Meet Your Mate 3

Chapter 3

Luke rolled over in the strange bed and stared at the numerals on the clock. It was still early, barely after four. He would usually be slipping off to bed at this time of night on a weekend, not longing to get up. Luke slid out from the bed and padded across to the bathroom. Nature relieved, he stared at himself in the mirror. He didn’t look any different than yesterday: blond hair tangled from sleep, blue eyes wide and innocent, and the faintest shadow of a straw colored beard on his unshaven cheeks. He felt different, terrified. His dad was always telling him to think before he acted. If only he’d followed that advice this one time. Too late now. He’d made his bed, and now he would have to lie in it.

Luke stumbled back through the room, stubbing his toe on the nightstand. “Fuck! Shit!” He clapped his hand over his mouth; he didn’t want to wake any of the tops in the house. Nocturnal ramblings were probably forbidden. If last night was any indication, they were control freaks. He’d been marched in the house and plunked down at the kitchen table. Trent, or at least he thought it was Trent, had put sandwiches and a bowl of matzoh ball soup in front of him, commenting that it was light comfort food. Comfort food was pizza and burgers with a bottle of beer, not exotic soups. Somehow Luke had made it through dinner. He really didn’t remember it clearly, but he did remember being put to bed. Tilden had hustled him through the nightly rituals as if he were six: showered, teeth brushed, and tucked in before ten. Tilden had left him with a chaste kiss on the forehead and firmly shut the door. Rules and no sex, Luke thought, I hope it doesn’t stay that way, or this will be six months of hell.

Abandoning the pretense of sleep, Luke tiptoed into the kitchen. He was hungry now. He opened a few doors in the unfamiliar kitchen before discovering the pantry stacked high with dried beans, pasta, canned tomatoes, and at least four varieties of rice. Two entire shelves were dedicated to spices. Finally in a far corner, nearly hidden behind containers of unrecognizable grains, he found a bag of barbecue potato chips and a six pack of soda. Luke looked at the rows of identical cabinets and decided it was too much trouble to search for a glass. He popped the top and took a long swig of warm Coke.

He’d been given a tour of the house yesterday. He didn’t remember the layout, but he thought down the hall near the main stairs was a room with a TV. With only one wrong turn, he found the television. It was a small flat screen dwarfed by the high ceilings and oversized couches clustered around the hearth. Luke flipped on the TV and idled through the channels dominated by infomercials selling fabulous supplements and amazing fitness equipment. For a fleeting moment, he thought about the wonder drug purported to improve short term memory by fifty percent. Maybe it could get him through Russian. Somehow he didn’t think squeaking by with a low C or a high D was going to be adequate now that he was living with the teacher. Bored with the infomercials, he searched for other entertainment. A few movies were stacked under the TV, and he randomly chose one. A statue of a heroic worker and peasant appeared on the screen above the word Mosfilm. Shit, this movie’s in Russian, he thought. He scanned the titles of the remaining films, not one in English. Luke flopped down close to the TV. If he had to read the movie, at least he could be close enough to see the subtitles. 

Luke was munching his way through the potato chips when a hand came around his back and snagged the bag and the can of soda.

“In this house, we don’t eat potato chips for breakfast.”

Luke swung around, surprised; he hadn’t heard footsteps. Trent was standing over him, folding the bag of chips. His gray eyes were unreadable. 

“Am I in trouble?” God, why had he asked that. He felt like a kid in pajamas, sneaking the early morning cartoons.

“Not unless you make a habit of it, or Tilden lays down the law about midnight wanderings.  You couldn’t sleep, kid? I’m not surprised. Come on, you can help me make the sweet rolls, and I’ll get you an early breakfast.” Trent held out his hand, and pulled Luke off the floor.

Luke followed behind sheepishly. He was left standing at a massive granite counter while Trent pawed through the refrigerator.

“Grapefruit OK?”

“Yeah.”

“The fruit knife is in the drawer to your right. Just cut it in half and section it; I’ll eat the other half.”

Luke cut the fruit in half. It wasn’t a perfect half, but it would do. He’d seen others run the knife around the fruit making neat sections that spooned out. Luke could never make it work. It was just one more thing he wasn’t good at. He wasn’t good at much except getting himself into disasters. The show had been a lark; he wasn’t supposed to be picked and end up at a house with grapefruit and separate beds. Luke hacked at the fruit with the knife, only succeeding in scoring holes in the peel. He tried to dislodge a piece with his spoon, but it remained stubbornly attached.

“Here, let me show you.” Trent was standing beside Luke holding a fresh grapefruit and a serrated knife with a thin, whippy blade. “You used the wrong knife.” Trent started the fruit and then handed it to Luke. “Why don’t you finish it.”

“Thanks,” Luke muttered, his cheeks reddening.

Trent touched Luke’s back before he turned toward the refrigerator. “There’s no need to be embarrassed. I cook for a living and know all the secrets. When you finish with that grapefruit, cut two more for everyone else. Actually cut three. We’ll feed the camera crew; it should make them more pliable. You’ll be an expert before seven in the morning.”

Luke gritted his teeth and prepared the grapefruit. 

Trent picked up a finished fruit and removed a spooned out a section with a flourish. “Good job.”

“I’m not a kindergartener. You don’t have to make me feel good about my work.”

Luke was cut off by a sharp, “Be quiet. You don’t want to go any farther down that path, or I’ll have to wake Tilden. That’s right. Take a deep breath. Tops are going to praise as well as punish. Come help me make the cinnamon rolls.”

Luke started to reply but was silenced by the expression on Trent’s face. He looked down at the counter and forced himself to be silent.

“Good choice.”

Luke felt his face get hotter. He hardly knew this man, but he was pleased by the praise. “I don’t know how to bake.”

“I figured that. I’ll show you. Tilden can hardly reheat something without burning it. He would’ve starved if I hadn’t moved in.” Trent didn’t say much as he taught Luke to knead the dough and roll it into the correct shape before setting it aside under a tea towel to rise again. “These won’t be ready for over an hour. Do you want some cinnamon toast while we wait?”

Luke stood at the counter and ran his fingers through the flour scattered over its surface.

“Does your silence mean yes?”

Luke nodded, keeping his eyes down.

Trent set a slice of oatmeal bread coated with cinnamon sugar on the table and pulled out two chairs. “Come sit down and eat.”

Luke slipped into the chair and took a bite of toast. Perhaps the faster he ate the less Trent would stare at him. He couldn’t do this. This had been a mistake. He wanted to go back to his dorm room where no one scolded him for eating potato chips or patiently taught him to cut grapefruit.

Trent reached forward and brushed the hair off Luke’s forehead. “Stop brooding. We’ve got you, and we’ll make this work if that’s what you want.”

Luke looked up, surprised.

“I’ve got my own partner. You can’t think that loud in front of me; it shows. Finish your toast, then you can help me with the rest of breakfast. It’ll keep you out of trouble.”

Trent kept Luke busy chopping vegetables, beating eggs, and greasing pans. Luke barely noticed the camera crew slip in a little after six, and Mace came down the stairs shortly before seven, hair still damp from the shower.

“No wonder you didn’t wake me. You found yourself another kitchen slave.” Mace looped his arms around Trent who kissed him solidly.

“Take over from Luke, so he can shower and get dressed. Go on now.” Trent patted Luke on the shoulder. “By the time you get out of the shower Tilden will be up.” 

Luke stared at his meager collection of clothes and chose a pair of jeans and a forest green turtleneck. He combed the tangles out of his hair and blew it dry. Soon his hair was tidy, and he could find no more excuse to hide in his room.

The kitchen was full. Mace was icing the final batch of rolls, and Trent pulled an egg casserole from the oven. Sheldon was bouncing from place to place, ostensibly helping but more in the way than anything else.

Tilden set the last plate on the table and waved at Luke. “Come on in. Did you just get up?”

Luke was saved from answering by Trent’s quiet voice. “No, I found him by the TV at five this morning. You might want to keep him in your room if you don’t want him falling asleep in class. I sure wouldn’t give him any caffeine today. Without it, you might get him down for a nap.”

Luke froze in the door. He’d thought he’d known what a top and brat relationship was about—an occasional spanking, perhaps some enforced studying, or a curfew. He hadn’t expected a top to micromanage his eating habits. He hadn’t expected to be tossed into an established family. He was twenty; he’d thought this was about sex. He didn’t do family; he didn’t know how.

“Stop standing around like you’re waiting to be bronzed into a statue,” Sheldon said. “Weekend breakfast is a family meal; we’ve all got to have it together.” Sheldon rolled his eyes dramatically. “I’m going to fade away if you don’t get in here.”

“Sheldon, sit down and behave,” Milton scolded.

“Don’t mind him,” Mace piped up from the stove and gave Luke a slow smile. “He’s always a bit crazy; it keeps the heat off the rest of us.”

Before Luke could retreat, Tilden snagged his wrist and tugged him over to the table. “Sit down and have breakfast. We won’t eat you alive; I promise.”

Luke’s head was spinning and starting to pound. He rubbed a hand over his eyes and groped for a sweet roll. 

Tilden reached over and squeezed his shoulder before getting up and opening a cabinet over the sink. “Aspirin, Tylenol, or ibuprofen?”

“What?” Luke asked.

“You look like you have a raging headache. Which potion works best for you?”

“Aspirin.” Luke swallowed the two aspirins and the glass of water placed before him without complaint.  As the conversation shifted toward the upcoming presidential elections, Luke relaxed and ate two helpings of everything. Trent tried to offer him a third helping, but Luke covered his plate with his hand. “No more.” He’d managed to survive breakfast with no one threatening to spank him or asking revealing questions.

“Your headache better?” Tilden asked.

“Yes, thank you.” Luke surprised himself with his own politeness. If his dad had asked, he would have shrugged and muttered some non-reply.

“Let’s go to my study and have a chat.” Tilden looped his arm around Luke, not giving him a chance to escape.

From the far side of the table, Sheldon catcalled, “To your doom already, boy.” Luke heard a hard swat and a muttered “Ouch.” Luke couldn’t hear what Milton said to Sheldon, but he heard the mumbled, “Yes, sir.”

Tilden kept his arm around Luke as he entered the study. He sat down on the sofa, drawing Luke down with him. “Don’t let Sheldon bother you; he’s just excited. You’re not in any trouble, but I’m concerned about you roaming about the house in the middle of the night. Do you usually have trouble sleeping?”

“I don’t usually go to bed at ten. I’m not a kid.”

“Watch your tone with me.” Tilden’s voice was firm.

“Well, what can I do? There’re instructions for everything. Don’t use that tone. Watch your language. Eat this. Don’t eat that. Sleep here. Are you going to dictate what I wear?”

Tilden snapped his fingers. “Corner. Over there by the bookshelves.” The room had no blank walls, so he pointed Luke to a corner of two bookcases. 

“What’d I do?”

“Luka, you are many things, but dumb you’re not. Stand in the corner and think about it. I’m sure you will come up with the solution. Now go. For each minute you stay on the sofa, I’ll add five minutes of corner time.”

Luke got up from the sofa and shook his head in disbelief. He felt like an idiot standing in the corner. The camera crew had to be getting a good laugh out of this—college boy stands in corner like a naughty toddler. Luke tried to read the titles of the books, but he was standing too close. He turned his head to glance at the books on a more distant shelf.”

“Eyes front,” Tilden barked.

Luke clinched his fist and shifted his weight from side to side. His back was suddenly itchy. He squirmed, thinking of scratching it against the shelves.

“Be still. This isn’t exotic dance practice.”

“My back itches.” Luke could hear the whine in his own voice.

Tilden seemed to have ignored the complaint. Luke could hear shuffling of papers, a sigh, and then footsteps directly behind him.

“Put your hands on top of your head. Lace your fingers together.” Tilden’s voice was soft. Luke complied, unsure what else to do with Tilden directly behind him. “Good. Now try to hear the wind chimes outside. This is an old house. If you concentrate, you can hear them even when the windows are shut. Tell me when you hear them.”

Luke squirmed. It was uncomfortable having his hands on his head. All he could hear was the throb of the central heating. He felt Tilden place a hand on Luke’s shoulder and softly blow against the back of his neck. His breath was warm against his hair. 

Very slowly with a single finger Tilden stroked the back of Luke’s neck. “Feel the sounds of the house. Don’t fight it.” The words were whispered in an eerily slow cadence.

Luke could feel his breathing slowing, matching the rhythm of the stroking. He listened for the sound of the chimes. He heard the clank of dishes against the sink and the sound of water running, then a quiet thump—probably the automatic ice maker in the refrigerator. The faintest tinkle floated through the walls of the house. “I hear them.”

“Good boy.” Tilden kept his hand on Luke’s neck. “Come sit with me.”

Luke turned, surprised to see that only ten minutes had passed. He thought he’d been in the corner for at least thirty minutes. 

Tilden sat down and pulled Luke into his lap. His hand was now firm behind the young man’s neck as he bent down and kissed him on the lips. Luke melted, opened his mouth against Tilden’s onslaught, and welcomed the invading tongue. Tilden spread his fingers through Luke’s thick hair and kissed again. Tilden reached down, tugged the bottom of Luke’s shirt from his pants, and ran his hand up the boy’s chest. Luke shivered at the touch. Abruptly Tilden stopped and placed both hands on Luke’s shoulders. “Do I have your attention now?”

“Don’t stop.” Luke arched against Tilden, trying to goad Tilden into touching him again.

“No, talk now—fun later. You’re mine, Luka, and I will make you feel good, but you will do things my way. Don’t ever doubt that you’re mine.” Tilden traced his finger over Luke’s lips.

Luke groaned. “How can you stop now?”

“I’m not twenty anymore. I’ve got a bit more self-control. It’s one of the few benefits of getting older.”

“You’re mean.”

“Probably. You haven’t seen anything yet. Now sit up and listen.” Tilden bent forward and whispered in Luke’s ear. “We have company with cameras. Public sex really isn’t my thing.”

Luke’s eyes got wide. He’d forgotten about the damn camera men. “Shit! I forgot about them.”

“The bedroom’s off limits to the vultures, but we need to talk about rules.”

“That’s no fun,” Luke pouted.

“Go get the notebooks on my desk.” Tilden gave Luke a small shove in the right direction.

“This sounds like schoolwork. I hate schoolwork.”

“That’s one of the things we have to talk about. Do you want the red or blue one?”

“Blue. It matches my eyes,” Luke said, fluttering his eyelashes provocatively.

“Give me the red one. Turn to the first page. I want you to write down what you think a power exchange relationship involves. Then on the second page, I want you to write what you want this relationship to look like and on page three ten rules for this relationship.”

“This is homework. What are you going to do? Watch me write?”

“No, I’m going to do the same thing. Now get started. The quicker we get this done, the sooner the fun starts.” Tilden tousled Luke’s hair before he pushed his brat toward the desk.

Tilden wrote quickly; his small, precise cursive filled the first page after only a few minutes. Luke had managed only three lines when Tilden turned the page and started on a new sheet. Luke flipped through the pages of the notebook, sniffing the new paper smell. He shivered, remembering the feeling of dread as each new high school year started. His father’s loud and boorish complaints that he paid for the finest private education and his son frivolously wasted the resources. Luke drew pictures in the margin and played tic-tac-toe with himself. He flipped his pen in the air and caught it between his fingers without looking. He tried for multiple rotations and missed at three. The pen bounced on the desk and rolled onto the floor. 

“Luka, try writing with it,” Tilden said. “The longer it takes to get started, the longer it will take to finish.”

“I’m no good at this. I can’t do it.” Luke slammed the cover of the notebook shut and got up.

“Corner.”

“What? I was just in the corner.”

“Corner.” Tilden’s eyes bored into Luke; the friendly crinkles around the corners were gone.

“This isn’t fair. I don’t want to stand in the corner.” Luke couldn’t keep the whine out of his voice.

“Luka, corner.”

“It’s that the only word you know? I thought you were fluent in multiple languages.” Luke’s rant was cut off by a hard swat. “That hurt.” Tilden stood behind him, rock solid, unmoving. “I’ll just get in the corner.”

“Thank you.”

Luke laced his fingers over his head and stared at the bookshelves. This was boring—worse than writing in that damn notebook. If Tilden was this obstinate about his little projects, what was going to happen when he found out that he was on a one way express toward academic probation? He hadn’t even started that blasted paper for history, and an outline was due Monday. How many swats would he get for that? Luke shuddered—one had been bad enough. He’d thought this was mostly about fun, teasing the dominant and a few pops on the rear. Luke thought he’d wanted to be spanked. He’d imagined it enough. He’d messed around with it with Mike, but they were both submissives, and all efforts at spanking had dissolved into fits of giggles and quick sex. Had he been crazy to want this type of relationship? It wasn’t as fun as he’d imagined. Tilden hadn’t hurt him, but he was serious about all this.  Luke fidgeted, wishing he’d just written something in that damn notebook.

Two soft raps on the door interrupted his swaying from foot to foot. Luke turned around to see who was at the door.

“Luka, turn back around.” Tilden’s voice was sure; disobedience was not expected and wouldn’t be tolerated. Luke turned back, but not before Milton’s glare from the doorway left scorch marks across his brain.

Luke could hear a whispered conversation behind him, but he couldn’t make out most of the words. He heard something about a phone call, and then the sound of the door closing. Luke took a quick peek over his shoulder. Milton was leaning against the sofa, arms crossed, gazing at Luke as if he were a Roman general surveying his ground forces. Milton flicked his eyes toward the corner, and Luke turned around, resigned. Luke wanted to lean against the wall; his arms and shoulders were beginning to ache. There was no hope that Milton would let him out of the corner. By his stare, it was clear that he thought Luke was only slightly higher on the evolutionary scale than a cockroach. 

Luke was surprised to hear a soft rumble of a voice behind him; the tone was not unsympathetic. “Do your arms hurt?”

Luke nodded. He hadn’t thought he was unfit, but his shoulders were killing him.

“You might try yes, sir or no, sir when you’re standing in a corner and a top’s speaking to you. It’s more likely to get the desired results.”

Luke couldn’t help but glance around. Was Milton being serious, or was he toying with him? 

Milton clicked his tongue and pointed back at the corner. “You need to stay put.”

“Ugh,” Luke groaned but turned back around. He was stuck now; he’d blown the opportunity to get his hands off his head. He’d always been good at digging himself in deeper. Milton must have moved closer when Luke was berating himself for his stupidity because when he spoke again his voice was nearly in Luke’s ear.

“Now think before you answer this question. Would you like to take your hands off your head?”

Fuck, of course he would and all he’d have to do is choke out a small yes, sir, and Milton would let him put his arms down. But Luke couldn’t stop himself; he blurted out, “No, I like standing with my hands on top of my head playing some fucked-up version of Simon Says.”

The swat was hard and instantaneous. “I guess we’re doing this the hard way.”   

Was Tilden ever going to get off the phone? He wanted out of this corner, but there was no damn way that Milton was going to let him out. Not after the smart comment he’d let fly. Luke heard the door open behind him.

“Still in the corner.” Luke heard Tilden say to Milton.

“I gave him a chance, but he made the wrong choice.”

Luke felt himself turn red from his collar to the top of his head. If one of the tops hadn’t put a hand on his shoulder, he would’ve spun around with a nasty retort.

“Don’t make it worse.” Luke thought that was Milton’s voice, but he wasn’t sure. The hand on his shoulder was sympathetic, as it kneaded Luke’s tight muscles. 

“Luka, put your hands down, but stay facing the corner.” That was Tilden. He was the only one who Russified his name. “Can you behave, now?”

Luke swallowed hard. He’d almost made a smart comment. “Yes, sir,” he ground out, blushing redder. 

“Maladets. Come sit down.” Maladets that ubiquitous word of praise earned for correct answers in Russian class brought a small smile to Luke’s face that he was not quick enough to hide. 

Milton ruffled Luke’s hair as he released his shoulder. “You know, we’re not trying to make it hard for you.” 

Tilden captured Luke and pulled him down on the sofa. “I’ve got you, Luka. I know you feel like you’re drowning, but we won’t let you. While you may not appreciate it yet, you have three tops watching your back.”

Luke smiled ruefully. “Don’t I know. I guess I should’ve listened when I was told to look before you leap.”

“You won’t have to worry about that propensity any longer. With three tops, one of us will always be happy to interfere. We tend to be bossy.” Tilden kissed Luke firmly on the forehead.

“Ugh, I feel like a real heel right now,” Luke said unable to make eye contact with either top.

“Hey, look at me,” Milton demanded.

Luke lifted his eyes slowly, glad that he had Tilden’s arm firmly around his shoulder.

“I’ve seen a lot worse. You didn’t break anything, you didn’t kick me in the shins, and you didn’t bite me. Thinking you want to be a submissive is very different from being a submissive. We’ll try to start easy, but it will still be a shock. Being a submissive is more than a pink butt over a top’s knee or a night at the club. We practice a form of submission that requires few of the trappings you might see in a club and to the outsider can appear suffocating.”

Milton’s unexpected generosity and sympathy made Luke feel more guilty, and before he could stop himself, he blurted out, “I haven’t started the paper yet.”

Milton had assigned a ten thousand word paper as one-third of the course grade; the remaining two-thirds were the midterm and final exam. On Monday the students were supposed to turn in a topic, a preliminary bibliography, a summary paragraph, and a detailed outline.

“I assumed as much. Have you chosen a topic?” Milton asked.

Luke hung his head, but said nothing.

“I take that as a no. Tilden, do you have anything planned for your wee young man this weekend?”

“We need to collect his things from his dorm room, and he needs to have a chat with the dean.”

Luke’s head shot up. “About what?”

“You’re not in trouble,” Tilden said. “I just got off the phone with her. It’s college policy that professors don’t date their students. It’s considered sexual harassment. I previously had informed the dean of students that I was participating in the show, and last night I sent her an email that I was matched with one of my students.” Tilden paused and tousled Luke’s hair. “Don’t look so worried. You picked me. I didn’t coerce you or offer grades for sexual favors. It’s just awkward for the PC folk. Milton and I might have to get your work evaluated by a third party to prevent the appearance of impropriety, but that’s it.”

“I didn’t mean to get you in trouble at work. I’m sorry. I...”

“Hush,” Tilden said before Luke could go any further. “I’m not in trouble, and even if I were, I’d resign before I let go of you.”

Luke searched Tilden’s face, trying to tell if he was being honest. “You really mean that?”

“Yes, I think you’re adorable. I’ve wanted to put my arms around you since the first day I saw you. Countless times I wanted to act like a top when you tossed out those smart comments in class.”

Luke snuggled closer. “You did a little bit. I always felt safe with you even when you were verbally tearing a strip off me for not doing my work.”

“If you two are finished with this love fest, Luke needs to go work on his paper,” Milton said from the far side of the room. “Go upstairs to my study. It’s the first door on your right off the landing. Look through the books and find a topic. You have thirty minutes.”

“Go on,” Tilden gave Luke a shove towards the door.

****

Milton waited for the echo of footsteps on the stairs before he walked over and shut the door. “I know that boy’s adorable, but he’s going to take a firm hand. Why’d you put him in the corner earlier?”

“I wanted him to write down his ideas for rules and what he wanted from this relationship, and he had a meltdown over it.”

“Ah, stop trying to be nice.”

“What do you mean?”

“Right now Luke doesn’t know which way’s up. Just lay down the law, and tell him that’s the way it is. It’ll save significant trouble in the long run, and you’ll both be happier. I know you’ve seen me negotiate with Sheldon, but Sheldon is savvy about his role as a submissive, and the negotiations are still a near death experience.  After a month or two you can revisit the rules if changes need to be made.”

“That seems—draconian.”

“Trust me,” Milton said and smiled at his friend. “I’ve done this before. You saw how much happier he was when I laid down the law about doing the paper. I know it’s against everything I’m supposed to teach about these relationships, but Luke isn’t a boy you’re playing with for a night. This is an arranged marriage; Luke will have different needs.”

Tilden nodded and ran his fingers through his hair. “He’s going to be the death of me. I can see it now.”

“Nobody ever said being a dominant was easy. Talking about difficulties, what’s going on with the college about this little turn of events?”

Tilden grimaced. “I have to meet with the dean of students, the dean of men, and the president of the college in thirty minutes. They want to see Luke after that.”

“Hey, keep your chin up. They’ll be thrilled to have one less student on academic probation. I’ll get Luke there. It’ll be fine.”

“I wish I could be that optimistic.”

“Part of being a dominant is projecting success even when all obstacles are aligned against you, you know that. You’re a great top. Don’t doubt yourself.” Milton squeezed Tilden’s shoulder.

“Yes, sir and thanks.” Tilden lifted two fingers in a sloppy salute.

“Quit goofing off. You’ll have them eating out of your hand by the time you’re done. Make sure you tell them about Luke’s roommate.”

“What?”

“Don’t give me that innocent, surprised look. You know as well as I do that he’s spinning. We’re the only ones around to pick up the pieces.”

Tilden gave Milton a baleful stare before he left the study.