Meet Your Mate 9

Chapter 9

Mike curled into the passenger door and blinked back tears. The driver of the truck hadn’t said anything except to introduce himself and to tell Mike to buckle his seat belt. His expression wasn’t hostile, but he had an unwavering stare when he’d looked Mike up and down as he pulled out into the traffic. Mike wished he was in the back, leaning on Tilden’s shoulders with Luke. Tilden was whispering to Luke in what sounded like a mixture of Russian and English with his arm snug around Luke’s shoulder. Mike shivered and pulled his hands back into his jacket sleeves. Joshua, or should it be Mr. Martin, turned up the heat and pointed the vents toward the passenger side. Mike curled tighter against himself. If it’d been Tilden—or even Trent or Milton, they would’ve given him their jacket. Would that ever happen again?

Tears started to course down Mike’s face. He scrubbed at his cheeks with the sleeve of his jacket. He’d done it again, made everybody hate him. His parents crossed oceans to escape him, and now Tilden was handing him to a complete stranger. Mike buried his head in his arms and sobbed.

“Stop it, boy. You’re going to make yourself sick.” A strong arm pulled the back of Mike’s jacket, drawing his face out of his arms. “Deep breaths, now. Hands on your knees and sit up.” The voice was gruff, but not unkind and a lot quieter than it had been on the street. “We’re almost there.”

Where was “there”? Mike wondered bleakly, mechanically following the instructions. Campus was almost an hour away. Was Tilden going to leave him with this man? Mike didn’t have any more time to think about it as the truck slowed and pulled to the curb in front of a high-rise apartment building.

Dean Tyler yanked open the passenger door nearly before the truck had come to a complete stop. “Mike, come with me.” Mike was enveloped in a crushing hug and lifted from the truck’s seat as if he were no heavier than a stuffed bear. He shamelessly buried himself in the hug. Under those thick arms, he was hidden from the disapproving glare of the tops and Luke’s soulful eyes. 

“He doesn’t deserve your sympathy,” Martin said. The hard granite tone was back in his voice.

“He’s scared, and he’s young.” Dean Tyler tightened his arms around Mike.

“He’s also a liar and accused his top of the worst possible crime. He violated the trust that must exist between partners.”

“Josh, isn’t that a little harsh? He’s new.”

“No, it’s not. Take him upstairs; I’m not having this conversation on the street.”

Mike remembered the horrified and sad look on Tilden’s face when Mike had accused Tilden of abuse and when he’d flinched at Tilden’s touch. Mike had been angry, frustrated at all the rules; he’d lashed out, said things he didn’t mean. Mike’s knees buckled, and he fell hard against Dean Tyler, sobbing. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it,” Mike choked out in a voice he was sure was incomprehensible from the sobs and the sweater that Mike burrowed his face into.

“Get him up to the apartment,” Martin barked from somewhere behind Mike. “I don’t want to explain to every nosy pedestrian why I have a hysterical young man on the sidewalk.”

“You don’t have to be so hard on him,” Dean Tyler said over the top of Mike’s head.

“Up!” The word was like ice. 

Dean Tyler half-carried, half-walked Mike through the revolving glass doors. Mike kept his face buried in the big man’s chest, but he still caught a glimpse of the slack mouth on the doorman as he scurried to hide his embarrassment by summoning the elevator. Mike shut his eyes. Perhaps if he couldn’t see, this wasn’t happening to him—except that he could feel Dean Tyler’s warm embrace and hear Martin’s hard, angry footsteps behind him. Could he just start today over again?

Dean Tyler set Mike down as he fished for his keys on a long lanyard complete with a Rubik’s cube and a mini calculator. Mike stumbled into the apartment when Martin put his hands on Mike’s shoulders and pushed.

“Keep walking. We’re having a little chat.”

Well, great that sounded promising. While Martin was not as physically enormous as his partner, he was no small man, and he was propelling Mike rapidly down the hall and into a bedroom. Mike guessed it was a spare bedroom as it only held a double bed; he couldn’t imagine how those two large men could fit in a double. Mike didn’t get a chance to see the rest of the room as he was firmly guided into a corner with nothing to see but the flat white paint universal to apartment complexes.

“Give me your jacket. Stand there and calm down.” The tone was still glacial, but Martin gently ran his hand down Mike’s back before he stepped away. 

Between sobs, Mike heard the bed creak and the thunk of shoes hitting the floor before a louder creak of the box springs. Martin must have lain down, leaving Mike to stare at the paint all alone. Mike turned his shoulders and glanced behind him. He saw nothing before Martin’s voice cracked through the air.

“Back around. Eyes on the corner.”

Mike leaned his head against the wall and tried to stifle the tears. Where were Tilden and Luke? Had they gone home, leaving him with this silent, disapproving stranger? He heard a tap on the door, the sound of a table being slid across the floor, and then the clank of a tray against a hard surface. He could hear a few low whispers; the voice was not Tilden’s or Luke’s and then a slightly louder, “That’s enough,” followed by footsteps and the door closing again.

Mike turned slightly, hoping to be invited out of the corner.

“Don’t you know how to stand in the corner, boy?”

Mike turned back around, not caring that fresh tears were streaming down his cheeks. He was alone, so alone. Even tea would be better than the corner. Mike hated tea—tea with jam, tea with sugar, tea with milk, tea with lemon. It was all the same—awful. Tilden loved tea; maybe he’d been mixed up at birth, and he was supposed to grow up in the British Isles. Whoever got up first had to turn on the samovar; at least it was electric. There were some small favors in this world. Every morning Tilden would ask, “Chai budesh’ pit’?” Luke, the good little brat, would always have tea, and Tilden would flash him one of those brilliant half smiles that made Mike gasp. Mike always declined which was followed by a brisk nod and a glass of juice. God, he’d drink buckets of tea just to see Tilden smile again. Mike wanted Tilden right now more than he could have ever imagined. He craved Tilden’s touch, even if it meant Tilden’s gentle hand on his shoulder would be followed by a five alarm fire on his ass. 

Mike rubbed his eyes. He’d thought running out of tears only happened in sappy books, but he’d cried himself hoarse and his eyes dry.

“Are you ready to talk?” The voice was softer, not exactly sympathetic, but not cold and barren.

“Yes, sir.” It came out more as a croak.

Martin was sitting at a small table that Mike hadn’t noticed before. He was leaning back in a chair, sipping tea. “There’s cocoa for you. I was told you don’t like tea. Jer does cocoa right, so there’s whipped cream and chocolate shavings.”

Mike froze; the small kindness unleashed a wave of guilt. Standing in the corner, he’d resigned himself to obeying this fearsome stranger, but he hadn’t expected kindness.

“Don’t tell me you don’t like chocolate either?”

Mike shook his head. He couldn’t find words, and his tongue felt swollen and uncoordinated.

“Sit down, boy. We have a lot to cover.”

Mike sat down and wrapped his hands around the freshly poured mug of cocoa.

“Now, do you want to tell me what happened?”

Mike tried to hide his unsteadiness and embarrassment by spooning whipped cream into his cocoa and sprinkling chocolate on the top like volcanic ash drifting to the ground. He expected there was going to be more than volcanic ash in a few seconds. Martin’s voice had been softer, but his jaw was still tightly clenched, and his eyes were watchful. 

“Do you want me to tell you what I think happened?”

Mike nodded.

“I think you were angry, and you said some things you didn’t really mean, which triggered a cascade of events that quickly spiraled out of your control.”

Mike nodded again, keeping his eyes on the tablecloth.

“How much do you know about the history of these relationships? I’m not talking about relationships that only take place on the weekend or at a play party. I’m talking about the few men who allow the power exchange to bleed over into their everyday life.”

Where did that question come from? Mike raised his head and looked closely at Martin for the first time. Martin was sitting at the far side of the table, his long legs crossed in front of him, his feet in gray rag-wool socks, his tie removed and his collar unbuttoned around his thick neck. Most noticeable was his expression of concentrated mildness as if he were controlling intense emotions. “Not much,” Mike muttered when he realized that Martin was not going to continue until he answered.

“That’s what I thought. It at least makes it more understandable.” 

Makes what more understandable? Mike thought. He wasn’t given any additional time to ponder the statement before Martin fired a new question at him.

“Has Tilden ever physically abused you?” The question was asked with a hard sting as if it were painful to force the words out.

“No, sir.”

“Has he ever mentally abused you?”

“No, sir.”

“You realize that you accused him of those things?”

“I was angry.” Mike cursed himself. He sounded like a child, making excuses for failing to take out the trash.

“I don’t care if you were angry. You do not accuse your partner of abuse. Not unless you truly believe you’ve been abused—never because you’re angry. Do you understand me?” Martin roared, leaning across the table.

Mike shrank back. “Yes, sir,” he whispered.

Martin took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “You have no idea what you did, do you, son?  You’ve accused your partner of the worst possible crime, violated a sacred trust between the two of you.” Martin’s voice was now weary with a sad, wistful quality.

Mike shifted in his chair and studied the tablecloth. Oddly it was a tiny flower print, something that he’d heard called country French, a curious choice for two men.

“Mike, keep your eyes on me and listen.” Martin slapped the top of the table with his palm. “I’m going to explain this to you, and God help you if you ever do it again.

“The type of relationship you have with Tilden has been around for centuries, sometimes in the open, sometimes hidden in such a veil of misinformation that the historical record is difficult to follow. It’s from the Greeks and Romans where the earliest records are the most clear. The relationship was in the guise of the tutor and his disciples or students. These students were at the mercy of the tutor, expected to be loyal and obedient. In exchange, the tutor was to provide security, guidance, education, and—while it was not codified into law—love. Penalties for disobedience could be draconian, at least according to our standards. However, the worst penalty was reserved for those who accused their tutor or in more common parlance their top of improper action without cause. Disciples could be sold as slaves or in later times sent to the stadia as bait for the gladiators. In exchange for this control over their disciple’s life, the tutor was held to a high standard of behavior. Abuse of a disciple would lead the tutor to be ostracized within the community at the very least, and it seems clear from the historical record that other tutors frequently took matters into their own hands. Later in Roman times, a tutor could lose his status and be demoted to the slave class for improper action. 

“Records were lost as the great wave of barbarism followed by plagues and an excess of religiosity swept over Europe. As the Renaissance approached, the relationships reappeared under the guise of master and apprentice or knight and his liegeman. As always, honor and trust were valued above all else in a relationship. The young swordsman on bended knee in front of his knight receiving his blessing is the quintessential image of the period and of the responsibility of both parties to each other. The circle of trust was complete between the two. The knight with his sword and horse as sworn before his king to protect God, king, country, and his liegeman who through his labor and love protected his knight. It was the liege who shined the armor, kept the swords sharpened, and carried the water across the battlefields between charging stallions. The knight would sweep his liege onto his horse, shielding the un-armored liege from crossbows of the enemy.

“Later during the Enlightenment and the period of the great thinkers, many of the famous revolutionaries followed the same pattern. The relationships were well covered as church and society frowned upon the relationship. The private diaries are rife with references to the steadying influence of my partner or coconspirator. In Russia more than a few tops went to the far corners of Siberia defending their partners and their lovers. It’s from this period that the clearest records are kept especially from Russia where there is both a tradition of extensive diary keeping and tolerance of homosexuality among the gentry. It’s in this period that the code by which we live was recorded to be passed down through the generations. It’s in this time that the rights of the boy as we understand them today became codified. This was the period where the rights of man became more fully annunciated-—the end of serfdom, the end of slavery, the revolutionary movements. The young men who chose the submissive role could no longer be owned or forced but freely gave their submission. They volunteered to enter a relationship guided by rules that no longer guided the rest of society, a relationship with penalties for both partners if certain rules were crossed. Milton can tell you a lot more about it.” Martin sat back and took a drink of tea. “Do you understand what I’m talking about?”

“I think so,” Mike said softly. “Tilden considers himself my protector, and in exchange for this protection I must obey.”

“Partially. As a modern top, I consider myself a partner, protector, lover, guide. I’m sure Tilden has similar expectations. What do you think your role is?”

Mike toyed with the handle of his mug. Why did they insist on constantly talking about these things? This whole thing was probably over anyway. Couldn’t he just go back to being Mike, the slutty bottom? He’d been offered more, and he’d blown it.

“Mike, I don’t know what Tilden does, but I don’t tolerate not answering.”

“What was the question again?”

Martin’s brows furrowed and he intentionally leaned across the table into Mike’s space. “Do you need more time in the corner, little boy, or maybe I should do this with you hanging over my lap?”

“No, sir, but I don’t remember the question.” Mike swallowed hard, wondering if he was going to be facing the floor.

“Dammit boy! I’m trying to rescue your relationship, and you’re off in la-la land. Come here, boy.”

Mike got up and crossed the short distance to Martin. He swallowed nervously, expecting to be pulled over the older man’s lap.

“Sit down on the floor, cross-legged. Lean your back against my knees.”

What? Mike thought. Why does he want me to sit on the floor?

Mike felt a hand on his shoulder and then a hard swat across his rump. “It’s not your job to analyze my instructions. Do it.”

Mike scrambled to get down on the floor. That had hurt. Martin might be in his sixties, but he still had a powerful swing.

“Now, what were we talking about, boy?”

“My role in the relationship.” It was easier to talk down here. There was a comfort in leaning against another human, and there was no need to make eye contact. There was also the swift physical reminder of what would happen if he didn’t answer the questions. Had Martin put him on the floor to punish him, or had he done it to help?

“Ah, you don’t have short term memory loss. So what do you think?”

“To obey,” Mike said tentatively.

“That’s part of it but only a fraction of your role. I’ve been with Jer for over thirty years; I hope I get more out of it than obedience.”

“Love?”

“Good boy.” Martin briefly stroked the back of Mike’s neck. “Do you love Tilden?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why are you in a relationship with him if you don’t love him?”

“I didn’t say that. I don’t know what I feel.”

Martin placed a hand on Mike’s shoulder, offering a calm comfort. “Have you ever been in love? I’m not talking about in lust or about an infatuation with somebody.”

“I’m in love with Luke.”

“How do you know?”

What kind of question was that? You were just in love. Mike flinched as Martin flicked the back of Mike’s neck with a finger.

“I asked a question, boy. Describe your relationship with Luke without using the word love.”

The more explicit directions helped. “He’s fun. I like being with him. I miss him when he’s not here. He’s great in bed. Gorgeous, sexy, full of bounce.”

“OK, what about Tilden?”

“Caring, calm, bossy.”

Martin chuckled and ruffled Mike’s hair. “He’s a top. How else would you describe him?”

“Um—dedicated.”

“How do you mean?”

“He’s meticulous about preparing for class. He even asks our opinion about how he explained something in class, and we’re the worst Russian students ever.”

“How about at home?” Martin prompted.

“He spends a lot of time explaining stuff. Even when he’s going to lay down the law, he tries to get our agreement first.”

“That sounds fair.”

“He’s always fair.”

“You accused him of bullying and worse. It doesn’t sound like he’s that type of guy.”

“He’s not. I’m an ass. Why don’t you just say it?” Mike buried his face in his hands.

“No you’re impulsive; you don’t manage your anger well, and I think you had no idea of the ramifications of your words or actions. You told Tilden that you didn’t trust him, that he harmed you and not to touch. You accused him of violating your trust in a relationship that must be based on absolute trust. I don’t think you meant any of these things.”

“I didn’t.”

“No matter how strong the top is, this relationship depends on you voluntarily submitting to the top’s will. Sometimes it will be a struggle. We expect that; it’s not easy to surrender your will to another, but we expect you to try. Accusing your partner of abuse and flinching from his touch is declaring that you are abandoning the relationship. Do you understand this?”

“Yes, I violated his honor too...” Mike’s voice trailed off as he realized what he’d done. 

“Yes.” Martin bent down and kissed the top of Mike’s head.

“That’s what the history lesson was about?”

“Yes.”

“What’s going to happen now?”

“Traditionally punishment for this is harsh, but I don’t think Tilden’s heavy handed, do you?”

“No. What would you do?”

“It’s not my choice, but I’d make sure you understood how many rights and privileges you’d had by taking them all away—a symbolic reduction in status.”

“Do you think that will happen?”

“Milton is well versed in the history of these relationships, and I expect Tilden is as well. They’ll know how to handle it. It’s not your job to worry about it. Take the punishment and the mercy. Forgiveness will follow.”

“Yes, sir.”

Martin drew Mike to his feet. Mike immediately buried himself against the older man’s chest. “Come on. You belong in someone else’s arms.” Martin pushed Mike back down the hall in the reverse of the forced march they’d made earlier. This time the pace was slower and the touch gentler. 

The living room was crowded with people. Luke and Tilden were on the sofa neither sitting or lying, but somehow entwined with each other so the beginning of one and the start of the other couldn’t be discerned. Dean Tyler was perched in an armchair, flipping through a coffee table book of celebrity homes, and Trent was in the opposite armchair pretending to watch a college football game. Tilden turned his head toward the approaching men, his almost violet eyes questioning. Mike slipped out from underneath Martin’s hands and hurried across the small space of the living room before he hesitated at the edge of the sofa. Tilden held his hand out but made no effort to touch.

“Please,” Mike whispered and grabbed the proffered arm as if it were a life raft on the high seas. 

Tilden’s hand closed firmly around Mike’s wrist and he pulled, tumbling Mike onto the sofa.