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.