Sins and Sinners

This is an interlude that chronologically takes place prior to the last few chapters, but I thought fit best here.

Sins and Sinners

Milton sighed and added a few more specifics to the notes for tomorrow's lecture. He'd given this lecture for as long as he could remember; he could do it backwards, forwards, and in his sleep. He didn't need lecture notes, but he couldn't stop fiddling. He raked his fingers through his hair, a gesture he'd intentionally obliterated from his repertoire as an obvious tell. He was a dominant; he was supposed to be in control. He wasn't supposed to long to kick several asses from here to some unknown eternity.

Milton slapped his own thigh hard. He shouldn't be wallowing in self-pity. Chin up and grind it out. He bent his head back to his notes, pushing too hard with the pen and tearing a hole in the paper. Milton bit his tongue to prevent colorful language in full volume. He whacked his hand against the desk, flinching as his fingers struck the unyielding surface. Stupid! He'd bruise himself.

Back to work. He couldn't think about European nation states. Sheldon had offered this morning. He'd dropped to his knees encircled Milton's legs with his arms and kissed his master's knee.

"I can do what Landon used to do for Gordon."

"No." Milton's voice had been too hard and too curt. He'd seen the hurt in his boy's beautiful green eyes. Sheldon wasn't the boy for that; he wasn't a masochist; he couldn't control the fire that raged inside Milton.

"Lad." 

The voice was unmistakable. Milton turned to see Gordon in the doorway, his black coat damp with a dusting of early snow, his leather gloves perfectly fitting, and a cane in his hand. He'd walked across campus and into this building with a senior cane clearly visible.

"How did you get here?"

"I drove, and a young student was kind enough to let me in."

"With that in your hand?"

"Yes," Gordon said with perfect calm. 

"I'm out, but I don't carry implements into my classroom," Milton said with ice in his voice.

"It might improve your humor. Give me your hand."

"Why?"

"I saw you hit the desk. If you need pain, I will hurt you; you don't hurt yourself."

Milton had a perverse desire to refuse. Gordon wasn't strong enough to force him. Milton balled his hand into a fist and stared at Gordon.

Gordon stared back, eyes hard and far too shrewd for comfort. "If you want a physical fight, I'll call Ryan."

"He wouldn't touch me."

"In this mood he'd be delighted to hand me a carefully wrapped package already adorned with festive stripes. His geniality is perhaps exaggerated."

Milton held out his hand.

Gordon's grip on his wrist was firm; his other hand probed the sore spots. "Foolish, but no harm. Do you care to tell me what that was about?"

No. That wouldn’t be a politic answer; that would be a brat spoiling for a fight, Gordon’s lack of patience for bratting was legendary.

“Punishing yourself?” Gordon asked in a gentle tone. “You are very good at that.”

“Well, I did turn my family into a three ring circus,” Milton snarled. “I deserve punishment; I deserve to hurt as much as all the rest of them. Even Ryan with his dazzling blue eyes and kind smile didn’t hesitate to let me know of my utter incompetence and infidelity as a dominant.”

“Enough.” 

That tone still froze Milton. He swallowed on a throat suddenly dry and automatically dropped his eyes. 

“Better. Good lad.”

"I hurt everybody. Mike's run off; I had to chase Sheldon across the county." 

Gordon still hit hard with the same nasty and quick backhand that he'd used years ago. "I don't see incompetence and infidelity; I see a lack of perspective and willful disobedience. You have disregarded my request for silence."

"No." Milton stared at the ball gag that Gordon produced from his pocket. Gordon had used it early in Milton's training and knew Milton's aversion to gags. Voice and reason were power in the arsenal of a skilled dominant. Gagged these powers were nullified; Milton would be reduced to a slobbering, incoherent fool.

"Yes."

"Please. Gordon, please."

"Do not beg to escape deserved repercussions. Put it on please. Your safe signal applies."

Milton could refuse. He wasn't seventeen and intimidated by the sharp looks and even sharper tongue. Gordon's eyes were searching and demanding. That man had always been able to look through Milton, to see past Milton's weak fortifications, to open Milton's very soul. Slowly, Milton reached out and took the gag; his fingers still had the memory, and he fastened it around his head as his tongue tasted the horrid rubber.

"Good lad." The praise was real. Milton felt a slight blush on his cheeks. Gordon reached out and ran his knuckle down Milton's cheek. "You may sit. I have much to say." Gordon pointed to the floor at his feet.

The floor was dusty and hard. Milton knew he should be grateful that he didn't have to kneel. He pulled his legs into an awkward cross-legged position. Gordon had taken the desk chair. It creaked as he reached forward and carded his fingers into Milton's hair. Milton leaned into the touch; he couldn't stop himself.

"Tactile, but guarded. You mustn't hide from your best qualities. You are an affectionate man; you love your boys. None of us would argue that your method of incorporating Tilden into the fold wasn't abrupt, but it is done. Live with the consequences; most, I would argue, were favorable. Even Ryan, who I believe you see as condemning your relationship, has told your boys in his hip parlance to deal, and he has been harsher to you than is justified. He sees the submissive world through Blade's eyes, a young man who could not survive a polyamorous relationship. Blade and Sheldon are brothers but they are not identical submissives. You are exquisitely aware of your submissives' needs. They are being cared for, perhaps coddled. You ignore your own needs, never your submissives."

Gordon clipped Milton hard across the ear. Milton jerked at the sudden pain. He wanted to protest, not the crack across his ear, but the assertion that he neglected his wants. He'd wanted Tilden. Sheldon hadn't begged him to fuck Tilden.

"You didn't cast a magic spell on Tilden. You didn't charm him from the trees with a golden singing voice and promises of happily ever after. You didn't assault him in a public toilet and force yourself on him. He wanted you. He has always wanted you. It was a dance of two, not of one." Gordon's voice hardened. "Don't you dare have the arrogance to assume all the guilt on your head. Tilden is not an innocent. He is a man who is more than capable of defending himself and his positions. Any guilt must be carried by both of you.

"As for the boys, they will adjust and grow. Sheldon is a slave. He has always been a slave, however he was immature and feared his own needs. The bratting became an outlet, an avoidance tactic. Such defenses were always destined to failure. He might not have all of you in the tradition of one partner, but he has a master, and he has you as that master." Gordon stroked Milton's hair. "Being master suits you. You are everything a slave could want in a master.

"Mike needs you to hurt him. He needs to fight, but you must win. Something happened in his past. I don't know all the details; none of you have confided in me. Whatever it was makes him fake his submission, makes him play when he needs to see you as his true lord, not his dungeon playmate. Mike needs to bow his head to your will. He needs to taste, to smell, and to feel his submission through his entire soul. He's not a Sheldon. He's not a slave, even though his need for dominance runs as deep. He rejects the guardianship, the guidance, the care that you lavish on Sheldon and your beautiful cub Austin. He needs love and protection, but he will not allow it until he's exhausted his ability to take a thrashing. You are a man who can enjoy the fire that Mike demands. Let yourself. He will curl at your feet like a contented cat when you are finished. It is a confident, loved, and fully submissive Mike who will be able to absorb your moods. His darkness will match yours.

"I will punish you today, not for your infidelity. I cannot punish that away. I will punish you for your inability to move forward. You and Tilden chose this path for your relationship. I will not judge and punish your choice; I will punish this incessant wallowing in guilt." Gordon stroked his hand over Milton's hair and down his neck. "I expect this over now. You do not have the luxury of guilt. Up."

Gordon didn't need to say more; Milton knew the position. As a young man, he would have scrambled to his feet. As an adult, he eased to his feet and tried to maintain his dignity as he went across the desk. His fingers grabbed the smooth, polished edges; his eyes roamed over the books on his shelves: The History of the World, Das Kapital, The Collected Works of V.I. Lenin. He was tenured faculty, a well respected expert on European history, and he was going to be caned as if he were a naughty schoolboy in the Victorian era. Ironic. His department head might have enjoyed being in Gordon's position. Milton was retained for his expertise, but his experiences and the peculiarities of his lifestyle made advancement to the prestigious history chair impossible. Beating boys wasn't considered an appropriate extracurricular activity. Getting beat himself might be a ticket worthy activity, entertainment for the faculty senate.

Gordon's fingers worked the buckle of the gag. Milton spat the hated rubber ball to the floor and moved his jaw in relief.

"Will there be anyone here tonight?" 

"There shouldn't be." The cleaning staff would have finished hours ago, and Milton had the latest office hours of anyone on the floor.

Milton flinched as Gordon smoothed Milton's thin khakis, making the cloth tight over the flesh, an amplifier that would carry the sting deeper. The first tap of the cane was only the measure of the distance, not a full stroke.

"How many?" Milton knew his voice was more a squeak than a masculine and controlled timbre.

"I'll decide."

Milton jerked forward as the first blow landed, the air leaving his chest in a sharp hiss. No matter how hard he braced he never could be entirely still during a caning with the heavy senior cane. Intellectually he knew it hurt; yet he always forgot the intensity of the strokes until the first one fell. Gordon wasn't holding back; fire raged across the cane's track. The next stroke sent Milton onto his toes, and the third rung a whimper from his throat. He lost the battle with tears at the fifth, and by the sixth his shoulders shook with silent sobs."

The cane hit the floor with a clatter. Only six. A generous gift from Gordon.

"Idiot boy." Gordon pulled Milton into a crushing hug.

The arms were familiar: strong, confident, and reassuring. Milton had spent hours in those arms as a young man as he'd raged against the injustices of his temperament. Milton let his head rest against Gordon's shoulder, inhaling the familiar scent of wool and soap and Vermont and a time less complicated where obedience was all that was needed to be a good boy.

"They love you. Go home to them." Gordon wiped Milton's face with a starched handkerchief and bullied Milton into collecting his papers and books and donning his coat.  "Home, boy." The kiss on Milton's lips was chaste and proper. The hand that tousled his hair one final time was full of affection. The final reassurance was almost too soft to hear. "I'm proud of you, boy. You're a good boy."

Mike's Saga 11

Mike's Saga 11 - Landon

Mace and Trent always put on a good spread. The roast, the vegetables, and the lighter than air popovers were their signature cooking. Landon had seen the several pies in the kitchen, a favorite for each stressed man. There was cherry for Mike, blackberry for Milton, and the rest of them would have to fight over the chocolate cream. Trent had also arranged the seating assignment. Landon had Luke and Austin next to him. Luke was never trouble, and Austin still looked at Landon with wide-eyed awe. The boy was good; sweeter and softer than he'd ever admit. A nice young man even if his status as a submissive were unknown. Gordon had Percival next to him. Poor boy saddled with that name; he went by Percy, but maybe the name explained at least some of the hardship. School peers would not have been kind to a Percival Luther King, and his easy propensity for wild mood swings and eyes wet with tears hadn’t helped. It wasn't a surprise that the boy had been escorted into Gordon's lair by his grandfather.

The older Mr. King was a shipping magnate, a man both feared and respected by his colleagues. He was starched and proper and intolerant of young idiocy as he had made clear as he described his grandson. He was also far more informed of the peculiarities of Gordon's personal life than either Landon or Gordon had been aware.

"My grandson's gay. We suspected it since the pink shoes at three and the obsession with ponies at five. Kissing the boy at ten at the Christmas party ensured that everyone in the family knew that he was gay, not merely fond of pink. I don't care that he's gay. I'm not a fool; I'm not wasting talent because of some ancient sexual taboo. Your father was an idiot, pitching all that talent out with the flotsam. I do care that since his arrival at college he has been arrested for disorderly conduct worsened by alcoholic inebriation, trashed and entire dormitory floor in an alcoholic haze, failed every exam and paper in all his classes, and is rumored to have a new man in his bed every night. I want this fixed."

"Is he a submissive?" Gordon had asked calmly.

"I assume he's one of yours. I've seen you with other boys like this. I don't know what you do with them; I don't care what you do with them. I only know it works. I hired one of those boys--best hire of my life."

"Keith?"

"Yes, he's Vice President of operations. His partner Malcolm was damn sharp also, but he retired to write books. Pity."

"Percival, are you a submissive?"

"Percy," the young man had answered with a combined air of excessive disinterest and lazy superiority. "My name is Percy."

"And the other question?" Gordon had asked, his voice rich with authority and tinged with the accent he'd never entirely lost.

"I suppose so. I bottom."

"I didn't ask your sexual preference. I asked if you were a submissive." Gordon always managed the freezing tones with the performance of a maestro, and this had been no exception.

Percy's beautiful hazel eyes had opened a little wider, and his mouth had formed a silent o, but he hadn’t answered the question. He’d kicked his scuffed and worn running shoes against the expensive carpet and had tried for a disinterested but sexy slouch.

"Boy."

That growl had driven Percy's eyes toward Gordon's face. For a split second he'd held the stare before lowering his eyes behind long silken lashes and shifting his hands behind his back. He didn't actually clasp his wrist or widen his stance to the usual submissive posture, but it had been close enough.

"We'll take him home and see."

Life in Vermont had hit Percy with its inalterable and shocking force. He'd spent the last five days dodging Gordon's voice and the small nursery cane. Five years ago Gordon would have introduced Percy to the discipline of the submissive lifestyle with his hand, but age had weakened his shoulder and arm. The nursery cane allowed the security and reassurance of the over the knee position without needing the power to deliver an effective hand spanking, not that Percy saw it that way.

This morning had been a rerun of the last three mornings: clothes strewn all over the floor, bed covers askew, and the bathroom looking like a mini hurricane had hit its shores. Boys cleaned up after themselves; they did service. Gordon was relentless and unyielding about those demands. Maybe orders from the young and beautiful Ryan would have been swallowed with more grace; from Gordon they resulted in a full range of temper tantrums worthy of a three-year-old, brat at its worst.

Percy had gravitated toward Sheldon. Sheldon had certainly done more than his fair share of bratting as a young man. It was hard to believe that red headed whirlwind was now the proper and very adult slave. His green eyes were almost placid compared to the storms that had raged there in the past. Sheldon laid a steadying hand on Percy's wrist and silenced some outburst as he passed the wine and left both their glasses empty. Sheldon didn't flinch at his dry glass, and no one looked askance when Milton selected and served Sheldon's food instead of allowing him to choose it himself family style. Sheldon also kept his hands firmly away from the silverware until Milton nodded a quiet permission to eat.

Gordon noticed Sheldon's astonishingly good manners and gave him a small but very genuine smile. Sheldon inclined his head, a faint pink blush rising up his neck. 

Sheldon was happy. In all the confusion of Tilden and Milton dynamiting the relationship, Sheldon had found himself. Austin was happy too. Landon had heard the vibrancy in his voice and seen Austin's easy confidence as he grabbed one of his men. Even the quiet Luke was charmed by Austin. Landon had seen the quick sketches of the laughing Austin on a back of a napkin. Tilden was Tilden: cool, polite, and far more handsome than he ever gave himself credit. He was also at least with Milton something else now. There was a taste of his sexuality and his power dynamic that he'd always kept hidden. He slammed himself back into the rigid correctness when he spoke to Landon or Gordon; another few months and maybe he would shed his social inhibitions with them. Milton was pressing Tilden; Landon knew Milton well enough to interpret his silent stares and eyebrow quirks.

It was Milton who had shouldered the burden and the guilt of the changes. He sat at the head of the table, looking masterly, but Landon knew the price. At the best of times, Milton carried the dreams along with the fears and petty disasters of the family. He was a forceful dominant, a man acutely aware of his power and the damage it could inflict, and he overcompensated by burdening his shoulders with guilt when the inevitable problems arose. Gordon had been brutally blunt in his analysis and followed the words with several hard strikes from the senior cane when he'd cornered Milton in his campus office late one evening several weeks ago. Milton had been avoiding Vermont, claiming a lack of time, but Gordon knew his boy. Landon knew the conversation had shaken Milton because he'd called that evening. Landon had been Milton's confidant all those years ago, and he could still step into that role.

"You could have warned me."

"I tried. How many times have I invited you up?"

"I was busy. It's not exactly a walk in the park here." Milton had sounded tired, frazzled, and still too close to the edge.

"Didn't Gordon--"

"Yes, I have six lovely wheals I have to explain," Milton had interrupted. There had been a pause and the sound of shuffling feet. "Sorry."

Landon knew Milton. He'd heard the slight break in his voice as he’d said sorry. "You didn't cast a spell on Tilden. It was as much his choice as yours, and you may have accelerated the pace of change with Sheldon and Mike, but the path was already laid."

"Are you working in tandem now? Those were nearly his words exactly."

"Always." Landon had known Gordon’s expected course of action; he’d even heard part of the diatribe Gordon had planned to deliver to their wayward and overburdened boy. It had been long on recognizing that the other men in the house played a role in the outcome, especially Tilden who held a special place in Milton’s heart as a representation of long hidden love and of a gentleness and kindness that Milton never saw in himself.

Milton either faked it extraordinarily well, or he was better now. The mantle of dominance looked secure around his shoulders. Milton wasn't in his formal Green Mountain Boy attire, but Landon could imagine the green cape flowing over Milton's shoulders. He was the dominant with his devoted retinue. 

Mike had settled from explosive to strained and tightlipped, shifting between submissiveness and outright resistance. When Ryan had first brought Mike into the dining room, Mike had looked momentarily happy, standing against Ryan and enjoying the easy reassurance that Ryan projected to all submissives. Ryan even had a tendency toward that demeanor with Landon, something that Landon found amusing. Landon didn’t need reassured or settled or gentled into his submission. He knew the way, not that Ryan’s attention couldn’t be charming. The young man was exquisite and a very worthy dominant. He managed Blade with both flair and competence. Blade was on the floor, silent and in perfect kneeling form. They were working tonight, and Ryan was carefully putting his boy into headspace. Landon had found some excuse to attend one of their public educational events. He hadn’t been convinced of the educational value as most of the men were busy ogling Ryan’s chiseled chest or wishing they could see under Blade’s skimpy thong, but it had been an exquisite display of whipping with a boy who was flying. Blade was an exhibitionist to the core, and Ryan was more than willing to indulge his boy’s fancy.

Mike rattled his chains, banging them against the plate with enough force to threaten shattered china. Milton captured the chain in his hand and said something too soft for Landon to hear. Hopefully it was a threat to send the boy to his knees with his hands chained behind his back if he didn’t behave. Mike flushed, dropped his head, and held his hands still as Milton removed several links of chain.

Good for Milton. Mike needed forced, and Milton was providing the push. Sweet, nice and gentle wasn’t going to work for Mike.

Mike's Saga 10

Mike’s Saga 10

“Oh, great! Now he could be stared at by half the doms on the East Coast,” Mike muttered under his breath. He wasn’t surprised that Gordon and Landon had been invited to dinner; they were like vultures on carrion. The slightest discord and Gordon was staring down at you with cold disdain; he could make Milton look jolly. Ryan and Blade were more of a surprise. They were dorm parents, and their schedule wasn’t flexible. They would have had to beg a fellow teacher to cover for them. Blade had probably done the begging; he did precious and needy better than anyone Mike knew. He could convince the school’s president to happily spend a night in a dormitory with a bunch of sniveling freshman. 

Blade and Ryan had the youngsters in their dorm, the kids who were the most distraught about getting packed off to boarding school, because as Blade had put it, “Ryan smiles and the sun comes out. He’s got the best shoulder in three states for a crying fit, and he doesn’t make a teenage boy feel like an idiot for wanting a little cry. If only the administration knew that he practiced his skill for comforting homesick children by beating me to tears on a regular basis.”

Mike wasn’t all that sure that Blade and Ryan’s domestic arrangement was any sort of real secret to the administration, but more of a pretend secret. They all winked and smiled and believed in plausible deniability. Blade moaned about not being able to have a nice beating at school, but Ryan still worked professionally as a dom in the summer and on an occasional weekend and holiday, and with people in the know they were famous for their whipping demonstrations and in great demand for seminars. Mike rattled the chains between the pretty leather cuffs. This was Blade’s gig. Mike hated the damn chains. Milton had put them on after Mike had woken on the sofa all bleary eyed and stiff, and Mike’s complaint had been stifled instantly with a hand on already sore flesh.

“Learn to live with them, boy. I’ve given you plenty of slack.”

Yeah, but he couldn’t dress himself. He’d had to ask Tilden to unfasten them so he could put on a dress shirt, and Tilden had clipped Mike’s wrists to the bed and tied his tie. Protest had earned him another swat, softer than it had been from Milton but still a swat.

Mike rattled his chains again. He wasn’t going to be the life of the party. He buried his hands behind the couch cushions and tried to look casual. Looking casual with bondage equipment wasn’t an easy task.

“Hey.” Ryan dropped his big body onto the couch. “Pouting’s not going to make it any better. You’re already shifting around like you have a hot seat; goading Milton into another round isn’t a good strategy.” 

“Ryan.” Telling him to fuck off probably wouldn’t be a good strategy either. Mike would rather stay hidden in the corner, pouting in peace.

Ryan smiled one of his dazzling grins and kissed Mike’s forehead. “Someone feeling resentful? How bad was it? I see the chains. They look good on you.”

“They are not my fashion statement of choice,” Mike snarled.

“Hey,” Ryan said gently and caught Mike’s chin in his large hand. “You’re a submissive, sometimes submission requires submitting when it’s not the most fun or not your favorite. It’s about allowing yourself to be vulnerable, allowing yourself to be under the command of the dominant at his convenience, and bondage makes you feel vulnerable.”

“I don’t feel vulnerable; I feel like an idiot.”

“You’ll feel a lot more like an idiot if I freshen the red color of your ass to wipe that snarl out of your voice. I’m a dominant. I may play Mr. Nice Guy, but I'm more than capable of making you suffer."

He wouldn't? Ryan had never physically touched Mike except in the friendly way of two close buddies: fist bumps, a quick hug, a squeeze on the shoulder, or fingers ruffling his hair. Mike looked up into those brilliant blue eyes that were suddenly icy and determined. 

"Mike, do you need force from me? I was briefed over what went on today. If you need another bad ass to join the party, I'm happy to play. I bet you scream beautifully, music to a sadist's ears. I know there's a a paddle in the second drawer over there and a strap in the table by the fireplace, and I have several whips in my car. Do you need a demonstration?"

"No, sir." The words were right, but Mike knew the tone was wrong. There was still too much snarl and snark, and the sir had been sarcastic. Ryan lived with Blade; he'd know the difference.

"Do you want to try that again?"

"No, I'm getting my ass beat no matter what. I might as well go for the full fireworks."

"God help Milton." Ryan grabbed the chain between Mike's wrists, jerked him to his feet, and threw him over the back of the sofa. "Safeword, boy. What is it?"

Mike gritted his teeth as his chest hit the sofa. He was still sore. This was public. Gordon and Landon were circulating somewhere. Gordon had that new kid with him, funny name, big eyes, and hair jelled into spikes. Welcome to the Green Mountain Boys. We beat our stubborn boys several times a day.

"Safeword." Ryan's hand tapped Mike's ass.

"Kathmandu." Mike dropped his head. This was happening; Ryan hadn't been bluffing. 

A yelp was torn from Mike's lips. Ryan hit hard. It didn't matter that it was over Mike's pants. It fucking hurt. Mike couldn't stop the tears. They pooled in his eyes and flowed down his cheeks. He hurt. He was in the living room getting his ass beat. He was a submissive getting his due. Mike sighed and hung limply against the sofa."

"Good boy." Ryan pulled Mike up and kissed his forehead. His arm wrapped around Mike heavy and reassuring. "You make me do that again it will be on your bare ass, boy."

"It hurt enough already." Mike snuggled against Ryan's chest, suddenly not caring that he was taking comfort in public. "Hold me."

"I've got you. You fall hard. How long have you been hiding this from Milton or Tilden?"

Mike didn't have to answer. He wasn't sure he could have answered; his brain felt like mush. Leaning against Ryan was about all he could mange.

"I've got him." Milton's grip was strong and reassuring; his arm heavy and right as it wrapped around Mike's shoulders. "What happened?"

"It's the only way he knows to ask to go back down,” Ryan said. “I obliged him. He's lovely to spank. Someday maybe he'll give me the pleasure of showing him the magic of the whip. Keep him close tonight, Milton. He needs it."

Mike should mind that they were talking about him, but he couldn't muster the energy to protest. It was warm and comfortable in Milton's arms. The world out there could wait.

"He must have been miserable alone. He had to about break himself in half to realize the depth of his denial. Silly boy." Ryan kissed the top of Mike's head. "This is a safe place to let yourself be submissive. Let yourself go. We'll catch you. This room is crawling with dominants. No one will let you crash and burn."

Mike just kept his faced buried in Milton's blazer. He should respond that he was fine, that he didn't need a bushel of dominants looking after him, but somehow it all felt OK.

"Kneel for me." Milton's hand pressed against Mike's shoulder. "This is your only duty--to stay on your knees with your eyes down and your mouth shut. We can call it deep submission if you want. You can't truly find deep submission yet without a real beating, but imitation will do for now."

The floor pressed against Mike's knees. He lowered his head and stared at Milton's shoes. Milton's hand played over Mike's neck and back, stroking him toward Milton's thigh. Milton and Ryan had sat back down on the sofa. Blade threw himself onto Ryan's lap and was kissed thoroughly before being chased off with a friendly swat. Tilden came over for a second. His hand traced over Mike's head.

"He's fine," Milton said, his voice deep and reassuring. "He's not to respond to you. I put him in deep submission. He needs only to kneel and be silent and invisible. How's the new kid with Gordon holding up? I got an earful from Gordon about my domestic hiccups keeping me away from my duties as head of the Green Mountain Boys. At least according to him, he and Landon are much too old to train another submissive."

Ryan snorted. “Landon and Gordon love having a pretty young boy around the house. Don’t let them tell you otherwise.”

“Who is he?” Milton asked.

“A grandson of a business colleague,” Tilden said. "He's been in some trouble, nothing criminal, but enough that family name and money are being stretched to keep him out of trouble."

"He seems to have latched onto Sheldon," Milton said.

"He tried Austin first, but Austin looked at him as if he were some insane creature who escaped from the local zoo. Sheldon's been more accommodating."

"Sheldon will understand him," Milton said.

Mike glanced up. He was supposed to keep his eyes down, but Milton was occupied. Sheldon and the new kid were on the far side of the room. Sheldon snatched several shrimp from a silver bowl, tossing one to the new kid and popping two in his own mouth. Sheldon was relaxed and animated, and the boy's hazel eyes never left Sheldon's face. The kid was pretty in a delicate way with fine features that were almost too perfect.

"Eyes down."

Mike had forgotten Ryan. The whack on the head had been more friendly than punitive, but Mike lowered his eyes to the floor.

"I'll let you know if anything good happens," Ryan said easily, but Sheldon really is good at this. He has the new boy totally charmed."

"Two brats," Milton said dryly.

"I haven't seen Sheldon brat since you put the collar on him. Am I missing something?" Ryan asked.

"No, I'm the one who was missing something. He might as well have hired a ten meter high freeway sign with flashing lights. I'm supposed to be good at this."

"He wasn't exactly making his signals clear," Ryan said. "I thought he was doing nothing more than topping from the bottom and you were indulging him. He wanted complete control. That level of submission is frightening to ask for even with Sheldon's experience."

"He was always happiest when he was in trouble. I should have seen it. I missed it because the parts our friend here likes so well Sheldon doesn't tolerate." Milton ran his hand down Mike's back. "This is the one who will eat up the erotic side, but strangle me if I counted out his lunch money. I'd never seen slavery without it being centered on the most extremes of the erotic. I couldn’t wrap my mind around that depth of submission with it only brushing on the erotic and only that because I insist."

"Doug and your grandfather," Landon said, his feet stopping centimeters from Mike's knees. "When you were a child they hid it, and they played it close even in your adulthood. Your grandfather always knew how to handle Sheldon. Their relationship was entirely enmeshed in power, but your grandfather didn’t own a dildo or a set of handcuffs. Eyes down," Landon snapped at Mike. "You do realize your boy isn't close to his submission."

"He hasn't provoked Gordon to find a cane, so I'm currently satisfied."

"I'd chain his hands behind his back and blindfold him. He needs to focus on his submission, not everywhere else."

"He's at his limit."

"No, you haven't touched his limit. Make him suffer."

"Landon!"

"Milton," Landon shot back in the same tone. "I want him alone after dinner. I won't hurt him, but I will explain the meaning of darkness."

Mike knew he had his eyes up and that they were as wide as Austin's in his desperate pleading moments. Landon had always seemed the tamer of the two, the wise, mature submissive who topped with a gentle guiding hand. 

"Do you not require your submissives to make at least a slight effort in proper decorum?"

"I'm not punishing for fear and confusion."

"Sometimes fear and confusion is part of the submissive thrill. Mike's a big boy. Let him enjoy that side of himself. You used to do it for me."

Milton's eyes rested on Landon for a moment, but he didn't speak; instead a corner of his lip turned up in a slow, wry smile, and he inclined his head in a polite nod.

"Such a smart boy. Gordon might not have to cane you senseless after all."

"Landon," Tilden growled, a possessive hand shielding Milton. "No one touches Milton"

"That is between Milton and Gordon. Sometimes it is needed."

"Stop it." Milton's voice filled the small space between the two combatants. "I have no need or desire for a set of stripes today. Sometimes it's a part of me, but I am not conflicted nor do I need the escape. Tilden helped earlier in his own way." A crimson blush rose on Tilden's cheeks, and he dropped his head in a useless attempt to hide his embarrassment. "I need help with the logistics."

"You're not planning the Normandy invasion," Landon said.

"Does someone need trouble?" Milton's voice was hard and cool.

Landon heard the unspoken. He stepped back and clasped his hands behind his back. "No, sir."

"Thank you, Landon."

"My pleasure."

"I won't rat you out to Gordon unless you want me to,” Milton said, “but I would like you to try to explain to Mike the mechanics of graceful submission with strength and power."

“I will try,” Landon said, his eyes raking over Mike, “but surrender comes from within. He holds the key himself. He must let you see his pleasures, his fears, and his vulnerabilities. Those will be the passcode to the kingdom. It’s frightening to give so much of yourself, to give enough to know that your lovers can make you fly but that they can also hurt you in unimaginable ways, to stand not only physically naked but also mentally naked.”

“He needs a role model.”

“I’m a senior citizen, and I’m a switch. You don’t think he’s a switch?”

“In play only. Submission handed to him is even more frightening than giving it himself.”

“I’m here you know. I’m not deaf or stupid, and English is my native language.” Mike lurched to his feet.

“Get down, boy.” Milton had stood just as quickly. Any gentleness in his eyes and face had vanished. He stared at Mike with black fire spitting from eyes that had gone impossibly dark.”

“Let me get this.” Ryan’s hands were already on Mike’s shoulders. He was already pushing him away.

Tilden’s study was quiet and calm after the sudden roar that had consumed Mike’s body. Mike clutched the edge of the sofa, his knees shaking, his breaths coming way too fast. This was Tilden’s study. This was safe. It had a jumble of Russian textbooks on the desk and colorful propaganda posters on the wall. 

“Don’t arouse the Neanderthal dominant in Milton unless you want beaten into a quivering puddle. You didn’t look like you wanted that at the moment.”

Mike sucked in a deep breath, trying to steady nerves that he hadn’t realized he had. “Thanks,” he said in a shaky voice. “What’s wrong with me?”

“Nothing. Well, at least nothing that letting yourself be the submissive you really are wouldn’t cure.” Ryan pulled Mike down onto the sofa, his arm heavy over Mike’s shoulders.

“What if I can’t be?”

“You can.” Ryan kissed Mike’s forehead. “You came home.”

“I came home because I felt like a fraud. Here I was giving advice to a baby submissive while I was doing exactly the opposite.”

“Baby submissive?”

“Gabe. Josh knows about him.”

“Poor kid. Josh isn’t exactly warm and friendly.”

“He’s OK.”

“Do you like what Josh’s offers?” Ryan ran his hand down Mike’s back. “His dominance—it’s not the most sexual.”

“I wouldn’t want to live with him.” Mike buried his face in his hands. Josh just took it. There wasn’t all this chatting. Mike didn’t want to analyze himself; he just wanted to be whatever the hell he was.

“He doesn’t ask?”

“Yeah.”

“Milton wants to ask too much. He wants you to analyze your submission.”

“How in the fuck do I analyze something I don’t understand? I just want to be Mike, a happy and normal human being. I’m an adult. I don’t want someone organizing my work schedule or nagging me about my eating habits, but sometimes I just want to feel and not to think. I want to fight, but, God, then I want to surrender. I want to be hit, but then I think how wrong it is that I want to be forced and hurt and that I’m stupid enough to expose myself.”

“Mike, submission isn’t one size fits all; dominance isn’t either. Blade is an intense submissive in play. He surrenders entirely to my will, and we enjoy every moment of it. Blade is also an intense sexual being. His sexuality flirts close to the surface at all times, and we often flit in an out of our roles during everyday life. It’s a confusing and tangled mosaic, and sometimes we get everything crossed. Sometimes he’s playing, sometimes he wants me as his friend and lover and not a dominant, and sometimes he wants my dominance in real life. It is the third that gives me indigestion and has me calling Milton. The third is what Milton has with Sheldon and even some with Austin, and where you are desperate and confused.The third involves places where I won’t go without explicit permission, places where safewords became fuzzy, places where your submissive streak has long left the bedroom.”

“I don’t want managed,” Mike said softly. 

“Ever?” Ryan asked.

Mike ran his fingers over his thigh, picking at an imaginary thread. “They managed me in the beginning. They controlled my alcohol intake, my bedtime, and my study habits. I’m not a flakey college kid anymore. I don’t need that; I don’t get off on it sexually. I just feel belittled.”

“They don’t do that now, do they?”

“No.”

“They stopped dominating when you stop forgetting to turn in your homework assignment?”

Mike nodded slowly.

“Ah, I see it now.”

At least Ryan saw it. Mike couldn’t see anything but confusion. He was a submissive who was resentful of submission. He loved Milton and Tilden, but banking and timekeeping weren’t a mystery. He didn’t want to be parented. 

“Mike, you were very young when you came to Milton and Tilden, both in years and in understanding of your kink. They used your kink, not as a plaything or a means of sexual gratification, but as something you could grab onto and keep yourself afloat while you grew up. You submitted very deeply without understanding the ramifications or even truly understanding your own needs. Milton and Tilden are careful. They withdrew as you started to resist. The problem is that they withdrew for the wrong reasons. You need submission, real submission not an hour game in the playroom every weekend, but you don’t need it dressed in misbehavior or a guide to good living. You need it dressed in pleasing your dominants and submitting to their will. You know how to get enough sleep and brush your teeth.”

“I’ll never get it right.”

“Patience, boy.” Ryan swatted Mike’s thigh. “Talking might be the place to start. You tell Milton and Tilden that rules about bedtime and food and whatever else don’t make you find your submissive core. They make you feel belittled and resentful. You tell them what gets you hot and desperate. You tell them what makes you calm down and feel your submission beyond the erotic. You play as hard as you need; Milton can keep up, but you also live as hard as you need. I tread lightly with Blade, but I’m still there. I’m still the dominant. Milton treads heavily with Sheldon. He is the master, and he will always be more of a master than I will ever be. I learned to dominate in the playroom; Milton learned to dominate at Gordon’s knee.The Green Mountain Boys take their dominance into real life. Milton may be more careful and more articulate of the differences, but he is ultimately still a master. He’s a sexual dominant, and he gets off on dominating, but his dominance is beyond that. He’s Sheldon’s master, not because of the erotic, but because of something much deeper, something that is far more dangerous and far more complicated, something that both frightens and entices you.”

“I’m not a slave.”

“No, you’re not. Either is Blade, but sometimes I must take my dominance beyond the obvious scene. It’s the dominance that bleeds into real life that sets up the most erotic and dramatic scenes. It’s through my knowledge of Blade as the real man that I can make him fly and that I can push his limits. I won’t let him hide ever. It’s too dangerous. You can’t hide, Mike. That is what Milton is trying to teach you; that is why he spoke openly in front of you. He knew you were listening. He was trying to teach you about yourself in a way that is less abrasive and less confrontational. He can beat that knowledge into you, but make sure you want it that way.” Ryan rubbed the back of Mike’s neck, brisk and comforting. “Let’s go have dinner. You can watch me drop Blade for tonight. We’re both working, and I have to put him in headspace. He’s a beautiful sight, bound and on his knees.”

  

Mike's Saga 9

Mike’s Saga 9

Milton was in his study. The door was open; there was no excuse to hover in the hallway. Mike forced his foot over the threshold. The room looked as it always looked. The blinds pulled open to the trees and frosted grass below. The desk piled high with papers and books. Milton sat, head down, intently marking a paper.

“Shut the door. Take a seat.”

The door creaked and rattled and stubbornly tried to escape its latch. Old doors—old house. Mike perched on the edge of the armchair. Wood for a fire was stacked on the hearth, but no cheery blaze burned behind the grate. 

Milton still hadn’t looked up. He’d finished the first paper and moved to the next. How long was he going to make Mike wait? Mike reached for the book on the side table. It probably wasn’t interesting, but it was better than torture by tedium.

“I said sit, not read.”

Mike had only managed the title page. It was a book on Custer and his final battle. Prothetic? 

“I’m not a frog on a lily pad.” 

“On my time, not yours. Sit.”

Sit. Stay. Mike wasn’t a fucking dog. He wasn’t going to sit here and be ignored. “I’ll come back at a better time.” He stood and took one step toward the door.

Retribution was swift. Milton caught Mike in one stride, and a horrible sting landed on Mike’s thigh. Milton had a short whip; it must have been hidden behind the books and papers.

“Sit, boy.”

"No." 

Those two short letters were perhaps the most dangerous word in the English language at that moment. Milton flipped Mike over his lap and trapped Mike's flailing legs between his knees. Mike's boxers disappeared in an instant. He was bare and vulnerable and without any hope of mercy.

"Do you say no to me, boy?"

The correct answer was a fervent plea to the contrary, but Mike ground his teeth together in total silence. What was Milton going to do? A little spanking? Tedious lines or more tedious corner time? 

The first smack landed with an alarming strength. Mike hissed and grabbed at Milton's ankle. This wasn't some imitation of a childhood punishment. Why had he ever been under the illusion that Milton would go easy? Milton was hammering all the most sensitive areas. Mike squirmed and reached back, trying to cover his most vulnerable region.

No warning. No request to move his hands forward. The tiny whip stung across Mike's hand with a vicious cut. Mike bellowed something incomprehensible and jerked his hands away.

"You know better. Do I need to restrain you?"

Fuck Milton! Fuck this all! That wasn't fair. Milton didn't hit like that.

"I asked you a question, boy," The whip flicked across Mike's thighs, a searing line of fire.

Mike jerked and tried to tumble off Milton's lap. He couldn't do this; he couldn't breathe. "Stop! I can't!" 

The whip lit into his flesh again. Nothing could hurt that much. 

"Kathmandu!" Safeword. Mike was still trapped. Why wasn't Milton letting him up? 

"Steady. Breathe. I've put the whip on the floor."

"Let me up! Let me up, you fucker! I'm not doing this. I safeworded."

"Breathe, Mike. I want you to lie here and calm down. I'm not hurting you. This is not the first time for you to be over my knee. You don’t safeword out of a punishment when it’s not to your liking."

"Get off me!" Mike clawed at Milton's pants legs. He tried to hit Milton with his fists, only to have his wrists caught and trapped behind him.

"You aren't going anywhere."

"I safeworded." Mike knew his voice was panicked and desperate. He had to get up. Milton had to let him up.

"You did, and I'm not hitting you. This is punishment; walking away is not an option. I will let go of your wrists, but you will keep your arms behind your back, and you will stay down over my knees."

"I safeworded. It stops. I control this."

"To a degree. Punishment is different than play.” Milton’s voice was calm, a steady solid rhythm in a sea of fright. His hand moved up and down Mike’s back, the palm warm from the spanking. “That’s it. Calm. Remember those conversations long ago. In punishment a safeword brings about a discussion; it does not allow an escape. It’s not a get out of jail free card. Restraint is part of this punishment. I am not willing to yield there. I will calm you, I will talk to you, I won’t hit you, but I will not release you.”

“Please. Milton, please, let me up.” Mike knew his voice was full of panic, not a dignified adult tenor, but a childish whine, the little boy frightened by his first dark tunnel on a roller coaster, the chilled and exhausted boy after a long awaited trip to the zoo that turned into a deluge and an explosion of thunder.

"Mike, you must trust me. You want to submit. Submission is the giving of self; you can't snatch it back at the first sign of hardship. Give in to me."

"I don't like this."

"I know. You can handle physical pain, but here you must bend to my will. Pain you can bend to your own will and your own pleasure. Stillness, whether by word or by physical bondage, removes your control. You crave control and surrender, yet you fear it with all your heart. You will surrender to me. It won't be today. It won't be next week, but it will happen. I require it. I failed you before by not requiring it; I will not fail you again."

“I can’t. I don’t want this,” Mike mumbled, his words still thick with tears. Physically he’d stopped fighting. His body lay across Milton’s knee; his head hung down in a dizzying rush of blood. 

“Do you still need to safeword?”

Mike hesitated. He swallowed hard and shook his head, wishing he had long hair to hide his face.

"I know you're not happy. This wasn't about your pleasure."

"I hate this."

“I am going to let you up You will kneel beside me and contemplate your submission. You will contemplate my will. You will still be punished, but this is your break. I will separate the physical pain from bondage. Together it is an overload.”

Mike shifted on his knees. The rug next to Milton’s chair was soft, but still the position focused pressure on Mike’s knees. He’d knelt many times for Milton. It was Milton who had taught him proper protocol. Mike could put his body in the position; he always could. He liked this part, the sinking under the dominant’s gaze and hand. It was a role he enjoyed; he especially enjoyed the shock on men’s faces when he did this in public. He didn’t look like a sub, or at least not how most imagined a sub. He was tall and dark and didn’t walk with his eyes down. He wasn’t blond and small with a permanent blush on his cheeks.

“Let yourself go.” Milton’s thumb rubbed Mike’s neck, slow and hypnotic.

Mike looked up, catching a look of kindness in Milton’s eye that was almost overwhelming. “Have you ever safeworded, sir?” The sir felt natural; it rolled off Mike’s tongue without resistance.

“Twice for myself, and I have often pulled back with submissives, a silent safeword. Austin will fall easily and then panic. I’m the dominant; he’s very young; his safety is my responsibility.”

“You’ve often stopped scenes with me?” Maybe it was a question. Mike wasn’t sure; he wasn’t sure if he even truly wanted the answer.

“Yes, you don’t trust me.”

Mike stared at the rug. It was dark and worn at the corners with a few threads hanging loose. “I don’t trust anyone.”

“Tilden and I will make you trust. There is no other option. You have come home; we must now act.”

“What if you can’t?” Had he just said that? Why was he talking on his knees? He should be quiet; he was good at playing the role.

“We won’t fail.” The words were said with an absolute finality, a determination that was reassuring and frightening all at once.

“How can you be sure?”

Milton’s big hand cupped Mike’s chin. He forced Mike’s eyes onto him for a long searching moment. “I survived Gordon at seventeen. I made two into three and then into six. I have a slave. I have pledged his care and happiness. Austin loves you. Tilden, in all his careful gentleness, loves you. I love you.”

“I’m not Sheldon or Austin.”

“No, you’re not.” Milton stroked two fingers down Mike’s face. “You’re Mike. We live in a tapestry of relationships; each thread is important. The picture is not complete without every color of thread.”

Milton’s pen scratched across a paper. The desk drawer opened and closed. Somewhere downstairs there was the sound of footsteps and a door. The heating chugged and banged and blew hot air too close to Mike’s face. 

“Will you tell me why you safeworded?”

“Mike,” Milton said with a mixture of fondness and exasperation, “kneeling is usually a position of silent contemplation.”

“Sorry.”

“No, I’m not angry. I won’t punish you for talking. I’ve wanted you to talk to me without the easy shallowness that you pass off as conversation. Come here.” Milton reached down and pulled Mike to his feet. “The sofa is a better place for conversation.”

Mike allowed himself to be guided down against Milton and covered with a soft throw. He didn’t want coddled; he wasn’t breakable, but he didn’t resist the comfort.

“I don’t want you too comfortable.” Milton reached into his pocket and pulled out two leather wristbands. Black and brown leather was entwined together and finished off with a small brass clasp. “These are from Tilden and me. The black for me, the tan for Tilden. Separate yet one. They stay on all the time. You ask one of us to take them off to bathe or for any other reason.”

“At work?”

“They look like jewelry. No one will notice.”

Mike reached out and touched the soft leather. They were beautiful. They were his in all their symbolism and all their terror. “What if I say no?”

“This is a hard limit. You accept my bondage, or I will not dominate you.”

Mike stroked his fingers down the smooth leather. “I don’t like bondage.”

“I know. You gave me a demonstration earlier when you safeworded. Bondage represents me being in control. You both want and fear the control. This is nonnegotiable, Mike.”

Mike held out his hand, clenching his muscles tight to try to prevent the shaking. It had been a long time ago. Milton would never do that to him. This was the man who spanked and chatted.

“Mike, I know about your past. It’s time to let that go.”

“Tie me up. I’ll be fine.”

“No, you wouldn’t be. You safeworded less than an hour ago when I trapped you over my knee for a spanking. You must face your fears and conquer them. I will help, but it is you who must do the real work.”

“This is stupid. It’s all a game.”

“Real fear isn’t a game.” Milton circled his hand around Mike’s wrist and squeezed. “Someday I will bring both of us real pleasure, but first we must conquer the demons. I won’t punish you for safewording here. I understand the fear. I will release you, wait for you to calm down, and try again. I will teach you to accept bondage, to even like bondage. Having your wrists tied will be as common as brushing your teeth.” Milton fastened the slim pieces of leather around Mike’s wrists. “In a panic these would break. They are symbols of bondage, not actual implements. I want your brain to submit to the bondage. Hands behind your back. I have a quick release snap.” Milton showed Mike the snap. 

The snap clicked into place and Mike tugged against the leather and metal, feeling the panic rise in his gut. Last time… This was Milton. He was a college professor; he was harmless. He’d beaten Sheldon. He was feared in the community.

“Steady.” Milton tucked Mike against his chest and kissed the sweat streaked forehead. “Do you need to safeword?”

“No.” Mike gulped and swallow the bile that was rising in his throat. 

“Good boy. Trust. Submit.”

“Tell me about when you safeworded. Please.”

“Distract the hell out of me. I’m scared. I don’t want to do this. I hear you, Mike. Once I safeworded because I was terrified, the other time because I was angry.”

“You, afraid?”

“Very. Landon and Gordon play very hard and very close to the edge, especially Landon when he dominates. I lost it—freaked out as Austin would say.”

“What happened?”

“They aborted the scene in an instant and spent the next week analyzing it with me, teaching me to get through it, teaching me to enjoy the blurring of fantasy and reality, but also anchoring me in the reality by allowing me to see the protections put in place. They aren’t fools or reckless, just damn scary. Psychological manipulation.”

“That doesn’t sound fun.” The words sounded stupid to Mike’s ears, but what else was he to say? He liked the physical sensation. He liked a hot ass. He didn’t want whatever Milton was describing.

“Fun is such a generic term. Some people climb cliffs for fun or drive race cars; for other people fun is knitting a sweater for a friend or going to the movies and losing several hours pretending to be the hero. Scening with Landon and Gordon is all those things plus unimaginable arousal. Terror can be a powerful aphrodisiac when handled right.”

“Don’t I get more than generalities?” Mike shifted and felt the tug of the cuffs against his wrist. “I don’t like this.”

“Good boy.”

“Good boy?”

“Honesty, Mike. You want to play where Landon and Gordon took me, and without honesty it is unacceptably dangerous; some would always consider it unacceptably dangerous. I must have absolute trust that your responses are honest and genuine. I won’t harm you.”

What if Mike couldn’t? He knew he never let people close; Mike kept even Tilden with his gentle persistence at arm’s length. He knew he was family. He knew family was supposed to share everything.

“We can get you there if you want it.”

“You knew what I was thinking.”

“I watch you closely. You cannot hide--no part of you.” Milton ran his hand under the blanket and roughly fondled Mike’s cock and balls. “Not your sex, not your heart, not your mind. It must all be open and bare. The sex will be easy; it’s the other side you jealously guard. If you won’t give it to me, we are done here.”

“What if I can’t?”

“Do you want to?”

Mike nodded slowly. He wanted submission; he needed submission, but, God, he was incapable of it. 

“I will teach you, I will train you, and eventually I will force you. It is what Landon and Gordon gave me, and I was not an easy pupil. It is my duty to pass the knowledge onward.”

“You’re a dominant.”

“Yes, but to go to the edge I must be completely honest. I can spank a little and chase baby subs around for not eating breakfast and keep most of myself hidden. For what you want, I cannot hide anything. I would harm us both, and I would tear this sixsome to shreds.”

“Do the other boys have it?”

“Each relationship is different. You know better than to compare and contrast, but you are also not a child, and you deserve to understand everything to the best of my abilities. Sheldon owns me as much as I own him. I would never be master without that exchange. Austin I shield from my worst. I am still his teenage matinée idol; I hope to gradually draw the curtain back.”

“Austin’s not as young or as naive as you think.”

“You love that boy more than you understand.”

“Yes, and I hurt him.”

“You have to live with that. I can’t wish it all away. He is surprisingly resilient, and he’s very forgiving.”

“I’m an ass.”

“Stop it.” Milton landed a sharp slap on Mike’s ass. “It’s my privilege to punish and not yours.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good boy.”

Those two silly words felt good. Mike wanted the praise; he wanted to be Milton’s good boy.

“You could be a very good boy and you could be very happy if you’d let yourself.”

Right. Mike the perfect submissive. “Tell me about the rest of us.”

“Tilden has always had all of me; we were only deluding ourselves. He’s my friend and lover. He’s the softer side which I will never have. He’s who I imagined I would grow up to be.”

“Milton!”

“I’m a severe and intense dominant. I have learned to accept that. Tilden is far kinder, more generous, more of everything that I cannot be. Mothers grab their boys tighter when they see under my professorial persona; they hand their boys to Tilden with a smile. He isn’t dangerous; I am.”

“You aren’t dangerous.”

“I’m sitting here contemplating how hard I will finish our aborted spanking. I want to see your ass red and shiny. I want to hear you cry and beg. I want you to surrender to me. I am dangerous.”

“I want to surrender. I want to beg. Damn it! I don’t know how. Teach me. Make me.”

“That’s a challenge you might not want to give to me.”

“Make me,” Mike said more boldly. “Make me surrender.”

“I will,” Milton said with chilling ferocity. “I will, boy, and you won’t know what hit you.”

Mike swallowed hard. Milton sounded fierce and unforgiving. Mike had wanted this; he’d asked for it, however his brain and nervous system refused to pretend that all was well. 

“Stand up, boy. Turn around.” Milton unfastened Mike’s wrists. “Over my knee. Let’s finish our aborted spanking, shall we?”

Let’s not. How hard was Milton going to hit? Mike stood, staring at his bare feet and wishing he was still in bed with the lingering aroma of Luke and Tilden on the sheets.

“Mike,” Milton growled. 

Mike shuffled his feet; he crept closer to Milton’s waiting knees. He hated this position. He wasn’t comfortable over someone’s knee. He was too tall. Sheldon fit over Milton’s lap; Mike’s legs always hung in all directions as if they were oversized spaghetti. 

“Mike, is there a problem?” Milton asked gently.

Mike shook his head. Not wanting wasn’t a problem; Milton had made that clear enough.

“Over my knee is a declaration of submission. You are a submissive; you will yield to my will.”

“I’m trying,” Mike muttered.

“Take your shirt and sweatshirt off.”

“Milton!” Mike’s head shot up. He’d never been spanked naked in punishment. 

“Hesitation has consequences. It’s not as if I’ve never seen all of you. Strip off, boy.”

Mike jerked his sweatshirt off and threw it across the floor. Milton would want it folded; he could fucking ask, or Milton could do it himself. The T-shirt came off next. Mike left it at his feet in a crumpled ball.

“Temper.”

“Yes, I have a fucking temper. How would you feel standing here bare assed naked while I was fully clothed?”

Milton raised his eyebrows, his expression a granite coldness. “I lived with Gordon and Landon. I learned very quickly to keep a civil tongue and a proper attitude of contriteness. We have failed to teach you manners; our deficiency is most obvious now, and I will correct it. Come here, boy.” Milton patted his thigh.

Mike tried to move his feet forward. He’d gone too far. Milton was furious; those were the eyes that made Sheldon turn pale and could even shut up Blade and all his cocky bullshit.

“I can’t do this,” Mike heard the sounds, a strange and sick croaking. He bent down and snatched up his T-shirt. Milton struck him in a full body tackle. Mike tumbled forward, hitting the floor with a thump as Milton pinned him from above.

“So you didn’t want a spanking, boy?” Milton snarled, spit from his lips landing on Mike’s cheek and forehead. “Now you’ve earned yourself a beating instead of a nice hand spanking.” Milton jerked Mike upright and wrenched his wrists behind him. Milton’s voice changed to a fraction of its earlier volume. “Safeword?”

Safeword. Milton was giving him an out. Mike didn’t want an out. 

“Get off me you oversized gorilla. Get your fucking hands off me?” Mike tried to spin around; he tried to kick Milton. Barefoot and naked he was no match for Milton. He was plowed forward and bodily thrown over the desk.

Milton’s hand crashed down, an incessant tattoo on Mike’s ass. Milton slapped Mike’s legs apart and concentrated on the most tender skin.

“Shit! Asshole! Go crap on your mother’s grave!”

Milton shoved Mike forward, nearly knocking the wind from his lungs. Mike groaned and gasped for breath. He heard the sound of a belt being jerked through the loops.

The bellow was unintelligible. Mike flailed and scrabbled across the smooth surface of the desk. Papers fluttered to the floor; the desk lamp crashed down, followed by a stack of books. Nothing stopped the belt that was flying over Mike’s skin.

The tears came, deep and wrenching sobs. Mike had quit struggling. His fingers weakly clung to the slick corners; his chest heaved in a desperate struggle for air.

“On your knees, boy.” Milton spun Mike around and kicked his legs out from under him. “Ask me for the spanking you deserved earlier.” He loomed over Mike, his eyes a black fire. Sweat dotted his forehead, and his shirttail hung from his pants, the orderly neatness lost sometime during the struggle.       

“Please punish me, sir. Please punish your disobedient and disrespectful boy.”

“Over my knee, boy.” Milton sat in the desk chair, his broad thighs both inviting and terrifying. “Boy, this is your due. Don’t make me come get you.”

Mike stumbled to his feet and almost fell onto Milton’s lap. Milton’s arm wrapped around his waist, suddenly a comfort and not a restraint. His palm lightly stroked the inflamed skin on Mike’s ass.

“Spread your legs.” Milton’s finger stroked over Mike’s most intimate area. “True submission can be a pleasure. You want this.” Gently Milton slapped the skin on Mike’s ass and thighs, the strikes more a caress than an actual blow. Milton continued to spank, his hand making circuit after circuit. 

Mike hung limply across Milton’s lap, not trying to brace himself. The tears flowed down his cheeks unchecked. Nothing mattered but the rhythm of the hand falling and Milton’s strong arm anchoring Mike in place. 

“Submission.” Milton’s lips touched Mike’s sweaty back in a gentle kiss. “My sweet and beautiful boy. It’s in there. Only we must search for its buried treasure with more effort than Columbus stumbling onto the new world.”

Mike groaned. He was going to be so sore, but now it didn’t matter. He wanted only to lie across Milton’s knees and float. This was the rabbit hole where the world was topsy-turvy. Could he stay here forever?

“We’re going to walk across the hall to the shower and get cleaned up before both of us can’t move.” Milton slid Mike to his knees, stood up, and pulled Mike to his feet. Mike clung to Milton’s shoulders and somehow stumbled into the bathroom.

The water was hot. Milton’s arm was around Mike’s chest. Mike’s back pressed against the fur on Milton’s chest. He was being washed. Milton’s fingers massaged Mike’s scalp and trailed down Mike’s chest. A warm soapy cloth wiped over his abdomen, and confident hands soaped his groin area. Mike was bent forward and a thick, soapy finger pressed into his private entrance. The water and soap stung across his ass.

Warm spring rains. Tulips and daffodils and the return of the robins.

“You’re still floating, aren’t you, boy?”

Mike nodded. He knew there was a stupid grin on his face. He couldn’t help himself. His wrist cuffs were back on. The leather was smooth and beautiful. Milton had chained Mike to the towel bar. Why had this bothered him?

A fluffy towel patted against the chafed skin of Mike’s ass. He trembled and sighed as his legs seemed to spread apart on their own. 

“Next time, boy, not that it isn’t tempting.” Milton combed Mike’s hair and carefully shaved his face. He opened the medicine cabinet and coated one hand with gel before rubbing it across Mike’s ass and thighs. “You’ll feel these. It can’t be helped.”

“Feels good,” Mike moaned.

“You’re still high.” Milton smiled and kissed Mike’s cheek. “Am I going to need a helmet for when you crash?”

“Yeah,” Mike said, not really knowing what he was saying.

“I thought so. Put this on.” Milton wrestled Mike into an oversized shirt. “Come.” He held out his hand.

“Pants?” 

“Later maybe. I wanted to admire the lovely red that is peeking out in the most enticing places, plus pants will hurt. Come.”

Mike wrapped his hand in Milton’s. When was the last time he’d held hands like this? Strangers would take his hand as Mommy and Daddy climbed into a car, waved, and smiled.

“I’ve got you. I know it’s wearing off. I can see it in your eyes; they aren’t as glazed, but there’s no hurry. Subspace is to be cherished, especially if you’re going to make me break the lamp to get you there.”

Mike remembered the struggle to get him across the desk, the papers and the lamp. He felt a blush on his cheeks. “Sorry.”

“No.” Milton kissed Mike, his mouth demanding surrender. “Stay down a little longer. You deserve it. I want to enjoy my sweet and beautiful submissive for a few minutes.”

“I fought you.”

“Mike,” Milton growled. “I thought I told you to enjoy yourself. I guess my five minutes of obedience is up.”

“Sorry.” Mike felt tears welling in his eyes. He blinked and looked down.

“Ugh,” Milton said with wry amusement, “that wasn’t a reprimand. That was a fact. It is going to take practice to keep you in headspace. I was hoping you might enjoy it for a few more minutes.” Milton wrapped Mike in a firm hug. “We’ll talk about all this later when you can remember the name of the president and know the alphabet beyond the third letter.”

“OK,” Mike said, agreeing easily, but yet somehow knowing he should be pulling away. “I’m hungry.” 

“Good boy. Let yourself alone for a few more minutes.”

****

Mike lay sprawled across the sofa, his head in Tilden’s lap, Tilden’s hand tracing gentle lines down his back. Mike’s stomach rumbled contently. Milton had fed him: roast beef, crunchy French bread, cookies, and a glass of orange juice. Mike had stood at the kitchen counter and eaten with Milton comfortably at his back. 

“Mike, are you with us?”

“Uh,” Mike mumbled and tried to bring himself into the present. They’d been talking; he had heard the voices over him, but it seemed like too much effort to focus on the words.

“Tired?” Milton bent down and kissed Mike’s face. “You are a very good boy. Shut your eyes and drift off. There is nothing you need to do. Sleep.”

****

“Did he just fall asleep to your orders?” Tilden whispered.

“Maybe.” Milton sat down next to Tilden, his hand covering Tilden’s and momentarily stilling its motion over Mike’s back. “I didn’t kill him.”

“I heard the crashing. I took Austin into the basement. Urgent laundry. We couldn’t stay out running all morning.”

Milton squeezed Tilden’s wrist. “Consensual non consent. It’s what he needs.”

“What did you break?”

“The lamp. I didn’t break Mike.”

“He’s bruised.”

“Yes. Does he look unhappy now?”

“No.” Tilden’s eyes studied the sleeping figure on his lap.

“He’s sleeping because I threw him over the desk, pinned him down, and beat him with my belt. He’s sleeping because I made him get down on his knees and beg me to punish his disrespectful ass.”

“Milton.” Tilden tried to pull his hand away from Milton. 

“Don’t you pull away. We are his dominants. You don’t get to pretend your hands are clean from the part you consider ugly. I won’t ask you to throw him into the bookcase or punch him in the gut, but you don’t get to disapprove under that remote and polite exterior. We are in this together. I’ll do the beating, but don’t you dare silently disapprove, not when you reap the benefits of a sweet and happy boy.”

“Milton, I’m not this sort of man.”

Milton stood up and jammed his hands into his pockets. His fingers pressed into the few coins and his keys. “And I’m the brutal one, the one who hurts for fun, the one who is in the same class as Gordon? You’re married to me mister. You love it when I have my cock buried in your ass and your hands pinned over your head. You don’t get to pretend this is all clean and neat. I enjoy it. I enjoy the power; I enjoy the blistering heat of flesh well beaten; I enjoy a boy who looks at me with fear and desperation and longing and pure, unshielded adoration. I enjoy a boy who is thrilled to be at my mercy. I care about my boys, I love my boys, but I’m not pretending my power is some altruistic aid to teach boys to live a good life. It’s not. I dominate for my pleasure. I’m not a sociopath. The pleasure is not evil when handled with responsibility and care and love.”

“Milton, I didn’t mean it that way.” Tilden’s eyes were wide with pain and anguish. “I love you.”

“And yet you loathe this.”

“Make me understand it. I love Mike. I want Mike happy. I don’t want him leaving again. Teach me. You’re a teacher.”

Milton dropped to his knees and caught Tilden’s hand. He listened to the soft snores from Mike. That boy could sleep through a hurricane. He was enticing in his sleep, his face placid, his long legs hanging over the sofa edge, his face pressed into Tilden’s lap with complete trust. 

“His submission is as complicated as your dominance,” Tilden said gently into the silence. “I understand Luke. He doesn’t want to be bruised and battered and thrown into the furniture. I understand Austin. I feel he’s too young. I’ve heard your arguments, and intellectually I understand, but he was a child in this house. I know he’s now no younger than Mike and Luke were in the beginning, but I hadn’t known them as children.”

“He’s not a child. Do you think I’m a pedophile?”

“God, no! But I still see the shadows of the fifteen-year-old who sassed you at dinner when I see you kiss him, when I see him naked and the tattoo ripples across his back, when I hear him groan when you bury yourself in his ass. I know he’s an adult. I know he understood his choices; you made sure of that. I know he’s a submissive; it was obvious at fifteen.”

“Your mother has forgiven me.”

Tilden grimaced and then smiled. “My mother is far more forward thinking about sexuality than I am, but she was a high school principal. A seventeen-year-old with a man of your age was at first concerning, and then she saw you together. She thinks you walk on water.”

“She’ll be disappointed. I sink like everyone else.”

“You make me happy.” Tilden bent forward and kissed Milton gently.

“Even with this?”

“I don’t like physical violence. I’m trying to understand.”

“I spank you.”

“When you spank me it’s erotic. I give myself to you; you don’t beat me.”

“Mike can’t give himself to me without the fight. It’s who he is, and it’s where we erred before.”

“Will our furniture survive?”

“Stop it.” Milton swatted at Tilden’s knee. It wasn’t a real swat, more a feeble attempt to break the tension. They were both trying to lighten the mood, Tilden with his flippant comment and Milton with his swat. This wasn’t something that lent itself to lightness and joviality. This was hard for both of them. It was hard for the boy who was now sleeping so soundly.

Milton flipped himself around and sat on the floor, hugging his knees with his back to the sofa. Landon or Gordon would have forced him back around, but Tilden wasn’t that sort of man. It was easier to speak looking away. Milton valued his privacy; he’d revered his grandfather’s quiet strength, the solidness of a man of very few words, but Landon and Gordon had also taught him the value of words and the need to be able to speak of wants and emotions that few could understand.

“Mike needs submission. He needs deep submission, but he also needs to fight. We backed off when he fought before. We read it as a signal that he wished to go no further. We were wrong. He wants to go much further. He wants to give it all up; he wants to fly. He finds peace and release and a happiness that has always eluded him when the dominance moves toward absolute force. He faked it well enough for a while, but underneath that boy has never been happy. He loves you; he loves Luke, but he was missing something. Maybe it’s partially from his parents’ abandonment. I don’t know, but I am as uncomfortable equating extreme submission with bad childhood as I am equating extreme dominance with some childhood mishap. I had an idyllic childhood, and I am an extreme dominant. The proteins in my DNA must have been folded in the path of dominance.”

“Your grandfather was a dominant.”

“Yes, and most likely my father, but my father didn’t understand it, and he killed himself with drugs. No one ever spoke of my father except in guarded whispers when they thought I was out of earshot, but I’m a historian; I know how to put clues together to create a coherent and plausible history. I was packed off to Gordon and Landon at seventeen because my grandfather saw it in me. He wanted to keep me safe and my future lovers safe. They probably saved me from myself. I know they kept me out of jail; an adolescent with hormones and my tendencies is a menace to society.”

“You are a good man.” Tilden ran his fingers through Milton’s hair. “I know you are a good man. I don’t always understand, but I know you love us.”

“Gordon and Landon taught me that I was good, taught me that wanting to hit didn’t make me a freak, that I could control the dangerous side. They both beat me; they came very close to torturing me, or something that many people would consider torture, but yet they loved me, and I saw a generosity of spirit in those two that I have seen nowhere else. They are absolutely safe when the terror becomes too real to bear. I don’t submit easily.”

“They forced you.” 

“Consensual non consent. I was forced, but I had also consented. It’s a difficult concept, and something many feel is always too risky.”

“It was hard? You feared it?” Tilden’s hand rested on Milton’s shoulder, gentle and silent support.

“Yes, Landon creates very powerful dark fantasies. He is a dungeon master. There is an actual dungeon under the lake house. He locked me in there. I don’t know how long. There was no light but a bare bulb high overhead in a cage. The only stimulation was the guards coming to feed me and Landon and Gordon coming to torture me. I was the king’s prisoner, suspected of espionage and subject to the king’s inquiry and justice. The floor was dirt and straw, and the food gruel and scummy water. I safeworded.”

“What happened?”

“They took me upstairs to the big sunny room with the white couches. You’ve been in that part of the house. They held me while I was completely hysterical for several hours. I’d forgotten it was fake. I’d started to feel as if I were that prisoner. They spoiled me rotten for a week, showed my the inner workings of the dungeon, and we did it again. I flew the next time. It was the only time I stayed in subspace for any length of time. I understand the fantasy of being chained and beaten and kept in the closet as a convenient sex toy. I remember them both damn near raping me. I was kneeling on that filthy floor, and Landon had his cock jammed down my throat. My nose was mashed into his groin, and Gordon mounted me with a brutal thrust. I was impaled between the two of them: filthy, exhausted, entirely submissive to their will, and I loved it. I had the most spectacular orgasm. I had another great one a few days later in a very warn and clean bath with two very gentle lovers, but it wasn’t as good as when I was being tortured in their dungeon.”

“You want to lock Mike in a dank and filthy dungeon?”

Milton listened to the gentle sound on Mike’s breathing, the light snores and the occasional half sighs. Mike slept with such trust and beauty. Could Milton be worthy of what he needed? Could he take him to the very edge of sanity?

“I want Mike to be able to have that fantasy if he wants it. It’s not wrong or evil or sick to want that fantasy. He wants to fight and to struggle and to finally surrender. I was able to give him a taste today, but he must be more open and honest before he can have the whole meal. He safeworded on me.”

“When? When you threw him over the desk?”

“No, when I treated him like Sheldon or Austin. I tried to show him the daily submission, the submission that can be infused into real life. He needs that side also, but he wouldn’t yield. He fought and he safeworded. I was only spanking him over my knee. It wasn't about physical pain. It was about yielding, and it was about the idea of bondage and the submission bondage requires, especially self bondage which you cannot physically fight.”

“Did you stop?”

“Yes, but I kept him over my knee. I explained, but he cannot yet understand. Without the lamp smashing, he equates surrender with something he doesn’t want to be: weak, childish, needy, effeminate. He was very young and very lost when he first came to us. His submission was tied into a role of near guardianship by us. He doesn’t want that. He’s a man now, not a boy who can’t do his homework. Luke is gentle; he paints, enjoys classical concerts, and lives with his nose in a book with Cyrillic script. That is not a picture of modern masculinity. Mike has associated his submission with emasculation and childish behavior. We must teach him differently. We must teach him that a submissive is strong and masculine and adult, and right now he needs the brutality to feel strong. He wants to yield, and eventually he will yield as Jer does from a slight look, but not now. He has to feel that he is forced to yield, not that he offers it with demure pleasure. I can make him feel the force. I can be brutal and cruel, and I can and will enjoy it. Can you accept that?”

“I must,” Tilden said simply after a long pause. His fingers played in Milton’s hair, and without turning Milton knew the expression on Tilden’s face. The scatter of violet that brightened his blue eyes would be still; fine furrows would knit his brow.

“He’ll need you for aftercare. He’ll need your love and your gentle presence. You’re the contrast; you’ll show him the pleasure of yielding without being bruised and battered.”

“You’ll need me to,” Tilden said, fisting Milton’s hair with sudden strength. “You speak of enjoying the brutality, of understanding your demons, but I see how much you resist creating true pain. You’re kinder and gentler than you let yourself believe. You see the kindness in Gordon; let yourself see it in yourself.”

“I wanted to take him when I had him over the desk. I could barely stop myself.”

“Dominance is part of your sexuality. No one condemns a man for being interested in a beautiful, naked woman. Why shouldn’t you be interested in your own sexual pleasure laid out in front of you? You didn’t take him, not that I think Mike would have objected.”

“He wasn’t in any condition to consent. He was too far gone.”

“Next time he’ll understand more, and you can negotiate your pleasure. It’s as you called it earlier consensual non consent.”

Milton groaned and leaned his head back, trying to catch Tilden’s eye. “It’s the most difficult negotiation there is.”

“Mike’s not always honest. He might have to get burnt a few times to understand the value of honesty. It won’t kill him.”

“I won’t have him thinking it’s rape.”

“He won’t. You aren’t capable of rape. Don’t.” Tilden jerked Milton’s hair as he started to speak. “I live with you. I love you. I know what you are capable of, and rape is not one of your capabilities. I’m not naive. I fear your unshielded dominance, and I know you shield it with me and especially with Luke, and you’re going to turn it loose with Mike. I’ll stay out of the flames.”

“The flames are scorching. My dominance is worse than Gordon’s. It is deeper and darker than you can imagine.”

“It’s also sunny and light and damn close to fatherly at times. Trust yourself. Have you talked to Gordon or Landon recently?”

“Are you sending me to them?”

“I’m asking if you should go to them.”

Milton twisted around and studied Tilden’s face. “I’ll go to them, but I want you with me. He’s your boy, and I’m also your boy. You can’t step back anymore. You are a dominant.”

“I submit to you.”

“You are a dominant. You are not my submissive, not in the way of the other boys. You yield with grace to a friend and a lover. You submit to no one else. It is not your natural state.”

“With you it’s easy.” Tilden kissed Milton. At first his tongue swept against Milton’s teeth and demanded entrance. The kiss lengthened and with a gentle invitation he yielded to Milton and welcomed Milton inside. Tilden slid Mike’s head onto a pillow and stood. His long fingers undid the top two buttons of his shirt, and he shucked it over his head. He kicked off his shoes, and his pants dropped down over his slim hips into a pile at his ankles. “Take me.”

“Tilden!”

“Take me.” Tilden ran his hand over Milton’s groin, feeling for the bulge hidden under the layers of clothing. “I know you want to, and I’m offering.”

Milton grabbed Tilden’s hand and jerked it behind his back. He pulled Tilden close; Milton wrapped his arm around the narrow waist and kissed the offered neck. His tongue flicked over the skin and slowly he sank his teeth down. Tilden groaned, but didn’t move, his body still, a perfect offering.

“You’ll have a mark.”

“I’ll wear a turtleneck.” Tilden pressed closer, rubbing shamelessly against Milton.

Milton licked Tilden’s neck and bit down again. He knew it hurt; he could feel Tilden tense as the teeth broke his skin, but Tilden didn’t pull away. He stayed, offering his surrender and trust.

Milton pressed his fingers to Tilden’s lips. “Suck.” Tilden’s tongue was hot, wet, and heavenly. He laved the fingers in spit. “My wanton friend.” Milton pulled his fingers from the glistening lips, spun Tilden around, and shoved two deep inside the tempting flesh. Tilden yelped at the sudden intrusion. “Quiet. Don’t wake the sleeping boy.”

“Ah,” Tilden tried to muffle the groan as Milton’s fingers scissored inside him.

“Shh.” Milton bit down hard on Tilden’s shoulder and added a third finger. Tilden spread his legs; a delightful groan rose from his lips. “So ready. So wanting,” Milton whispered in Tilden’s ear. “You love being my toy. No proper Russian teacher here. You want more. You want to feel me buried to the hilt. You want to be helpless as you mewl and buck and pleasure me with abandon.”

“Please,” Tilden whined.

“It’s the middle of the afternoon on Saturday. Someone might walk in. It’s not proper.”

“I don’t care. Fuck me.”

“Very well, I will.”