Day 3-5
I’m lumping all these days together because a lot of it was nothing but busy work. A dominant, who is a college prof, I should’ve known better, especially after getting myself expelled. Taking the pen knife to school had worked like a charm for that, but I wish I’d thought first. I think that’s going to be a repeated theme. “Think before you act, boy,” is one of Milton’s maxims along with, “Actions have consequences.”
I’ve been consequenced to death. And yeah, I know that’s not a word. Trust me. Tilden’s taken over my English education, and he’s way too happy to use a red pen. The school front is hell. Don’t ever get tutored by a bunch of doms. Jeremiah’s not a dom, but Josh hangs around to make sure I keep my nose clean, and he’s up there in the scary league. Do the work, or get your ass spanked, and do twice the work. Take no prisoners is the motto. My concentration problem is vanishing along with my ability to sit comfortably. I’m being harsh here. They’re good teachers, and if I make half an effort, they’re patient--saintly patient. It’s just hard. I’m a martyr to my school work.
Ugh, I need to stop that. I’ve already gotten the lecture in stereo (both Milton and Sheldon) about not feeling sorry for myself. It goes along the lines of you chose submission, so tough it out, boy. Sheldon kisses my nose when he says it; Milton puts his enormous palm on my vulnerable butt flesh. He puts his palm there a lot; I’m beginning to think it’s welded to my ass. He spanks me every morning. Now before you call the league for the prevention of cruelty to submissives; it’s not that bad. Did I just write that? Jesus! The brainwashing is successful. No, it really isn’t all that bad. OK, I’m hiding the redness of my face in the pillows. It’s my time alone with Milton. He sends me to pee, and then he drapes me over his strong thighs. It’s only us; Sheldon’s in the shower. It hurts a little, but it’s a good hurt. I know that doesn’t make any sense, but I’m his cub, and it’s very clear in that position: upturned, completely bare, vulnerable, and turning a warming pink.
All right all the last paragraphs were the easy parts; now for the glorified getting my ass fried. Well, it wasn’t actually fried, just assaulted with the plastic spatula. Please, I beg of you keep that dreaded tool in the kitchen and off your boy’s ass. It had me in undignified howls in about ten seconds; stoicism is way overrated when Paul Bunyan is playing pingpong on your ass with a spatula.
The morning started OK. I was upturned over Milton’s knee. He had on his corduroys, but his chest was still bare, and he smelled of shampoo and soap and toothpaste. He patted my rump moderately hard--light swat to all you uninitiated.
“Austin, do you need more from me this morning?”
“No.” I squirmed as he laid down a couple of warming slaps on my bare cheeks.
“This won’t be an easy day.” That was prophetic. “Do you need me to settle you down?”
“I’m fine.” That was a world class lie. I had to talk to all the social service people today--gray-haired lady in her tweed skirt and the token gay guy. Why they thought all gays could relate to each other was beyond me? He wore a lilac shirt and pranced about. All he needed was a pink poodle. I knew Tilden and Milton had already gone several rounds with them on Monday, but I was still dreading it.
“Cub, that wasn’t a trick question. I’ll be with you, but will it help to have a more physical reminder?”
Stupid me. I declined. A little more warming with his hand would have been a hell of a lot better than that man eating plastic later. I’m never trusting the spatula drawer again.
Milton let me up after just a dusting to a comfortable warmth, and I did my morning crash and bang in the bathroom: shower, teeth brushing, and a rub down my chin hoping for stubble that had only appeared in my imagination. I tromped down the stairs. Tilden had my usually space next to Milton and was deep in conversation with my man. Sheldon hooked an arm around my neck and kissed my wet hair.
“Be good today.”
Yeah, whatever.
“What do you want to eat, kiddo?” Trent asked.
“Nothing,” I muttered, flinging myself into a far chair, pissed I couldn’t sit next to Milton.
Trent gave me one of his gentle top looks and turned the floor over to Milton who had noticed my uncharacteristic refusal of breakfast. Trent swore I raised the grocery bill by twenty percent, and I’d just tried to skip breakfast.
“Toast and scrambled eggs will be fine,” Milton said.
“I’m not hungry,” I repeated.
“Are you sick?”
No, I wasn’t sick. I just didn’t want to be hassled. I wanted to sit next to Milton, not out in the nether reaches.
“Austin, I asked you a question.”
Sitting at the table and rolling the napkin into a ball didn’t meet Milton’s standards of question answering.
“Austin, do we need to have a little chat?”
“Fuck no!” Strike one. I just swore at Milton. Swearing at Milton is a stupid move; swearing at Milton when he’s your dom is suicidal. Trent took that moment to hand me a bowl of fruit. I sent it flying off the table past Sheldon’s attempt to save it. Strike two. “I said I wasn’t fucking hungry. Don’t you guys speak English?”
I didn’t get any further. Milton grabbed my arm in one of his unbreakable grips and hustled me out of the kitchen with only the slightest of pauses to grab the murderous spatula. The swinging door clanged between the kitchen and dining room, and I was propelled nearly head first into the wall.
“Brace yourself.”
Somehow I found a purchase for my hands as Milton pummeled my ass. It didn’t matter that my jeans were still up. The man has a fantastic swing. I tried to shield the wreckage of my ass with my hands. Fingers and spatula--fuck!
“Hands on the wall, boy.”
I was squealing like a stuck pig, and that was all Milton could say. He put one of his massive hands over mine. It was a hell of a lot harder to balance with my hands trapped over my head as I flailed and jerked from the blows. Dignity went somewhere I don’t want to describe, and I was was wailing before he stopped and jerked my pants and underwear down to my knees. I went over his knee, a kicking and sobbing mess. His hand scorched a line over the already devastated territory. I was snotting and gulping and crying in great masses of wet tears when he stopped.
“Next time I won’t ask when I think you need a little more.”
Those words said in Milton’s quiet, gentle tone made me heave with fury. Stupid, I know. My ass was crisp, and I was still fighting.
“I hate you!” I shouted in a hoarse gulp and tried to leap from his knees. Tangled in my pants and strung out from the ass whipping, I plunged to the floor only to be scooped up in Milton’s arms.
“I’m sure you do right now,” Milton said, his grip on me unbreakable. “You hurt, you’re embarrassed, and all you did was swear a little and refuse to eat breakfast. Unfair. Life as a submissive is unfair. Life as my submissive is horribly unfair. I have high expectations, and I will insist that you meet them. You no longer have a choice not to eat breakfast. You gave me that choice when you demanded the role of submissive. Those decisions are mine. Your role is to submit gracefully and willingly. Cursing and throwing food is neither willing nor graceful.” Milton rubbed his hand down my shaking back. “I didn’t promise easy.”
I buried my head in his shirt and cried. Tears came because I hurt, tears came because I felt sorry for myself, and tears came because I was a teenage mess. “I’m sorry,” I manage to gurgle.
“I know.” Milton brushed his hand gently down my face, catching the tears in his fingers. “You made a mistake. You’ve been punished. I’m not angry. What were the lessons, cub?”
“To eat breakfast.”
“Why do you need to eat breakfast?”
“Because I’m the cub. I’m supposed to obey,” I choked into his shirt.
“Fair enough.” Milton kissed the top of my head. “Not eating breakfast was OK as a teenage boarder; it’s not OK as my submissive. I choose when and what you eat. What other lessons?”
“Not to curse at you.”
“Expand on that.” Milton’s hand rubbed the back of my neck, strong and safe.
“I don’t know,” I mumbled after a long silence.
“Cub, several times this morning I offered more productive ways for you to get my attention. You’re seventeen. You have to talk to some impossible busybodies about your choice today to kneel at my feet and get your ass whipped to put it crudely. Sheldon would have trouble articulating his reasons; you have to be dreading it. I’ll be there every moment for you, kid. You are my submissive; I am honor bound to keep you safe even from irascible government employees. Physical discipline can focus you toward me and away from everything outside. The morning discipline is about reminding you of your place, my darling cub. I think we need it a bit more memorable when you’re feeling stressed.” Milton kissed my cheek and combed his fingers through my tangled hair. “Let’s get cleaned up. We’re both a mess.”
I let Milton pull up my jeans and guide me upstairs into the bathroom. He stripped off his tear sodden shirt and pants, washed my face, and changed my shirt. The only description for me was limp. I ate breakfast on his lap. Fruit and cold cereal. We were too late for eggs, and I knew he’d missed his first period class.
“Milton,” I said tentatively, looking at the clock.
“Tilden will have covered. Family comes first, and you needed me this morning.”
I don’t think the words sunk in when he first said them, but I’m staring at it now. So simple. So encompassing. He was stepping into that void, or maybe he and Sheldon. I couldn’t figure out Sheldon. No one could except Milton, but somehow I was irrevocably in the tangle now. I was his.
Of course I couldn’t explain the submission to the social workers. I know they’re just doing their job, but couldn’t they just butt out. I didn’t need reminded how different I was. I’m sure Milton would say all teenagers feel different and have a persecution complex. He has zero tolerance for all those teenage foibles. He probably skipped his teenage years, too manly for all the crash and burn. Crash and burn had been plentiful today. The crash of his hand on my ravaged ass and the burn of that very same part of my anatomy.
Back to the dreaded meeting. I stared at prissy lilac shirt guy and mumbled inarticulate answers to his questions. I wouldn’t even have managed the mumbles if Milton hadn’t been making death threats with his eyes. My poor ass was way too sore for another encounter with a kitchen utensil. Thank the Lord and pass the ammunition that they had brought the big guns. Milton, Tilden, Ryan, Landon, Gordon, and Adam were solidly sitting on my side of the table. I was too dazed to follow most of the conversation, but Gordon can argue anyone into the ground. He could have an avowed Texas Christian crazy believing in the Big Bang within thirty minutes. Disagreeing with him is exhausting and dangerous. I think Milton is the only one who dares, and he wears a hardhat and a flak jacket.
All the big guys did a charming round of final pleasantries, and I managed to mumble something with Milton’s hand resting dangerously close to the smoking ruins of my ass. The social worker crew left with a sheaf of papers. I wasn’t totally cut lose by them. Thin lips, who had sat next to lilac shirt, insisted I have an interview with him every week. He was some kind of child psychologists; that explains the cartoon character tie. He could barely shake Milton’s hand at the end. I’m sure he must have lumped my man in with the pedophiles, but Milton behaved with his impeccable, professional charm and tossed them out the door with one mighty fling. Nah, the tossing is a lie, but flanked by Milton and Ryan, they were walking quickly.
Social worker goons safely packed away, I was hoisted into Milton’s arms and carried to bed with the undiplomatic observation that I was mentally and physically exhausted. Talk about feeling ten! I started squawking, but Milton was in ultra dom mode as opposed to normal dom mode.
“Hush. You’ve been through the wringer today. You don’t want or need more.” His hand tapped my ass, and I desperately tried to tuck it out of range. He undressed me with brutal efficiency and redressed me in the most awful pajamas possible--maybe not most awful no Peter Pan and not pink.
“I’m not sleepy,” I protested.
“You’re beyond sleepy, cub.” Milton stroked a hand over my hair. “This morning we discussed that it is my decision whether you eat or not; it is also my decision whether you sleep or not, and I’ve made the decision. Do you want to disobey me?” Milton looked at me with his bottomless dark eyes, and I dropped my head in a hurry and scrambled for the pillows. “Words, cub,” Milton said more gently.
“No, sir.” I was clutching the blanket up near my chin and feeling impossibly young and helpless trapped in his gaze.
“Good boy.”
Stupid, but those words helped. I buried my face in his offered shoulder and basked in his embrace and petting.
“Patience with yourself, cub. You have big goals, and big goals take time. I was proud of you today. I couldn’t have imagined dealing with all those old fogies in opposition at seventeen. You made me proud.”
“I hated it.”
“So did I.” Milton gave me a grim smile and kissed my forehead. “It’s none of their damn business, but we have to play their game until your eighteen. We can stack the deck, but I still have to play the hand. Do you understand?”
“You hurt me this morning,” I pouted.
“Ah, don’t pout.” Milton kissed my lips, a brief promise of what he could do in a different mood at a different time. “I’m your dominant. It was my duty to get you through that meeting in one piece psychologically with only the few weapons I have. I will use pain, and I will even use fear if I think it is in our best interest. You gave me that right. Full time dominance isn’t only about the fantasy and the games.” Milton nibbled down my neck which made me squirm against him. “We’ll play, and we’ll all enjoy it, but the hard parts won’t go away. I’m not a believer in avoidance or procrastination. We will plow through the difficulties, but I won’t promise you’ll enjoy it, but if I do it right, you will look back at it later with nostalgia and pride once the pain decreases to a tolerable level, and I’m not speaking only of physical pain. The physical pain is easy; it’s a distraction for the emotional pain. I will make you face both, but, boy, you won’t be facing them alone.”
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