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."