Mike's Saga 2

Mike’s Saga 2

Mike had been in Milton's study many times. There was no reason to be this nervous. Milton wouldn't do anything, a little spanking with a silly paddle and that was considered hard done. Milton was supposed to be such a fierce dom. Supposedly, Mike made mental air quotes around the word, Milton had damn near beaten Sheldon to a pulp. It was most likely a myth like everything else around here. Milton didn't have it in him to really do it. He was good at this sophisticated, nice guy dominance, but it didn't go further. He'd played with Mike a few times since the great change. He always aborted it so early that it wasn't even fun.

Mike wiped his hands on his pants. He shouldn't be sweating. This was silly. He'd get a little dressing down and go on about his day. Mike flopped down on the sofa and tried to look casual. He'd usually stand in the corner, but Milton hadn't told him to, and Mike sure as hell wasn't going there on his own accord. The corner was for toddlers and silly schoolboy games. 

Mike raked his fingers through his short hair. He kept it brutally short, almost a buzz cut. Maybe he should be in the corner. He'd upset Austin. That was clear from their little conversation this morning. Austin was putting a brave face on it, but he'd been damn near in Sheldon's lap. Sheldon had looked like he wanted to kill Mike, tight lipped with his green eyes blazing. Sheldon had kept his trap shut, too cowed by Master Milton.

"Mike?"

How long had Milton been standing in the doorway? He looked thoughtful, maybe stern. He was staring down at Mike through his glasses, the disappointed professor. Shit! Mike was in no mood for disappointed. All his life he'd been the awkward disappointment. God, how had he'd been so stupid not to see it here? Luke had Tilden. Mike had only been added out of pity--the boy without a home, the boy with rocks for brains. He wasn't going to be their charity case any longer.

"I thought I might find you in the corner."

"You didn't tell me to stand there." Mike instantly hated himself for sounding defensive.

"No, I didn't. I wanted to see what you'd choose." Milton walked to the armchair and sat down. He crossed his long legs. He didn't speak; he just sat.

"Is this some silent torture?" Mike spat, soaking his voice in derision like a Christmas cake in rum. "I'm so scared. Should I drop to my knees and beg and plead?"

"I'm not looking for fear; I'm looking for honesty. Fear is easy to create. I choose not to terrify you because it's not a productive strategy. I more than have the skill and the temperament to terrify you. I choose to show you the controlled side of my personality, not the sadistic side. You do not wish to meet the sadistic side."

Mike rolled his eyes and laughed at Milton's little drama. "You act the part. I'll give you that, but there's more to this than having the perfect voice for Mystery Theater."

"Boy, you play with fire. Your words speak of bravado, but I see the pulse bounding in your neck and the beads of sweat on your forehead. You're scared, boy, and you should be. You build Potemkin villages around yourself. One day the scaffolding is going to collapse, and you better hope and pray that one of the good guys is around to pick up the pieces."

"Fuck you!"

"Cursing me doesn't change the truth." Milton leaned forward and propped his chin on his hand. "All we want is for you to be happy and satisfied. You're not happy; a happy boy would never have gone that far. I have no objection to you playing at topping; I am furious that you didn't get someone when it went wrong, not that I'm surprised. You can't manage your own emotions; you aren't capable of supporting a distressed submissive. Play requires trust and honesty; you failed at both. I will not let Austin be alone with you until you are honest."

Mike jerked his head back as if he'd been slapped. He hadn't expected this verbal tirade. He'd expected a spanking, maybe even the taste of the belt, but not words that sank into his chest like a dozen knives.

"What do you want, Mike?"

"I want out." The words were out of his mouth almost before the meaning had registered in his head. He wanted to leave. He wanted to get out of here, to not always be the third boy, the afterthought.

"Have you thought about it, or is this merely a dramatic reaction to my words?” Milton asked in an impossibly calm voice.

“I want out,” Mike repeated, staring across at Milton. He’d fucking tried. He couldn’t be what they wanted. He wasn’t sweet and submissive.

“Have you talked to Tilden or Luke?”

Mike shook his head. Tilden he could manage, not that it didn’t send his stomach into spasms. Tilden was sweet and kind, and he had beautifully expressive eyes. He’d stroke Mike’s hair and look pained, but he’d let go. He always gave way. That was the problem. Mike wanted a dom who could wear that word proudly, not a Russian teacher with beautiful eyes. Luke--Mike couldn’t manage to tell Luke. He knew that was cowardly, but Luke had been his best friend, his lover, his confidant. Mike couldn’t speak the words, looking at that gentle smile and blond curls that always tumbled onto his forehead.

“You need to do the right thing.”

“I can’t,” Mike mumbled, cursing himself for his weakness.

“Go meet Tilden in his office. At least talk to him. Life is hard; you need to rise to the occasion.”

Fucking lecturer. Life is hard from the man who fucks and bosses everyone else. He should try it from the bottom sometime.

“Mike.” Milton was standing over Mike; gently he cupped Mike’s chin and kissed the top of his head. “This is not your failure, and this is not all on your head. I want you to make the choice that works for you, the choice that makes you happy. You’re not happy.”

“Happiness is overrated.”

“Probably,” Milton said with a shrug. “Life is not the proverbial bowl of cherries, but it shouldn’t be a grim hail storm either. Mike, we don’t always fit together. You want me to be a strong dominant, but you wall me off. The stronger I am as a dominant the more responsible I am for your emotional health. I won’t do it any other way.”

“Is this an ultimatum?” Mike snarled and jerked away from Milton’s hand.

“No, I will neither force you to leave nor force you to stay. Your destiny has and always will be your choice.”

“The choice you give Sheldon.”

“Sheldon made his choice to be my slave, and I accepted it. Yes, he has no choice now. I will not argue that with you, but you are not ignorant of a power exchange. You understand the choice Sheldon made.”

“I can’t do this.”

“I know you can’t. Go talk to Tilden. He loves you. That is not something to throw away like the autumn leaves swept to the curb.”

Mike sat with his back against Tilden’s desk. Back in his college days, he’d hung here a lot. After classes he’d slip into Tilden’s office and hope he’d find a few minutes with the esteemed Tikhon Ivanovich. The desk was big and solid and from this side, Mike was never visible to the parade of students with questions. Tilden would stroke Mike’s hair and prattle on about fleeting vowels or verbal aspect. 

Mike had walked across campus and let himself into Tilden’s office after Milton had swept out of the room as if he were royal born. Mike didn’t have a key, but he’d never needed a key; a credit card and a little jimmying and the office door had swung open like it always had. Tilden never threw anything away, and the office looked just like Mike remembered it. The smell was even the same, the slight sweetness of Soviet paper combined with chalk and dust.. Mike didn’t know why the books with cheap paper, smudged ink, and poorly glued binding had such a distinct smell, the aroma of the Volga and the Metro and the Red Star on the Kremlin if he wanted to wax poetically about nonsense. It was the scent of Tilden, the romanticism of the great Russian hero combined with chalk and this morning’s breakfast and Milton’s cologne.

“Privet.”

“Tilden, I didn’t see you come in.”

Tilden sat down in his chair; his long fingers traced Mike’s neck. Mike leaned into the khaki clad knees. He had sat here often, absorbing the comfort and letting life go on around him.

“Misha, I assume you spoke to Milton.”

Mike nodded and mumbled something that with imagination could be considered a yes.

“Have you decided?” Tilden knew. His voice was soft and calm and somehow full of pain and longing. 

“I can’t stay.” Mike forced the words out and with more stubbornness than real courage forced himself to his feet. “I’m moving out. It’s not right for me.” It was all he could say. He stumbled out of the office and past the poster extolling literacy as the path to Communism. Fortunately his feet knew the stairs, or he would have tumbled the two flights.

The air was cold and wet; New England winter was arriving on schedule. He jerked his zipper on his jacket and buried his hands in his pocket. He knew these paths; they had been his home for four years. He’s been young and stupid and full of youthful optimism. It had all been such a lark. Now what did he have?

“Mike.” 

The arm around his shoulder was heavy and demanding. It would be difficult to move away. “Josh! Milton moves fast.”

“He cares, boy, even if you don’t.”

“I don’t need lectured by another Green Mountain dominant. I’ve been there, done that, and am mentally black and blue from it. Just go fuck yourself and fuck everyone else while you’re at it.”

“Why Milton didn’t beat that foul mouth and bad temper out of you long ago is a mystery.  I’ll have to assume he had a plan.”

“Why are you here?” Mike asked, trying to pull out from under Josh’s arm. Josh, despite his age and gray hair, was strong.

“Take what’s being given to you, you ungrateful boy.”

“How dare you! I stayed because of Luke. I never fit in.” Mike swiped at his eyes. He wasn’t going to cry, not in front of this bastard.”

“That’s real. That’s better.”

“Better?” Mike heard the tone of voice he wanted in his head; it wasn’t the one assaulting his ears. In his head, he sounded decisive, assertive, weary of these games. In his ears he sounded weak, pathetic, and useless.

“You just walked away from eight years of your life. Polite chitchat isn’t a priority. Mike, I’m here to help you, not make you more miserable or belt your disobedient and rude tail.”

“I can take care of myself. Submissive doesn’t mean helpless, or did you forget a maxim of the Green Mountain Boys?”

Josh grimaced and his gray eyes hardened to the color of sleet. “I would help a dominant in the same situation.”

“I don’t see you knocking on Milton and Tilden’s door.”

“They are not the ones who will be without a roof. They own the home. You do not, and as a Green Mountain Boy I will not have you forced to live in a home you wish to leave because you are without means. If the situation were reversed, I would be assisting the dominant.”

“I don’t want assisted,” Mike snarled.

“You want dominated, and it would be tempting to lay a line of fire on you ass that you’d feel to next week, but that’s not my role here. I am going to get you some lunch and help find you that vaunted space and time to get your head in order.” Josh paused and grabbed both of Mike’s shoulders. “I wouldn’t have done it this way. You need whipped, forced to accept what’s been in front of your face now for years. You’re spoiled and selfish, and Milton’s let you get away with it.”

“Milton fucks my partner, and now somehow it’s about him not beating my ass hard enough. You guys are crazy!”

“Little boy,” Josh snapped. “You’re relationship with Milton changed only by an incremental fraction. He was always the head dominant of your household, and he might not have had you in his bed, but only the naive would think there was no sexual undertone to the relationship. I know he spanked you, and I know what sort of man Milton is. He could not have had his hand on a beautiful boy like you and been oblivious. Dominance as sexual power is not merely defined by the biological ways to have sex. Despite the cover of being Tilden's, you have always been Milton's submissive. Boy, why on earth do you think Sheldon was always at your throat, besides Sheldon's general insanity. You were Milton's boy, and Sheldon knew it."

"Bullshit! He never treated me like Sheldon."

"And you would have liked that treatment. You want someone to tell you what to do every minute. You love Tilden, but Tilden loses interest in choosing your wardrobe or ordering your meals. The fire doesn't burn that intensely in Tilden; it does in Milton."

"I'm not begging for my lunch money every day."

"Sheldon is a slave. Intense dominance doesn't have to involve a master/slave relationship. Jer and I are not involved in a master/slave relationship, but I'm an intense dominant. I only step into a few areas of his life, but in those areas there is no questioning of my authority. It is not permitted."

"Whatever. I'm done with that shit."

"Mike, you're a submissive. That is never going to change. You can change partners, but you can't change your spots. Know yourself, boy. You want to be on your knees, kissing my boots; instead you're spitting in my face and making everyone miserable."

"You're insane! I'm not groveling at a self-described master's feet. You can save your analysis for someone who might be impressed. I'm out of here. Will you kindly take your hands off me?" Mike asked with a detached sneer.

"No." Josh's voice was cold, harsh, absolutely determined, and gut wrenchingly terrifying. "I'm not Milton. I don't have his modern day, politically correct kinder and gentler impulses. Forget the lunch and a chat. I'm a dominant, an angry dominant at the moment. You try to pull away from me, and I'll frog march you home, throw you over the table, and thrash you with my belt. When I'm finished you'll kiss my boots and thank me for taking the time to correct your disrespectful and sorry self. Am I clear, boy?"

Mike stared at the determined set of the jaw and uncompromising fire in those gray eyes. There was no kindness in Josh's expression. Mike twisted sideways and planted his elbow into Josh's stomach. There was a grunt, and Mike's arm was wrenched behind him as a knee was planted in his groin.

Mike panted, doubled over, desperately fighting the urge to wretch. Josh's hand was heavy and warm under Mike's shirt.

"You're almost as tall as I am and several decades younger, but I'm still a lot broader, and I know how to fight. I've chased thugs off construction sites all my live, and I grew up the only gay boy in the entire neighborhood. The world was different then, and I didn't always play by the rules to survive."

"It hurts." Mike could hardly recognize his voice. It was wheezy and whiny and somehow desperate.

"I want you to stand up for me and put your hands behind your back. Hold your left wrist with your right hand."

Mike struggled upright. He looked around as he tried to catch his breath, noticing their location on the familiar path for the first time. Josh had picked a good location for his demonstration of kicking someone in the balls. They were on the least traveled path in a dense grove of trees. At this time of day and in the now misting drizzle, it was abandoned. The pain was diminishing from white hot to a steady throb, or maybe his body was adjusting to smashed testicles. He was going to ache for several days, and he didn't want to imagine what color they were going to be.

Josh grabbed Mike's wrists. "We're going to finish our nice, polite walk to my house. No more dramatics."

"Yes, sir." Where had that come from? Mike wasn't a novice at this. Those were the words of consent, the words decreeing that he knew his place in this relationship. He stumbled forward. He wasn't used to walking with his hands trapped behind his back.

"Easy. I won't let you fall." Josh's voice was soft, almost a caress. "I won't do more than you need and want."

Oh, shit! Josh had to be talking of belting Mike; he'd promised it. He'd promised to thrash Mike and make him kiss Josh's boots. Mike couldn't do that. He couldn't beg and degrade himself. He couldn't fight either. Josh had already casually demonstrated that having gray hair and being semiretired hadn't softened his muscles or his thirst for vengeance. Josh didn't play by Milton and Tilden's rules. He'd beat it into Mike; he'd already made that clear.

"Boy, now what? You're shoulders went as stiff as a board."

"I can't do this." Mike stopped and tried to twist around to look at Josh.

"Boy, you just blatantly asked for me to do it. I see why Milton in unguarded moments calls you his schizophrenic submissive. One moment you're begging for more, and the next moment you're throwing up stop signs. Tough, boy. You've earned every lick I'm going to give you. I'm going to enjoy seeing that ass turn red and hearing you sob. Now march."

Mike knew his legs were moving. He could hear his feet crunching on the fallen leaves. Wetness seeped down his cheek, and he couldn't wipe it. Josh's grip was relentless. Shit! Why was his stomach fluttering? Why was he half hard despite his battered balls?He wasn't attracted to Josh, the old and cranky coot. He didn’t want this to happen.

Josh's other hand was on the back of Mike's neck: warm, heavy, and surprisingly comforting. His fingers kneaded Mike's tense muscles. "Milton told me your safeword."

Josh didn't say any more. He didn't have to. Mike understood the implications. He was consenting; he hadn't safeworded. He was Milton's schizophrenic submissive.