Lost and Found 10

Chapter 10

The sedan car pulled up to an enormous gate set between two stone pillars. Mike thought they were in Vermont. After years of his parents dumping him all over the world, he’d become an expert at figuring out locations from the back of the car even when the driver was attempting to confuse him. The driver had driven around Burlington twice before heading back south toward Bristol and Middlebury.

The driver’s side window slid down with a hiss, and the young man dressed in a stereotypical chauffeur’s uniform complete with cap waved a card in front of a hidden sensor on the stone pillar. A massive iron gate began its slow journey, no longer blocking the narrow asphalt strip that wound between the barren trees. Before the window returned to its place, a cold blast of air swirled through the overheated car compartment. It must have been five degrees colder than in Boston. Mike reached for his coat that he’d stripped off earlier. Tilden had explained something about the increased warmth from being on the coast, but Mike was still shocked at the difference.

The car continued slowly up the path. In the dim glare of the headlights, Mike could see little until they pulled up to an enormous house ablaze with lights. Several other identical sedan cars were parked in the circular drive, with bellhops toting bags up the stairs and onto the wide porch. A uniformed bellhop opened the door and signaled to the occupants that they should exit.

“Welcome to the Inn at Bridge Falls. You’re in room three thirty-three.” He pressed an old-fashioned brass key into Tilden’s hand. “Make yourself comfortable. We’ll handle all the luggage. There’ll be a meeting in the great room in forty-five minutes. Enjoy your stay.”

Mike discreetly felt for the money belt concealed under his baggy pants. Sheldon had warned them that the producers would search their luggage for any contraband material, especially cell phones and pocket computers. Tilden had been loath to place his family entirely at the mercy of television producers enslaved to ratings and advertising dollars, and all three members of the family had hidden phones, cash, and a bankcard for emergencies.

The room was spacious with an extra large king-sized bed plus a pullout sofa. A bowl of fresh fruit sat on the table, and the mini bar was stocked with a wide variety of alcohol. 

“Look at this,” Mike said, pulling open the refrigerator, “beer, wine, and vodka. We’re all set.”

“Is there any water or soda?” Tilden asked.

“I don’t see any.” Mike said.

“That figures,” Tilden said with a grimace. “Alcohol loosens the tongue.”

“You’re not going to let us have any, are you?” Mike asked.

“What do you think, Mishenka?” Tilden reached over and lightly swatted Mike on the hip.

“No, big, bad top won’t let us near that stuff.”

“You’ve got that right.” Tilden said with a grin. “We’ll all enjoy this a lot more if we don’t create any television moments. Ti ponimaesh?”

“Yest’,” both brats said in unison, mocking the Russian military movie they’d seen last night.

“I like that.” Tilden smiled. “Yes, sir and no, sir, we should have no problems. I didn’t even ask you, Luka. Do you have a guilty conscious?”

“No, I was just saving you time.”

“Brat,” Tilden said with a laugh, trilling his tongue over the consonants like he was speaking Russian.

The great room was full of tops and brats when Tilden, Mike, and Luke entered. A variety of finger foods had been spread out on the table along with glasses of wine. Tilden grabbed a staff member and demanded water. The poor woman scurried off to what Mike assumed was the kitchen and came back with half a dozen water bottles still wrapped in the plastic from the store.

“It’s warm,” Luke muttered.

“Yes, but it’s not alcoholic. This isn’t negotiable, guys, so don’t even try.”

“And I thought Russians drank like fish,” Mike groused.

“There’s a time and a place, and this is not it,” Tilden said emphatically. 

Cotton had come out of the throng of fellow contestants when he spotted them and was now standing to Luke’s left. Tilden reached over, grabbed the glass of wine from Cotton, set it behind him on a low table, and replaced it with a bottle of water.

“Hey,” Cotton muttered more at Luke than at Tilden. “Does he always do that?”

“Don’t mind him,” Mike said. “He’s on an anti-alcohol campaign.”

“He’s right,” Brad said, having slipped up beside his partner. He hooked an arm around Cotton’s  waist and ruffled his fair hair. “We’ll have some of that water.”

Cotton leaned against Brad. “Bully,” he murmured with no heat in his voice.

“You like me this way.” Brad hugged his partner tighter. 

“Everything going well?” Tilden asked in the polite, open-ended way that Mike recognized as a top prying while pretending to express only polite interest. Mike had heard the same question innumerable times from all the tops.

“Better,” Brad said with a smile. “He hasn’t shown up on your doorstep again.”

“Brad,” Cotton whined.

“I’m only teasing you, babe.”

A strident female voice interrupted their chit-chat. Mike didn’t recognize her; it wasn’t the infamous Fiona. “Gentlemen, can you settle down, please. We need to get started. Please, come sit down.” She was pointing toward a row of sofas and chairs that had been arranged in front of an enormous fireplace. Several bucks endowed with impressive antlers were mounted above the mantle, along with photos of celebrities posing with fresh carcasses, completing the hunting lodge effect. 

Tilden kept a hand on both his partners as he guided them to a seat on the sectional. Brad and Cotton managed to squeeze in next to them. Mike didn’t pay much attention to the woman who droned on about the upcoming events and projects. He was more interested in observing the men in front of him. Luke had tried to fill him in on his fellow brats, but Luke freely admitted that he’d spent most of the time prior to the selection hiding in the corner and anxiously preparing questions for the prospective tops. Tilden hadn’t been much better, and he was a top, for God’s sake. He was supposed to be observing his surroundings and preparing for any eventual emergency. Instead it seemed he’d been as nervous as Luke. Tilden had been able to point out the couple in the impossibly tight pants. The top was the owner of Farolitos in Palm Springs, Miami, and New York, and the brat had been some sort of second rate nightclub singer. Mike watched the two of them as they openly flirted with each other and anyone within range. Mike thought he’d probably end up over Tilden’s knee in a heartbeat if he acted like that, let alone wore those pants. They’d surely go out with the next load to the thrift shop. Mike fingered the stud in his ear. He was the only one in the household who wore jewelry, and while none of the tops suggested he remove it, somehow, he thought, anything more flamboyant would land him in a heap of trouble.

Mike recognized the powerfully built gymnast who despite the cold was wearing a pair of wind pants and a flimsy T-shirt that did nothing to hide his well developed pecs. Mike couldn’t tell who was the gymnast’s partner as several guys circled around him, eyeing his ripped body. Next to the fire in an oversized armchair, a prosperous looking guy, his pressed khakis hitched up to show expensive Italian shoes, pulled a slight, almost boyish figure down in his lap. Mike thought he saw the boy flinch and stiffen as the man touched him. It was but a fleeting instant, but the impression seemed real. Mike turned his eyes toward Tilden, whose eyes were also on the two figures in the armchair. Tilden gave Mike a brisk nod as if to reassure and to acknowledge that he’d also seen something.

The hostess was droning on about decorating the Christmas tree and preparing holiday meals when Mike realized that Tilden had been chosen to lead the brats in the preparation of the holiday feast. It was to mimic the Thanksgiving spread as closely as possible. Mike hoped that one of the brats was a secret gourmet. Tilden might be able to manage burgers and mets on the grill, or at least if he failed, the fire would be outside—roast turkey, impossible. Tilden was allowed one companion top to assist him. The hostess was discussing the virtue of several tops with experience in the restaurant or catering business, but much to everyone’s surprise Tilden chose Brad Roberts.

“I can only manage TV dinners,” the vet said.

“Well, you’re doing better than me. I can boil water on a good day.” Then in an undertone meant only for Brad’s ears as the the others around them either chuckled or groaned at the announcement of their lack of cooking skills, “I trust you. We’ll manage the dinner somehow.” Mike heard despite the noise around him.

The hostess went on to explain the requirements of the meal and to promise either punishment or reward if the meal was a success.

“After our cooking, a bread and water regime might seem like a reward,” Brad joked.

“I bet the reward is dinner catered in from a fine restaurant for the next day,” Luke said. The hostess shot him a hostile look and Luke just grinned. “I told you so,” he said, elbowing Mike.

“The remaining tops are going on an expedition to find the perfect Christmas tree and holiday decorations to brighten the inn for the upcoming holiday season. Dinner will be a late lunch, served at two. After breakfast, the entire morning may be devoted to its preparation. Are you ready, gentlemen?”

“Of course,” Tilden said with a smile. “The master chef awaits the challenge.”

The hostess raised her eyebrows. “I’ve heard about your culinary skills. Master chef seems to be overstating it.”

“I have plenty of assistance,” Tilden said with a smile that encompassed all the brats in the room. 

Mike was struck by how easily his top was connecting with the remaining brats. He’d always thought that was more Milton’s forte to wade into the fray and sort out perfect strangers. But then again Tilden did teach, and this was exactly how he managed the classroom—a friendly smile with a hint of steel underneath. It was the friendly smile and Tilden’s eyes, the dancing violet flecks, that had kept Mike in the class after Tilden had handed out the syllabus with an obvious abundance of work. Of course, he hadn’t figured out the hidden steel until he found himself in an academic quagmire, and Tilden pulled him out of the swamp kicking and screaming. Mike smiled to himself; he wondered if any of these young men were going to find out that Tilden wasn’t the friendly pushover he was portraying. Woe to the unsuspecting. Mike doubted that Tilden would physically punish a near stranger, but he’d seen the results of Tilden dressing down a student, and it wasn’t pretty. 

Mike remembered the Russian major whom Tilden had verbally flattened. He thought the student was a junior or a senior who’d stopped by to see Tilden in his office. The student had ducked his head in the door, stammering and staring at his feet. Much to Mike’s surprise, Tilden had kicked both Luke and him out. They usually stayed in the office while Tilden tutored students or helped unsnarl a thorny problem in Russian grammar. The student had come out of the office about twenty minutes later, leaned against the wall, and drawn in a lung full of air as if he’d been holding his breath the entire time he was in the office.

“You two live with him?” he said as a half question. “More power to you. I thought he was going to have my head on a platter. I guess it’s still on my neck.” The student made a show of feeling his neck. “Oh and I’m Pyotr, a poor bastard who’s majoring in Russian.”

“So why’s he upset with you?” Mike asked.

“You don’t beat around the bush, do you?”

“It comes with the territory,” Mike said with a shrug.

“I handed in a not so hot paper, ghastly really. Tikhon Ivanovich, Professor Blake described it as less than my best work by far, and that was charitable. He was decidedly not impressed that I drank too much at a friend’s wedding. Something about organization and priorities. I don’t know. He was talking too fast in Russian for me to get all of it, and I didn’t think asking for the translation was a smart move.”

“Petya, don’t you have work to do?” Tilden said from the doorway.

“Yes, I was just leaving.”

“You were commiserating with my partners that I’m an overbearing ogre. Now go.”

Pyotr fled, but not before his face turned a flaming red.

If Tilden had that effect on students, Mike could imagine the reaction of the brats. They, along with the TV people, were in for a shock. The hostess thought Tilden was going to be a pushover and chaos would reign tomorrow, making for excellent TV. Mike could almost see her salivating over the prospect.

After a few more instructions, mostly for a future TV audience, the meeting broke up. Tilden circled among his fellow contestants, making light chit-chat before heading upstairs with an excuse that he had a stack of papers to grade. Mike, Luke, and Cotton grabbed a table and lounged in front of the flickering firelight. Two brats, beer bottles in hand, pulled up chairs and joined them.

“So you’re the threesome?” the shorter of the two with a fuzz of a goatee on his chin asked.

“That’s us,” Mike said, pointing at Luke. I’m Mike. That’s Luke, and across the table is Cotton.”

“I’m Jordan,” the young man with the goatee said. “My buddy’s Peyton. “Have a drink, man.”

“No thanks,” Luke said.

“I saw your top disappear upstairs. He looked like he was calling it a night. What’s one beer?” Peyton asked.

“Pass it over,” Mike said. “It’s not like we’ve got any homework to do. They got all big and looming and made us do it Wednesday night. Can you believe it? A vacation and we had to do five hours of homework Wednesday and another few hours Thursday morning.”

“They’re obsessed with school,” Luke said, reaching for a beer and taking a big swallow.  “God, I haven’t had a beer in ages. I forgot how good it tastes.”

“Yeah, I know.” Mike wiped the back of his mouth with his hand. 

“Cotton, you want one?” Peyton said, passing him a bottle.

“No thanks. Brad’s still circling around somewhere. I’m treading carefully right now. Brad’s way too chummy with your tops and their methods,” Cotton said with a wry grin. “I think they let the genie out of the lamp.” Cotton rubbed his butt. 

Luke raised an eyebrow as if he wanted to ask if Cotton had been spanked again.

“Oh, yeah, twice,” Cotton said. “You’d think I’d learn.”

“Never,” Mike said with a laugh. “You should talk to Sheldon, the champion spankee.”

“Who’s Sheldon?” Jordan asked.

“A housemate,” Mike said.

“King of brats,” Luke added.

“You weren’t putting me on when you said Milton spanked him at least once a week?” Cotton asked.

Luke shook his head. “I don’t think he’s even made it through a whole week.”

“Shit. You’re kidding me,” Jordan said, finishing one beer bottle and opening the next. I don’t think my partner has the balls to spank me. He tried the corner thing once, but I thought the whole business was laughable. He just lectures. It’s like listening to my mom. ‘Your behavior is regrettable.’” Jordan laughed.

Mike laughed. “Who’s your top? He sounds easy.”

“He’s a wimp. Maynard’s over there with the wine glass, talking to two other tops. He’s probably talking about the merits of the paintings or the furniture quality. All he ever does is drag me to gallery openings and talk about art. God, this will be the longest six months of my life.”

Luke looked up from his beer. “Why do you stay with him?”

“It’s free room and board, and maybe I’ll get famous being on TV. Some guys have jumped from reality TV to mainstream acting careers.” Jordan shrugged. “It could be worse. He’s got plenty of dough and a nice house, even if it is crammed full of his precious antiques.”

“You’re with that teacher guy aren’t you?” Peyton asked with a slight slur in his voice.

Mike had started his second beer, but from the sound of Peyton he’d been drinking since they’d arrived. Mike studied his fellow brat. Peyton looked about Luke’s height, with black hair cut into a short, spiked look. He was wearing jeans that were threadbare over his ass with a tight shirt; not much was left to the imagination.

“You like what you see,” Peyton said and licked his lips before running his hand down his own chest. “I’m sure we could have some fun. It’s not like I’m getting much.”

“Nah.” Mike shook his head. “I’m taken.”

“Good brat.” Peyton smiled at Mike. His perfectly white teeth flashed in a shiny row. “You believe in this top and brat shit. Henry tried to spank me once, and I told him where he could go. A hot little spanking before bed is cool, but dudes, this discipline shit is for the birds. My partner would have to be a lot hotter than Henry before I’d let him tell me what to do.” 

Mike fingered his beer bottle. Tilden was hot in a nerdy sort of way, and he certainly did tell Mike what to do, and alcohol wasn’t on the agenda. He looked over at Luke, who had peeled the wrapper off his bottle and was shredding it into thin confetti like strips. Luke’s cheeks pinked under Mike’s gaze. Mike knew without Luke saying anything that they were both thinking the same thing. If Tilden found out, they were both in trouble. 

“What are you two staring at?” Jordan said. “I’m facing the stairs; I’ll warn you if I see your top.”

“It’s nothing,” Mike said, embarrassed. He didn’t want to reveal that a very real spanking probably lay in front of him.

“He doesn’t forbid drinking?” Peyton said incredulously. “What an overbearing prick!”

Neither Luke nor Mike said anything. Mike tried to laugh in an easy manner as if the whole idea of drinking being forbidden was ridiculous and reached for another beer. To his own ears, his laugh sounded false, like a bad actor in an elementary school play. They chatted for another few minutes, talking about the usual inconsequential things that filled the hours at parties. Several other brats wandered over, said a few words, and wandered off. A few tops also strolled over. None, at least in Mike’s opinion, were impressive, and no one said a word about the growing pile of beer bottles on the table.

Mike felt a strong hand on his shoulder and turned. Tilden loomed over his shoulder, his eyebrows drawn tightly together. “Upstairs now, both of you. Cotton, go find Brad. It’s getting late. And you two,” he said, addressing Jordan and Peyton, “leave your bottles here and go find your partners.”

Mike didn’t hear the rest of the conversation because he was already halfway up the stairs. He didn’t want Tilden to swat him in public, other brats or not, and Tilden’s expression looked none too promising.

The room was quiet. A light burned over the desk where a stack of papers stood partially graded. Mike could see Tilden’s fine, spidery handwriting filling the margins. Mike sighed and ran his hand through his short, brown hair. 

“I think maybe we should be in the corner,” Luke said. “Did you see Tilden’s expression?”

“Yeah, I saw.” Mike wrapped his arm around Luke’s shoulder and leaned against his smaller partner. “I hate disappointing him. I didn’t even really want a beer.” Mike hung his head, and they both walked toward the only empty corner in the room.

Mike heard the door open several minutes later. He wanted to turn, but he stayed facing the wall, his finger tracing the pattern on the intricate wallpaper. Luke’s head was down, and he was slumped against the wall. Mike heard a zipper and the sound of Tilden sinking down onto the sofa.

“Boys, come sit down.” Tilden’s voice sounded tired. Tilden sat in the middle of the sofa and indicated that Mike should sit on his left and Luke on his right. “Since you were both in the corner, it’s not like you forgot, or it was unclear. You knew drinking was forbidden,” Tilden shook his head sadly. His gaze was weary, and his eyes were troubled as he studied his two partners. 

The silence stretched through the room. Mike listened to the whisper of the air blowing through the heating ducts.

“I trusted you, both of you,” Tilden said when the silence had seemed to stretch to eternities. His voice sharpened, more the the voice that Mike was used to when they were in trouble, a hard staccato sound. “Was there anything unclear about my directive not to drink?”

“No, sir,” Luke whispered, blinking hard to try to keep the tears from escaping.

“No,” Mike mumbled. “It was wrong, stupid. I’m sorry.” Mike bit his cheek to hold back the sobs. Mike could see the paddle sitting on Tilden’s lap, looking like an innocent, cutting board. God, he hated all this analysis of his behavior.  Couldn’t Tilden just get on with it? When Tilden went into lecture mode, he never stopped. It was like he developed a second and even a third wind.

“Was it impossible to comply with my instructions?” Tilden asked.

“No, sir,” Mike said, wiping his hands on his pants.

“No, sir,” Luke echoed. His eyes were impossibly wide, and he reached up to wipe a stray tear from his cheek.

Tilden took a deep breath and stretched his shoulders back. “This relationship is about trust. I agree to help enforce rules for all three of us, and you agree to submit to my decisions. You have to take an active part in it—choose to play by the rules. I don’t see that here.” Tilden sat back on the sofa and crossed his legs. Unlike most of the conversations before a punishment, Tilden wasn’t touching his partners; he wasn’t offering physical reassurance. It was as if he were waiting for them to make the first move.

Luke leaned his head against Tilden’s chest and stopped trying to prevent the tears. Tilden’s arm went around Luke’s shoulder, pulling him close, offering comfort but not trying to quiet him.

Mike folded his hands on his lap. He wished he could ask for the comfort, surrender to Tilden the way Luke could. He pulled his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around himself, staring off into the distance. Mike felt a heavy hand on his shoulder, and he was yanked against Tilden’s chest.

“Stop this. You don’t withdraw into a private cocoon. What went wrong?”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to,” tumbled out of Mike’s mouth.

“You didn’t mean to drink. The beer magically appeared on the table.” Tilden didn’t hide the sarcasm in his voice.

“No!” Mike wailed. “You’re not listening.”

“Talk to me, Misha. I will always listen. Right now you’re not talking to me. You’re whining and protesting because I caught you.”

“No,” Mike shouted. “That’s not it.” He jerked out from under Tilden’s arm, sprang up, and started pacing.

“Sit down, Mishenka”

“No.”

“That wasn’t a request.” The words were said mildly, but the intent was obvious. Tilden shifted Luke from his chest in preparation to get up. He reached for the paddle.

“Mike, sit down,” Luke pleaded. “Don’t take this any further.”

Mike hesitated before spitting back, “I’m not a good brat.”

“You’re not trying.” Tilden said in Mike’s ear. 

He’d moved shockingly fast. Mike thought Tilden had been sitting on the sofa, and now he had Mike firmly by the arm, facing the wall. 

The paddle swung down sharply. “You do not run away. You talk to me.” Tilden punctuated each word with a paddle stroke.

Mike gasped and squirmed. He always forgot how much this hurt. Even through his jeans, Tilden had a powerful stroke. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” Mike choked. “I didn’t mean to disobey you.”

“You didn’t mean to take a drink?” Tilden continued to spank Mike.

“No, you’re not understanding me. I knew I was drinking.” Mike let out a wail when an extra hard swat landed. “I wasn’t thinking. I know it looks like we intentionally blew you off. I’m sorry. It was stupid.” The words poured out of Mike’s mouth in a rapid jumble. “Please stop. I’m sorry.” 

Tilden spun Mike around and pressed his partner to his chest. “Mishenka, I’ve got you.”

Mike didn’t try to stop the tears as he sagged into Tilden’s chest. He let Tilden guide him back to the sofa. Mike shifted uncomfortably when his tender rump hit the serge of the couch cushion.

“Shh,” Tilden crooned. I’ve got both you.” Tilden’s hand stroked down Mike’s back. “You two need to learn to talk to me.” 

Mike shifted, and Tilden pulled him up into his lap. “I’m too tall for this.” Mike squirmed.

“Sit still. I want you here, so you’re going to sit here. It’s that simple.”

Mike leaned back against Tilden’s chest. It did feel good to sit here, his head tucked under Tilden’s chin, Luke lying against both their shoulders.

They sat silently for several minutes before Luke spoke, his voice hardly above a whisper. “Drinking was like telling you to fuck off. We didn’t mean that.”

“Language,” Tilden said with a glint of his usual humor back in his voice. He kept one arm around Luke and held Mike tight in his lap. “Tell me why I’m displeased,” he asked Mike.

“It was an intentional disobedience, a flaunting of the rules.” Mike buried his head in Tilden’s shoulder. He hadn’t intended to hurt Tilden. He just wanted to feel normal—like one of the guys.

“Why did you do it?” Tilden persisted.

“I didn’t want to feel different.”

“Cotton wasn’t drinking.”

“His top was downstairs.”

“Do I need to watch you every minute?”

“No,” both Luke and Mike chorused.

“That’s what it looks like. If I’m not present to enforce the rules, you ignore them.”

Mike hung his head. What could he say? It was exactly what they did. “How do we make this all right?” Mike asked.

“What do you want me to do?”

“You’re going to paddle us,” Luke said softly.

“Yes, that’s a given for intentional disobedience and drinking.”

“What else? Do you want to cane us?” Luke muttered into Tilden’s side.

“God, no!” Tilden took a deep breath. “Do you need me to?”

“You don’t have a cane.” Mike said. 

“Milton does.”

“It hurts,” Mike said with a shudder.

“Have you ever been caned?” Tilden asked.

“No, but I’ve read about it.”

“Do you want or need me to hurt you like that?” Tilden didn’t quite suppress a shudder of his own.

“It would hurt you more than it hurt us,” Mike said, pulling himself forward so he could study his top’s face.

“When did you get so smart? Maybe I should always spank you before we talk.”

“Please don’t,” Mike said with a twisted smile. “It hurt.”

“You need to talk to me.” Tilden said, pulling both his partners close. “This isn’t a one man show. I can’t do this by myself. This is about trust. And I’m not sure I can trust you right now.”

“Do you want to ground us?” Mike asked. 

“Luka, you’ve been quiet. What do you think?”

“You’re the top. Can’t you decide?” Luke chewed on his lip.

“Will it help you make a better decision? Punishment is not about making you miserable but teaching you something.”

Mike watched Tilden, hoping he’d make the decision, but Tilden sat and waited. Mike played with the cuffs on his sweater before answering. “I think I can speak for Luke here also. We won’t do it again, and we’d like a chance to prove it. If you ground us, we can’t prove our good faith to you.”

Tilden ran his hand down Mike’s back but didn’t say anything for several minutes. “Tak,” he said in that long drawn out way which meant he was still formulating his thoughts as he spoke. “You’re both getting paddled. That’s not negotiable. I won’t ground you, but you have early bedtime until we get home. In bed by nine.”

Mike wanted to complain about being sent to bed at an hour suitable for a fourth grader, but he kept his mouth closed. It could’ve been a lot worse. Mike’s stomach clenched as Tilden shifted him off his lap. The next time he was on Tilden’s lap it would be face down.

“Luka, let’s get this done.” Tilden patted his thighs.

Luke stood and fumbled with the button on his corduroys until Tilden unfastened it and slid his partner’s pants down. Mike watched as Tilden positioned Luke over his lap. Mike screwed his eyes shut. He couldn’t watch any more; this was worse than getting spanked himself.

The first swat landed. Mike heard the crack of a hand against bare flesh.  It seemed so loud, louder than when he was across Tilden’s knees. Jeremiah could probably explain the difference—something about sound waves, Mike thought. He wished he had earplugs. Only a few swats had fallen, and Luke was already crying. Mike curled into a ball, willing himself to think of anything else. His brain wandered into long forgotten high school physics problems—force equals mass times acceleration. What was it with these physics equations? He hadn’t liked physics in high school.

Mike jerked as if the swat had landed on his backside. The sound had changed; Tilden had switched to the paddle. He was spanking fast now, and Luke was making incoherent noises between a wail and a sob. Suddenly the paddling stopped, and the cries seemed louder without the sound of wood against flesh to mask the sobbing. Mike could hear Tilden whispering something to Luke. Words of comfort and forgiveness, Mike was sure. Tilden always forgave them no matter how stupid their behavior. 

Luke’s sobs changed to choking sounds and sniffles when Tilden stood and guided his partner to the corner. “Let me take care of Misha, druzhok.”

Tilden reseated himself on the sofa and guided Mike to his right side. Mike didn’t resist and started to push his pants down. He positioned himself over Tilden’s lap. With his height, he never fit as comfortably as Luke. He always felt unsure what to do with his hands. Should he fold his arms and bury his head in his arms on the sofa, or should he rest his weight on his fingertips and let his head hang down? His internal debate was interrupted by the first swat. Mike jerked and felt his breath hiss from his lungs. God, he was already sore. Mike didn’t try to stop the tears that came almost immediately. He jerked and plunged at each swat.

Mike couldn’t stop himself; he reached back to shield his scorched butt. Tilden caught Mike’s hand and pinned it to his back. “Hang in there, Mishenka. Breathe for me.”

Mike took several ragged gasping breaths and felt Tilden shift his weight. Shit, the paddle, Mike thought as the first blow came crashing down. Some sound came from Mike’s throat that he couldn’t name, something combining all the qualities of a screech, a groan, and a sob. Mercifully Tilden was quick. Mike quickly found himself on his knees between Tilden’s thighs sobbing incoherently. Tilden was trying to soothe him. Mike didn’t understand the words. He wasn’t sure if it was because Tilden was speaking in Russian or because Mike’s brain wasn’t working at full throttle. His nervous system seemed to be overwhelmed by the flames licking his butt, preventing all other coherent nerve impulses, including those of thought and speech.

“Vsyo normal’no s’chas. Ya lyublyu tebya.”

Tilden was speaking in Russian, Mike thought as his head began to clear. He felt Tilden draw him to his feet and help him step out of the tangle of pants and shoes around his ankles. Tightly pressed against Tilden’s chest, they gathered up Luke from the corner, and they all fell into a heap on the bed.

******

Tilden woke to the sound of furious knocking and the rattle and shake of someone trying to force a door open. “I’ll be right there,” he called, hoping his partners would sleep through the racket. Last night had been rough. He’d spanked harder, and his partners had cried longer than he liked. He hoped he’d done the right thing, especially with Mike, who’d had more than half a spanking before Tilden even pulled his dark-haired partner over his knee. He wished Milton was here; he’d know the answers to these kind of questions, or if he didn’t he’d reassuringly fake it, Tilden thought with a wry grin. Maybe he could slip away to a quiet spot and call home for some advice. That seemed unlikely when the TV people were already pounding on his door at five thirty in the morning.

Tilden pulled on a robe and padded to the door. He moved the chair lodged under the handle and opened it a crack, forcing the rude knocker back rather than letting him into the room.

A young man, not more than Mike or Luke’s age, stumbled back into the hallway, looking embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I’ve been ordered by the production staff to wake you.” The boy swallowed and stuffed his hands into his pockets.

“At five thirty in the morning. Was Fiona by any chance behind this?”

“Yes, Ms. Moore insisted. I’m sorry, sir.”

“You don’t have to call me sir, and I know it’s your job, and she’s your boss. Will you give me a few minutes to wake my partners at my own pace?”

“Yes, sir. You need to be at breakfast by six thirty.”

“We’ll be there,” Tilden said with an easier smile than he felt. His partners were going to be sore and tired. He would rather have let them sleep in.

“Thank you, sir, for being so kind.”

“Is waking people usually an unpleasant chore?” Tilden asked, his eyebrows rising.

“Yeah, the last reality show I worked on one of the contestants punched me and another hung me over a balcony railing. You’re really nice. I wasn’t sure after...”

“You heard last night?”

“Ah—yes, sir. Everybody said you were royally pissed that your partners were drinking, and I could hear the crying. The walls aren’t that thick.”

“I see,” Tilden said, running his fingers through his short hair. “I’m a top, not a bully. I don’t make it a habit to threaten strange young men who have the unpleasant job of waking me before the rooster crows. Now don’t you have more people to wake?”

The boy nodded, and a wistful look came over his face. “Your partners are lucky.”

“I’m not sure they’d agree with you this morning.” Tilden laughed.

“I’m sure they do. I watched their eyes on you yesterday.”

“You’re too good for my ego.” Tilden put his hand on the young man’s shoulder and pushed him down the hall. “Go on now. Get back to work before we have Fiona up here breathing fire. You’ll find someone, kid.” Tilden murmured to the boy’s departing back.

“I wish,” the boy said, looking back over his shoulder with dark, pleading eyes.

“Stop it.” Tilden sharpened his tone. He didn’t need this kid dreaming over him for the next few days.

“Sorry,” the kid muttered before fleeing down the hall but not without giving Tilden another long look, emphasizing those sweet innocent eyes.

“Brat.” Tilden laughed to himself. That kid was going to be a charming handful for someone. 

Mike and Luke had slept through the noise and were curled around each other. Tilden longed to crawl back under the blankets and cuddle with his two partners, but instead he headed to the bathroom to shower and shave. Maybe the noise of the shower would wake them up gently and in good humor.

They were still sleeping when he exited the bathroom freshly showered and shaved. Tilden pulled on a pair of jeans and a flannel shirt. The colors would better absorb any stains made while cooking or attempting to cook. He didn’t think curtains flambé was considered a delicacy.

“Luka, Mishenka, you need to get up.” Tilden drew the blankets back, shook Luke’s shoulder, and tried to untangle him from Mike.

“What time is it?” Luke murmured sleepily, trying to pull the covers back over himself.

“Six.” Tilden continued to pry Luke from the bed.

“It’s vacation. Who gets up at six on vacation?”

“Crazy people who agree to appear on reality TV. Up. Shower. Shave.” Tilden landed a light swat on Luke’s thigh.

“Tyrant.”

“Tsar Tikhon Ivanovich himself,” Tilden teased. “Shower. You’re wasting time.”

Luke headed for the bathroom, and Tilden turned his attention towards Mike, who was playing possum. “Up you go, my sleeping boy.”

Mike groaned. “I’m sore.”

“Turn over and let me have a look.” Tilden ran his hand down the smooth flesh of Mike’s rump. It was a little red, but no bruising. “I’m sure it’s still a little tender.”

“It hurts.”

Tilden kissed his partner’s shoulder and ran his finger tips along the skin interspersed with only a few dark hairs. “Mishenka, is it that bad?”

“No, but this is nice.”

“Brat.” Tilden landed a light swat, aiming off to the side to miss the sorest area. “Get up.”

“Would it hurt more if you caned us?”

“Do you have a fantasy about caning?”

“Luke does.” Tilden could tell from the sound of Mike’s voice that he was embarrassed.

“For fun or for real?”

“For fun, I think. Naughty English schoolboy type thing. I think he’s more crazy than I am.”

“Maybe,” Tilden said slowly. “This isn’t a contest about who’s the more perfect partner. You’re both perfect as far as I’m concerned. We’ll talk about this more when we’re all together and more awake. Now up.” Tilden stood up and hoisted Mike up with him. “Bathroom, brat,” he said in a lighter voice than he felt.

Once Mike was safely in the bathroom, he sat down with a sigh. His partners seemed to have survived last night more intact than he was. Mike even suggested that Luke wanted to try a little play with a nasty implement. Tilden shuddered. How did you cane someone for fun? Tilden knew Milton had been taught to play when he was younger and with the Green Mountain Boys, but it wasn’t something that any of the tops did on a regular basis. Sheldon, for wanting to be spanked at frequent intervals, had made it clear that scenes weren’t his thing, or at least that’s what Tilden thought. If Milton and Sheldon played at home, they kept it a secret. He’d never seen Milton in leather, and the image of a leather clad Milton holding a whip over his cowering partner bordered on the absurd. Tilden blinked, clearing the lion tamer image from his mind. He’d have to talk to someone about the specifics of a caning scene. He owed it to his partners to at least try. Milton would know the right people. Unfortunately it was probably Gordon and his friends. Tilden swallowed. He could do this for his partners.

Tilden smiled as his two young men came out of the bathroom, each with a towel wrapped around his waist, a light sheen of water glinting off his skin. Identical grins hovered at the corner of their mouths. 

“Somebody was having fun in the shower without me,” Tilden said with a smile.

A sheepish blush rose over both boys’ cheeks, making them truly look like boys.

“Get dressed, you scallywags.” Tilden gently swatted his brats toward their clothes. “Hurry. I don’t want to fight a losing round with our dear friend Fiona because we’re late.”

This seemed to inspire the boys, and they rushed into their clothes. “Let’s go give her hell,” Mike said with a cheeky grin.

Even though it was six twenty-nine, Tilden and his two partners were the first people down the stairs and into the dining room. The table was laid out with a smorgasbord of cold breakfast food. The TV crews were hovering around like hunters and their dogs before heading out after the poor doomed stag. 

Over the next few minutes, the remainder of the couples staggered down. Cotton came running into the dining room dragging Brad behind him and immediately dove for the jelly filled doughnuts.

“Sugar high,” Brad said with a groan.

“You already nixed alcohol; you can’t take my sugar.”

Brad kissed Cotton on the cheek. “Never, my sweet, but leave a few for everyone else.”

Tilden watched the brats grab breakfast treats. The thin young man he’d seen with the man with the wire rimmed glasses took only a small apple and eased himself down into a chair as if it hurt to move. Both Luke and Mike had avoided sitting, but their movements were fluid as they mixed with the other brats while shoveling a variety of brightly colored, sugar filled breakfast treats into their mouths. If Trent found out what they were eating today, next week’s breakfasts would be poached eggs and whole grain toast with too many seeds. The silent boy diced the apple into tiny pieces, but Tilden didn’t see a single one enter his mouth. His partner didn’t seem to notice as he’d taken a plate of scrambled eggs and was talking with the real estate broker.

“Do you know who that is?” Tilden said, casting his eyes towards the boy as he questioned Brad.

“Xavier. I don’t know his last name. I think he’s barely eighteen.”

“Something’s not right,” Tilden said.

Brad looked at Tilden questioningly. “You mean more than everything else that’s going on in this ridiculous weekend? Maybe he doesn’t like hanging out with strangers. I can sure sympathize there.”

“Maybe, but I don’t think so.” Tilden said, watching as Xavier took his minced apple and tossed it in the trash. He stood high over the trash can and let the plate fall as if he didn’t want to bend over.

“He looks sore,” Brad said, and then his eyebrows knitted together. “You think something’s not right between him and his partner?”

Tilden nodded. “Hopefully I’m wrong. Maybe he was in a car crash.”

“You’re going to ask?”

“Yes, it’s our responsibility as tops. I need to talk to him away from his top.”

“He’s an adult.” Brad said, stirring his eggs with a fork.

“Yes, but it doesn’t mean he should be abandoned. Do you stand by why someone gets mugged with the excuse that adults don’t need your help?”

“Easy.” Brad lifted his hands in a soothing gesture. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have jumped down your throat,” Tilden said with a small smile. “I’m a little on edge today also.”

“Last night?”

Tilden nodded. “I didn’t want to have to do that this weekend.”

Brad gave Tilden a wide smile. “Look I’m not laughing at you, but God, it’s a relief to know that even an experienced top like you has trouble with the discipline thing. I have to practically threaten myself with the paddle before I can spank Cotton, and he needs it sometimes. Milton was right when he called Cotton straightforward but needing a firm hand. I could never manage two. They’d have to commit me.”

“Thanks, buddy,” Tilden said, trying to hide a smile. “I guess I’m one step from the looney bin and a prying busybody. And by the way, I have no more actual experience with a partner than you have.”

Brad looked shocked for a second, as if he couldn’t decide if Tilden was serious, and then a wide grin spread over the vet’s face. “You must give your boys a run for their money on witty comebacks.”

“It’s a learned skill necessary to survive in our household.” 

Brad and Tilden both laughed. Tilden cast his eye toward his partners; they were talking with Cotton and seemed to be out of harm’s way. Both Xavier and his top had disappeared. Most of the other tops were lingering over their coffee. More than a few looked only half awake and as if they were nursing raging headaches.

“I think it would be a good idea to circulate around and try to get a feel for the brats before the cooking disaster,” Tilden said as he stood up from the table.