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.”