Milton's Day with his Boys

Milton’s Day with his Boys

Milton shook his head as the door crashed against the frame and heavy footfalls trudged up the stairs. It had been one of those days. He reached down and gently threaded his fingers through Sheldon’s hair. Sheldon leaned against Milton’s leg and stifled a sniffle. 

“What is it today? The moon’s not even full.”

“Master,” Sheldon mumbled, his voice was still thick with tears.

“I’m beginning to believe there is a catching mental illness or a conspiracy among my submissives. My shoulder’s killing me, and it looks like no rest yet.” Milton winced as the bedroom door slammed and the rich noise of Russian curses filled the air.

“That’s Tilden or Luke,” Sheldon said in wonder.

“Or both,” Milton groaned. “I am going to kill whoever it is.” Milton stood and marched toward the door. This was it. He was going to strangle all of them. 

Mike and Austin had imploded this morning. They were both beautiful boys to spank, Austin with his easy tears and Mike with his ability and desire to take the full gamut of implements. He’d left Austin a beautiful shade of rose and Mike streaked by the belt from ass to thighs. Then Sheldon had pitched an indecipherable fit. It didn’t seem to be about anything real, or at least Milton couldn’t find a real cause, more a plea for a little attention to the slave boy’s ass also. Milton had hauled Sheldon over his knee and turned white to red. Sheldon was exquisite when he was sprawled face down with a reddening ass rising to meet Milton’s hand. His tears were gentle music to Milton’s ear, and the compliant boy at his feet was a powerful aphrodisiac. Crazed Russian scholars were not on Milton’s agenda today.

“Tilden,” Milton growled, putting a dark menace in his tone as his tall and usually calm partner flapped through the hallway, still cursing in Russian and several other languages that escaped Milton’s understanding.

“You can’t fix it!” Tilden snarled, ignoring Milton as he continued his belligerent attack on the hall floorboards, his feet beating a tattoo as he hurled himself from one end to the other.

“Maybe not, but I won’t tolerate that attitude, boy.”

Tilden froze, his violet eyes meeting Milton’s. “Don’t you dare.”

“Dare,” Milton repeated, grabbing Tilden’s arm and twisting it behind his back. “Is this what you want, boy? Is this what you need?” Milton landed three hard slaps to the khaki covered butt. 

“Stop! I don’t want to.” Tilden kicked out at Milton, catching Milton’s shin with his hiking boots.

“Did you kick me, boy?” Milton tightened his grip and landed another brutal swat to his newest submissive’s hindquarters. 

“You hit me. I kicked you. What’s the difference?”

“That, boy, is a loaded question.” Milton shoved Tilden forward, pushing them both into the bedroom and tumbling Tilden over his knee as Milton sat on the bed. The bed was made for summer with a white coverlet and only a light blanket folded at one end. The windows were flung open, the intoxicating smell of spring flooding the bedroom. Milton drank in the smell of dogwoods and daffodils. For most they might be soothing smells; for Milton they strengthened his drive to dominate, to mate, to control, and to overpower the man prone across his knee. This was his nature, and boys who provoked paid the penalty.

Milton landed a volley of spanks, not caring that Tilden was still clothed. The boy would give him naked later, but for now a hand on slacks would quench his fire. Milton was strong, and he knew how to spank. He’d practiced since he was seventeen; he could raise bruises through slacks and boxers.

Tilden kicked and yelled, his hand swinging back to block the blows. Milton pinned the hand and continued. Tilden was pleading now, a babble of noise and cries. He was slumped forward, his one free hand fisting the coverlet.

“Get your pants down boy,” Milton snarled, half lifting Tilden to his feet.

The flesh was red, not bruised, but warm against Milton’s palm. Milton slapped Tilden’s inner thighs, back and forth in a brutal cascade of handprints against the tenderest of skin. Tilden was sobbing continuously now, tears running freely down his aristocratic cheekbones. His usually scattered hair was plastered with sweat and hung limply down. He lay compliant, beautiful and broken. Milton landed one final volley of spanks turning the skin of the upturned ass from deep rose to shiny red. This was his, all his. He was the victor; he conquered all.

Milton’s hand hurt; his shoulder hurt. He stared down at the man across his knees. This was his friend, his colleague, his confidante, and he lay across Milton’s knees broken and exhausted; his inner core raw and exposed for the world to see.

“Tilden,” Milton choked on the words. He bent and desperately kissed the heaving back. “Tilden, my dearest and sweetest boy.” He shifted Tilden, wrapping his arms around the shivering torso and burying Tilden’s tearstained face in his chest.

Tilden clutched at Milton’s shirt, seeking whatever comfort he could in the man who had just beaten him. He clung to Milton, tears and snot pouring from his face. Milton didn’t move. He only locked his arms and mumbled useless soothing words. This was his fault. He’d hurt his friend. He was a monster fit only to live behind bars and have food tossed to him by keepers with electric cattle prods. This was his friend and lover. This was a boy to be guarded and cherished, not beaten into senseless sobs.

Milton didn’t know how long they sat together. He heard the clock in the study chime a few times, but he wasn’t concentrating enough to know the hour. Somewhere outside two birds were fighting over something, and far in the distance were the raised voices of students playing in the sun.

“Milton?” Tilden’s violet eyes were red and swollen and shockingly calm. There was no sign of accusation or hurt. Maybe in the violet glitter there was a hint of Tilden’s usual humor and slight bemusement over his life in this family.

“Tilden...Tilden...God…”

“I think you would say I was asking for it.” Tilden’s smile was sweet and gentle and so forgiving that Milton wanted to vanish forever. This was his boy, and he’d hurt his boy. 

“Tilden, I shouldn’t have. It was unforgivable. I--”

“Stop it. I live in this family. I knew exactly what I was provoking. I kicked you for goodness sake.” Tilden ran his hand over his ass, wincing at even that light contact. “I wouldn’t do it again tomorrow. I’m not sure I’d do it again in six months, but I wanted it once, and now I know. It damn well hurts, and that was only your hand. Mike does this with all the stuff you keep in the drawer.”

“Mike is a masochist. You are not. It was unforgivable.”

Tilden struggled to his feet and yanked his tangled boxers and trousers up. “Get over yourself. You may be the dominant, and you may be the one who is doing the hitting, but I am not an innocent. I asked for it, and I took what I was owed, and if you’d stop acting like you just assaulted me I’d feel a hell of a lot better. I had a shit day, to use Mike’s language, and I wanted a target. The bullseye was on you. I’m sorry, but I need to be a submissive, not reside in some no man’s land, and you spank your submissives. You enjoy a pretty red ass, and I wanted to give you mine. Isn’t that my right?”

“It is,” Sheldon said from the doorway. “I heard, Master. I thought…”

“You’d thought I’d just lost my mind,” Milton said, raking his fingers through his hair.

“Master, trust yourself. Does Tilden ever stomp and bang and curse? He was asking for something the only way he knew how, and you gave it to him. There is no need for guilt.”

“I enjoyed hitting a man who is not a masochist. I enjoyed it,” Milton repeated and stared up at the ceiling and blinked back desperate tears. He’d enjoyed beating his oldest and closest friend. It had made every nerve sing and his blood run hot through his veins.

“Master, you have a right to enjoy it. I expect you to enjoy it. You are the coin flip of us. I enjoy being over your knee, not always, not if I’ve disappointed you, not when I push our boundaries, but I am not a victim and neither is Tilden. There are five of us. Trust me, if we didn’t want it, you’d be out so fast that Gordon wouldn’t even be able to find the scraps of your body.”

“Thank you, Sheldon,” Milton said, looking at his wise and beautiful boys. He was beyond lucky. He was blessed with more riches and perfection than any man ever deserved. “I love you, all of you.”

“I know, Master. Now get up and stop moping. Your freshly beaten boy needs a shower and some of your personal attention. Move, Master. Go.”

Milton rose to his feet, kissed the top of Sheldon’s head, and entwined his fingers in Tilden’s. “Come, boy. We have unfinished business.” He pressed a kissed to Tilden’s lips, his head spinning at the easy compliance as Tilden melted against him.

Tilden, who was a man of language, said nothing, but his eyes said everything--the peace and strength of absolute surrender. Milton smiled gently. This was all his. The power surged through both of them.

Always and Forever

Always and Forever

Only Gordon’s footfalls had that sound, the slow measured tread of a man who knew the world was at his feet. Tilden’s fingers tightened on the pages of his book. He wasn’t ready to deal with this man, not now, not ever. It had been awful enough before when he’d technically stood on level ground as a fellow dominant. Nu, tak. Who was he kidding? No one stood on level ground with Gordon. Milton, who could hold his own against any man, knelt and kissed his palm.

Tilden braced himself to be pleasant, a worthy member of the family. Milton loved this man, and intellectually Tilden knew that Gordon was a decent man in the world he inhabited, the world Tilden inhabited by default. This was a world where power and violence were placed on display; Gordon epitomized that power and violence. Tilden could still feel the horrible sting of those strokes of the cane. Milton had been shockingly compliant. He’d bent over the desk with his pants around his knees and taken all those strokes with nothing but a hiss as the cane beat into his flesh. He’d slowly pulled up his pants and buried his head in Gordon’s shoulder as the hand that had just hit stroked his hair. Tilden had stepped forward and taken three of his own. He’d cursed himself a thousand times over that he hadn’t said no. He wished that he hadn’t followed Milton in everything like the perpetual younger son trying to keep up with big brother. 

Gordon had tried to pull Tilden into his arms after the three strokes; he’d said something that Tilden hadn’t heard. Tilden could still remember that peculiar smell of sweat and sunblock that had permeated the tiny room. He could still remember the feel of Gordon’s fingers as he’d squeezed the back of Tilden’s neck in hopeless reassurance. Tilden had been desperate to pull the cloak of normalcy back around himself. No one had ever hit him that way. He hadn’t known what to feel, what to think. He’d felt exposed and naked, and he’d been the one fully clothed.

Milton had tried to talk to Tilden the next week. Milton had walked with Tilden away from the school and the pledge to only speak Russian to a distant children’s playground in the early morning. Tilden remembered leaning against the dew covered monkey bars, his feet damp from the wet grass and listening to Milton.

“I’m a dominant,” Milton had said firmly, seeming to relish the solitude to speak in English. “I can’t change that, Tilden. In many ways I belong to Gordon. He trained me. I owe him my allegiance and my obedience. I’d be a monster without him.”

“I hate him.”

Milton had kissed Tilden’s cheek, a gesture tinged with sadness and a loss that Tilden didn’t understand at the time. “I know.”

Their relationship had changed after that. Milton over several long evenings had explained his lifestyle, but it had been detached and remote, as if he were giving a lecture. They’d never been together sexually, but any slight spark Milton now brutally snuffed out. Milton had continued to be a wonderful friend. They’d somehow ended up teaching at the same college and bought a house together. Sheldon had come shortly after that with his fiery red hair and personality to match. Milton had never hidden what he and Sheldon did, and Sheldon had always looked happy, even when he’d been crying. It hadn’t seemed all that bad with Sheldon. The boy did something crazy, and Milton punished him with a small spanking.

Sheldon had been young and irresponsible and desperate for steady authority. That was easy for Tilden. It seemed natural to tell the red haired maniac not to stand on the roof or shout in a restaurant. It had been natural to help him get to work on time with all his shirt buttons done correctly. Tilden had even swatted him a few times when the outlandish baiting was obvious to all. Tilden watched. It hadn’t been hard to learn the signals and mimic the tone and inflection, and Sheldon always responded. 

Even the first years with Mike and Luke hadn’t been difficult. They were young; they needed guidance, and they responded to the corporal punishment. Luke had just needed someone to believe he wasn’t an idiot and to stop reinforcing that warped perception of himself, and Mike had needed the security he’d never known. Tilden had never understood Mike’s passion for kneeling or his strong masochism. Tilden got no pleasure in administering corporal punishment. It was a duty. Milton spoke of pleasure, and Tilden nodded politely. It had all changed when Milton pulled Tilden over his knee and bared his flesh. It was like the blinders had come off, and Tilden had suddenly mastered a language that before had been nothing but gibberish and rote repetition. 

The footsteps had stopped. Tilden lifted his head, unwilling to raise his eyes above the charcoal wool slacks. He didn’t want to see the sternness and the demands in Gordon’s rigid features. 

“It is customary to acknowledge my presence,” Gordon’s voice was measured, his accent still obvious in the rhythm of his speech and different quality of his vowels. 

“Gordon, careful.” Milton’s voice was soft, but rich with power. Tilden looked into Milton’s dark eyes. They were calm and steady. “He’s mine to protect.”

“He is,” Gordon acknowledged. “I’ve come in peace and hopefully forgiveness. May I speak with your boy?”

“Yes, but I stay.”

“As you wish.”

Tilden leaned into the familiar hand that was on his shoulder. He wasn’t alone. Milton was behind him figuratively and literally. 

“Tilden.” Gordon’s voice was at Tilden’s level. The man was down on one knee. His eyes rested on Tilden’s face, a window that was usually drawn shut, but now flickered with sadness. “I ask your forgiveness. I cannot take it back, but I wish with all my heart I could. None of us understood you then, including yourself. It was an unforgivable action against a vulnerable submissive. I’m sorry.”

“It was only three. I didn’t know myself. I didn’t die from it.” Was he saying those words? He’d wanted to throw the hurt back in this man’s face for so long, and now his words were of forgiveness. “You’ve done much for us, and you’ve always been a good friend to Milton.”

“I hurt you. That is not a good friend.”

“You didn’t hurt me out of malice. I know that now. I don’t know if I can be like the other submissives. I don’t know if I can obey you, but I don’t hate you anymore. I know what you mean to Milton. I’ll try to be good.”

“Tilden, you are always good, maybe too good. It’s not wrong to want things. It’s not wrong to occasionally be selfish. We are alone. You may call me everything you have wanted to call me for years. You may choose to have me punished.”

“No.”

“Milton, it’s your right. I harmed your submissive.”

“Tilden?” Milton asked, one eyebrow arching into his hairline. “It’s our way.”

“No!”

“Can you forgive him without it? Gordon, can you forgive yourself?”

“I don’t wish to forgive myself. It is the pain of mistakes that keep us honest and true. I need that pain. The punishment would be for your boy.”

Milton stood and walked over to the window. He leaned on the glass and stared out into the snowy whiteness and bare trees. He turned back, his eyes black with determination. “I will not do it, but as head of the Green Mountain Boys, I declare this over. Gordon, I have noted the error, and my own complicity for not recognizing the true nature of my friend or responding appropriately in the immediate aftermath. No punishment is due, and I expect you to treat Tilden as you would treat any other submissive with care, compassion, and respect as well as firmness. Tilden, you will obey Gordon, and I will punish you if you choose a different course. That is all.”

Gordon rose slowly. “Thank you, sir, Tilden. I am honored to serve.”

“Gordon, stop it,” Milton said with exasperation. “I’m not sir.”

“In this role you are. Those were orders as head of the Green Mountain Boys, not as Milton the boy who knelt at my feet. Time marches forward, and you are the master now.”

“Gordon--”

“Milton, I’ll take that role when you need me, but for now we all need you as master. Wear the mantle proudly. You deserve it, and I am honored to call you sir. Be good to your boy, and I’ll be cautious with any orders. Tilden doesn’t need punished.” Gordon bowed his head slightly and left the room.

Milton turned back toward the window; his fist curled tightly, the clenched fingers the only tell that Gordon’s words had caused a surge of anxiety. Tilden might never understand it, but Milton, who stood tall and strong, leaned on Gordon. He deferred to a man who in Tilden’s mind had half his kindness and goodness.

“Milton,” Tilden said, rising to his feet. “You are the master. My loyalty is to you.”

“I’m the master because he taught me.” Milton advanced on Tilden, catching Tilden’s shoulders and pushing him into the wall. “You will obey him. I will have no more disrespect and disobedience. I will have no more of your avoidance and looking away.”

Tilden gulped as Milton glared into his eyes. “He hurt me.”

“I hurt you a thousand times over, and you forgave me. I didn’t recognize you were a submissive. You haven’t put me on your permanent terrorist list. Gordon begged your forgiveness. You will give it to him. It’s not up for debate, boy.”

Boy. Not up for debate. There was no leniency or wiggle room in Milton’s expression or words. Tilden swallowed again. There was only one answer. “Yes, sir.”

“Good boy.” 

The hug was bone crushing: possessive and all encompassing. The entire world narrowed to Milton’s arms and chest, to Milton’s scent, to the scratch of Milton’s beard.

“I’ll be good for you. I love you.” Tilden blinked back the sudden wetness in his eyes. “I’ll try. I promise.”

“I know.” Milton kissed Tilden’s lips. “I shouldn’t have shouted at you. I know he scared you very badly, but I need him. I can’t explain him. I know you see me as nicer and gentler than Gordon on his best days, but he gave me that. He turned me loose today, and I still need him.”

“You weren’t listening,” Tilden said gently, running his hand down Milton’s back. “He opened the gates of the pasture, but he promised to be in the barn waiting for you. You’re not seventeen anymore; you’re strong. You have us.”

“I know.” Milton stroked his finger through the twin cowlicks on Tilden’s forehead. “He lost his master unprepared. Gordon isn’t a young man. He’s preparing me for that day, like he’s prepared me for everything else.” Milton smiled, a wry and wistful smile. “What was with the barn metaphor?”

“I heard Mace use it, and I liked it.” Tilden’s eyes lightened to their usual dancing violet. “I am the linguist after all, and I stayed in English. You should be proud.”

Milton snorted and swatted at Tilden. “Someone’s been practicing bratty. Behave.”

“Do you know the submissives’ most frequent word choice is different than the dominants’? The intonation pattern also shows slight variations.”

Milton rolled his eyes. “And Gordon said you were too perfectly behaved.”

“He’s sometimes wrong.”

“We are all sometimes wrong.” Milton wrapped his arm around Tilden’s waist. “Forgive and behave. Those two words are no longer optional.”

“I know.” Tilden dropped his eyes. “I might need your help sometimes.”

“Always.” Milton kissed Tilden’s cheek. “You have always had all I can give you, as inadequate as it sometimes was. I’m always yours, now and forever.”

A Moment with Tilden

A Moment with Tilden

Tilden leaned back against the corner of the desk and craned his neck upward to see Milton. He was leaning over a yellow pad, a stack of books in front of him. Milton had retained the habits he’d learned years ago in college: paper, pen, and physical books. He wasn’t Austin who had suggested that a pencil was soon to be relegated to a dusty drawer in a historical museum. Milton’s finger stroked down the page, underlining a word as he read a passage again.

Tilden sighed. He could watch Milton all day. He’d never admit it; he’d never kneel with the obvious reverence and adoration of Sheldon, not that he didn’t understand those feelings. Tilden kept a tight rein on his emotions; he’d been the quiet and studious academic since he was old enough to understand those words. He didn’t create ostentatious displays. He’d been in love with Milton since he’d first caught sight of him across the table at the cafeteria. Tilden had told himself that instant love was ridiculous. One didn’t just fall in love with a man because of his profile and dark eyes on the other side of tasteless food. Milton hadn’t noticed Tilden that day. He’d been in an animated conversation with a fellow graduate student in the history department. Tilden had listened to every word, suppressing his wince at the mispronounced names as they argued the merits of the Decembrists’ ideas.

Tilden had never told Milton, but he’d registered for two advanced history classes the next semester, hoping their paths would cross. It had been pure chance that Professor Drake was uncreative and had paired people by last names. Blake and Brown were kissing twins alphabetically in a small class. Milton had been gorgeous with glimpses of a contained youthful enthusiasm. Tilden had spent hours in Milton’s cramped room under the eaves in a massive tumbling down house with the remnants of formal gardens snaking out in all directions. As the weather had warmed, they’d moved out to the gardens, Milton perched on a crumbling stone bench and Tilden sprawled out at his feet.

Tilden had thought he’d hinted hard enough, but Milton had remained the strictly platonic friend. Tilden had known Milton was gay. He’d actually disturbed him once with a blushing, naked boy in the room. Tilden had been shoved out the door with orders to wait while several bangs and thunks escaped through the walls. Tilden had a good idea now that Milton had been hiding the evidence away, but back then he’d thought it was just the noise of quick dressing. 

Milton and the unknown man had come out of the room. Tilden remembered watching Milton’s arm around the man’s waist and wanting desperately for the small kiss to be on his lips. 

“Tilden, my apologies. I’d forgotten our meeting. I must make arrangements. Come.”

Tilden had followed Milton through the rambling house. He’d never explored the lower level with its large windows looking out into the unkempt garden. They passed through a sunlit room full of easels and colorful paintings until Milton had finally knocked on a door with a brass plate worn beyond legibility. 

Again Tilden had been left in the hall behind closed doors. Milton had come out alone.

“We were going to review the source material,” Milton had said. “Let’s get started.”

Nothing more had been said of the naked man, and Milton wasn’t someone who Tilden asked idle questions.

“You’ve been staring at the same page of your book for five minutes.” Milton leaned down and peered at the text. “I know you don’t have problems with the verbs of motion. Talk to me, Tilden. We’ve known each other too long for secrets.”

“I was thinking about when we first met.” Tilden felt a faint heat rising on his cheeks.

Milton raked his fingers through his hair, pushing the hair back from his face. “You were so beautiful and untouchable.”

“I wanted you. I enrolled in those history classes to be with you.”

“Tilden!”

“I hated that class with Drake.”

Milton smiled gently. “Thank God you took it. I’d never have managed all those sources in Russian, especially the pre-Revolutionary text.”

“I wanted you, not to be your translator.”

Milton shifted and dropped and arm around Tilden’s chest and pulled Tilden against his legs. “I wanted you also.”

“You never said.” Tilden swallowed hard and let himself lean against Milton, allowing the heaviness of Milton’s arm to anchor him.

“I was young and afraid. I’m a very powerful dominant; I wasn’t who I am now. Sheldon took many of the sharpest edges off my personality.”

“I wanted you to notice me.”

“I did.” Milton bent down and kissed Tilden’s hair. 

“Who was the boy in your room?”

“You mean when you walked in when I had a flogger and handcuffs on the bed. I about fainted.”

Tilden nodded and looked up and caught Milton’s eyes. “I missed those. All the bare skin was more interesting.”

“The boy was Aaron. Nice enough kid in an uninteresting sort of way. We played a few times. Nothing serious.”

“Did you push him off on your landlord?”

Milton laughed, deep and soft. “My landlord was a friend of Gordon’s. I handed him Aaron, and he told me to go have a good time with my real boyfriend I should have listened to him, but I was too busy hiding a part of myself from you.”

Tilden flipped a page in the textbook, but wasn’t reading it. “I was a submissive back then. I was always following you around.”

Milton was silent for a long minute. “Yes, but I didn’t recognize it, or I refused to recognize it. I was in love with you as a man. I was afraid of breaking you. I was taught to be a dominant; I wasn’t taught how to be a lover. Sheldon wears his emotions for all to see; it was easier for me.”

“You told Gordon I was a dominant. I didn’t even know what you meant.”

“I believed it then or at least I thought I did.” Milton stroked his fingers through Tilden’s hair. “I needed your steadiness and sensibility as a friend. I didn’t know how to balance these relationships. I probably saw what I wanted and needed to see. I’m sorry.”

“It wasn’t like I told you otherwise.” Tilden ran his finger down the seam of his pants. “I’m a submissive, but I’m not what I thought it meant to be a submissive. I’m not a leather boy. I don’t like humiliation or exhibitionism. I still have trouble calling myself a submissive, but I’m not blind. I know I follow your orders; I know I want you in charge. I know…” Tilden paused and moistened his throat with a forced swallow. “I’m your boy. I want to be all your boy, not part of me out in a foreign land with a language I can’t grasp. I can’t hit. It never felt right to me. I never enjoyed it; I didn’t even understand it could be enjoyed until you did it to me. All I wanted was more. It was no longer a babble of consonants and misplaced vowels, but the poetry of language. All those years…”

“Hush. You’re mine now, and that’s all you have to worry about. My boy to love, to cherish, to protect, and to hurt because you want to feel my strength and my dominance. You want to bask in a few of its fierce rays. You want to suffer, and you want to obey.”

“I don’t like pain.”

Milton’s hand reached under Tilden’s shirt and traced a fresh bite mark. “You like this.”

Tilden nodded, not able to meet Milton’s eyes. It wasn’t the pain; it was the feeling of ownership. It was a tiny act of suffering for a feeling of warmth and possession. 

“That’s painful.” Tilden’s breath hitched as Milton probed the bite mark. “You aren’t pulling away.”

“It’s not the pain. I don’t like you pushing at it.”

“Tell me to stop.”

“I suffer for you. I want to belong to you.”

Milton’s fingers soothed the bruise he’d just raised. “You belong to me. Never question that.” Milton’s lips ghosted over Tilden’s ear. “Tilden, you don’t have to suffer to belong. I have others who satisfy my need to hurt. I can love you without physical pain. There are other rituals of submission.”

“I like the ones you’ve chosen. I can’t explain it. I know I don’t want beaten, but I need a little. Your hand on my flesh, the warmth and the reddening...I can’t explain it. Don’t make me try. Please.” Tilden caught Milton’s fingers. “I need time. I’ve admitted to the world that I’m your submissive. Isn’t that enough?”

“For now.” Milton kissed Tilden’s hair. “For now.”

Breakfast of Champions

Breakfast of Champions

Tilden stared at the gauntlet of faces. He’d eaten breakfast here thousand of times; he’d sat at this very table thousand of times with Milton at one end and Gordon at the other, with the silver serving platters and the smell of the finest coffee wafting from the cups, with the easy elegance of Landon and Gordon and the explosiveness of Blade. Why was he swallowing hard now and wanting to bury himself in his beloved Russian? 

Tilden moved to sit in his usual place by Luke, but with an imperceptible flick of Milton’s head, Sheldon moved to free his seat for Tilden. Gordon nodded and slowly took another sip of coffee. Ryan’s blue eyes rested on Tilden’s face, and he smiled gently. This was the smile he showed to a hesitant submissive, the sweet and protective dominant.

“I can’t do this.” Tilden’s voice sounded foreign to his ears. He turned and tried to take even strides from the dining room. He wasn’t a Green Mountain Boy submissive. He was Milton’s lover. He wasn’t all this other stuff.

“Let Ryan,” Gordon said, his voice rich with authority and calm. 

“He’s mine.”

“His problem is not with you; it’s with us. Ryan will handle it.”

Ryan was at Tilden’s shoulder before Tilden could make it to the door. His smile was affable, and his brilliantly blue eyes glinted with amusement. He was impossibly young. What could he know about life? Tilden had been with Milton for years; he didn’t need or want a lecture from the young and brash.

“Let’s go in the kitchen and eat with no one staring. Milton will inform the others,” Ryan said with another smile. At least he’d had the good sense not to put his arm around Tilden’s shoulder. Tilden didn’t think he would have been able to hang on to his politeness. 

“I know I’m considered a menace in the kitchen, but this is ridiculous.”

Ryan leaned against the stainless steel countertop. He was a huge man, and despite the sunny smile on his face, it was obvious that Tilden couldn’t just walk by him. He was an immovable object in a turtleneck and a fleece pullover.

“So you made it official?” Ryan asked.

Tilden shrugged and thought of several dozen choice Russian phrases.

“Tilden, nothing changes between us unless you want it to. I realized you were submissive to Milton a long time ago, and I couldn't care less if you like to be bossed in the bedroom. Your sexuality is not my business, but here I am also a Green Mountain Boy. I have a responsibility to you as a Green Mountain Boy dominant and as safety officer. Your status here has changed, and you are well aware of that or you wouldn’t have looked rigid as you walked into breakfast. I am not unaware of the strife between you and Gordon, and now within the hierarchy of this organization, those of us who stand under the dominant flag must be respected and obeyed at a least a superficial level.” Ryan smiled again. “I have no desire to play dominant with you, so unless you need me in some way as a dominant nothing’s changed between us. Touching you would feel like assault. You’re Milton’s submissive, not mine. Your submission is personal and private, and I’m more than delighted to leave it that way.”

“Then why am I here?” 

“To have breakfast,” Ryan said flippantly and reached for the refrigerator door. “Citrus or berries?”

“Ryan,” Tilden said, letting exasperation creep into his voice. “I don’t like these games.”

“I thought we were eating breakfast, not playing games” Ryan pulled out both the strawberries and the oranges.

“You know what I mean.” Tilden collapsed into one of the four kitchen chairs and forced himself to fold his hands on the table. He wasn’t going to show this young and overly confident giant the state of his nerves. He wanted to be alone with his books. He needed to process the changes his few simple words to Milton had put in motion.

“I do,” Ryan said softly. “You’re out as a submissive now. We’re both young enough not to have lived through the humiliation and terror of hiding our identity as gay men, but you hid your identity as a submissive. Somehow you were slotted to the dominant side and you have a personality that abhors upheaval. You love Milton desperately, and you pretended to be what you thought he wanted. He loves you equally desperately, and he’s terrified of hurting you. You’re not a Sheldon. I didn’t know Milton as a young man, but I suspect Sheldon’s needs were far easier for him to manage than your needs. You bend to his will too easily. Hell, you pretended to be a dominant for years despite your lack of affinity for the whole process. Live it up. You’re finally on the right team. The gang will adjust, and we’ll take good care of you, not that you need it.”

“What about Gordon?”

“Gordon’s lots of things, some of them I don’t like much, but he’s protective of his submissives and every Green Mountain Submissive is his. He won’t eat you alive, and he listens to Milton.”

“I don’t like the man.”

Ryan popped a strawberry in his mouth. “That’s no secret, but he got you out of the dining room because he knows you’re on edge with him. He was preventing a confrontation. I’m the big bull moose that nothing is supposed to shake my smile, so I got drafted as escort. Gordon knows going all dominant with you will hurt both you and Milton. Let Milton buffer him until you decide otherwise. Milton actually understands Gordon and Landon, which should be worth several extra academic degrees.”

“I won’t obey him.”

“I‘d keep that private. You are a Green Mountain Boy and a Green Mountain Submissive. You have no choice in the matter.”

Tilden looked up into Ryan’s blue eyes. They were serious; all the earlier humor was gone. “I’m not his submissive,” Tilden said, wishing his voice didn’t sound defensive. He didn’t want any of this. He only wanted Milton and his family, not these crazy rituals and hierarchies and posturing.

“Tilden,” Ryan said gently, “even as a dominant I obey Gordon and Milton. It’s part of being a Green Mountain Boy. I do it for Blade, and I’ve actually come to like it, or at least usually. You do it for Milton. You’re Milton’s boy, and he wears Green Mountain Boy jammies to bed.”

“Ryan!”

“Well, it’s true and you know it.” Ryan set a bowl of fruit he’d been cutting in front of Tilden. “Eat this or I will have been a very bad dominant and let the poor submissive go hungry. Blistering lecture or worse. Help me out here and eat up.”

“You’re not going to kiss my forehead or tousle my hair?”

“Only if you want me to.” Ryan snatched another strawberry. “Do you want?”

Tilden poked an orange slice with a fork. Did he want? 

Ryan’s big arm snaked around Tilden’s neck, and the kiss on the top of Tilden’s head was firm and possessive. “Chew me out later, but you looked like you needed it.”

Tilden leaned into the contact and drew a deep breath. He had needed it. “Thank you, Ryan.”

“Any time. Now eat, so Milton’s not on my ass. He protects his boys, and a starved boy will be my fault.”

Tilden swallowed a chunk of orange and managed a faint smile. “I’ll eat.”

Negotiations for the New Year

Negotiations for the New Year

“Milton, I see you must have talked to Sheldon,” Landon said as he reached for his coffee cup. Landon was in the solarium, his usual area of quiet morning retreat and where Milton had expected to find him. Gordon hated the plants, insisting that jungles belonged outside and in a different climate. Landon’s fondness for the room might be exactly because Gordon wouldn’t follow him into it. This was Landon’s space and Landon’s kingdom.

“You knew. How long have you known?” Milton knew there was too much snap in his voice as Landon drew his brows together and turned his full stare on Milton. This was a Landon well away from his submissive side, a Landon who could have a blistering tongue.

“Yes, I knew,” Landon said distinctly and calmly. “I have no obligation to tell you Sheldon’s confidences, especially as he was planning to tell you himself.”

“You encouraged this.”

“I neither encouraged it or discouraged it,” Landon said, taking another sip of coffee. “We talked, unlike what you are doing with me.”

Milton heard the reprimand in Landon’s voice. He didn’t need to hear the specific words. Don’t try to bully me. I’m Gordon’s submissive, not yours. I’ll submit to him even when he’s being a bastard; I won’t with you, and you’re being a bastard right now.

Milton raked his fingers through his hair and leaned against the glass wall. He could feel the outside cold through his sweater, and he forced his mind to settle. He didn’t fight with Landon. It wasn’t productive, and he loved Landon.

“Sorry,” Milton murmured.

Landon smiled gently, his eyes taking on the incredible kindness that always tore straight through Milton’s soul. “You’re a master, Milton. I know it’s hard, and I know it will never sit easily on your soul. It is for this reason you’re a good master. If you didn’t question, if you didn’t fear, if you didn’t sometimes see your worst nightmare in front of your eyes, you’d be a cruel and abusive bastard. You aren’t. I bend my knee to you because you are worthy of my respect and my submission.”

“I’ll have everything.”

“Sheldon wants you to have everything. It’s your responsibility as master to take it. He’s safe with you. Trust yourself.”

“I love him,” Milton said, his voice almost breaking with the strain. “I don’t want him less of a man.” Milton slowly slid down the glass wall. He’d sat on this floor many times as a boy, the warm tiles against often heated flesh, the comforting smell of peat moss in the air. It wasn’t the smell of cattle and fresh hay, but it had been closer to home than the Oriental rugs and expensive paintings. The world had been so different at seventeen. Milton had been afraid of Landon and Gordon; there was no other way to put it. He’d met both men as his grandfather’s friends from the city, but suddenly alone under Gordon’s demanding stare and even more demanding voice in a world Milton didn’t understand and hadn’t even imagined had left Milton stunned and unprepared for the first time he could remember. 

Surely as a tiny child, Milton had been surprised or unable to fathom the desires of the mysterious tall people known as adults. As a teenager, Milton had thought he’d found his way. He’d been tops in his class at everything. He’d known where he was going, or at least in his teenage mind he’d known. That first night he’d sat on his bunk, swinging his long legs idly as Gordon talked. Skiing all winter and helping with the lift operation hadn’t seemed like a bad gig, but it didn’t need an hour’s worth of explanation.

“What?” Milton could still remember the shock in his voice as his hand moved to rub his stinging thigh. Gordon had been carrying some decorative stick like thing, and he’d just hit Milton.

“It’s a cane, boy, and I will use it, my young dominant.” Gordon had pointed with the damn stick to a pile papers and hand bound books on a small student’s desk. “Read and learn. We will start for real tomorrow.”

From the beginning, Milton had wanted the challenge. The world inside those sometimes laboriously hand typed sheets was a world he could hardly imagine at seventeen, but a world that he instantly recognized as his. Now as he contemplated his power over a man who he loved more than himself, Milton almost wished he’d never devoured those words, that he hadn’t faithfully spent hours at the feet of that man with the stick like thing.

“You cannot deny who you are,” Landon said softly as if he was seeing Milton’s thoughts as they battled inside Milton’s head. “This belongs to you.” Landon reached into his pants and pulled out a small box. “Open it.”

Inside the velvet box was a ring, a gold band that looked no different than thousands of other wedding rings. Milton looked down at his own hand. “I already have a ring.” 

“This is a master’s ring. Read the inscription.”

Man and Master--Green Mountain Boys

“We saved it for you. Gordon headed the Green Mountain Boys, but he is not a master. He has too much temper and too little self-sacrifice. You have a bounty of self-sacrifice, and you rule your emotions with a brutal and unyielding discipline. You are a master. It belongs to you. Take it.”

Milton’s finger touched the smooth gold surface. “Why not Gordon?”

“Gordon is a dominant. He is not a master. You are.”

Milton knew his eyes asked the unspoken words. Why was he different than Gordon? What made Milton worthy of this small gold band?

“I would never have survived a master. We would have killed each other long ago,” Landon said with a faint smile.

“There’s more to it than that,” Milton said, his voice gruff with emotion he didn’t understand.

“Yes,” Landon said slowly and ran his hand down the seam of his wool pants. “I don’t need to tell you the reasons. You’re a master; you’ve had a chance to see for yourself.”

“Sheldon isn’t you.”

“Don’t miss the point,” Landon said sharply. Landon rested his blue eyes on Milton’s face, eyes which spoke of knowledge and kindness and a depth of understanding that could be frightening. “You embrace the self-sacrifice. You give of yourself entirely. That is not Gordon. He can be capricious; he can be self-serving.”

“I’m not a saint.” Milton wrapped a hand around one knee, the ring under that hand, and studied the wear on his pants. Gordon would be hassling him to go shopping again, or he’d find a box on his doorstep with ten crisp pairs of khakis matched with beautiful oxford shirts. “I take my pleasures.”

“You’d better, or I’ll make Gordon’s beatings look like a beach outing,” Landon growled. 

“OK.” Milton gave Landon a small smile. “I don’t want to be on your bad side.”

“Wise choice. Now do I have to spell out the other?”

Milton shook his head. He knew the other. He knew as master that he was as tightly bound by the slave contract as Sheldon. He was responsible for his slave’s health, happiness, and well-being. There was pleasure in a slave, but there were responsibilities. Milton wouldn’t call them burdens; Sheldon was never a burden.

“You’ll grant Sheldon his wish?”

“Yes,” Milton said more to himself than to Landon. “My slave always and everywhere.” He opened his hand and studied the ring that balanced on his knee.

“Wear it. Your grandfather would expect it.”

Milton fingered the fine gold band and slid it on his finger.

“All right one down. Now for number two,” Landon said with a way too bright of smile.

“Everything else is fine,” Milton protested quickly, knowing Landon’s smile meant everything was far from fine. “Mike hasn’t even picked a fight with anyone in a week.”

“Mike is easy. He just needs bruises half the days of the year, and he’s happy. Luke baffles me, but his wisps of a smile look genuine enough to me. Austin will have occasional growing pains, but he has what he wanted and needed, and if you don’t spoil him beyond reason, he’ll be a happy boy.”

“Tilden?” Milton questioned, having mentally ticked off the names. “Tilden’s fine; you just don’t get along with him.”

“It’s New Years. You need to negotiate with Tilden.”

“He’s not my submissive,” Milton answered automatically.

“He is,” Landon said in a quiet voice that bore the marks of a man used to authority in his public life. There was no wavering or hesitation and no immediate retraction.

Milton let his eyes rest on Landon in that quiet determined gaze that made most men lower their head or shuffle papers on their desk. Landon stared back, blue eyes meeting brown. 

“He’s not a dominant. Let’s start there. It’s the easier part,” Landon finally said, his eyes still unwavering.

“He’s not a submissive,” Milton countered. 

“So we agree he’s not a dominant?”

“Landon, it’s not your business. He just doesn’t like this stuff. He tolerates it for me. I can’t ask more of him.”

“How many years have you let him suffer under the delusion he’s a dominant?”

Milton stood up, squared his shoulders, and crossed his arms. “I invited your input on Sheldon; I did not invite you to analyze my relationship with a man who you barely tolerate. I’ve had enough.” Milton turned and moved toward the door.

“How long have you been denying the truth?” Landon asked gently, knowing his words would carry and Milton would be listening even as he ostensibly walked out. “You’re way too good not to have known. How long?”

Milton hesitated and faced Landon again. Maybe it was the memories of all those worries he’d poured out long ago to Landon that made him stop. Milton didn’t want to analyze himself. All he knew was that his feet had stopped moving. Landon’s expression was the same open kindness he’d shown Milton all those years ago. Landon and Gordon were both sharks in the world of finance, and Landon had a fire in his personality that sometimes engulfed both him and Gordon, but he had also comforted Milton with gentle fingers and a warm soul when Milton had wanted to run away and never speak the word dominant or submissive again. It had been the submissives, Landon and Uncle Doug, who had always reassured Milton at his darkest points. 

“Milton, how long?” Landon asked again.

“I’ve been suspicious for years. I kept trying to convince myself that he just didn’t understand the pleasure he gave his submissives and that was the problem. He’s a gentle man; he had huge and nearly unshakable taboos about the use of force. He was so natural in the other parts.”

“He’s not an attention seeker; he wasn’t going to look like Sheldon. He wasn’t going to do something idiotic every five minutes. Sheldon might have tipped your viewpoint to seeing submissives as young and crazy, but adult, capable, and to all the world as ordinary as your beautiful violet-eyed college professor can also be a submissive.”

Milton leaned against the glass and blew out a long breath until the pane lost its transparency. He traced his finger through the mist he’d created, the fog that still clouded his mind when he thought of Tilden.

“He never did anything idiotic. He never suggested he wanted to try or that he ever had any interest in me touching him that way. Yes, I knew we were playing at only being friends. I’d wanted him forever. He’s so beautiful and kind and perfect. I wanted him.”

“And you told him no all those years ago because he wasn’t a submissive.”

Milton nodded and wiped the tear that slowly trickled down his cheek. “He was always a submissive.”

“I would think so, but Tilden didn’t know either. Tilden didn’t fit his own definition of submissive. His frame of reference was mostly Sheldon who as a young man saw anyone who didn’t indulge in lunacy as a dominant. Even Mace, who is quiet, indulged in dramatics as a young man if the stories are accurate.”

Milton nodded. There hadn’t been a frame of reference for Tilden. As a young man, Milton didn’t see his calm and organized friend as a submissive. He’d cajoled Tilden through some stressful moments of graduate school, but the favor had been returned as often by Tilden. Once Sheldon had arrived, Milton had seen submissives as young and impulsive, and bratty. He should have known better. He’d been trained by Gordon and Landon. Landon had never shown the impulsive ingenuity of Sheldon. Landon could play at being a brat, but Milton had seen behind the curtain at the magic show. When Landon bratted it was a calculated act either to annoy the hell out of Gordon or to relax a young and frightened submissive. But Landon has always shown his love of pain. It was easy to spot a submissive who enjoyed pain.

“Tilden’s not a masochist.”

“He’s not a masochist, and he’s not a lunatic, but he’s still a submissive,” Landon said. “It’s not a one size fits all world, but Tilden didn’t know that. He saw you with Sheldon, who is also far from a masochist, and knew he wasn’t in that box. Sheldon put him in your box; you put him in your box, so he assumed he must be a dominant.

“He knew he was horrible in that role,” Milton spat. “I knew he was fighting it within himself. I convinced myself it was societal expectations about not hitting those whom you love. He’s not aroused or excited by dominating. He’s an organizer; he’s a care taker; he’s steady and hard to anger. He’s a brilliant linguist, and none of those things makes him a dominant.  He can do the part in bed, not easily but halfway, and somehow he managed to hold Luke and Mike together. It must have been torture, but he’s a family man, and he believes in living up to his responsibilities. He was such a good student; he never once turned to me and said all this you’re telling me you feel is a steaming pile of cow shit because all I feel is as guilty as hell and sick to my stomach.”

“Tilden’s a very good student. He copied and memorized your actions, and he hadn’t felt the other. Remember you weren’t touching him sexually. His submissiveness shows when you touch him.”

“It was like a dialogue in a damn language textbook. He parroted the right words. He leaned the exact intonation pattern, but it was still a foreign language.”

“A foreign language that he spoke very well. Milton, we all missed it.”

“You weren’t in love with him.” Milton raked his fingers through his hair. “How much more can I mess this up?”

Landon moved from the wicker chair and stood behind Milton. “Do I need to get Gordon?”

Milton spun around and focused on Landon’s sharp blue eyes. Age hadn’t mellowed their gleam or their intensity. The threat wasn’t idle words.

“No taking on the guilt of the world, I know.” Milton opened his hands in a gesture of acquiescence and made an attempt at a smile.

“Milton, I know you.” The growl was familiar, reassuring and frightening at the same time.

“Landon, when you’re like this no one would ever believe you’re a submissive.” Milton’s smile was more genuine this time. “I’ll be good.”

“Better.” Landon kissed Milton’s cheek, a gesture of solidarity and friendship. “Tilden enjoys being the submissive. I’ve seen the marks peeking out from under his shirt collar. They wouldn’t be there if he didn’t enjoy it.”

“He’s so alive.” Milton could see the images: Tilden face up on the bed with his knees pulled wide and spread, the sheets rumpled and Tilden sprawled loosed limbed and sated, Tilden’s voice rich with pleasure as he begged in a tangle of languages as Milton teased him mercilessly. 

“Go negotiate with your submissive.”

Milton nodded, but he didn’t move from the window. In the large pine tree a blue jay squawked and flapped, his ire seemingly directed at Milton. “Idiot. Fool. Idiot,” the bird screamed repeatedly.

“Milton,” Landon finally said as Milton continued to watch the jay, “you’ll have to make the first move here. Most submissives I would have approached, but I can’t with Tilden. He’s not an ordinary submissive; he’s your submissive. He comes into this relationship as your friend and your lover. That will not change. He’s your equal in all things that don’t involve what you do as lovers. Don’t deny his submission because he’s so different than your other boys.”

“I don’t know what he wants.”

“You talk to him like any of your other boys. Now go.” Landon patted Milton on the rump and gave him a push. 

****

“Tilden?”

Tilden raised his head from the book on his knee and looked toward the open door. As always his hair was scattered across his forehead in a slight muss from the large cowlicks in the middle. He smiled his usual gentle, warm greeting.

“Up early.”

“I could say the same for you. I know you toasted in the New Year with at least one glass of vodka.”

“One,” Tilden said, shutting the book on his knees and setting it on a nearby table. “With Austin…”

“He’s not of age, and he understands that. You don’t have to be a teetotaler.”

“I saw you with Sprite.”

Milton smiled and ran his fingers through his hair. “No one ever said that I was the life of the party.”

“Is there something you need?” Tilden asked, his eyes watching Milton. “Um...you’re hovering.”

Milton forced himself from the doorway and closed the short distance between the two of them. He brushed back the stray lock of hair on Tilden’s forehead and gently kissed those soft lips. “It’s New Year’s.”

“Yes?” Tilden asked, not catching the implication.

“I negotiate with my submissives on New Year’s.”

“Everything go OK?”

Milton smiled and snorted softly. “Sheldon wants to quit work, and I’ll grant it, not that I love it, but I don’t have much choice. I talked with Austin yesterday, and Mike grunted something along the lines of do what I want which will take an evening with the heavy artillery to sort out with him. I haven’t approached Luke yet. I need to talk to you first.”

“Is there a problem?” Tilden’s expressive face clouded with worry.

“Not with Luke. I might wish that he didn’t hide from me so much, but I might also wish for more rain in August and less in April. That’s Luke, and I accept it.” Milton took a deep breath and leaned over Tilden, letting his arm drape over Tilden’s chest. “What about with you? Do we need to negotiate?”

The response was quick, too instantaneous, too prepackaged. “I’m not your submissive.”

“Tilden.” Milton moved around the front of Tilden and trapped Tilden’s face in his hands. “Tell me that with conviction, not with the quality of a rehearsed line.”

“I like you to top in bed; that’s all.” Tilden’s eyes searched out Milton’s, their usual calm gone. He jerked from Milton’s hands, sat back in the chair, and crossed his legs. Milton could almost see the barriers coming down.

“Make me believe you.” Milton moved back to the door and kicked it closed with his foot. “The door’s shut. It’s only the two of us. Tell me what you want to tell me.”

“I’m not your submissive. I’m your lover. We did figure out that not everyone has to be your sub,” Tilden said glibly, but his eyes were above Milton’s shoulder, staring at some vague spot on the wall. The speech pattern wasn’t right. Milton had listened to Tilden for years. This speech was too quick, almost singsong, a rehearsed quality.

“Lying to your dominant doesn’t have a good outcome.” Milton reached for the buckle of his belt, knowing that Tilden had lived enough in their household to exactly understand the threat. “Do we need to do it that way? I’m more than capable of doing it.” And Gordon would have to work overtime to put Milton back together if it went in that direction. Milton had never laid a stripe across Tilden, and he didn’t want to start now.

Tilden’s eyes went wide, and Milton could see him processing the implications, weighing the chance it might be a bluff. “We don’t do this.”

Not, you crazy asshole, don’t you dare threaten me because I’m not even faintly submissive. Not a you must be kidding look, but a quiet swallow and very wide eyes.

“We haven’t yet.” Milton placed the emphasis on the yet, knowing Tilden wouldn’t miss that slight change in intonation pattern.

“The others.”

“Hypothetical, no others, are you my submissive?” Milton asked, softening his voice to a tone of broad reassurance, the tone he used with new and intimidated submissives.

“It’s not hypothetical.” Tilden’s voice lifted a fraction, a blunt indication of his stress and indecision.

“Play this game with me,” Milton said soothingly. “There are no others. It’s just the two of us. Do you enjoy dominating?”

“No.” No hesitation. No wavering. 

“What’s wrong with it?” 

“I don’t...I...I just…”

“Come on, Tilden. You’re  fluent in more languages than I can count on one hand. You can do better than that.”

Tilden swore long and hard in several languages and then spat out something in a garble of consonants that Milton recognized as not Russian, but otherwise left him baffled. 

“English or Russian if that’s easier. Whatever that was is not in my repertoire.”

“Uzbek. It’s been designated a critical language. You might at least learn to recognize it.”

“I manage Russian and some truly dreadful French. More I’ll leave in yours and Luke’s capable hands.”

“Milton, this is a waste of time. We have better things to do than play parlor games.”

“You have nothing better to do than play parlor games with me,” Milton said slowly, deliberately, and menacingly. He stalked toward Tilden, each step measured, each swing of his arm calculated to project dominance. “My submissive obeys my will.”

“Hypothetical submissive.”

“I can live with that,” Milton said, softening his voice and posture. “What happens when my hypothetical submissive dominates?”

“I feel like a fraud. I grit my teeth and do it. I’m not...I’m not wired that way,” Tilden said very softly. 

“Tilden.” Milton wrapped his arms around Tilden and pulled him hard to his chest. “It’s supposed to be pleasure, not pain.”

“I didn’t...I didn’t…”

“You had no comparison until you became my lover. I know that. I’m the biggest idiot on the planet, but I know that now. Landon pointed it out with his usual gentle tongue.” Milton laughed ruefully. “Submissives don’t all look like Sheldon was the gentlest part. You’re an organized, capable, fabulously smart person who would rather die than brat, but none of those characteristics prohibit you from being a submissive.”

“It’s fine to talk about it in the hypothetical, but it won’t change anything.”

“Tilden!”

“Don’t. They depend on us. I can’t turn their lives upside down again.”

“You can’t keep pretending to be what you aren’t. It’s shattering your soul.”

“Leave the soul and all its permutations to the Russian poets. We live in a spiderweb of relationships. I can’t just announce I’ve crossed to the opposite bank and pretend all is going to be well. We have a twenty-year-old in this relationship. He needs stability. I brought Luke into this relationship. You’re not his dream dominant, and you know it. Hypothetical world with no one else outside of those doors, I’d be at your feet, but that’s not where we live. We have to deal with today, tomorrow, and the following day. My being a submissive is just not in the cards.”

“I won’t let you be a dominant.”

“You don’t have a choice.” Tilden jerked to his feet and shoved his hands in his pocket. His eyes met Milton’s, flashes of dark angry violet. “I don’t live in Fantasyland. This ship sailed long ago when you didn’t take me as your submissive. I know you read me wrong; I know I read myself wrong, but you had the knowledge and you never let me try. You never let me find my place. You slotted me as a dominant because I could get to class with both my socks the same color and didn’t throw food in restaurants. I wasn’t a flaming lunatic, but I was a submissive. Oh, God! What did I just say to you?” Tilden’s arm was around Milton’s shoulders. “Oh, God. I’m sorry.”

“Shh.” Milton pulled them both down into a tangled heap onto the floor, arms and legs mixed together in a scattered jumble. “I deserved that. Now how do we fix it?”

“You didn’t deserve me yelling at you because I was too naive to recognize my own orientation.”

“You weren’t yelling. You were only being forceful, and you won’t get that chance for free again.”

“We can’t--”

“We can’t go on like this.” Milton rolled into a sitting position, bringing Tilden with him. “Continuing to pretend is not an option.” Milton traced his finger down Tilden’s sharp cheekbones. “I’m sure Sheldon knows. That only leaves three. Mike already looks to me to dominate him as does Austin, and Luke and I will work harder to come to an understanding. I’ll take care of him. I’ll make sure he’s not left out.”

“He finds you hard.”

“I know. I’m far more dominant than he wants, but he does occasionally need a dominant, and he has started not to completely hide when he’s having one of those rare moments when he wants to be a submissive. He’s learning that I don’t beat everyone with the entire contents of my study drawer.”

“Milton!”

Milton kissed Tilden’s nose and finger combed his hair back into place. “I’m not planning to beat you with most of that stuff either unless I’m totally missing your secret desires. I’ve been a bit slow lately.”

“No,” Tilden said with a shaky smile. “I like your hand.”

“I know you do, and that’s fine.”

“I like...I like the bites.” Tilden flushed a deep red. “I like feeling them rub under my shirt. I like knowing your mark is on me.”

Milton pulled Tilden close. Tilden’s neck was bare and unmarked, a pristine white above his dark green Henley. Milton kissed the soft skin and slowly sank his teeth into the white flesh. Tilden hissed and his body stiffened.

“Good boy.” Milton licked the red flesh. “Very pretty.”

“Very noticeable.”

“Do you have a problem with that, boy?” Milton heard the sharp intake of breath and saw the bob of the slender neck as Tilden swallowed. He saw the flush and the indecision.

“No, sir.”

“Good boy.” Milton kissed Tilden hard, feeling the surrender as Tilden’s mouth fell open and he yielded to the sweep of Milton’s tongue. “You are so beautiful.” Milton kissed the shut eyes and tickled the smooth chin with his beard. “We have to get to breakfast.”

Tilden’s eyes shot open. “I’m not ready.”

“We’re having breakfast, not a public scene. You eat your eggs and drink your juice.”

“And call you sir and let you put the food on my plate,” Tilden mumbled. 

“Do you want that?”

Tilden licked his lips and rubbed a hand against the bite mark on his neck. “I have this.”

“Wild sex--it doesn’t have to mean anything.”

“But it does.”

“To us. “

“There are four others.”

“We don’t need to announce it over the public address system at the airport.”

Tilden looked straight at Milton and stared. “I believe you tell your boys to be proud. I want to be proud.”

“Let’s do it.” Milton stood and pulled Tilden to his feet. He placed his hand on the back of Tilden’s neck and steered them both toward the dining room. “I’ve got it from here on out. Just follow my lead.”

“I’ve been doing that for years. I trust you.” Tilden’s half smile was beautiful and trademark Tilden. Milton mussed Tilden’s hair once more and kissed his forehead.

“Game face, my friend.” Milton smiled. “It’s my right to protect you now, so if any battering takes place it’s going to be directed at me, and I’ll deal with it. You get to enjoy breakfast.”

“Submissive, not incapable.”

“Dominant and overprotective. Live with it. That doesn’t change even for you.”

Tilden’s half smile was enigmatic, and his eyes sparkled. “Tak.”

Challenge, Milton thought and smiled. Tilden had been sitting under the wrong flag, but he hadn’t been oblivious to the game. They’d make it work, and Tilden would fight with every tool allowed to a proper submissive, and he would be a proper submissive; that was Tilden’s way.