Wednesday, July 25, 2012

Meet Your Mate 10


Chapter 10
They were back in the kitchen, Tilden with his ever present cup of tea, and Trent perched on the countertop as if it were a fence rail. Milton stood, his hips propped against the oven, his arms crossed. The scene was reminiscent of Mike’s arrival in the house less than two weeks ago, but this time the tops looked grimmer, and Mike wasn’t curled against Tilden, but alone on a kitchen chair in the middle of the floor. Mike suspected they pulled the chair away from the table to prevent him the luxury of covering his face with his arms. Tilden had kept his arm around him on the way home, but now he was isolated. There was no way to escaping their concentrated stares.
“So what are we doing here?” Tilden finally asked. There was no friendly diminutive, no touch of his hand on his hair, just a cold, hard question.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it, I was angry,” came tumbling out of Mike’s mouth like a cork bobbing in a waterfall.
“One sentence at a time,” Milton ordered.
Mike swallowed hard. They were going to strip him bare. He couldn’t hide behind hurried platitudes or escape their burning eyes. 
“Tell us. We at least deserve that much.” That was Trent. He’d always seemed the most easy going of the tops. Trent ambled around in worn jeans and flannel shirts, always quick to give anyone a small smile. His relationship with Mace was relaxed; they always seemed comfortable in each other’s back pocket. In the kitchen, they cooked with one another, often leaning over each other whisking or chopping.
“I was angry.”
“Why?” Trent asked.
“Stupid things.” 
“That’s not an answer,” Milton growled.
“Clothes, breakfast. It was stupid.”
Milton crossed the two strides from the stove to Mike, pulled him up, and landed two hard swats. “Answer. Don’t evade by calling things stupid.”
“I didn’t know we had an issue about breakfast,” Tilden said. “I though you were just making your usual noise.”
“What happened at breakfast?” Milton asked.
“I didn’t want any. I’m tired of this three meals a day schtick. I’d like to have cold pizza occasionally for breakfast like a normal college student.”
“So you had a bit of a spat about breakfast. What did Tilden fix?”
“Hard-boiled eggs, toast, and cooked apples.”
“That sounds innocuous enough. I made the apples,” Trent said, “so it couldn’t have been too bad.”
Mike squirmed in the chair, biting his lower lip.
“Go on,” Trent prodded.
“Luke’s not crazy about breakfast either. But he makes it look so easy, a gentle smile and a “yes, sir” when Tilden asks anything. I can’t do that.”
“Did I ever ask you to?” Tilden asked as if he were asking do you prefer chocolate or strawberry ice cream. No hostility, just curiosity.  
That was the rub; he never had. Tilden had just make breakfast and let Mike spit and hiss. “What about the clothes? I’m not a good little preppy.”
“I know,” Tilden said calmly. “But you are more than a cheap slut, and more importantly you’re mine. I don’t want to fight off hordes of salivating men because you’re dressed like an advertising poster for availability.”
Mike swallowed hard. He hadn’t thought of that; he’d thought Tilden was just throwing his weight around, exercising control.
“Do you understand what happened today on the street?” Tilden asked.
“I accused you of abuse and told you I wanted out and you respected that. I’m sorry; that’s not what I meant.”
Tilden kissed the top on Mike’s head. “I know that now, but I’m your protector. This type of relationship can easily slide into abuse and with the power I hold I must always be vigilant.”
“I didn’t mean it. I was just angry.”
“We know that,” Milton said in a deep quiet voice, “but we can’t protect you if we can’t trust your word. You didn’t safeword, but out of a scene we must listen for all indication that we have gone too far. What you said Tilden saw and heard as the final safeguard against committing abuse. A fail safe that must never be touched unless it’s real. You accused your partner of a crime.”
How could he answer that? He’d only wanted some breathing room, some way to vent his frustration. He’d been pushed around by a lot of people who said they would be there for him and disappeared when the going got rough. Mike remembered being abandoned on the doorsteps of numerous friends and relatives with a promised return of one or two weeks.  A month would pass, and Mike would fight with their children, steal a car, or simply refuse to participate in their activities, and he would be shuffled to some other unsuspecting stranger’s house. Sometimes he was dragged off with his parents when all the free lodging was used up. But there he was just inconvenient baggage to be shuffled from a tent city in Mozambique feeding the hungry to an artist colony in the mountains of New Mexico. He hadn’t expected these three tops to be any different.
Mike turned at the noise of Tilden rummaging through a drawer. Oh God, I’m going to get paddled, Mike thought. It’s not like I don’t deserve it. Instead of a dreaded implement, Tilden pulled out a packet of construction paper, a pair of blunt nosed scissors that looked like they belonged in a kindergarten, and a package of markers. Mike couldn’t see what Tilden was writing but he quickly finished and handed it to Mike. In large block letters was written EXIT, and underneath it was signed Tilden Blake.
“Keep this in your wallet. Since you say things in anger you don’t mean, we won’t be listening. If any time you want out of this relationship, you hand this to me; or if for some reason you can’t give it to me, give it to Milton or Trent.” 
Mike fingered the yellow construction paper with the single word in broad, dark marker. If he handed it to one of the tops, he was out, no questions asked. The absolute finality of a single piece of paper was frightening. Mike folded the paper in half and then in half again, carefully making each crease, and tucked it in his pocket.
“This leaves us only today to deal with,” Tilden said. “I see this as a temper tantrum. I believe your intention was to hurt me with your words, but not to impugn the honor or tradition of this relationship.”
Mike hadn’t realized he was holding his breath until he let it out with a hiss.
“You will be spanked, but more arduous for you will be the additional restrictions. This tantrum began because you felt you were being subjected to my arbitrary whims; for the next two weeks, you will be. You will do nothing without asking my permission, or if I’m absent, Milton’s or Trent’s. I will chose what you wear, what you eat, where you sit, who you talk to—-all things in which you’ve had significant input. A symbolic decrease in status. Now stand up and drop your trousers.”
Mike looked at the three tops. “Are they staying?”
“Yes, pants off.”
Mike fumbled with his belt and slid his khakis to his ankles. They caught on his shoes; he’d forgotten to take his shoes off. He knew cheeks were a bright red as he finally kicked his shoes off and stepped out of his trousers. Tilden had taken the seat in the chair while Mike had struggled with his pants. He motioned Mike to come stand on his right side.
“Please, please don’t do this in front of them.” A stray tear dripped down Mike’s face.
“Mike, this is not about embarrassing you, but you are responsible to them also and your actions hurt them.” Tilden pulled Mike over his knees and rubbed his back. “Deep breaths.”
Mike didn’t even try to stop the tears as he hung over Tilden’s knees. He pressed his hands onto the smooth tile floor. Tilden spread his knees, trying to give Mike a more stable platform and placed his hand under Mike’s shirt, slowly rubbing. 
“Easy now,” Tilden murmured and pulled Mike’s boxers down. 
Mike lay over his top’s knees and waited. The first swat landed hard and fast. Mike didn’t count as the tears poured down his face. The swats stung, but they weren’t overwhelming. Mike was limp over his top’s lap and didn’t realize that Tilden had finished until he pulled Mike’s boxers up and set him on his feet. 
Vsyo khorosho, Misha?”
Mike leaned into Tilden. He wasn’t sure he understood the Russian but just to hear the Russian again...
“Come on, let’s go lie down.” Tilden wrapped his arm around Mike’s shoulder and shepherded him into the bedroom. 
Between the tears, Mike noticed that Milton and Trent had melted away. “They’re gone.”
“I’m sure they wanted to give us some privacy, Mishenka.”
Mike let Tilden guide him into the bedroom and collapsed onto the bed. He rubbed at his rump. It didn’t sting much and didn’t feel hot. “You didn’t spank me very hard.”
“Who decides on the punishment?” Tilden asked, resting his hand on Mike’s butt.
“You do.”
Maladets,” Tilden kicked off his shoes, lay down in the bed, and pulled Mike’s head into his lap. “Do you understand what today was about?” Tilden traced the bottom of Mike’s hairline with his fingers.
“Yes,” Mike mumbled, lulled by the stroking and Tilden’s heartbeat.
“As far as we’re concerned it’s over and done with except the two weeks on restriction. You’re going to find that hard, and I don’t expect perfection.” Tilden kissed the top of Mike’s head. “Now, go to sleep.”
****
Tilden stayed with Mike until he was asleep, stroking the short brown hair. Poor kid, he’d had a rough day today. Tilden got up, waiting to make sure that Mike didn’t wake before he left the room. He stretched and yawned as he walked into the kitchen. He needed coffee.
Milton was in the kitchen, a sheaf of term papers in front of him. “Why didn’t you take a nap? You look dead on your feet.”
“That’s a resounding vote of confidence.” Tilden made no effort to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. After his carefully measured words with Mike, it was nice to let his first thought slide off his tongue. “I’ve got Luke too. Is there any coffee?”
“In the pot, but you’re going to crash like a rock.”
“I’m capable of knowing how much coffee I can drink.”
“You sound like Sheldon.” Milton smiled and reached behind him for a mug. “Here, have your poison. If you want to pick a fight with me, you’ll have to try harder than that.”
“Sorry,” Tilden threw Milton a rueful smile. “I think I’m more stressed than I realized.”
“Yep.”
“Is that all you’re going to say? You sound like Trent.”
“Yep.”
“Can I kill you now? When I want advice, you do the strong, silent routine.”
“Luke’s fine—probably watching football. Go for a run. Do something for yourself. Get changed. I’ll go with you.”
“You hate running.”
“The exercise will do me good.” Milton patted his stomach. “I don’t want to get a middle age paunch.”
“What if Mike wakes up?”
“Stop being a mother hen. Trent will keep an eye on him.”
“Four brats.”
“Trent can handle it. Plus, I don’t think Mike will wake up; he looked shattered. Leave him a note just in case.”
For early November it was a surprisingly pleasant day. The sun filtered through the bare branches as they jogged along the old towpath trail. A few runners pushed bundled up toddlers in aerodynamic prams; an occasional couple strolled down the trail, enjoying the unusual November sun. As they loped back, past the recreated lock and town’s small historical museum, Tilden began to relax, the tension lines easing from his face.
“You look like you’re feeling better. Good—because I’m about to die here,” Milton panted. “I’ll take swimming any day.”
“Old man,” Tilden joked.
“Who are you calling old? Just because you’re still on the south side of forty.”
Tilden eased to a walk and leaned against a tree to stretch his hamstrings. “I’m sure I seem ancient to Luke and Mike.”
“They don’t seem too concerned. They’re both over twenty, aren’t they?”
“Yes, Luke was held back and did a P.G. year after high school, not that it helped much, and Mike’s parents jerked him around to different schools so frequently that he ended up held back, and then he drifted around South America last year.”
“Not used to answering to anyone, is he? No wonder he’s struggling. You realize he’ll fight the restrictions after a few days.”
“I know. Was the restriction the right thing, or should I’ve paddled him and been done with it?”
Milton rubbed his hands together before shoving them in his jacket pocket. “It’s cold now that we’re walking. I don’t know Mike that well, but I think you did the right thing. He’s desperate for boundaries, even though at first, he’s going to rebel.” Milton paused a minute. “You’re going to have to be firm if he even steps a millimeter over the line. I expect a few days of royal drama.”
“Sounds like fun,” Tilden said with a snort. 
“If I’m not mistaken, the worst is over.” Milton looped an arm around his friend’s shoulder. “Let’s get back before your sleeping monster wakes.”
****
Mike stirred and opened his eyes. Tilden was propped up, papers strewn over the comforter. Luke was at the foot of the bed, curled around a history text. Both must have been watching for the first sign that Mike was awake because Tilden gave him a small smile and slid his fingers through Mike’s hair, and Luke bounced onto his chest like an overexcited Labrador puppy.
“Are you OK? You’re still here?” Luke babbled on. Half of what he said made no sense, but the sentiment was obvious.
“Yeah, I must need my head examined.” Mike rolled onto his side and swung his legs to the floor.
“Where are you going?” There was a bite to Tilden’s voice that made Mike jerk his head up.
“To the bathroom. I’ve got to piss.”
“Ask first.”
“What?” Mike didn’t try to hide the incredulity in his voice.
“Do you need a reminder of what we talked about earlier?”
He was serious. Mike shrugged and tried to sound bored or casually put upon. “Can I go to the bathroom?”
“You may. Then right back in bed for thirty minutes.”
“I’m tired of being in bed.”
“I can make it an hour.”
Mike could see Luke’s eyes moving between his face and Tilden’s as if he were a spectator at Wimbledon watching a fantastic volley. It was probably only the concern and tension in Luke’s face that kept Mike from lobbing a swift retort at Tilden. Instead he swallowed hard and muttered, “Yes, sir.”
Tilden nodded. “Leave the door open.”
That was over the top. He didn’t need to be watched in the bathroom. He did know how to piss on his own. Mike tore the sheets back and flung himself out of bed. He made it one step toward the bathroom when a hand grasped his elbow and pulled him sideways. Tilden landed two blazing handprints on Mike’s boxer covered bottom.
“Attitude.” Tilden didn’t let go of Mike’s elbow, but walked him into the bathroom and propped himself against the door. 
“Are you going to watch?” Mike asked savagely.
“Quickly.”
Mike turned back to the toilet; Tilden had lost his mind. He didn’t need supervised bathroom breaks. Mike blushed; if Tilden wanted a show, he’d give him one. Slowly he slid his boxers down his hips and waggled his hips. He stroked his cock with one hand, and with the other hand reached under his shirt to finger his nipple ring. Mike was lost in the sensation when a hard swat crashed down on his naked rump, and he was propelled towards the shower stall. Cold water came rushing over his head.
“Don’t play with me, little boy.” Tilden hauled Mike from the shower. “Strip. Here’s a towel. Should we try this again?”
Mike nodded, subdued by the cold shower.
“You don’t have to make things this difficult, but if you need to, I’ll be here. I’m not going anywhere, Mishenka.”
Mike completed his chores in the bathroom and without a fuss changed into dry boxers and a sweatshirt.
“Thirty minutes in bed.”  Tilden must have noticed Mike’s stiff posture because he growled at him, “I wouldn’t.”
Mike crawled back into bed, deciding not to risk another swat, especially after catching Luke’s concerned look. He turned on his side and punched down the pillows.  He wanted out of bed. He tried turning the other way. 
Tilden who’d sat on the edge of the bed, gathered his papers and sighed. He touched Mike’s shoulders, running two fingers slowly down his back and started to sing in a soft baritone. “Spi, mladedenets moy prikrascnii, Bayushki-bayu...”
Mike started to move away, but the soft voice and the slow stroking stilled his movement. He breathed deeply, absorbing the calmness; the only sound was the singing; the only sensation was Tilden’s fingers tracing lines down his back. When Tilden finished, Mike rolled toward Tilden, trying to find a way to ask him to sing again. 
Tilden stroked a finger down Mike’s cheek and repeated the song.
“What is it?” Mike asked when Tilden had finished. “It’s beautiful.”
“The Cossack Lullaby by Lermentov. I’ll dig up the text for you and a translation.  You’ve got ten more minutes in bed.”
“Don’t remind me,” Mike said with a small smile. “Will you sing more? Please.”
Akh Arbat, moy Arbat...” 
TIlden stopped singing and started to stand when Mike caught his hand. “Don’t stop.”
“It’s been more than ten minutes. Don’t you want to get up?”
“I guess. That was nice. Thanks.”
Tilden ruffled Mike’s hair. “Come on. Hopefully the rest of the day can be a bit nicer than the start.”
Mike was surprised that the kitchen smelled of sage and thyme. Tilden and Luke had been with him most of the day. How could they have cooked? The other two couples were nowhere in sight, but it sure looked like Mace and Trent’s handiwork. It smelled of Thanksgiving, a holiday he’d celebrated with Jo, the neighbor lady with the cats and at the community center in Japan with other expats, but never with his family. His parents refused to acknowledge a bourgeois, religious holiday that commemorated a meal with the same people that later settlers murdered and forced into desolate, windswept ghettos in the least habitable parts of the country. Before Mike could get further lost in thought, Tilden pulled out a chair and clicked his fingers, indicating that Mike should sit.
It was a strange meal. Tilden asked Luke what he wanted to eat and drink, but just handed Mike his food, yet Tilden took care to offer food that Mike liked. His salad was without the dreaded tomatoes, and when Luke asked for Coke Tilden gave them both water and split the soda between two glasses. Tilden served Mike both the leg and a slice of breast of the roast chicken. There was even dessert, which had to be Mace’s handiwork as it was the same pumpkin pie that he prepared for the shop.
After the meal, Luke wandered off to study, leaving Mike alone again with Tilden. Mike gathered his silverware together on his plate and stood to take it to the sink. Tilden’s hand settled on his shoulder.
“No, sit.”
Mike squirmed and watched Tilden load the dishwasher. Finished with kitchen clean up, Tilden reached out and took Mike’s hand.
“Come sit in the study with me.”
The rest of the evening was spent within easy reach of Tilden’s hand: sitting on the floor in the study with Mike’s back resting against Tilden’s leg as Tilden graded endless papers, curled on the sofa watching television, and even quickly showering as Tilden leaned against the sink.

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