Steve's Tale 3

Steve III

Steve stared into the corner, taking a deep shaky breath. Josh had promised to corner him twice a day, but with Timmy here, Steve had hoped it would be postponed. Steve didn’t want anyone to see him in trouble. Josh had reassured Steve in that deep soft voice he used when he was being especially kind that this wasn’t punishment. He’d called it concentrated thinking time, but staring at the wall sure felt like punishment.

Steve leaned his shoulder into the wall. They were busy preparing dinner, and Josh probably wouldn’t call Steve on his less than perfect posture. Kicking the baseboard or peeling the paint was a different story. Steve could hear Josh harassing Tim into making the salad; at least that was one less hated task for Steve to do. Josh and Jer both cooked with deft hands; Steve preferred open the corner to vent and microwave on high for five minutes. Jer would shake his head and mutter “kids,” but as long as Steve was studying, Jer didn’t hassle Steve about cooking. Josh, on the other hand, insisted Steve participate in the family activity with the same coaxing, wheedling, and threats he was now using with Timmy. Josh was leaning heavier on the threats with Timmy if the resounding swat and the muttered ouch was anything to go by.

Today had been a weird day. Josh hadn’t caned Steve for the peppermint schnapps; he’d said that it wasn’t a caning offense. Steve ran his hand over his butt. It was still a little tender if he pushed on it but nothing terrible. And then the incident after the shower when Steve had touched Josh that way. What had he been thinking? Josh could be his grandfather. Josh had been horrified. Steve shivered; he was lucky to still be here. He’d thought Josh had been going to kick him out for sure, the frigidness in the truck and the demand that Steve talk to Milton. Steve didn’t want to leave. He’d stand in the corner for  days and bare himself for the cane if that was needed. Josh was steady and kind; he knew what Steve needed. Steve was happy here, a happiness that escaped him in high school. Everyone talked about fond memories of high school, and he’d hated it. Josh would probably say Steve had been confused about his identity, but his classmates were mean. They teased Steve about not having a girlfriend and then about not having a boyfriend when his sexual identity became more obvious. Steve didn’t even want to contemplate what would have happened if his classmates had found out that he was a submissive.

Today’s conversation with Milton had been weird; Steve should probably have a better word for the conversation, but weird was all he could think of. He’d expected Milton to chew him a new one, but all Milton had done was question Steve about his past: his high school friends, his social activities, his sex life or lack of it, not topics Steve wanted to chat about with a stern history professor. Milton had asked about sports teams, clubs, and school dances. Steve had done the minimum extracurricular stuff to get into college. He hadn’t been gunning for an Ivy League spot and not in contention for an athletic scholarship; third string soccer and limping home in the five thousand meter wasn’t athletic prowess. He’d chosen his extracurricular activities, not out of interest, but ones that took the least amount of effort, model UN and French club. Milton had smiled a gentle knowing smile that was supposed to be kind but made Steve shiver. That man could look through your soul.

“You were the quiet type in high school. I’ve seen your transcripts; your grades were pretty good.”

And they aren’t now, Steve thought. Jer and Josh had twisted his arm to get him back to the acceptable level last fall. The easy explanation was he’d taken the wrong classes: Russian, where he’d found himself hopelessly behind in the first week; calculus, who cared about spinning discs and the area under the curve; English with the literature of the long dead; and environmental studies at least that course had been easy.

“Freshman year is always tough. You did fine.” Milton’s voice had been soft, gentle. “I’m sure Josh and Jer helped. You like them.” It was almost a question, but Milton had kept his eyes down on his desk, not demanding an answer, playing with a decorative letter opener. “What set you off enough that Josh had to pull you off Mike that night? You were quiet and unobtrusive in high school.”

God, that was ancient history. He didn’t want to go through it again. Josh had asked several times and finally seemed to have settled for Steve’s grunts and half answers. It was silly. Steve hadn’t wanted to be alone or on the outside. He’d jumped into college life determined to put high school behind him, partying, running with a group of guys, pushing and shoving. The next thing he knew Josh was grabbing his arm, and Steve had tried to punch Mike. He’d never hit anyone before. Things had happened so quickly after that, Josh’s arm around his shoulder, comfort, solace, and an explanation of why he felt so weird. He was a submissive, an unsure and untrained submissive with a tendency to spin into disasters as Josh had bluntly put it. 

“I know spinning boys. You’ll be fine.” Josh’s voice had been self-assured, definite with a hint of sterns that suggested not following along might have dire consequences. Steve had followed along. Even now he didn’t quite know how he ended up in Josh and Jer’s house, the long lost nephew or something. Josh had warned he punished. He’d actually described in gory details what would happen if Steve broke any of the long list of rules that was now governing his life. Steve didn’t know if he hadn’t believed him, panicked, or just wasn’t thinking the night he fled his visit to his dad’s and squatted shivering on his backpack at the bus terminal in Boston. Somehow he hadn’t been surprised when Josh had pulled up in his green pickup, his eyes fierce and his voice whisper soft. Steve had run for his arms, safe, trapped against the older man’s chest, unable to stop the tears.

“You’re in trouble, my boy, but you’ll live.” Josh always said something like that when Steve was coming ungracefully unglued. He didn’t yell, and for Josh he didn’t even sound particularly stern, more sympathetic for the boy who was going to go over his knee. Steve had fought, begged, pleaded, and worked himself up into a frenzy as Josh had put it later to stop going over Josh’s knee. He hadn’t wanted to be spanked. Josh had sat Steve down in the kitchen chair and waited. He hadn’t done anything except the time Steve tried to leave. The look in Josh’s eyes had been so fierce and the hand on Steve’s shoulder unmovable that Steve had collapsed back into the chair. Josh had drunk three or four cups of coffee before Steve had finally cracked and tearfully agreed that he’d broken the rules and should be punished. Josh hadn’t even had to say anything. He’d said maybe thirty or forty words since he’d picked Steve up at the bus station. Steve remembered the scratch of Josh’s jeans, his shock at the first sharp smack, and the flood of tears. His surrender had been complete. He’d given Josh more than a chance to redden his flesh; he’d given Josh a piece of his soul. 

That same afternoon more had been wrenched from him when he’d confessed the computer hacking to Mike. Steve didn’t even much like Mike. Mike was too self-assured, smooth, like his wretched peers in high school. Mike had gone down and talked to the tops, told them things that Steve could never have brought himself to say. Josh had been calm, unflappable, and absolutely determined, and Steve had volunteered for a second punishment. The pain had been sharp and fierce, his first encounter with a paddle, but what Steve remembered was everyone closing ranks around him, the obvious sympathy from the other guys and the tops searching desperately for a means to get him out of the incredible mess that Steve had so stupidly entangled himself in. Steve had become part of the group; something he’d never experienced before. The rules were sometimes complex, even harsh, and Josh didn’t mess around about enforcing them, but oh, God, it was worth it, and now he’d thought he’d blown it, letting too much show through.

Why hadn’t Milton punished him? Steve couldn’t have Josh. Josh was Jer’s. Steve could live with being Josh’s little nephew, or however Josh wanted to think of him. Here Steve had protection; he had friends. “Never alone” is what terrifying Gordon had said when Steve had pledged. The corner was alone but not really. Both Josh and Jer had brushed against Steve as they made dinner, made it clear that Steve wasn’t alone.

“Come sit down.” It was Josh’s voice. He always released Steve from the corner. Jer identified as a submissive, not that Steve ever saw much, but he never released Steve from one of Josh’s punishments. Jer didn’t punish or at least not in a formal way. He’d frown or cluck over Steve’s lack of concentration, pester him to get things done, but he didn’t corner or spank. If Steve was getting out of hand, Jer got Josh. He didn’t do it often, and Jer always looked stricken when Steve was in trouble. Steve usually stopped at the first signal from Jer that it was going too far.

Jer caught Steve in his arms as the young man turned from the corner and planted a firm kiss on his forehead, pushing the hair back with his massive hand. “No more excitement tonight, all right?” Jer said half under his breath.

“I’ll be good.” It was such an easy response shielded in those massive arms. Steve wanted to be good for Jer.

Jer pushed Steve toward the table and gave him a warm, melting smile. “Don’t promise the impossible. All we ask is that you try.”

Steve studied Jer; he wasn’t sure if he was being teased or gently warned.

“Steve, stop whispering with Jer and come sit down,” Josh said. He was carving the roast chicken, looking surprisingly like the sympathetic father figure in some sappy television special. His eyes crinkled with a hint of a smile. “You’re always a good boy. You just sometimes have odd behavioral quirks.”

Steve felt his face flush, and he might have been mad if Timmy hadn’t suddenly shot him a wide grin.

“Sweet, man, but I want dinner. I missed lunch.”

“And whose fault was that?” Josh asked tartly.

“Mine. I didn’t feel like cooking or PB and J.” Tim grinned again. “I’m a mess when no top’s around.”

“I can see,” Josh said dryly. “Three meals a day when you’re with us.”

“Yes, sir.” Steve could hear the sarcasm in the reply, and he was sure Josh hadn’t missed, but Josh continued to slice chicken breast as if Tim’s reply had been sincere.

Dinner was normal. Jer talked about his day, and the possibility of teaching an extra class next fall. Josh talked about the cabinets in Garth and Tim’s house and occasionally prodded Tim to eat something besides the bread. They did the dishes, comfortable together, Josh’s hand occasionally squeezing Steve’s shoulder or brushing the back of Steve’s neck.

“Milton gave me a book for you to read,” Josh said. “Let’s go in the living room.” It was an order, but it was casual and friendly, almost as if it were a suggestion. Tim shot Josh a smart ass grin and a mock salute. “Uppity subs,” Josh muttered under his breath and swatted Tim toward the living room.

Steve opened the book; it had a funny smell like a book from the library vault that hadn’t seen the light of day for twenty years. The pages were thick, hand cut, and loose in their binding.

“My Life. That’s a thrilling title,” Steve said, turning to the next page. “No wonder it hasn’t made the bestseller’s list.”

“Milton is very deliberate when he requests something.” The warning in Jer’s voice was unmistakable. Steve settled down to read.

******

It had been many years since we first met, but that day was still etched in my memory. I never thought that cold, damp fall day would be a momentous occasion. I’d managed my small breakfast with only one cuff from the head groom for my slowness and general ineptitude before I’d escaped to the high pasture to bring in Sally. The filly had been given a human name in honor of the master’s daughter. She’d been foaled on her birthday. The other stable lads muttered it had been a bad omen, and when the daughter had died six months later of scarlet fever, they’d nodded knowingly, and now that the filly had bitten or kicked everyone in the stable at least once they spoke of curses and evil spirits.

The mare wasn’t cursed. I knew that. She was sensitive and beautiful, her mane the same rich chestnut as the lost daughter. They’d tried to break her, the master with a short temper and curses, the head groom with a whip. She’d chased them from the stall with a vicious thud of her shoes. A specialist had been call in, a horse tamer from the nearest town. He had left limping and clutching his ribs.

The filly now lived out in the farthest field, the one with only one lone tree to provide shade from the sun and protection from the flies. The grass was poor, not the rich seeded bluegrass of the close fields. I thought the master hoped she might die out there, a forgotten embarrassment for a man who made his living raising and selling horses.

I walked up the mud filled track. The high wet grass had soaked my pants, and my toes oozed in the mud. I hunched deeper into my shirt and shivered. Winter would bring the real misery; this was still warm, and if the sun would come out, I would be comfortable. 

Sally was on the far side of the field, picking at the wisps of brown grass. She was thin, and her bright chestnut coat dulled by the sun. White hairs were sprinkled on her flanks, remnants of the visit from the last horse tamer. She came to me; she always did, her galloping hooves only skimming the ground. She was beautiful, and her eyes were wide, bright, and alert, not the narrow, vicious eyes of a rogue. I touched her nose and ran my hand down her neck that should have been sleek instead of welted with fly bites and mud encrusted. I slipped the halter over her head and led her unresisting to the barn.

I could ride her, but I didn’t dare. I had felt the master’s strap. She snuffled against my neck, and I automatically soothed her with my hands. I was a traitor. I should turn, jump on her back, and gallop the other way. I was leading her to a sure beating. I knew how the horse tamer’s worked.

The barn yard was full; everyone wanted to see the show. A man, maybe in his thirties, the sun had left tracks across his face, stood holding a cob with a massive head and a coarse thick neck. He turned my way as I approached, dark green eyes piercing and studying under untidy blond hair.

“This is the filly,” he grunted, not fully opening his lips.

Sally, hearing the strange voice and seeing the people milling about, plunged back, jerking hard on the leading rein. I stepped back with her, making soothing noises with my throat.

“Bring her in, boy. Can’t you even do that much right,” the head groom said in his usual brutish tone. We both flinched at his voice and took another three or four steps farther away. “Useless boy.” I cringed; that tone led to a beating.

The stranger held up his hand. “You are paying me good money to work with the horse. I need privacy. Please clear the stable yard.”

I shivered and stroked the mare’s neck. Privacy from a horse tamer meant no gentle ladies watching while he pulled the horse to the ground with cruel ropes and beat on the prone body. I heard grumbling but the people stepped back, leaving me clutching Sally’s rope and facing the horse tamer. He waited until everyone was out of earshot. A groom had scurried out and taken the ugly cob before he turned and spoke to me. His voice easily carried across the distance, a man used to speaking in the outdoors.

“Will she approach now that I’ve cleared the spectators?” he said. The last word caught on his tongue like spectators disgusted him. 

I tugged on the rope. I had no choice but to deliver her into this man’s hands. She reared and wheeled, pulling hard toward her field.

“Fine, I’ll come to her.”

He walked toward us unhurriedly, never lifting his eyes from the ground. He stopped several times to examine a fence board, to pick a blade of grass, and to study the leaves turning in the trees. Sally watched him as I did. I’d not seen a man take such time to walk only a short distance.

“She’s beautiful,” he said when he’d closed the distance. He stood there, his body oddly angled away from the horse, quietly chewing on the piece of grass between his lips. “Can you ride her?”

I tightened my fist around her mane and buried my head in her neck. I’d be beaten if anyone knew I rode her. I wasn’t to ride. I was the useless stable boy: slow, dull witted, and lazy.

The man’s lips curved into a gentle smile. “Easy, lad. I won’t tell. So she doesn’t need taming; she just needs new owning.”

I stood frozen in place, too frightened to speak. You didn’t speak of your betters in that tone.

“Easy, boy.” He said softly. “It was obvious. She follows you like a lamb, and none of those men offered to lead her when she balked. They knew they couldn’t. Who whipped her?” He moved his hands slightly to indicate the scars on her flanks,

I bit my lip and stayed silent. It was not safe to offer information.

“The head groom and her owner I’d guess. Did they have another horse tamer out here?”

“Yes,” I whispered.

He made an angry hissing sound but said nothing for a moment. “I don’t fix other people’s folly.” He turned and walked back toward the barn without another word. The cant of his shoulders was angry. I’d become good at reading men; it was the only way to avoid blows. Halfway to the barn, he called over his shoulder, “Let her graze. The grass is lush here. She needs weight.”

I knelt in the wet grass as she grazed enthusiastically on the succulent blades. Even in her half starved condition, there was a delicacy as she chose the most delicious blades.

The man came back, riding his ugly cob. He sat gently on the horse, his hands still. “Come, boy.”

I stared silently at him.

“Come. I bought her, and since I can’t lead her, you’re coming with me.”

I continued to stare at him. He later said my eyes were bigger than any frightened horse he’d ever seen.

He made a gentle rumbling noise in his throat. “Come. I can’t be worse than them. I haven’t hit you yet, and I spent good coin on a horse I can’t touch.”

I followed him. I did not see any other choice. We walked for several hours. I was stumbling and slipping in the mud of the road when he called a halt. I thankfully dropped to my knees on the grass at the side of the road. I was cold despite the exercise and the approaching noontime. The sky had never cleared, and overhead a cold mist dropped from the swirling gray clouds.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were cold?” The horse tamer pulled a cloak from his saddle bag and held it out to me. “Put it on. Do you need food?”

I huddled under the cloak. It was a coarse wool, not the fine cloth I’d seen Master John wear, but it was warm and smelled of horses and hay. 

“Fool boy,” my new master muttered as he pawed through his saddle bags, “You won’t tell me you’re cold; I can’t expect you to tell me you’re hungry.” He pulled out two apples and held them out to me. “I expect some of these in your stomach and not all to her,” he said with a soft smile.

I nodded and took a bite out of the apple. The juice ran down my chin, and I licked the sweetness with my tongue. Sally noticed the apple immediately, and I automatically opened my hand, sharing the treat with her.

The horse tamer laughed. “You eat the other one; unless you’d prefer her oats. I think I’ve done well today.”

He didn’t explain that confusing comment. He unbridled his cob and loosened the girth, allowing his horse to graze, patting the horse gently as he unloaded things from his saddle bags. The cob seemed used to him and pushed against the horse tamer until the man opened his hand and fed the horse a handful of oats. “We have to share. There’s an extra mouth to feed.” The man poured another handful of oats into his hand and held them out to Sally. Her nostrils fluttered, but she didn’t step forward. “Still too frightened. I don’t blame her.” He fed that handful to the greedy cob. He held the bag out to me. “Give her two handfuls. I don’t want to colic her. She is not used to rich feed.”

I took the bag, surprised at his generosity. He was a horse tamer. I expected him to be angry when Sally didn’t approach.

“It takes time to unwind the mess they made with the both of you. I’m in no hurry.” He didn’t say anything else during our break. He handed me a piece of bread and cheese bigger than his own which I ate gratefully. We rested an hour before he signaled we should set off again.

“If I put you in front of me can you lead her?”

I looked at him silently again.

“You can answer my questions. I don’t hit when I don’t like the answer.” He ran his hand through his hair, a gesture of utter weariness.

“She doesn’t trust, master,” I whispered.

“I’m Harry, not master. Sorry I didn’t introduce myself. My mam always did say I understood horses better than people. I’m Harry Wells. You work for me now.”

He looked at me as if he was expecting something. I looked down at my cold, mud covered feet.

“Do you have a name?”

“Karl.” I hadn’t been called that since my parents died of the consumption. Master had taken me in when I was eight, and I’d always been boy.

“A last name?”

I shook my head. I didn’t know it.

“How old are you?”

“Fifteen, I think.” I was small; I didn’t look fifteen. 

Master grunted and nodded. “Karl, can you pony her from the back of Ranger?”

Ranger must be the ugly cob.

“Karl, I asked you a question.” I looked up and stumbled back, pulling his cloak around me as useless protection. There was a demand in that tone. He didn’t grab me. This strange man called Harry, my new master, stepped back and hung his head in apology.

“Karl, I didn’t mean to frighten you, but I want your help. I need your expertise.”

I looked up, not understanding what he was saying.

“Knowledge,” he clarified. “Will Sally let you pony her from Ranger’s back, or do I need to find shelter for the night? You can’t walk much farther, and I can’t lead her.” He said the last in a chagrined tone as if it were his fault that he couldn’t lead the mare. Masters didn’t walk, but I struggled to answer him. He wanted an answer and he hadn’t beaten me or the horse.

“I think so, sir.”  My voice shook with the effort. Direct questions led to blame and pain. Did you leave the gate open, boy? Who took the sugar?

“Very well. I’m not sir either, but I have the time.”

He threw me up on his horse’s withers and then mounted behind me. The rain had started to come down harder, no longer a mist, and he wrapped us both in his cloak. I chirped at Sally, and she followed the cob. The cob had a strange ambling gait. I rocked with his motion.

“He’s an ugly brute,” my new master said in my ear, “but he’s comfortable, and I wouldn’t want the men who hire me to be jealous of my horseflesh, not good for business. I have a barn full of pretty ones at home. Nothing quite as nice as your little mare,” he said after a minute.

We rode in silence for several hours. I watched the passing countryside; I’d never been this far from the estate. Small farms with cabins or tiny clapboard houses dotted the roadside between the long stretches of dark forest. We dropped down a long, winding grade, the trees towering above us in their beginnings of fall yellow and red. A stream or small river had overrun its banks and would require fording. Sally wheeled, and I grabbed tight to prevent her from escaping. Master halted his horse with the slightest touch of the rein, turning him so we were no longer directly facing the water.

“She doesn’t like water,” I said, already scrambling over Ranger’s neck, so I could hold the mare as she plunged away from the creek.

“Do you think she would follow Ranger if I go to the far side?”

I shook my head. I could feel the sweat through the rain on her quivering neck.

“We’ll try it,” he said in a cheerful tone that I later learned meant he had little hope that the plan would work. He clucked at Ranger who stepped into the swirling water as calmly as if it were the grass of his home pasture. I’d seen men ride through water before. It usually required shouts and slaps with the whip. On the far side, he patted Ranger’s neck and dismounted. “See if you can coax her through.”

She’d follow me to the bank where she needed to make a slight jump before wheeling and running back. He pulled a long rope from a coil behind his saddle, pulled off his boots and socks, rolled up his pants, and waded back across the water. At the highest point, the water covered his knees, and he arrived on my bank dripping.

“Fasten this to her halter,” he said, tossing the rope on the bank well away from the water. He went over to a copse of trees and examined the branches until he cut one with a knife he withdrew from his pocket. 

I watched, horrified, as he stripped the leaves. I pushed the mare back away from the creek, realizing what he was going to do. “You can’t beat her, master. I’ll stay with her.” I was pleading, my arms wrapped around her neck.

“I don’t whip frightened animals,” he said. “We’re going to train her today. This is the only way home, and you are my apprentice.”

I felt my heart stop. He wasn’t going to beat Sally. He was going to make me. I had been apprenticed to a horse tamer, men known for their brutality. I clung harder to her neck. I could swing aboard and gallop off, but I had nowhere to go. I’d be a fugitive as a runaway apprentice and a horse thief.

“Let the rope out and step toward her hip. She should move forward when you do that.” 

Sally scrambled ahead of me, the whites of her eyes showing.

“Easy, lad.” We only need a few steps, not a mad gallop.” My master sat on the bank, his voice quiet and clear and instructed me how to lunge Sally. It was a technique I would later see him use thousands of time. I tangled in the rope, moved to quickly, or put my body out of line in this imaginary triangle that I was supposed to create between my hand on the rope or rein as he called it and the stick that was supposed to point at her hock. 

She started by dashing around me, and master had dropped his tone to a lulling calm. Finally master had her trotting around me, softly snorting with her neck reaching for the ground.

“Very good. You have a talent. Now move your circle closer and closer to the river until her feet touch the water. Remember to move toward her with the stick if she tries to turn around but don’t hit her. She’s frightened, not disobedient.”

“I stepped toward the river, fearful of disobeying this man’s strange instructions. He’d been patient, but the light was fading into the start of dusk. How long would he remain patient? Sally snorted and raised her head as she approached the water. I held out the stick like he said, and she jumped away her feet splashing in the water before she leapt to the bank.

“Good. Settle her for a few circles and then the water again.”

We repeated this exercise twenty times until Sally was happily splashing through the water. He kept moving me closer and closer to the bank until half the circle was in the water. 

“Good. Move into the water until you can get her on the far bank.”

The cold water swirled around my feet and ankles as I stepped deeper into the river until she was trotting a circle with me standing in the middle. My teeth were nearly chattering as master ordered me to walk her to the far bank and let her graze. She stepped out of the water, answered Ranger’s whicker, and buried her head in the grass.

Master walked back across the water and reached for his boots. He smiled at me but said nothing.

I wanted to ask him a thousand questions. How’d he known that would work? Where had he learned it? 

“We’ll ride up the hill. There’s a place I know we can camp.”

He acted like this magic was normal. He lifted me back on Ranger and folded the cloak around me. “It won’t do me any good if I freeze my apprentice.” He pulled me closer to him. “She’s a nice filly, learns quick.”

He didn’t say anything else until we broke over the hill and rode down someone’s lane. A boy about my age ran out of the barn, yelling for his pa when he saw us.

“Easy, Ian. The mare’s not broke yet.”

“Mr. Wells.” A tall man with a dark beard came out of the house. “What can I do for you tonight?”

“We had some trouble at the creek, and I need a bed for the night.”

“I’m always happy to accommodate you.”

“Karl, help Ian get the horses settled.”

I followed the boy into the barn. He smiled at me but showed none of the exuberance he’d displayed at my master’s arrival. The horses were settled into two nice box stalls, and he gave both several large forkfuls of hay. I was studying the hay, preparing to curl up for the night when he grabbed my sleeve and pulled me toward the house.

“Dinner will be on the table. We won’t want to be late.”

I followed his example and washed my hands and face as well as my feet at the pump. I‘d been beaten for tracking mud into the main house. The house was small with wide bare plank floors and simple handmade furniture. It smelled of food, and the table was already crowded with people. I hovered by the door, unsure what to do, until my new master pulled me to a spot next to him, my elbows trapped between him and the tall bearded man.

I had never seen that much food set in front of me, not even at Christmas. I don’t remember much about that night except the smell of pork roast and the biscuits with honey. I licked the sticky sweetness off my fingers until master elbowed me in the ribs and handed me a napkin. Later he told me I ate like a barbarian for the first month until he tamed my eating habits. 

******

“That’s the end of chapter one,” Steve said.

“Oh, Lord have mercy for small favors,” Tim said with a snort. “You get a book from one of the hottest damn doms I’ve seen in years, a sub’s wet dream, and it’s about horses and food.”

“Timmy, you need to broaden your horizons,” Josh said with a hint of a smile. “Milton always has precise reasons for his choice of reading material.”

“He’s deliberate about everything,” Jer added. “I’m sure the meaning of the book will be clear after a few more chapters.”

Timmy snorted again. “You guys are crazy. Books about horses.” He shook his head.

“Karl falls in love with his new master,” Steve said softly, “doesn’t he?” He didn’t add that Karl was supposed to represent him, not with Timmy here.

“I don’t know; I haven’t read it.” Josh ruffled Steve’s hair and pulled him up from the floor.

Steve had been sitting on the floor, his back against Josh’s knees. He hadn’t even noticed that both he and Tim had been put on the floor. Mike frequently sat on the floor, sprawled against Tilden or sometimes even kneeling with his head resting on Tilden’s lap. Mike was a sub; Tim was a sub. Steve knew he was a sub; Josh had explained it enough times, but he didn’t feel like Tim or Mike. They were brash, self-assured. Steve felt like he was in a maze, blindfolded and stumbling. Steve wanted the kindness, the gentleness, what Karl had in the book. He didn't want to be a submissive on display. Tim goaded Josh; Steve shivered at the idea.

“You OK?” Josh asked, his arm looped around Steve’s shoulder.

“I was thinking.”

Josh kneaded Steve’s shoulder with his thumb. “You’ve had a hard day. Up to bed with you.”

Steve was going to protest that it was only eight thirty, but he didn’t want Josh’s disapproval. He’d still end up in bed, probably with an early bedtime for the next several days, and there was a near stranger in the house. Tim might be all right with a public spanking, but Steve wasn’t.

“You too, Tim. The sofa in the basement makes a bed.”

“I’m not eight,” Tim said with disgust.

“When did you go to bed last night?”

“Three. I’m a night owl.”

“You were lonely and bored with your top gone, and now you’re sleep deprived. I’m old-fashioned. I believe in adequate sleep. Jer can get you settled.”

The house had long since fallen silent for the night when Steve heard his door slowly open. The hinges creaked, and Steve secretly thought that Josh never repaired them because it gave him an easy way to spy on Steve.

“Hey, are you awake?” Tim dropped on the bed.

“I am now. Keep it down. Josh is hard line about middle of the night excursions.”

“He’s hard line about everything.” Tim grabbed Steve’s extra blanket and wrapped it around his shoulders. “Eight thirty bedtimes, polite dinnertime. Doesn’t he know it’s not 1950? I don’t know how you cope. He’s good looking, and he’s got an aura about him, but God he’s a rigid prick.”

Steve said nothing. Josh’s rules made him comfortable.

“Shit! Sorry, man. I’ve put my foot in it. You like Josh; I’ve seen your eyes. It’s just not my thing--too fucking rigid.”

“You get used to the rules.” 

“I guess.” Tim snorted, and Steve could tell he wasn’t convinced. “Who were all those guys we met today? Tilden’s on that crazy show, isn’t he? He hardly seems like a top.”

“He can be. Don’t let him fool you.”

“You’ve been on the wrong side of him?”

“He just rats me out to Josh after giving me these long sad looks.”

“Oh, one of those who’s disappointed in you. I hate all that whining.”

“Tilden’s not like that,” Steve protested. “He cares. It’s not an act.”

Whatever.” Tim shrugged. “What about Milton?”

“He scares me.”

“Me too.” Tim laughed. “But in a good way. I wanted to throw myself at his feet.”

“I want to run the other way.”

“You’d miss all the fun,” Tim grinned. “I bet he can wield a whip.”

“I don’t want to even think about it.”

“He can,” Josh said.

Steve jerked his eyes toward the door. Josh was standing there in his old-fashioned striped pajamas, his arms crossed, his hip propped against the doorframe.

“I thought I sent you to bed,” Josh said, his eyes raking over both boys. “Steve has class tomorrow.”

Steve looked over at the clock, the digital numbers glowing in the faint light from the hallway. It was two AM.

“I told you I was a night owl,” Tim half snarled.

“Do I need to spank you for real?” Josh asked with the quiet, calm authority that made Steve want to answer no, sir, even though the question wasn’t addressed to him.

“That’s your call.” Tim smirked at Josh, almost daring him.

“Very well,” Josh said, clicking his fingers. “Downstairs and wait for me.” Josh waited for the sound of footsteps on the stairs before tucking Steve back in bed. “I assume a middle of the night boys’ chat was Timmy’s idea?”

Steve nodded. He didn’t want to get Tim in more trouble, but he couldn’t lie to Josh.

“That boy needs boundaries.”

“He called you rigid.”

Josh smiled, a faint twist of his lips. “I am rigid. It’s who I am. Tim’s only played. This is different for him, and he’s unsure where he fits.”

“Mike’s a sub, and he doesn’t act like that with you.”

“For Mike, it's more than play, but he does play also. He wants guidance and mentoring, and Tilden is good at that side of dominance.”

“Tilden...Tilden doesn't seem all dominant.”

“You mean he’s too nice,” Josh added with a true smile. “Tilden’s not the whip brandishing type, but he’s what Mike needs. Mike needs family; he needs a guide. The games Timmy and Garth play would never work for Mike.”

“Tim likes pain?” Steve couldn’t keep the horror out of his voice. The idea turned his stomach.

“He turns pain into pleasure. Some people do.” Josh smoothed down Steve’s hair. “Honey, you don’t have to worry. I’ve dealt with boys like this before. We’ll come to an understanding. I can separate discipline from play.”

“Will I ever want to play? Will I want pain?” Steve asked almost under his breath.

“Honey, that’s for you to decide.”

“Do you think I will?” Steve almost shivered at the idea of kneeling and playing with whips.

“I don’t think so,” Josh said slowly after a long hesitation.

“You’ve made me kneel.”

“Yes, and you can find subspace, but...”

“But what?”

“It’s not a yes or no question. As you grow comfortable with your partner, you may want to try it occasionally. It’s not harmful, and it can be fun.”

“Does Jer do it?”

Josh hesitated and then kissed Steve’s forehead. “You’ll have to ask Jer that in normal waking hours,” he added sternly. “Now to bed before Tilden accuses me of not performing my duties by sending an exhausted submissive to class.” Josh ruffled Steve’s hair one more time before leaving.

Steve listened for the footsteps on the stairs and then the scrape of the drawer as Josh took the paddle from the end table and then a second set of footsteps to the basement. Steve strained his ears, but the house was quiet except the rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway and the sweet chime at the quarter hour. Suddenly he heard it, the muffled thwack of a paddle. Steve flinched as if it were hitting his own skin. The muffled noise of wood against skin repeated itself, blocking out the gentle ticking of the clock. Steve could hear the sobs and then the paddling stopped. He clutched his sheets as the sobbing continued in unbroken wails. 

Steve couldn’t stay in bed any longer. He padded across the floor and cautiously pushed Jer and Josh’s bedroom door open. A small reading lamp cast a gentle yellow glow over the bed, and Jer was propped up with an incomprehensible journal on physics. Steve had opened one once, and there had been more equations than words.

“Sweetie, can’t sleep?” Jer’s eyes were warm and kind.

Steve nodded, and he made a quick jerk of his head toward the sound of crying that could still be heard.

“Come here.” Jer patted the edge of the bed. “The only time you’ve been around others being punished was with the pledge, and the tough guy tops didn’t cry much. Timmy’s noisy, sweetheart. You know Josh wouldn’t hurt him.”

“He hardly knows Josh.”

“And for you that would be terrifying, wouldn’t it? Timmy was looking for it all evening. Josh diverted him a couple of times, but Timmy needs this. He has no boundaries. Either Josh spanks him, or that kid’s going to go out looking for trouble and get hurt.”

“He thinks Josh is rigid.”

Jer laughed, a warm deep sound. “He is.”

“But you lived with him for thirty years.”

“Thirty-five. I like rigid, and I love Josh. Honey, I’m that sort of submissive, and without rigid, I fly apart. I know that about myself, and I accept it, and in my old age I actually embrace it. I understand Josh’s expectations, and he understands what I need.”

“Do I like rigid?”

“You’re happier when Josh is nipping at your heels.”

Steve played with the quilt under his hand.

“Steve,” Jer said, putting a large finger under the brat’s chin. “It doesn’t mean you’re broken; it’s just who you are.

“But I’m young,” Steve whined.

“And you’re supposed to want freedom and rebellion.” Jer hooked an arm around Steve and pulled him close. “Freedom can mean being free to be who you really are. And you, my boy, are high maintenances.”

“I don’t like being spanked.”

“I don’t either, but I’m horribly high maintenance.”

“You’re never in trouble.”

Jer laughed. “You missed the first twenty years. We finally figured it out. Josh keeps the rules tight enough that I usually don’t get in trouble. Being a top is a lot more than spanking. It’s making an environment that your partner can thrive in. A good top will take great pleasure in keeping his submissive happy and settled.”  

“I’m not very settled right now,” Steve said, leaning into Jer.

“You’re young, and you’re not partnered. It will get easier.”

“I want to stay here.”

“I know you do, sweetie. We’ll see.” Jer tucked Steve under his chin. “Milton didn’t say no. We’re not saying no.”

“You’re not saying yes.”

“Steve.” Jer wrapped his arms around the boy. “We’re old. We’re your mentors. We don’t want to hurt you. You’re a beautiful boy.” Jer kissed the top of Steve’s head.

“I love you.” What was he saying? He always blabbered when he talked to Jer.

“It’s the middle of the night, honey, after a dreadful day. I know how you feel, and I know how we can’t help but feeling, but you need to give it time.”

“The perfect top is going to come riding over the hill,” Steve said sarcastically. “You said it yourself. I’m a difficult submissive. How many tops can manage a difficult submissive?”

“They can be trained.”

“That’s a nice way of saying they’re fucking hard to find.”

“Don’t swear.”

“Sorry.” Steve dropped his head. It was one of Josh’s rigid rules that you didn’t swear. Gentlemen speak like gentlemen, not gutter trash.

“Don’t let Josh hear you.”

Steve sighed and leaned against Jer. “It’s quiet downstairs now.”

“You should get back to bed before Josh finds you up.”

“You’ll tell him anyway.”

“No, he’ll ask, and I won’t lie. There is a difference.”

Steve nodded. He understood the difference. Jer would never lie, but he might not volunteer. He dropped his head against Jer’s chest and shut his eyes. “Don’t make me get up.”

Jer grunted but didn’t protest. Steve sighed; he could pretend, snuggled against Jer’s chest. The footsteps in the hallway marked the end of his pretty fantasy.

Josh lifted Steve from Jer. He didn’t speak, but Steve could imagine the expression. Fleetingly, he wondered if Jer would get in trouble.

“Bed, my little one, and no Jer’s not in trouble.” Josh’s voice was rich and smooth, full of humor. “You didn’t need to say anything. I know you.”

********

“Jer,” Josh said a few minutes later when he returned to their bedroom alone, his hair standing up from sleep and from running his hands through it, “do you think it’s a good idea to encourage Steve to come into our room in the middle of the night?”

“You told him I wouldn’t get in any trouble?”

“You’re not.” Josh sighed and dropped heavily onto the bed. “I’m merely asking a question.”

“Steve was upset by Timmy.”

“Timmy will be fine. Shocked. He’s only been paddled in play, but he’ll be quiet and happy in the morning. He’s a sweet kid.”

“Too openly subby for my tastes. He was practically fawning over you before dinner.”

“He’s lonely.” Josh kissed Jer’s forehead before running his hand down the familiar planes of his lover’s cheeks. “I love you.” He dropped a soft kiss on Jer’s lips.

“I’m not worried about you running off with the young guys,” Jer said, pushing Josh off. “I know he’s a buffer between us and Steve, and I know you’re not going to leave an upset and lost submissive with no support. You’re too good of top for that.” Jer stroked Josh’s hair. “I trust you always, and I’d be disappointed if you let a young submissive get hurt.”

“You’d be furious,” Josh said with a smile, “and I’ve seen your righteous fury. I don’t care to see it again.”

“You’re going soft.” Jer mock slapped Josh on the head.

“Not soft--smart. Was Steve all right?”

“Nice change of subject. Full marks.” Jer smiled, his deep brown eyes dancing with humor. Those were the eyes that had bitten Josh’s soul when they’d first met, eyes that were truly windows to the depth of Jer’s generosity and kindness, and the pain and need this brilliant man tried to keep hidden behind his professional persona.

“Are you all right?” Josh asked.

“Yes, I’m a big boy now. I can manage.”

Josh cleared his throat, a midrange warning signal.

Jer had the good sense to look chagrined. “You don’t have to put me in the corner, and yes, I’m worried about Steve. He’s realized how difficult he is.”

“What do you mean?”

“He knows he can’t take any top. He asked me how many tops would have the skill to manage him.”

“What did you tell him?”

“They can be trained.”

“He saw right through that.”

“He thought I was spinning a fantasy, and he was right. How many twenty some tops are going to manage that boy?”

Josh ran his fingers through his hair, making it more untidy. “Very few.”

“He’s like me,” Jer said softly.

“He hates math.”

“Stop it. You know what I mean.”

“I know,” Josh said, wrapping his arms around Jer. “We found each other. He’ll find someone.”

“I wouldn’t wish my early twenties on anyone,” Jer said quietly with a slight shiver.

Josh rubbed the back of Jer’s neck. “I know, love, but it’s a different world today, and he has us.”

“He needs you, Josh.” Jer’s head fell against Josh’s shoulder. 

“He needs a top, a lover, a partner. I can be the first one, but can we be the rest. He’s young.” Josh could hear the wistful quality in his own voice. He knew if they were forty they wouldn’t be having this discussion. Mentoring be damn; they’d never let go of Steve. He was so beautiful. “I have to get up twice a night to go to the bathroom,” Josh said with bitter humor.

“You’re still beautiful.” Jer kissed Josh, his fingers playing through the silky hair.

“Only to you, sweetheart.” Josh kissed Jer, gently opening his mouth with the tip of his tongue. “You’re good for this old man’s ego,” he murmured, kissing Jer again.