Luke's Journey 1

Luke’s Journey 1

“Luke, what time is it?” Milton asked, trying to keep the exasperation out of his voice. Luke was late again, and he was running around the house like a ghost afraid of the exorcist with the holy water.

“I needed to leave ten minutes ago. I can’t find my books.”

“Tilden organized them for you this morning. They are neatly stacked by the door. I’ll give you a ride into work. I don’t have a class to teach this morning.”

“I’ll be OK,” Luke said, gulping and blanching to an unusual pallor. 

Luke was the shy one, the boy who never asked for anything. He wanted something now. He wasn’t disorganized or irresponsible, no matter his current behavior.

“Hurry. I don’t want you to be late.” Milton could hear the footsteps behind him. He knew Luke was trailing him as they made their way to the car. “In.” Milton opened the passenger door.

“I’ll make it by train,” Luke mumbled as he climbed into the car.

“Possibly, but I’d rather you didn’t take the chance. Why shouldn't I drive one of my pretty boys to work?"

Luke flushed at that, his face turning crimson. He stared resolutely out the window, as if he could pretend Milton wasn't in the car. 

"Luke," Milton said after they'd wound through the college town and the car rumbled down the main road, "I'm neither blind nor stupid. You've been consistently late on the mornings that Tilden leaves earlier than me, the mornings you're alone with me. What do you want from me?"

"I couldn't find my books. Tilden moved them." 

Luke's whine grated against Milton's ears as if someone had scraped chalk over the blackboard. Milton glanced over at the figure huddled against the door, looking and sounding far younger than his near thirty years. 

"Little boy, if you're damaging your career to gain the attention of the dominant in the house, I will not allow it. It's not an acceptable way to get my attention. I will play with you, but I won't play with your future. You're not a child; career destruction is not acceptable."

"I was a little late." Luke worried his lower lip, his eyes still focused out the window. "It's not a major crime."

"Your advisor warned you last week." 

Luke spun around, his blue eyes wide and maybe tinged with fear or maybe it was desire. This wasn't a boy Milton read well. Tilden had talked to Luke last week, the discussion of two lovers, two colleagues, two men with a shared passion, but Luke had still been intentionally late this morning.

“Tilden actually talks to me,” Milton said with a wry smile. “You might try it some time.”

“You’re...You’re...” Luke bit his knuckle, and his clear blue eyes were clouded with doubt and concealed emotions.

"I'm what? The dominant, the head of the household, the man who took Tilden? What is it that you want, Luke? What do you always want to say to me that is at the tip of your tongue, but never spoken?"

"Nothing," Luke mumbled, flicking imaginary dirt from his trousers.

"Luke, don't make me guess because I might guess wrong and that will hurt, true hurt--emotional and physical. I keep my dominance contained around you, but you're pushing me there, boy. Make sure that is what you want." Milton paused and watched the steady flow of traffic. "We'll talk again. I need to use the library; I'll take you home."

Milton saw Luke's head fall back against the headrest and heard the soft sigh. He wasn't going to talk now; that was obvious. The rest of the drive was silent, only the tires against the asphalt and the clunk of the blinker occasionally.

****

Luke walked slowly from the cubicle of his office in the Slavic Department. Teaching assistants in many departments had only a desk in their mentor's office, but doctoral candidates in Russian were a rare species. As his dissertation ground to a close, he was a valuable teaching resource, and they'd found him a space amongst the clutter of one hundred years of Russian teaching. His office was tiny, windowless, close to airless, and hardly navigable between the stacks of outdated books and whatnot. Students, who came to ask questions, were forced to wedge themselves against the door. Today, there had been several such students, most desperately behind. The word had spread that Luke was a native English speaker and therefore comprehensible and was patient. The students piled inside his office. Luke's only comrade in the graduate program was from Shanghai and his spoken English was interesting, and Luke found his spoken Russian hardly more understandable.

Outside the stone building, spring was in the air. Students were lounging on the grass. A few were reading, but they were mostly chatting or simply turning their faces toward the first sun of the season. Luke remembered those days; it all seemed so easy then. He and Mike used to escape to similar grass and sun. Mike would grab Luke’s hand, and they would lose hours in teasing and idle chatter. Milton or Tilden would usually spot them either in a stroll across the quad or from their office windows. Tilden would smile gently and suggest they might open their books. Milton was never so gentle, and his reprimand suggested horrible consequences that Luke always avoided. Life had been easy then. Luke looked up at the blue sky; he wasn’t old enough to be nostalgic for his undergraduate years.

Milton was waiting where he said he’d be against the tall columns of the library, his shoulders pressed into the smooth cement, a sphere of quiet around him. The clusters of students grabbing a drink or a smoke avoided the pillar controlled by Milton. Luke forced himself to walk directly to this man who projected fierceness and control even when idly waiting. Milton’s smile was genuine and warm but it did nothing to ease the chills that shot through Luke’s body.

“Let’s walk.”

Luke took the outstretched hand and followed the steady steps. What else was there to do? He wore this man’s ring. He owed this man loyalty and obedience, and he wanted to give it. Only he didn’t want the rest. He saw Mike limp around the house and the pained hiss as he tried to sit in a chair. He watched Sheldon kneel against his master’s legs, his body pressed near in silent worship. He saw the awe in Austin’s eyes. Tilden--Tilden loved this man. He stood leaning against this man, his body spoke of trust and love. He bared himself in front of this man with no shame and with absolute pleasure. Luke saw the way Milton touched Tilden: loving, caring, protective, somehow the show of dominance stripped away.

“What do you want, Luke?”

“I want to be done with my dissertation. I want to have my doctorate. I want to have a real job.”

“Those will all come. You’re a brilliant scholar. What else do you want?”

Luke wished Milton would walk faster, so he could concentrate on keeping up with those long legs instead of having to think. He wished some student would hit them with a beach ball or Frisbee they were tossing around. He wished for anything, but to answer these questions.

“Luke, I want an answer.”

He wanted everything; he always did. That was the problem with Milton; there was no halfway. Luke liked Milton. He probably loved the man, but he wasn’t comfortable, not like Tilden. Without Tilden, Luke would never have gone near this man. Crushing power rolled off of him in waves. He’d always been kind, careful to the extreme, but Luke could imagine the unleashed side. Mike smiled and called it heavenly; it made Luke’s stomach twist in agony. All these years together and Milton had never really touched him. Even that first year when Luke and Mike were both crashing around like insane and broken bobble head dolls come to life, Milton had avoided more than a verbal scolding and a hint of a threat. When they became six instead of three, Milton had taken Luke to bed. He was good in bed, gently dominant. He knew where to touch, where to stroke. He made Luke feel good for those few minutes before he remembered everything else about Milton, until Luke couldn’t contain the shiver of both need and fear.

Tilden was beautiful and gentle and understood so perfectly, but he wasn’t a dominant. Luke loved those near violet eyes, the wisps of hair that would never stay down on his forehead no matter how many times they were combed. Luke also knew that Tilden wouldn’t dominate, that he’d hated it when he did it. Milton took pleasure in hurting; Milton was a sadist. Tilden always looked pained as if his heart were breaking. He organized and he fussed. He still did, and Milton kissed his cheek and teased him about being the mother hen. Milton beat the boys. He took pleasure in his dominance; the glint in his eye was unmistakable. Luke wanted and didn’t want. He still played a little with Tilden; Milton insisted, would ask and would hint at dire consequences for failure, but it was play in bold and capitals. It was acting, and neither of them was going to win an Academy Award. Luke liked the fantasies of schoolboys and housemasters with canes. It was easy and fun and just slightly naughty, but it was an illusion, play acting no more real than reading trashy romance novels or going to the movies.

“Luke, you don’t want me to have to try to read your mind because I might be wrong. What do you want?”

What did he want? He wanted Milton to let go of his hand and quit walking round the quad asking question he didn’t want to answer. He might live in a kinky family, but he didn’t want to talk about it. He wasn’t even sure what it was.

Luke’s back hit the stone; the arm pressed against his throat. He looked up into dark eyes that were lit with a mesmerizing and terrifying fire.

“Boy, what do you want?”

“Nothing,” Luke gurgled, trying to itemize his reactions, trying to find logic in what he couldn’t understand. He knew his breath was coming faster, He knew he was afraid, but there was something else. He was a submissive, but he didn’t want the rest.

Milton’s fingers carded through Luke’s hair, and the kiss on the forehead was possessive and controlling and totally unexplainably reassuring. “You’re a terrible liar.” Milton pulled Luke from the wall and wrapped a heavy arm around his shoulders. “I know a submissive when I see one. Let’s make the question clearer. What do you need from me as a submissive? I’m your dominant. I have responsibilities toward you which I am obviously not fulfilling or you wouldn’t be intentionally late in my presence. You wouldn’t be staying up half the night after we’ve tried coaxing you into bed. You wouldn’t be missing meals and eating ham sandwiches at two in the morning.”

“I’ve been busy.”

Milton cleared his throat, a noise heavy with meaning. “You’re organized and disciplined. You’re eating dry ham and cheese at the hour the drunks are stumbling home because you want something.”

Luke wasn’t disciplined; that was in Milton’s dreams. He’d eat potato chips every day and stumble around in his pajamas until noon if he thought he could get away with it. He could never find two socks of the same color unless Sheldon had taken pity on him and washed and folded his clothes. He couldn’t even figure out what color tie to match his shirt in the morning. Why couldn’t Milton see that? He was supposed to be the expert.

“Don’t make me guess. If I get it wrong, I’ll hurt you.” 

Milton’s foot crunched a small twig that had fallen on the path. Its loud snap startled Luke. He couldn’t think; he couldn’t do this. Breathe. Concentrate on the mundane. A robin was pecking at the grass looking for a meal. Some of the earliest daffodils were just bursting open in pretty yellows and ruffles like old-fashioned party dresses.

“You’re a submissive. I’ve let you slide too close to vanilla. You asked once if you were vanilla; you aren’t. You’re a submissive who isn’t being properly dominated. I’m failing you. I can list what you don’t like: pain, pain thrice over, humiliation, exhibitionism, kinky gadgets. What do you like? Why do you need me to dominate you, and how do I do it? You’re not a helpless little boy. You live with the head of the Green Mountain Boys. You’ve been exposed to almost everything. It’s time for you to negotiate and want and demand as the very capable adult who I know you are. Tell me how I make this work for you. You’re mine, and I don’t do well when one of mine is unhappy.”

“I’m not unhappy.” The protest came easily to Luke’s lips. 

“Liar.”

The word was said without heat or anger, almost casually, but Luke shrank from the sound. Liar, liar, pants on fire. It was one thing to toss that word around as children fighting over who had broken the toy. From Milton’s lips it was different. Did it mean punishment? 

“I could damage you if you’re not honest. A power exchange relationship is inherently dangerous. I will punish you if you lie. I won’t have this relationship if it continues. It’s too dangerous.”

Luke felt himself flush. He bit his lip, wishing he was brave enough to bite until he tasted blood. At least the blood would be a distraction.

“You want punished?” Milton grabbed Luke’s chin and forced his eyes up. “You little brat. You’ve been trying to force my hand. You could’ve asked.” Milton pulled Luke down on the empty stone bench. “So what is a midnight ham sandwich worth? Lines? Corner time? A tiny spanking?”

“It’s not...It’s not like that. I don’t want spanked. I want to be protected. I want it to be real.” The words came tumbling out, uncontrolled, a blur of images from Luke’s imagination. “I can’t do this. I want you to make the decisions. I can’t decide what color shirt to wear or what to have for breakfast. It’s too much. I don’t want your erotic craziness. I don’t like it. It scares me.”

“Luke, my shy one, my precious and gentle boy.” Milton pulled Luke close, holding him in a steady grip. “Better?” Milton asked after a long wait.

“Embarrassed,” Luke mumbled, feeling color return to his cheeks and neck.

“No need to be embarrassed in front of me. Remember there is a picture of me on my knees crying all over Gordon’s lap in my study, and I’m supposed to be the big, tough dominant.”

“You’re comfortable with yourself.”

“And you’re not,” Milton added.

Luke nodded and traced the hard stone of the bench. Stone was real and tangible; this conversation was crazy.

“You’re submissive. You haven’t had a good model because most of the submissives you know have at least a trace of masochism in their desires. You’re not a masochist, or at least less of one than your cohorts, but you want submission, very intense submission from what you’ve told me. Submission in some ways that may be impossible with me as your dominant. You spoke of reality; we must examine that before we go any further.”

“Can we forget it?” Luke knew the request was useless, but he asked anyway. He hadn’t meant to say all that earlier. 

“No.”

The single word was so definite and reassuring. Luke sighed and turned his face to the sun. He drew in a long breath, filling his nostrils with the aroma of spring.

“You asked for real control. Do you understand what that means? Do you understand how you’re asking to be positioned in the relationship?”

“I like...I like when you take control. It used to be easy. Tilden used to tell me what to do.”

“He still does, but he’s not a dominant, not even a pretend one.”

“He can’t make me.”

“Do you need to be made to eat breakfast, or do you want to be made to eat breakfast?”

“Want,” Luke said after a long pause.

“Good. I can do want; I can’t do need.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I know you don’t.” Milton ran his fingers through his hair. “I’m head of the Green Mountain Boys, and I haven’t made this clear to my own boy. I’m a fool,” he said as much to himself as to Luke.