Friends and Family 12

Chapter 12

Tilden scooped the last of his eggs up with the dark bread, enjoying the taste of home. Trent and Mace had outdone themselves for Tilden’s return to West Banner and had made the famous Russian rye. The smell of sour dough lingered through the house, much to Blade’s consternation.

Tilden’s first introduction to Blade had been yesterday at the airport. Tilden had been surprised to see Milton arrive with both Sheldon and his younger brother following close behind and neither looking happy.

“They’re grounded,” Milton had said with a shrug when Tilden had raised an eyebrow at their matching sour expressions. “Right now I have no inclination to let them out of my sight.”

The car ride back to the house had been painfully tense. Sheldon, who could usually be counted on to start and effortlessly continue  a conversation, perhaps over topics best not discussed in polite company, had alternated staring out the window with sending frigid looks at his brother.

“What’s going on between the two redheaded grouches?” Mike had asked in exasperation after several futile attempts at conversation.

“They’re being difficult,” Milton had said succinctly and snapped on the radio.

The house was ablaze with Christmas lights when they pulled in the driveway, far more than Tilden remembered.

“Milton and Gordon’s busy work,” Sheldon had muttered as he grabbed a handful of suitcases. “Disobedient bratty boys don’t get any free time.”

Tilden swallowed a sip of the hot fragrant tea. Difficult baking projects were Trent’s strategy to manage a distracted or stressed Mace. Trent also freely admitted that he himself found them relaxing. Every surface in the kitchen was covered with cookies and cakes of every description. An entire regiment of gingerbread men were stacked on top of the refrigerator. Tilden had thought he’d even spotted fruitcake, a dessert that no one could abide. Maybe Gordon or Landon liked the things. Tilden had been surprised to see both men in the kitchen when he arrived yesterday. They’d left early this morning with a mysterious emergency at the lodge—broken pipes or something. They’d be back  in two days for an interview with Graves and company, but Tilden hadn’t been sad to see them leave.

Sean had worked his lawyer magic, and the network had agreed to substitute film from the documentary in place of their own footage. Now they merely had to survive several days with a new film crew. Tilden was on edge; he didn’t care how gay or power exchange friendly these new filmmakers were supposed to be. He’d been there before.

Tilden turned as he heard the backdoor bang. Milton shed his damp coat and hat, kicked off his shoes, and grabbed a mug of tea before folding his long frame into the chair across from Tilden. He distractedly ran his hand down his beard. 

“You’re out and about early?” Tilden said, concerned by the tiredness in Milton’s eyes.

“I have Sheldon’s rail pass and credit cards locked in my desk drawer. I took him to work. Blade still sleeping?”

“Yes.”

“The only good thing about an eighteen-year-old in the house—he sleeps late.”

“How bad is it?” Tilden reached out and covered Milton’s hand with his own.

Milton rolled his eyes. “Boys shouldn’t have siblings. We’re both only children. I expected some friction between the two of them, but I have war. They’re too much alike. Sheldon is generous and sympathetic to anyone in distress without always fully thinking through the consequences. He knew his brother was a submissive, and Sheldon knows the pain as an unanchored submissive with his temperament. He’s talked enough about his younger days for me to know the roller coaster of emotions that poor boy struggled with. He tries to relegate his younger days to a series of funny adventures, but he can’t hide the stark pain and even terror he felt as he realized at some level that he wasn’t quite the same as his friends, but couldn’t or wouldn’t put a name on it. Watching Blade struggle was a painful and bitter reminder. He couldn’t watch his brother flailing and not interfere, but sharing me is not something Sheldon does easily or gracefully. He’s angry and more than a little jealous when my attention is on Blade, but he’s also deeply sympathetic to his brother in distress.”

“How can I help?”

“Just by being here: having the three of you should help a lot. Mike and Luke are closer to Blade’s age. I hope he’ll model his behavior on your boys. He’s had a difficult introduction to his submissive side, more forceful than has been good for him. Trent’s been providing a sympathetic ear, and Mace’s steadiness has been lifesaving, but I hate to see a boy struggle so hard.”

“I saw the baking.”

“Blade likes to cook, and he trusts Trent, sometimes more than me. He sees Trent as less judgmental, which is probably true at least to some degree.”

“You’re not the bad guy here,” Tilden interrupted.

“I feel like it.” Milton smiled ruefully. “If I’m not cornering someone, I’m swatting or spanking them.”

“They controls that.”

“You’re sounding like Gordon. I never thought I’d see that day.” Milton chuckled. “To have you two see eye to eye might be worth all this pain.”

“It will work out. You’re good at this.”

“I know,” Milton sighed. “I hate to see them struggle. Gordon says the struggle is part of the process.”

“Character building,” Tilden said half sarcastically.

Milton smiled. “I don’t need to build any more character. I have quite enough.”

“Did you tell Gordon that?”

“Yes, but I made sure to stand far enough away that he couldn’t reach me.”

Both tops turned when they heard footsteps on the stairs. Blade stood on the landing, his red hair uncombed and sticking straight up. He shifted uncomfortably on his bare feet when Milton’s eyes fell on him, and he tugged the too large robe tighter around himself.

“Come here, rascal,” Milton growled and opened his arms. Blade came down the remaining stairs, at first hesitant but then quicker, and didn’t resist when Milton swung the young man onto his lap. “Well, I see you managed half today, a robe but still no slippers.”

“I don’t get cold.”

“This floor is freezing. Humor us. We’re tops. Cold, frozen boys damage our DNA.”

“You’re a mother hen.”

“That too.”

“Luka, dobroe utro,” Tilden said, noticing his partner in the doorway. “Will you loan Blade a pair of socks? His feet are freezing.”

“The negotiated settlement,” Milton said with a smile. “It’s nice to have our peacemaker home.” 

“At your service.” Tilden smiled.

Luke and Mike came back into the kitchen with the promised socks. Mike, straight from the shower, grabbed a hunk of bread and shoved it into his mouth as water dripped off his hair and down his neck.

“Misha, we do have towels. I saw an entire stack full in the bathroom this morning. Go get one,” Tilden said with friendly exasperation. “You’re supposed to be setting a good example for Blade.”

“Mother hen. I assume you’ve noticed,” Mike said to Blade around bites of bread. 

“Mishka”

“I’m going.” Mike said with a put-upon sigh. “If I push this any harder, Tilden’s going to swat me or put me at his feet. Nothing serious but I’m not up for it this morning, so I’m going to get the towel.”

“Mishka, towel.”

“I’m going. One word sentences —I’m getting closer to trouble,” Mike said, skipping toward the bathroom.

“The towel.” Mike returned and presented it to Tilden with a slight bow.

“You supposed to use it, you impossible boy. Come here,” Tilden growled, running the towel over Mike’s short hair.

“See it’s not hard,” Mike said, leaning against Tilden. “Tops like to take care of us boys, and it’s OK to enjoy it. I’ve even seen Milton be nice.”

“Watch yourself, boy. My tolerance is narrower than Tilden’s.”

“Crank,” Mike shot back with a grin.

Mike had always been more comfortable with Milton than Luke, but this provocative teasing was new for him. Mike had spent his childhood dumped from stranger to stranger. Blade’s appearance in their household had to have a similar feel to Mike —a boy displaced, depending on the kindness of strangers.

“Aren’t you full of yourself today? Have you forgotten how to behave, boy?” Milton clicked his fingers and pointed at the vacant chair. “Sit and eat breakfast like a civilized being, instead of shoveling it into your mouth.”

“Yes, sir,” Mike said still with a lot of cheek, but he did settle into the chair.

“Luka, are you joining us?” Tilden asked his other partner, who was hovering by the toaster. Luke wasn’t as comfortable in social settings as Mike. Tilden could only imagine the formal dinners and social drinks after a round of golf Luke had been dragged to as a boy. It had left him either trying to disappear into a corner or preemptively belligerent when faced with new people. “Chto tyi khochesh’ kushat’?” Tilden asked, slipping into Russian, which was rewarded with a quick flash of a smile.

Luke listed an impressive array of breakfast foods, and Tilden had to laugh by the time Luke finished. They’d have to ransack not only their refrigerator and pantry but also the local grocery to come up with all the food.

“Didn’t you feed that boy when you were in Florida?” Milton asked, amused.

“Yes, but he went on hunger strike. He’s spoiled. He only eats Mace and Trent’s cooking.”

“Well, if he’s tried yours, I don’t blame him,” Milton teased.

“I’m not a master of haute cuisine.”

“You’re not a master of any cuisine,” Milton quipped, “except flambé.”

“I’ve never going to live that down,” Tilden said with a shamefaced grin.

“What happened?” Blade asked.

“Tilden tried to burn down the house,” Mike said casually.

“What?” Blade shouted. “I want the whole story.”

“Pipe down,” Milton warned.

“You brought it up. It’s not fair if you don’t tell me.” A distinct whine had entered Blade’s tone, and Tilden was reminded both how young Blade was and how strong his brat characteristics seemed to be.

“It’s not as dramatic as it sounds,” Tilden said in his most calm and steady top voice. “I overheated a little grease, and the curtains started smoldering. Mace put it out with the fire extinguisher. End of story.”

“It’s not quite that mundane. Trent and Mace revoked Tilden’s cooking privileges,” Milton said with a wink at Tilden.

“You exaggerate, my friend. I choose not to cook. It’s safer for everyone.”

“That’s true.” Milton laughed. “You’d still be living on canned spaghetti if it weren’t for Trent and Mace.”

“That comment is from one fine student who existed for an entire semester on bean burritos and tomato soup.”

“I had hotdogs occasionally, but don’t tell my grandfather. He insisted I learn to cook; he considered it a necessary skill for tops.”

“Did Gordon make you cook?” Tilden asked.

“Sometimes and he did insist on a formal sit down dinner every evening complete with a jacket and tie. And, Blade, you thought I was unreasonable when I forbade TV watching during dinner.” Milton brushed the red hair off Blade’s forehead and kissed the pale skin underneath. “Hop down, and I’ll get breakfast for everyone.”

Tilden cast a quick eye over to Blade. He was diligently typing on his essay, or at least Tilden hoped he was. He’d been quiet at breakfast, at least for a boy who Milton had described as volcanic, and Milton had dragged Blade along with Luke and Mike for a game of tennis that had left them sweaty despite the field house thermostat being set at fifty degrees for winter break. Tilden had jogged twice around the indoor track in the dim, cold building and opted for a bracing and icy run through campus. After returning to the house, Milton had set Blade to work on one of his many missing English essays, only to find him playing online solitaire moments later, which had ended with several firm swats and choked back tears.

Mike was at Tilden’s feet. Tilden hadn’t asked Mike to sit there, but he’d collapsed happily against his top’s legs and was engrossed in a thriller borrowed from The Olde Curiosity Shop’s stacks. Trent and Mace freely supplied everyone with reading material that they bought by the boxful from students at the end of the semester. Luke was curled up on the sofa, not quite reading a mystery story Trent had given him and nibbling on a gingerbread man. Tilden needed to catch his blond partner alone; Luke was too quiet today. He might be nothing but tired. They’d spent two more days in Florida after the talk with Sean, including a whirlwind visit to Milton’s grandfather, where Luke had blanched under the crusty retired farmer’s sharp eye and developed a sudden adoration for beach combing, trekking miles down the sandy shores poking around for shells.

“He’s a soft one,” Milton’s grandfather had said knowingly. “Let him be. He’ll figure out in time that I don’t bite.” 

It could also be Christmas bothering Luke. You couldn’t escape its presence in the house—garland, lights, more than one tree. “Idle, grounded boys are trouble makers,” Milton had said with a quirk of an eyebrow. Tilden preferred it more low key, and he suspected Luke did also. Tilden had asked Luke about his family Christmas traditions, trying to judge if they’d need to invite Luke’s father or try to visit the family estate, not that Tilden thought Luke’s family would welcome either prospect. They hadn’t heard a word from Luke’s father since Trent and Milton had escorted him away from the house. Tilden sent him a brief note every two weeks just as he did with Mike’s parents, informing them that their children were safe and healthy. Mike’s parents had sent him a postcard from Tajikistan with a faded photograph of a town square; they’d heard nothing from Luke’s father.

Last night at dinner, Mace had asked Luke if he wanted anything special for either Christmas Eve or Christmas dinner. Luke had shaken his head and pushed his salad around his plate. Tilden had heard enough description of family get togethers in the Griffith house to imagine a miserable Christmas dinner. Important events were held at the matriarch’s estate, complete with a cold formal dining room and polished silver. The younger generation was either required not to participate in conversation, or in Luke’s case his perceived inadequacies were discussed in detail over the roast beef between his father and grandmother. Tilden didn’t need to meet the grandmother to know she’d have immaculate white hair, a string of pearls, and an expensive but understated dress.

“Luka, do you want to take a nap?” 

Luke shook his head and flipped a page in his book as if he were engrossed in reading. He probably didn’t want to be alone. Mark Graves  and his partner, Bryce Ramsey, had arrived an hour ago. They were a study in contrast from the USBC people. They’d driven a nondescript small silver sedan, no white vans plastered with advertising logos and sporting oversized antennas. They’d been alone; Fiona and company had never arrived without a retinue of staff: grips, sound men, lighting experts, and who knew what else. They were with Milton now as they’d politely asked if they could be shown around the house, college, and small town. Milton and Blade had both looked like time apart might save the peace, and Tilden had no stomach for filmmakers, polite or not.

****

Milton walked down the hill from the central quad of the college, pointing out the statue of the college’s founder and the favorite hill for sledding when the snow was deep.

“Do you let your partner sled here?” Bryce asked almost wistfully. “It looks fast, but the road’s close.” Bryce was younger than Mark by maybe five or six years and more talkative. Mark had walked behind, not idling, but keenly studying the surroundings and occasionally jotting down a word or two in a tiny notebook. Both men had drawn back when a colleague had stopped Milton to ask a question about next semester’s schedule. 

“In big storms the college closes the road. Maintenance knows they can’t keep out the sledders. I can’t take all his fun away,” Milton said with a small smile. “Sheldon’s not reckless with his personal safety; it’s a misconception that all boys are risk takers.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to offend,” Bryce said hurriedly.

“You didn’t.” Milton smiled and intentionally modulated his voice into an even tone. “Some seem to equate submissive status or at least the submissive behavior boys like Sheldon display with hooliganism. I should not have assumed you were in that group. My apologies.”

“I believe this documentary will be valuable for all concerned to erase many of the misconceptions and absolute fantasies that circulate among all those not familiar with power exchanges,” Mark said diplomatically. “I understand a dean of the college is an openly declared submissive.”

“Jeremiah Tyler. When Luke chose Tilden in that despicable television show, Dean Tyler informed the college of his orientation as a submissive.”

“Would it be too big of an imposition for us to interview him? An older submissive who holds a position of power and respect would round out the viewers’ impression of your community. Submissive is the correct term to refer to your partner and Dean Tyler? The television show uses brat.”

“I prefer submissive to brat and prefer not to make an artificial distinction between a submissive who prefers the trappings most people associate with kink or fetishes and one whose submissiveness is displayed in a way that appears to be high jinks and intentional troublemaking. Ultimately it is about dominance and submission, specifically sexual dominance and submission. I do not punish my boy because he is incompetent or immature. I punish him because he is my submissive. Meet Your Mate intentionally obscured the elements of dominance and submission and instead chose to portray the submissives as universally young, troublemakers, and short of common sense, and the dominants as men dedicated to controlling exasperating and juvenile behavior.” Milton shrugged. “Television. As far as your other question, I believe Jer would agree to be interviewed. In fact I think both Jer and Josh expected it since Steve is on your interview list.”

“And Steve lives with them?” Bryce asked. “I believe in the notes you sent us you described him as an unattached submissive. How does that work?”

Milton continued to walk down the stairs toward town, picking his steps carefully around the puddles and un-scraped ice. Explaining a power exchange partnership to a vanilla couple required creative and expressive wordsmithing and was usually met with a certain degree of skepticism that the relationship was more than a means for erotic spanking play or a cover for brutality. Explaining a nonsexual relationship with the dominant providing guidance, support and discipline as necessary without sex seemed beyond the comprehension of even the most open minded outsiders. It was even beyond the comprehension of many insiders. With Steve, Josh was performing a role that was muddied by their age difference and by Steve’s need for pure guidance as any flailing young person might need. Josh was a dominant training a submissive, but also an experienced older man guiding a young man through life. The college had accepted Steve staying with Jer and Josh, but the significant age difference made it easy for them to pigeonhole the relationship as a parental substitute.

“Josh provides the guidance and stability of a dominant; both he and Jeremiah teach Steve what it means to be a submissive, how to respond to a top, and eventually how to work with his own top. This relationship isn’t magic, and many fail, especially young couples.”

“I thought top or sub status was now considered innate or inborn?” Mark asked.

“You’ve been doing your reading?”

“Of course. We want to understand and be able to place information in context. We’re both gay men and a couple, so we enter this process with far more understanding than the network producers. We also don’t have network executives demanding higher and higher ratings. At the network, you must manipulate your filming to produce ratings and audience demand; we only want to show the truth and let the viewer decide,” Mark said.

“Noble,” Milton snorted. “I’m a historian; I understand the power of moving images as propaganda. A good filmmaker, which I have no doubt you both are, can manipulate the audience into believing anything—tsarist police murder babies in carriages.”

“You know your film history,” Mark smiled, a warm and engaging smile. “We’re not here to make you look bad or evil, but we’re also not here to produce romantic claptrap.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

“I’m sure you will. Mr. Lewis has very pointedly explained his position on the matter. He is most forceful and determined,” Mark said, an amused glint in his eye. “I think Bryce here wanted to hide under the table for most of the conversation.”

“And who was gripping the table so tightly that their knuckles were white? That man is scary.”

“He can appear that way,” Milton said.

“You seem to know him well,” Mark said, inviting Milton to say more.

They were back in the village. Bryce was window shopping, admiring the Christmas display in the pharmacy window, and Mark had taken the lead role in the conversation. His notebook had disappeared from sight, but he kept his eyes constantly on Milton’s face, obviously committing each nuance to memory. 

“Yes,” Milton said, not offering more. 

“Is that subject off limits?”

“No, but I need to know you better.”

“That’s fair.” Mark said with an easy smile. “We’ll be in town all week with our camera crew. I’m afraid we’ll be underfoot, but if any of you need privacy, we will withdraw. We’re not here to make your life miserable.”

Milton didn’t answer. Further invasion of their house wasn’t something he’d wanted to  support, but his logical side had seen it as the best and realistically the only solution. Blade was struggling, and it hardly needed to be recorded for posterity. It was a time in his life he’d either desperately want to forget or remember through a haze of rose colored nostalgia. Sheldon could manage anything; he’d clothe himself in his marauding brat persona, and the questions wouldn’t touch him. Mace and Trent would stuff the entire crew full of food, betting that the stupor following gluttony would protect them from prying questions.

Tilden and his boys were remarkably resilient. They might bend and sway, but Tilden had an uncanny ability to appear mild, calm, and reasonable and have everyone toe the line. Luke and Mike continued to surprise Milton. He’d badly misread Mike in the beginning and would never have guessed that the boy longed for a deep and quiet submission. Fortunately it had worked out, and Mike might have fled if he’d been pressured to be at Tilden’s feet from the beginning. With good reason—that boy had trust issues.

 Luke, the quiet and sweet one, was the real enigma. His sweetness had survived a father who wasn’t worthy of the title. It was the man’s sperm, but Milton suspected he’d done little else but devastate the boy’s confidence, a high crime for any parent and tragic for a parent who was an obvious submissive and must have recognized those qualities in his son. A sub without a top and afraid to admit he was a sub in the first place—no doubt a psychologist would probably argue ample reasons for his pathological behavior toward his son who was trying to embrace his own submissiveness. 

At times Luke could cling to Tilden like a small boy clutching his mother’s hand at the sight of his first Great Dane or Santa’s tall black boots, but other times Luke showed a quiet resolve and blindingly fast twists and turns in his personality. He was fascinated by the cane; Milton had seen it with the first stroke, an implement that terrified Sheldon and was hardly more comfortable for Tilden. Milton had taught Tilden to wield the thing. At first Tilden had gripped the cane like he needed to subdue it, as if it might spin from his hand and bite his backside. It had taken all of Milton’s resolve not to laugh. Tilden had finally learned the stroke, but he still refused to play with it, finding an excuse every time Milton suggested he would clear the house and leave Tilden and Luke alone. Milton would have to push harder because Luke wouldn’t ask again. It hadn’t really been a request the first time, more of a guilty acknowledgment, like a boy found with his hand in the cookie jar. 

“This is the Olde Curiosity Shop. Trent and Mace are almost always here.” Milton pulled open the glass door, and the small chimes tinkled as he ushered Bryce and Mark into the shop.

Mace came over, an apron tied around his slim hips. “Good to see you again.” He shook both filmmakers’ hands. “It’s black coffee for you and a decaf with sugar for you,” he said, catching Bryce’s eye.

“Is there any way we could have a piece of pie? I’ve been thinking about it all morning,” Bryce said with a guileless smile.

“Apple or chocolate?”

“You have chocolate?” Mark said with a grin. “Bryce will swoon at your feet. He loves chocolate pie, and I can’t do it.”

“Your crust could double as wood putty, and I didn’t know it was possible to burn the filling. We have a small bakery around home, but they’ll only do chocolate pie if we beg,” Bryce said, almost salivating as he sat at the nearest table.

“Do you want a piece, Mr. Graves?”

“Call me Mark, and I’ll nibble off of Bryce’s.”

“I’m not sharing.”

“Two pieces it is then.” Mace winked at Milton and rolled his eyes. “Who’s bratting in that gang?”

“Bryce, of course,” Milton whispered, “but they swear they know nothing about it.”

“Good, I’m not crazy,” Mace said careful to stay out of earshot of the two filmmakers.

Milton raised his voice. “I’m going to head on home. You know where to find us.”

“Thank you. Your help is greatly appreciated,” Mark said, rising and shaking Milton’s hand. “I hope we can do this with the least amount of disturbance to all of you.”

“That would be appreciated. Enjoy your pie.”

****

“Mr. Dewey, could you join us?” Mark asked.

The cafe was quiet. Trent was manning the cash register but mostly reading a new detective story he’d found buried in a box of books. Their guests had polished off both slices of pie, and a member of their film crew, a scruffy young man in jeans and a sweatshirt, had joined them. He’d set up a small camera before devouring a slice of apple pie.

“We understand if you’re working and can’t,” Mark continued.

“Well, as you can see, we’re not busy,” Mace drawled. “Is this an official interview?”

“If you want.” Mark shrugged. “We’d like to film it, but if you would prefer for us to only record it, we can do that. We can overlay your voice with shots of the village or whatever you prefer.”

“No, you can film it,” Mace said, wishing he’d never met a film crew. These two seemed all right as far as filmmakers went. They were quiet and polite, and Mace knew they’d made arrangements for Trent and Mace to cater the entire week they were here. The pay was good in a time that the store had little business. Mace walked over to the table, feeling self-conscious of his bow legs and slight limp. He’d been on TV before, but it had been back when he was riding at the rodeo finals when he’d been young and strong.

 “Mr. Dewey, we appreciate you participating in our documentary,” Mark said. “I know we can appear invasive or rude. If we ask anything you don’t want to answer, tell us.”

“It’s Mace.”

“Thank you, Mace. I’m going to check out some of your books. My partner here will tell you he has to pull me out of a bookshop by my ear and that’s after I purchased more books than I can carry.” Mark stood up. “Thank you again for your participation.”

Mace watched the filmmaker walk back toward their books on photography before turning his attention back to Bryce. Bryce flashed Mace a quick grin, his lively blue eyes twinkling.

“Relax. Imagine you’re leaning on a fence, watching the horses, and having a chat with a friend. I’m a wimp. See my skinny arms. If I get out of hand, I’m sure you can beat me to a pulp.”

“I don’t routinely beat our guests to a pulp.”

“I’m not a guest; I’m a nosy filmmaker, and I thought cowboys were tougher than you. You know, spitting chewing tobacco and tossing hay around.”

“I haven’t been a cowboy for a long time; I’m a polite shopkeeper in a quaint college town,” Mace said with a trace of bitterness.

“What happened?”

“You’ve done your homework, so you obviously know, but if you want me to tell you that’s fine. A horse decided I didn’t need a working ankle. It’s part of the game. I was luckier than some.”

“Do you miss it?”

“Less than I used to. It’s a real gypsy lifestyle, and now that I’m older I like the comforts of home.” Mace rubbed his hand down his jeans and fingered the silver buckle. The first few years he’d missed the rodeo scene intensely, the sudden rush of adrenalin, the touch and feel of a  horse under him, even the smell of bad coffee and greasy bacon. Now he missed the West: the dark blue sky, the empty roads snaking into the endless skyline without people or cars, the different pace of life. West Banner wasn’t New York City; suits weren’t scurrying in all directions, but even in this hamlet, people didn’t lean against the fence, kicking the dirt under their boots, and watch the sun with an occasional word to their companion. A grunt or a yep was enough to keep the conversation going for hours. People were in a hurry here. They had to catch trains for work or hurry home to the two kids and the barking dog. It was crowded here too. Out West he could go all day and see the occasional bird; here there were people everywhere.

“Do you think of moving back out there?”

“We’re settled here. We have a good business, and this is a nice town.”

“Is that the politically correct answer?”

“Yes and no,” Mace said with a slow half smile. “This is my home now. I have friends here. Now if you told me I could move everyone lock, stock, and barrel, a herd of wild horses couldn’t stop me. If you’re asking if Trent would forbid it, the answer is no. We don’t work that way.”

“I though the top had the final say.” Bryce ran his finger around his coffee cup.

“It’s not that simple. You don’t have to get all nervous about asking these questions. You have a bit of sub in you, and I don’t mind talking about it with another submissive. Do you want to try this sometime?”

“God, no! I don’t do following orders and being bossed around.”

“Untamed subs all say the same thing. Hey, do you want some more coffee before you wear the paint off the rim?”

“Yeah, that’ll be good.”

“Sure.” Mace sauntered over to the coffee pot. That had been fun teasing Bryce, cruel maybe, but fun. Mace fiddled with the coffee, adding steamed milk, a scoop of whipped cream, and a dusting of cocoa powder. 

“Thanks,” Bryce said, taking the fresh mug. “Where were we?”

“We were discussing you being a sub.” Mace said. Trent was out of earshot, or he’d wring Mace’s neck for this little game. Bryce turned all kinds of red; pale skin did that. “Hey, cowboy,” Mace said softly, feeling a twinge of guilt at Bryce’s obvious discomfort. “I’m only giving you a hard time. Trent doesn’t force me to stay here. I think that’s what you wanted to know. It’s like any relationship; partners decide things together. What if you wanted to film polar bears in the Arctic, and Mark wanted to do a special on termites in Africa? You both can’t be in two different places; someone gets what he wants and the other one yields. It’s the same with us. We just don’t shout about it or force our partner to sleep on the sofa in a huff.” 

“But don’t you always have to yield?”

“No, in the hypothetical  example I gave, we might decide that in all months ending in thirty-one days, we’ll do my projects and all months ending it thirty days we’ll do Trent’s.”

“But you’re the only one who would suffer consequences?”

“Trent wouldn’t be much of a top if he didn’t honor the deal, and it’s not exactly as you see it.” Mace flushed; he wasn’t Sheldon or Milton. He didn’t talk about his sexuality. “You know,” he drawled, “it’s not all about right and wrong or failures and consequences. It’s about desire and thrill—a head rush.” 

“What if it wasn’t fair? What if you weren’t getting this rush?” Bryce seemed to stumble over the words.

“Then we wouldn’t do it,” Mace said, giving Bryce a flat stare.

“It’s always like that?”

Mace ran his palm over his jean covered thigh. “Sometimes there are times I don’t want to, but it’s part of it. It doesn’t work unless I yield. Some people get carried away, and they shouldn’t be tops. I wouldn’t stick around with them. Trent gets how far to go. Maybe if it was a one time mistake somebody like Gordon could straighten them out.”

“An outside top would intervene?” Bryce sat taller in his chair, his green eyes fixed on Mace.

“The Green Mountain Boys might; it’s part of their mission. Trent and I aren’t members, so you’ll need to ask someone else. Milton could tell you.”

“OK.”

“Yep, I know he can be intimidating,” Mace said with a smile. “Imagine a misbehaving top facing him. The top would be safer to move out of country than deal with Milton’s wrath.”

“Are subs afraid of him?”

“He’s different with us. An errant top—I wouldn’t want to find out.”

“I would have thought he was a man of strong emotions.”

“He is, and he controls them. He makes his feelings known, but he’s never unsafe.”

“Unsafe?”

“Ask one of the more experienced guys. I’m not good at explaining this stuff.”

“I think you’re doing a great job,” Bryce gave Mace a charming smile. He’d broken more than a few hearts with his sharp features, chestnut hair, and emerald eyes.

“I don’t swoon when you smile. I live with Sheldon. I’m immune to charm.”

Bryce shrugged. “It works with most people; it was worth a try. What’s it like living in a communal house?”

“Good usually. Sheldon’s a lot of fun.”

“What about privacy? I’d think it be like going on vacation with another couple. After a week you’re ready to kill them even if they’re usually your best friends.”

“I can always go upstairs, and both Tilden and Milton can tell if I want alone time. Milton will usually call it brooding and make me talk or coerce Trent into making me talk if it lasts too long.”

“Making you talk?”

“No thumb screws or anything.” Mace laughed. “Milton’s good at asking the right questions, and he doesn’t accept a shrug or a dodge for answer. Tops are nosy.”

“I don’t think I’d like that.” Bryce said, taking another swig of coffee.

“I wouldn’t talk if they weren’t nosy, and then I get angry. Both Trent and I have experienced the strong silent type. This works better, but I won’t tell you it’s always easy. Milton’s grandfather’s a top. He was taught to talk when he was young; it’s easier for him.”

“He was raised by his grandfather?”

“Yes, his father’s dead. I don’t know what happened to his mother. Milton was raised by his grandfather and his lover. They’re very close.” Mace shut his eyes and took a deep breath. His parents were alive, and they didn’t hate their son; they were merely indifferent. He’d get a card and a check at Christmas and his birthday, the same fifty dollars that he’d gotten since childhood. They’d met Trent and were as indifferent to Trent as to their own son. Mace didn’t think they knew he was a submissive, and he wasn’t planning on enlightening them. He figured they’d never go see the documentary, probably would never even be aware that it existed, and Mark and Bryce had promised to only provide footage of Luke, Tilden, and Mike to the network.

“Can we talk a little more about the consequence side of this relationship?” Bryce asked, blushing.

Mace smiled, a genuine smile. “It’s OK. It took me months to talk about it, and it was happening to me. It’s not all about spanking, at least not with us. For us it’s mostly about rules and order and a feel to the relationship. Trent doesn’t have to spank me. We’re probably no more kinky than your two.”

“You do get ..?” Bryce trailed off, uncomfortable with the word.

“Yes, every few months or so. Usually a corner or a look is enough to make me remember. I’m not Sheldon. I don’t need or desire the physical side of the relationship often. It’s the invisible side of power.”

“What do you mean exactly?”

“You’ll have to ask him.”

“I will.” Bryce coughed and took another sip of coffee. “Do you like this lifestyle?”

Mace shrugged. “It works for us. I don’t see us as practicing an exotic lifestyle. I don’t eat only raw food and run around naked in a glass house.”

“Sorry, I didn’t know what else to call it.”

“It’s OK. I overreacted. Look, if I have to feed your gang tonight, I need to get cooking. I hate to cut this short.”

Bryce stood and shook Mace’s hand. “No, you’ve been great, and I’m sure cooking is a more inviting option than talking to me.”

****

Trent perched on the counter, one eye on his partner and one eye watching the door for customers. Mark was prowling around the books, seemingly randomly pulling out volumes, flipping through them and putting them back on the shelf. A second cameraman leaned against the wall and didn’t bother to look anything but bored. 

Mark turned and smiled at Trent. “You have an eclectic collection here.”

“Kind of like us, I guess.”

Eclectic how do you mean?” Mark jerked his head at the cameraman who took up a position, leaning against the shelves; a small camcorder trained on Trent.

“I saw that.”

“Do you mind?”

“No, Mace seems to be holding his own with your partner. Go ahead, shoot.”

“You’ve described yourselves as eclectic. Can you elaborate?”

“Well our household consists of a busted up cowboy from Colorado and a magazine writer from the suburbs of Pittsburg.”

“How’d you two meet?”

“I did freelance writing about the West, especially cowboys and rodeos, and I met Mace when he was still riding. We dated like any other couple, spent more than a few nights together in his cramped trailer or my cheap motel room. It might never have gone any further than a fun diversion, but Mace got hurt. I wasn’t going to leave him alone in some hospital room. I had this property, so here we are.”

“Why do I feel most of this story has been edited?”

“Because it has.” Trent smiled. “If you haven’t figured it out, we’re not walking billboards for our relationship, unlike Milton and Sheldon. That sounded terrible; that’s not what I meant. Milton and Sheldon are far more willing to talk about their relationship. Sheldon’s not shy, and Milton has an overdeveloped sense of responsibility. He believes he’s responsible for educating the world about power exchanges.”

“How do feel about being a top?” 

“It’s not something I think about. I’m many things, and a top is only one of them. I’m a husband, a lover, a friend, a confidant. A top is only a tiny percentage of who I am.

Mark’s brows knitted together, not a frown, more a confused expression. “I’m not an expert on these type of relationships, but I thought being a dominant was central to being in a relationship with a submissive. Have I missed something?”

“All submissives are different. Mace is much more than a sub, and he doesn’t need the dedicated topping of some submissives.”

“You’re a part time top?”

“No, I’m not making this very clear.” Trent gave Mark a halfhearted smile. “This is the second time in a week I’ve tried to explain tops to someone. Practice doesn’t seem to be improving my skill. You might want to get Milton or Gordon to explain different styles of topping.”

“I’d like you to try. I already talked to Milton and Gordon,” Mark smiled.

“They went into lecture mode.”

Mark laughed. “So it’s not just with me?”

“No, they can be a doozy.” 

“Can we go back to my earlier question?”

“Persistent. Are you sure you’re not a top?”

“Definitely not a top bone in my body.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure. This refusal to be diverted is a top trait.”

“It’s the skill of a trained interviewer.”

Trent slid off the counter and stretched his shoulders. “You have married friends?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Do all their relationships look the same?”

“Of course not.”

“It’s the same with us. My relationship with Mace is as different as your relationship is compared to your parents’.”

Mark raised his eyebrows and smiled a half smile, amused and almost teasing. “I think you exaggerate. You’re all same sex couples, and you all use corporal punishment. You’re also healthy, virile, males. I’m sure you have sex, and as far as I can tell my parents gave up sex shortly after I was born.” Mark laughed. “Will you tell me about the corporal punishment?”

“It’s not the defining element of our relationship,” Trent said tightly.

“You do use it?”

“Occasionally.”

“You may not see it as defining the relationship, but I see it as a unique element. I don’t spank my partner. I’m not naive. I know many people fool with erotic spankings, but my understanding is that as a lifestyle dominant you use spanking as more than erotic play.”

“At times.” Trent shoved his hands in his pockets and leaned back against the counter, trying to look casual. This was not something he talked about. He did it because it worked for them; he didn’t analyze it. He was a top; he couldn’t deny it. Milton had told Trent in the beginning that it was instinctive to pull his partner over his knee. Trent could understand the mix of curiosity and revulsion that outsiders had about their practices. He made his partner cry, physically asserted his will. Mace offered himself freely, but how did Trent explain it?

“Do you care to elaborate?”

“No.” Trent turned to watch Mace, who was still talking with Bryce and looking far more comfortable than Trent felt.

“All right,” Mark said after a moment. “Let’s talk about something else. How about them Red Sox? Do you think they’ll go all the way this year?”

Trent smiled. “I’m still a Pirate fan—real baseball where the pitcher hits.”

“A traditionalist. You’ve never forgiven the American league for the designated hitter.”

“Right you are,” Trent said.

“Any of the guys in the house Red Sox fans?”

“Milton is. Sheldon can’t sit still long enough for a baseball game. I think Tilden is a casual fan, and I don’t know about his partners.”

“Sheldon’s the older redhead?”

“Yes, Blade’s his younger brother.”

“Why is the brother living with them?”

“Milton believes in family, and the kid needed family.”

“His parents are still alive?”

“Yes, but how many parents are good with a rebellious eighteen-year-old? The kid’s a sub. He needs a top, and if we can help him, it’s our duty. Milton’s good with young submissives.”

“How do you know he’s a sub?”

“Sheldon knew immediately; subs can recognize their own.”

“That’s as clear as mud.”

“Well,” Trent said, “I’m not sure how much clearer I can make it to an outsider.. A sub has certain signals that an experienced top will pick up. I missed them the first time around with Mace. Joshua and Milton put us on the right track.”

“What signals does Blade send out?”

Trent wiped the already clean counter with a towel. The work area was always clean: shiny stainless steel, rows of pots and kitchen utensils, spices and dry goods lining one wall. Trent grabbed an oversized bowl and dumped a pile of flour into it. To the uninitiated it looked like a random heap of flour, but Trent knew it would make six dozen rolls just as Trent had known Blade was a sub looking for a spanking that morning in the kitchen. You felt it; you absorbed it. But how did you explain it? Talking about feeling auras or whatever in your partner wasn’t Trent’s thing. He left that to the gurus with the crystals. 

“Blade acts the way most people would think of as a bratty kid,” Trent started slowly. “He had trouble in school, comes home late, goes drinking.” Trent wasn’t going to tell this stranger about Mary.

“That sounds like a normal teenager.”

“In some ways, but a normal teenager wants space. They may get in a jam and come running home with their tail between their legs, but after a dose of reassurance they head back out into the world. Blade is different. He looked behind himself, begging for someone to stop him, make the world stop spinning quite so fast. He’s lucky. He has Milton. Watch Blade with Milton. If you keep your eyes open, you’ll see more than rebellion. He is doing plenty of that right now,” Trent said with a wry gin, “but he’s a Zath. A quiet Zath is an ill Zath. Watch him push and then glance back over his shoulder. ‘Do you still have me?’ And if Milton is one thing, he’s consistent. If he says that he’ll put you in the corner every time you stomp down the stairs, he’ll do it. He might up the ante if the behavior doesn’t stop or harass the sub into explaining the repeated defiance, but he’s never too busy, too tired, or whatever else.”

“You make him sound like a saint,” Mark said with some disbelief. 

“He’s a damn good top. The best I’ve ever seen. He can set his needs aside for the submissive without becoming resentful. I can’t do it. That’s why I have a partner like Mace. Milton calls him low maintenance. The Zath boys are high maintenance. Blade is a gorgeous kid, but he’s trouble, and Sheldon’s Sheldon. “You’ll see when you talk to him.” 

“What type of top is Tilden?”

“Steady. Mace could tell you more; he’s more likely to interact with Tilden’s top side than I am. Upset subs go to Tilden. I think you could tell him that you blew up the rail station, and he would nod, and suggest that emergency services be called. With two young partners, I think you have to be a Steady Eddie.”

“You’ve talked a lot about the sub in this relationship, but what does the top get out of it? It sounds like a lot of work.”

“All relationships take maintenance. You’re married; you know that.” Trent had noticed the plain gold wedding band on Mark’s finger and the matching one on Bryce’s.

Mark shrugged. “I don’t monitor my partner’s bedtimes or make sure he eats a nutritious breakfast.”

“I don’t either. Mace would revolt,” Trent said with a slow smile. “But don’t you worry if Bryce looks tired or isn’t sleeping?”

“He’s a grownup.”

“So’s Mace,” Trent said, biting back his anger. “I’m his lover; I worry about him. It’s the way I’m made.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you,” Mark backtracked hard. “I think my partner and I are both very independent. I wasn’t implying that Mace was a child.”

Trent nodded. Mark had implied that Mace was a child, but Trent felt more sorry for the filmmaker than angry. In the last hour that the two filmmakers had been in the shop, neither had made eye contact with each other. Trent had peeked out into the dining area, and occasionally Mace had smiled back. Bryce and Mark might as well be on opposite continents. Professionally they worked well together, but Trent didn’t want to imagine their family life.

Mark made a show of looking at his watch. “I need to review the scenes we shot of the village tonight. Thank you for your time.” He reached out and shook Trent’s hand. “Off the record, I don’t get this, but you two seem very happy. I’m envious.”

“Thank you,” Trent said, surprised by the filmmakers sudden candor. “You’re going to meet a lot of guys this weekend. Most of us have gone through some bad spots with our  partners. We are a chatty bunch, communal living probably does that. If we can help...” Trent trailed off. He must have thoroughly caught Milton’s ‘top everything in sight bug,’ offering marital advice to a stranger. “Sorry, I think I’ve overstepped my bounds.” Trent felt his face flush.

“No,” Mark said softly, “you are right, and it was kind of you to mention it.” Mark grinned. “And I’m kicking myself that this is off camera. I think it captures more of an essence of a top than anything we’ve been yacking about for the last thirty minutes. Thank you. I may take you up on your offer. It’s not often I meet couples of any sort that have been together as long as some of you have been. I don’t think the spanking thing will work for us, but you guys must be doing something right.”

“Don’t knock it until you try it,” Trent teased, relieved that he hadn’t offended Mark. Trent didn’t like cameras in his face or prying questions, but Mark seemed like a genuine and sincere guy.

“If you’re suggesting I let one of the tops give it a test run, I’m heading for the hills.”

“It’s happened before,” Trent said with a small smile.

“I’m out of here for the night. This conversation is getting too dangerous.”