. I was a shambles, a total disaster as a postman. Worse, I was a dog killer. Even now the RSPCA would be hunting for the fiend who went round booting terriers through windows. A tear rolled down my cheek. No way I was going back out there, no way! I had gotten hopelessly lost, been harangued by members of the public, shagged by a Great Dane and rodgered by a Yorkshire terrier that I had subsequently slaughtered. I couldn’t take any more.


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