Mike's Saga 21

Mike’s Saga 21

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Mike wasn't sure that noise was him or not. He tugged against the leather and chains. His back rubbed against the rough brick, inflaming the series of belt strokes that he knew striped across its surface in flaming welts. He jerked against the chains; the leather bit into his wrists. He screamed, his throat too hoarse to carry the sound beyond the walls of his prison. He assumed there were four walls to this prison. He hadn't seen it; he hadn't seen anything since a bag had been shoved over his head, and he'd been forced down the stairs. The car ride had been long, bumpy, and uncomfortable. The rough carpet had burned his knees, and the smell of gasoline had permeated his nostrils.

Mike didn't know how long it had been since they'd dragged him out of the trunk. He'd been hoisted over a giant's shoulder and brought here, wherever here was. He'd sagged as his feet had hit the ground, and he'd been limp and stunned as he was tied to the wall with no delicacy or kindness. Big, strong hands had gripped his wrists, the fingers bruising as they mercilessly tightened the shackles.

"Get me the fuck out of here!" Mike jerked against the restraints. He screamed something unintelligible. He scrabbled to kick, his feet sliding across the wet cement. Earlier they'd soaked him with the hose, making him more miserable than he already was.

"Shut up, boy." The slap snapped his head back. Mike tasted blood and filthy cloth. "You stand here real quiet, and you might get out of this with only a little pain." The laugh was sinister and made Mike think of all the worst gangster films he'd ever seen.

"Go fuck yourself," Mike shouted with more bravado than he felt.

"If anyone's getting fucked it'll be you, boy." A hand slid down Mike's chest and grabbed his nipple through the thin cloth, twisting it savagely.

"Fuck!"

"Now you just stand there like a good little boy." It wasn't a slap this time, but more of a pat, something even more sickening than the slap. "The boss is going to have fun with you. Fresh meat for his sick desires." Another sharp pat and another sinister laughter before the hand disappeared, and Mike heard the click of boots across the floor.

"Let me go, you fucker!"

"And take your place." The man laughed. "Free advice, boy. I'd rest nice and quiet. I've seen what the boss has planned; you'll need your energy."

A door slammed, the noise reverberating in the dungeon. Quiet, too quiet. He was alone. Mike sagged against his bonds. He knew he was crying; he could feel the wetness on his cheeks.

***

"Is this too much?"

"He hasn't safeworded. You know what he told Landon."

"I feel like a savage, a rapist." Milton looked through the one-way glass. "He's scared He's not sure if it's real."

"That's the way it needs to be." Ryan leaned against the wall, his eyes as much on Mike as Milton. "He wants edge play; it's your job to deliver."

"Play, not real trauma. Does he know?" We snatched him from work." Milton raked his fingers through his hair. "Does he understand this is a scene?"

Ryan blew out a sharp breath. "Real, yet not real. We're close here, but I think at some level he knows. He's pushing that knowledge down because he needs it to be real. He'll see you soon enough and then there will be no question."

"After we've scared him shitless."

Ryan shrugged. "You've played with Landon. It's the same."

"I don't like to play with Landon," Milton said softly.

"You're not a sub; you're on the top side now. You're not all sweetness and roses. I've seen you. You beat that side of yourself back with brutal efficiency. You don't have to now; you've got a boy who wants to be scared, who wants to be hurt, who wants to scream and cry for real. You can love him afterward, but you have to knock him around first."

"This is more than knocking him around."

Ryan smiled wolfishly. "You're more creative than I thought you'd be. It must be Landon and Gordon's influence." Ryan squeezed Milton's shoulder. "It's fine. Mike's screamed a lot of things, but I haven't heard a safeword."

"Does he know he can safeword out of this?" Milton asked, knowing he’d asked before. He needed the reassurance. His boy was going to suffer.

"My opinion is yes, but without asking him there is always a small doubt. You have to decide if you can live with that doubt. I can't answer that question."

****

Milton strode into the room, the cement floor clicking under his heavy boots. Mike was against the far wall, chained and spread. He lifted his head at the sound of the boots.

“Back to gloat,” Mike snarled.

“Back to enjoy my prize. It’s not often they find me someone so beautiful and lively.” Milton traced his finger down the bare arm, enjoying the shiver and goosebumps in his wake. With his other hand he wormed under the tight shirt and stroked the flat belly. Mike flinched, but the chains prevented any real escape. Milton laughed and smacked the tight abdomen. “No escape. This is pleasure. You’ll struggle plenty when I make you bleed, when you are split and impaled on my thick cock, when my fingers close around your neck and you fear for every breath. Shall we begin, my prize?”

Milton didn’t wait for an answer. He reached around to the table, laid out with all his tools. The buck knife was cold in his hand as he cut down through the center of the T-shirt. He pressed hard enough for the blade to leave a trace of red on the pale skin. Milton’s tongue drew the beads of warm wetness into his mouth to the sound of Mike’s choked breaths.

“I’d be very still now, or my knife might slip, and you could loose some important accessories. That would be a shame in such a pretty boy.” Milton cut down the crotch of Mike’s jeans, the cold blade just centimeters away from the most delicate parts of his boy’s anatomy. Dropping the knife, Milton tore the shredded cloth from his boy’s legs. 

Mike strained on his tiptoes, his calf muscles taut with pressure of a boy tied too short, a boy trying to ease pain in his shoulders. The dark fur on Mike’s legs stood out in the sudden cold even as sweat formed on his forehead and under his arms. Mike’s cock was long and not overly thick. It hung half erect, the neatly trimmed pubic bush above.

Milton slapped the hardening flesh with a cruel laugh. “I wouldn’t want my prize to have fun. His fingers were quick as he fastened the gates of hell around the offending organ. “There now, all properly trussed up.” Milton stood and pressed his body into Mike, letting his rough shirt rub against the tender skin. He stood close, threatening vulnerable toes with heavy boots. He closed his mouth around a pert nipple, toying with the gold ring before biting down hard.

Mike screamed, his body shook in the chains. His chest heaved and every muscle trembled, accentuating the beauty of the tied and helpless boy.

“Lovely scream. I will hear many more before the night is out.” 

Milton turned his attention to the opposite nipple, first the caress and then the hard bite. He smiled, his face twisted into a mask of cruelty and blood lust as Mike writhed and jerked, his words incoherent.

Reaching behind him, Milton picked up the martinet, such a deceptive tool with its innocent looking leather fronds. Against the tender skin of the inner thighs, it would be anything but innocent. He dragged the thin strips of leather across Mike’s abdomen and over the creamy skin of his thighs. It was almost seductive in its caress; only Mike knew the pain that would explode at the first stroke. He shuddered and jerked, the chains rattling at his wrists.

The results of the first real stoke was delightful. Mike screamed, the full throated yell of a boy at the mercy of a sadist. His body lunged sideways, jarring his shoulders in a second wave of pain. Milton brought the lovely strands down against the unmarked thigh, driving his plaything the other way. Milton hit quickly, the strokes moving from leg to leg randomly. The skin turned from white to streaks of pink to bright crimson. The screams had quieted to hoarse and desperate cries.

“So lovely. I must see.” Milton jerked the bag off Mike's head and stroked his fingers down the wet cheeks, capturing a sheen of moisture. He brought two fingers to Mike’s mouth. “Suck, boy. You’ll need these wet where they’re going.

Mike’s mouth was hungry and desperate. He licked and slurped, coating the fingers with saliva. 

“A boy hungry for more. Such a lovely sight. Enough.” Milton cracked his other hand across Mike’s face, stunning him for a moment. Swiftly he turned Mike, exposing the lovely unmarked ass. “White is not your color.” Slapping the welcoming butt cheeks hard, Milton jammed his two wet fingers into Mike’s exposed and quivering hole.

“Ahh!”

“Two little fingers and you sing. What if I stick my whole fist up there? A boy controlled by a fist is so lovely.”

“Please. Please.”

“Please what? Please stick my fist up you?” Milton inserted another finger, this one covered with lube. 

“God! Fuck!”

“Oh, I certainly will, but I like color in the ass so hopelessly spread under me as I savage it.” With a final prod at Mike’s prostate, Milton snatched his fingers from the hole and reached for the butt plug covered under the cloth. “I have a little something, or maybe I should say a big something, while you wait.” Mike was an experienced bottom, but this was still no small toy. The stretch and the pain was going to be real. “I’m going to stuff you like a Thanksgiving turkey. Milton pushed the head of the toy against the straining ass lips. “Open up. It’s coming in anyway.” Despite the words and threats, Milton inserted the toy gently. It wouldn’t feel gentle to Mike, but that was the game, the beauty of the illusion carefully crafted.

“Too much,” Mike panted and arched against the pressure. 

“Your greedy hole is going to take it all.” Milton slapped the still mostly unmarked skin in front of him, alternating spanks with gentle pressure on the toy. It slid forward and was locked in place by muscles desperate to ease the strain.

“Shit!” Mike’s voice was broken, the wail painful as it echoed around the room.

Milton kissed the trembling shoulder, licking the sweat with his tongue. Gently he kissed down the back. It was his first act of kindness, but he needed to settle Mike. The plug would stop hurting in a moment, and he had more planned. He needed the boy completely quiet, completely willing to give everything into his torturer's hands. 

“Now for some color.” Milton started with his hand, enjoying the quivering flesh against his palm, enjoying the rising warmth. Mike’s moans were muted now; his head had fallen forward, and tears were running unchecked down his beautiful face. He would scream again when Milton switched back to the martinet. Fire over fire always made such beautiful music.

The leather hit the red flesh. The scream was loud, the keening cry of a tortured animal. Milton hit without mercy, bringing the skin to the edge of bleeding. He traced his fingers over the now flaming skin, knowing even the touch of silk would now be torture.

He yanked Mike’s hair, drawing his head so far back that Milton could see the tear filled eyes. “What do you want boy?”

“Anything you want, Master,” Mike whispered, pain written across his beautiful face.

“Do you want mercy?”

“Only if you choose to give it to me.”

“Good boy.” Milton released Mike’s hair and kissed the back of his neck. “I choose not to give you mercy. I enjoy your suffering, boy.”

“Yes, Master.”

Milton worked quickly. He’d only have a few minutes of this compliance, and he would need it. He needed to concentrate, battering back his own arousal at a boy so beautiful and so much his. The sterile needles and gloves were prepared. The five earrings to add to each ear were neatly arranged in a velvet box. Mike was deathly afraid of piercings. If Milton judged this wrong, the disaster might be an irretrievable error. Ryan was here, not just as an accessory to the scene, but a very necessary safety measure if all went wrong.

Turning Mike around again, Milton forced him to his knees, adjusting the chains to the already prearranged positions. He leaned against Mike, letting Mike sniff at his arousal. Milton drew a short breath, desperately wanting to sink into that hot mouth that was open and compliant. 

“Your pain before my pleasure.”

Quickly Milton showed the piercing tools, watching the brown eyes widen more and the pulse throb in the vulnerable neck. Milton stroked the shell of the ear. He kissed the open mouth, sweeping his tongue inside and claiming it all for himself.

“Your pain and your fear belong to me.”

“Yes, Master.” Mike’s voice trembled, but the expression in his eyes spoke of everything. Milton’s own knees shook at the sheer beauty. This was a boy truly afraid who was giving him everything, who was submitting when the immediate future held nothing but terror.

“One for each of us, my beauty. You are cherished forever.” Milton closed his eyes and kissed Mike gently, the touch of his lips pure love, not dominance or power, but love. 

Milton moved quickly. Devon had taught him well and schooled him until the correct technique took no thought. Swab the ear. Put on sterile gloves. Stick a needle through the flesh as the blood wells up and drips onto the bare shoulder and place the ring. Ten times he placed the needle. Ten times Mike screamed.

Milton’s fingers were almost numb as he scrabbled with the chains and clips. All he knew is he wanted the boy in his arms, shielded and safe. This was his boy, the boy who had just given him everything. He kissed the hot, tear soaked face. He couldn’t touch everywhere, and he needed to. His body screamed to possess, to protect, to love.

“The plug and the gates of hell. Remove them while he’s still limp.” That was Ryan’s voice cutting through the fog. He held a blanket and a bottle of sweet juice. “Move, Milton. He needs your touch, not mine. Move.”

Milton felt like his fingers were somehow detached from his mind. Everything was surreal. He worked out the plug and tossed it aside. His eyes could see nothing but the opening that beckoned for him to couple and make it complete. 

“Gates of hell.”

“Milton’s fingers found the metal. He freed his beautiful boy. Mike groaned and snuggled closer, becoming instantly erect.

“Take me, please. I need you.”

“Me too.”

Ryan was a tower of muscle. He was dragging both of them to an already prepared sleeping area. “In the shelves, everything you need. I will check on both you later.”

*****

The groan was audible through the room as Mike rolled over and opened his eyes. Milton was already dressed more casually than Mike almost ever saw him. He was wearing a faded pair of jeans, threadbare at one knee, and an oversized chamois shirt in a muted green color. His feet were bare as he padded across the floor.

“How are you doing?” Milton bent down and kissed Mike’s forehead, a chaste almost fatherly peck.

“Everything hurts. Parts of my body that I didn’t know existed hurt.”

“I expected that. But otherwise?”

Mike’s hand touched his ear. His finger lightly traced the six small studs. “I don’t know.”

Those words were maybe one of the most truthful he’d ever spoken to Milton. He’d usually just mutter something about being good and get on with his day, but he couldn’t get the easy words of reassurance to leave his mouth. His shield felt tattered.

Milton ran his fingers gently down Mike’s cheek, and kissed the bruised lips, sweetly and gently. “Yesterday was intense. Give yourself time.”

“Yesterday was wow.” Mike scrubbed his face with his hand. “I don’t know what to say. Wow!”

“And now?” Milton’s voice was gentle. Mike stared up at the dark brown eyes. This was the same man who had owned his soul yesterday. This was the man who had exploded to super dimensions, terrorizing and mesmerizing at the same time.

“I don’t know.”

“That’s fair enough. How do you feel about these?” Milton’s finger was feather light on Mike’s ear.

“I can’t believe you did that. I never…”

“I wear khakis and teach history. I’m not supposed to be a dominant who makes you bleed and scream and be a fraction of a second from your safeword." Milton sat down on the bed, his hand heavy on Mike’s knee. “I bury that part of myself, but that part is as real as the lecture notes under my arm. I am a dominant. Nothing about that side of me is fake.”

“I know.” Mike swallowed and rolled onto his stomach, so he wouldn’t have to look at Milton. “I never thought... Shit! Do you have to want to talk about everything? Last night was great. I could scream and not have to talk."

Milton kissed the back of Mike's hair and laughed softly. "This isn't natural for me either. I'm introspective, I analyze, but I don't share." Milton flicked a new earring, making Mike wince. "Do you understand why I chose these?"

"I told Landon I wanted pierced. That scene was what I told Landon. You did that for me." Mike had already said the words. It was too late to swallow them down. 

"I enjoyed it, but yes I chose elements for you." Milton laid his arm across Mike's back, the usual anchoring weight mixed with fresh pain. "It was about your first time; I wanted to give you that back. No one has the right to take the joy you get from your body and from your submission away from you. I wanted to give it back the only way I knew how. I want you to entrust me as your dominant with your body and your submission."

"You have it," Mike whispered, his words almost choked in the pillow.

"Thank you," Milton said, letting the silence surround both of them for a long moment.

"Six?"

"Yes, you fill it in."

"There are six of us. One for each of us."

"Yes."

"I have six holes in my ear."

"Is that a problem?"

Mike paused. They'd always used to make him change his clothes. They dressed for dinner. "You're conservative."

"I have five lovers. I'm not sure whose definition of conservatism that fits. Sheldon displays a collar. My hobby is kidnapping and beating my lovers. I don't think the good politicians of Texas would label me conservative; most likely they'd claim I was Satan's spawn, an Eastern latte drinking freak, or some other choice epithet that I haven't the energy to dream up."

"People will know."

"That isn't a problem for me. Mike, I'm going to give you a choice here. I won't make you keep the earrings. You can take them out and let the holes grow back."

"You'd like me to keep them?'

"I'd like you to be proud of who you are."

"Submissive and showing it."

"Submissive and claimed." Milton traced his finger around Mike's neck. "I don't like this naked."

"Not as a slave."

"I'm not crazy. Blade has a collar; submissives can also wear a collar."

"Austin deserves it first."

"When Austin's twenty-one. I have one picked out for him."

"You mush."Mike twisted around to see Milton's face. "Big, mean dominant is giving his little boy a collar for his birthday. You'll never live it down."

"Probably not." A faint blush rose on Milton's face, and he smiled a fleeting, half-sheepish grin. "Twenty-one is important."

"Excuses. You're a soft touch. You might as well put it up in lights."

Milton flushed again. "With Austin."

"It's cute. Tough guy blushing over his baby."

"Mike," Milton growled, not able to muster his usual authority. "I was asking about you."

Mike froze. It was easy to talk about Austin with his bounce and killer smile. The room suddenly felt cool on his bare body, and he shivered. "Maybe," Mike finally managed. 

"All right." Milton kissed the smooth skin of Mike's neck. "I'll ask again."

"Please," Mike murmured as he shut his eyes and opened his mouth for a real kiss. 

The kiss was long and sweet, a symbol of possession without force or pain. Mike would give that to Milton. He knew he would. He'd walk down Fifth Avenue naked with his ass welted and on a leash if Milton asked him right. Shit he was owned, and he couldn't bother to fight it. He was home in some perverted weird way that would make him blush and shiver.

Mike wrapped his hand around Milton's wrist and kissed deeper, the motions easier than the words.  His family, his dominant. It was his to show off. He had six earrings in each ear.  The hell with the people at work. His dominant put them there; he was wearing them with pride.

"Fuck me."

'Yesterday I fucked you. Today I'll love you." Milton's hand fluttered across Mike's skin as if he were a maiden lover. "You deserve to be loved. Don't you ever doubt it."

"Yes, sir." Mike fell back, his legs invitingly wide.

"I'm only sir if you want today."

"I want."

Milton feathered his lips down Mike's abdomen.  "Good boy. Slowly, gently and forever cherished.”

The End

Mike's Saga 18

Mike's Saga 18

“Mike?” Austin stared at the purple wheals and the rainbow of bruises.

“Kid.” Mike leaned against the sink, trying not to hiss as his bruises touched the porcelain surface. He wanted to look relaxed, to feel relaxed, but his throat felt dry, and he fought the urge to stare at his bare feet. He’d hurt Austin. It had been unforgivable. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled, knowing the words were entirely inadequate. No words would be adequate.

“It’s OK,” Austin said too quickly and gnawed on his lower lip.”Did Milton…” Austin waved his arms, seeming to encompass all the bruises and marks on Mike.

Mike smiled, trying to look gentle. “I fought them. It’s really not too bad.”

“It looks terrible.”

Mike swung around and studied himself in the mirror. “It is dramatic, but I’m not broken or anything. Don’t let Landon and clothesline ever get near you.” Mike ran his fingers down the red lines on his thighs. “No sympathy from him. Behave like an asshole submissive and get treated like one.”

“You’re not an asshole.”

“I can be.” Mike shrugged and studied his reflection in the mirror. He was an asshole. There was no doubt about it. He’d hurt Austin; he’d run away. He’d hurt everyone, tearing a big gaping hole in the fabric of the family. Just like his parents he’d run from everything, but Milton hadn’t let him. He’d sent Josh after him with his determined bluntness and unhesitating conviction that he was in the right. Mike had been horrid, disgraceful, despicable. He could go on for days, listing his flaws, but it hadn’t mattered. They’d come after him. They’d welcome him home. Milton had engulfed Mike in a hug that had been far more than a casual motion. It had sunk into his bones and crunched through his barrier of muscle. Tilden had stroked his long fingers down Mike’s cheek with his infinite gentleness. They’d open their hearts again, so he could batter them with his stupidity and selfishness. Austin, the youngest and the most pure innocence, was standing in the tiny space of the bathroom, his eyes speaking volumes. Austin should punch him or at least swear at him, but his face showed nothing but concern and undeserved adoration. Even the three lone freckles that splashed across his forehead seemed to be in cahoots in welcoming and forgiving Mike.

Austin reached out and caught Mike’s hand, his fingers tentative at first and then stronger. The words so soft that they almost vanished unheard into the tile and porcelain. “Don’t. You belong here. I love you.”

“How could you?” Mike wheeled around on Austin, jerking his hand from the boy’s grip. “I hurt you. I deliberately hurt you. It was my responsibility.” Mike dashed a tear from his face with a vicious wipe of his hand. “I’m despicable.”

“You are not.” Austin wrapped his arms around Mike’s waist and unashamedly hugged him. “I don’t want a pound of flesh. Please stop hurting yourself.”

“It’s not that easy.” Mike swallowed hard, trying to stop the tears that were way too close. He kissed Austin’s shaggy and slightly too long hair. It was always on the kid’s shoulders and scattered in all directions, something that had to drive neat and orderly Milton half insane, yet he never insisted on a trim. Mike perched unsteadily on the edge of the tub, almost enjoying the anchoring pain of the bruises pressed against porcelain. “Austin,” Mike said in the gentlest voice he could find, “the bruising and battering wasn’t punishment. I like it. I’m dark. I want these.” Mike traced a welt on the front of his thigh.

“Why?” Austin’s voice was high and infused with the naiveté of youth.

Mike shrugged, but forced himself to look more inward. Austin’s eyes were too big and too desperate; Mike couldn’t blow him off with an easy shrug. It wouldn’t be right. “My fantasies...My fantasies are about rape and pain and force.” Mike stroked his hand through Austin’s dark hair. “I don’t know. I’m not right. I shouldn’t want to be hurt like this.”

“They do it.”

“Milton doesn’t hit any of you like this.” Mike bit his cheek, tasting the fresh blood on his tongue. He was the broken one, the crazy one. He shouldn’t be here in this nice peaceful family.

“Sheldon calls him Master. What’s the difference?”

“He doesn’t have to beat Sheldon into submission. I can’t give it up.” He was useless as a submissive. Why did he torture everybody? Why hadn’t he had the courage to just stay gone?

“Milton,” Austin shouted.

“No. I’m OK.”

“Bullshit!” Austin stood up and wrapped a nearby towel around his waist. “Milton.”

At these moments Milton somehow always looked bigger and broader than he really was. He blocked the doorway with a languid ease, and his eyes swept over both men in the bathroom.

"Austin." Milton's voice was soft and gentle as if he was coaxing a reluctant kitten out from under the bed. "May I help you?" Polite and careful, not an uncouth what do you want or slurred together. Milton's face was carefully neutral, no sign of impatience for being summarily called.

"It's Mike," Austin said, moving toward Milton's warmth and welcome, knowing he'd be wanted, that he'd be loved. "He doesn't think we want him." 

Mike watched in fascination as Milton's eyebrows rose and fell in some type of strange dance, and his eyes locked on Mike with an intensity that was almost painful. Milton looped an arm around Austin's neck and kissed his forehead with a brand of absolute possession. Austin belonged; there was no question about that.

"Austin, go downstairs and get something to eat."

Great! Alone again with his lord and master. 

"Come." Milton held out his hand. He led Mike from the bathroom to Milton's dresser. The nursery cane still lay on top, marring the otherwise spotless surface. Milton's fingers brushed the cane.

Mike tried to pull away from Milton; his stomach was doing things that no stomach should ever attempt. He couldn't do this again, not today.

"Be still. Hands behind your back."

Mike's body moved before his mind processed the order. He stood, clenching his muscles, trying to hide the shakes.

Milton didn't touch the cane further. He opened a drawer and pulled out a well-used shirt that had faded from red to rose and a pair of pale blue boxers. "Dress." Milton tossed them on the bed.

They were too big and soft with wear, but still Mike flinched as they slid over his sensitive skin. He clasped his hands again behind his back and waited.

Milton clicked his fingers and walked through to the connected sitting area. He sat in the overstuffed and hideous chair that they all called Sheldon's chair. He pointed to the floor by his feet.

"Sit or kneel. I recommend kneeling and take a cushion from the sofa."

Even with a cushion, sitting was out. Breathing hurt his ass; Mike sure wasn't voluntarily putting weight on it. Mike sank to his knees and lowered his head.

"You can look at me. This isn't formal kneeling." Milton's hand played down the back of Mike's neck in easy reassurance. "Do you want to tell me what that was about?"

What would happen if Mike said no? The cane was within easy reach in the other room, and Milton was wearing a belt. Fuck! Mike didn't even think he could take the hand.

"I see the answer is no," Milton said after the silence seemed to stretch from corner to corner and zip around all four walls. "We'll get there. I'm in no hurry." 

Milton reached for a book on a nearby table. In this house, there were always books. Books lived everywhere: in shelves, on tables, stacked under beds, even creeping into the bathroom. Of course, there were no books for the poor slob on his knees. Mike was supposed to reflect or think or maybe meditate the way Sheldon did. Super, he could meditate on his asshole qualities and why Milton was hopelessly optimistic that Mike would be even a halfway normal boy. 

The silence was awful. It only magnified every ache and pain in Mike’s body. He hadn’t realized he could hurt so many damn places, and this was twenty-four hours later. He shifted, desperately looking for someplace comfortable, and suppressed a hiss of pain as his ass touched his heels. Flambéed ass—maybe they could sell it at the finest restaurants. 

Milton’s fingers played over Mike’s neck. They rubbed at the soreness and the steady ache that inhabited all of Mike’s muscles. “This can be as hard as you like. I’m very comfortable.”

“Of course you are,” Mike spat. “I’m the one who has to take all the shit.”

“Because you want to.” Milton pulled a short length of chain from his pocket and clipped Mike’s leather wristbands together. “Maybe you need some help.”

“I hate this!” Mike tried to jerk his arms apart and started to scramble to his feet. Milton caught his ear and twisted it brutally. “Ah!” Mike crumbled back to his knees, choking back a sob of pain and shock.

“Do you want to safeword?”

Mike shook his head sharply, wishing he could reach his ear to rub the throbbing, wishing he could wipe the traitorous tears that had slipped onto his cheeks. Milton’s hand raised Mike’s chin, and Mike was forced to look into the calm, brown eyes above him.

“You’re pretty with tears on your face.” Milton’s finger brushed a stray drop of wetness. “I’m a sadist; I enjoy inflicting pain. You’re a masochist; you want pain. Neither is wrong unless we exceed each other’s limits. One of my limits is we don’t play unless you give me your submission. You’re not a boy who wants a small flogging in a bar or a little fun with the whip. You want it big and scary and psychologically approaching real. I can do that as your playmate, but we play by my rules, and I don’t play on the edges without real submission, without a boy who is honest with me about everything, not the easy stuff about did you eat breakfast, but the hard stuff about what’s in here.” Milton tapped Mike on the head. “I can fight you for your submission, but you must also learn to give it and to give it willingly and gracefully.”

“I can’t,” Mike mumbled, casting his eyes downward. He couldn’t yield. He wasn’t soft or gentle or sweet. He didn’t want cuddled and spoiled like Austin, and he sure as hell didn’t want Sheldon’s brand of submission. ‘Yes, Master’ was never coming out of Mike’s mouth.

“Why?” Milton slapped Mike’s cheek, a gentle tap in the arsenal of slaps but the warning was clear. “Keep your eyes on me. I want to see you.”

“I don’t know,” He knew. He was independent; he was a loner; he’d never be a family man. Milton and Tilden were obsessed with family. They’d actually had family. What had Mike had–a roof and a kind stranger when he was lucky. He couldn’t be the boy Milton wanted.

“You’re convinced you can’t, so I believe you must have reasons. The question, Mike, is do I break you to find out or do I use kindness. I enjoy watching you suffer. You are a beautiful boy when you writhe under the lash and your body glistens with the special sweat of pain. You are already close to the edge with pain. I can see it in every taut muscle, in every flick of an eyelid, in every strain of sinew. You are a masochist. Your body is wired to enjoy pain, but I can take that away. I can make it pure suffering and despair. I was taught by Landon and Gordon; I know what to do, but yet as a sadist I prefer a boy who can ride the pain, who can enjoy my tortures, who can blossom under the whip. Yes, I think I‘ll use patience. We can wait.”

“Bastard!”

“Probably,” Milton said with an unthreatening smile. “No more colorful adjectives to go around the word?”

“No.”

“Fine. We wait.” 

Milton’s touch disappeared; his eyes fell back to his book. Mike silently groaned and started counting the panes in the windows and lines in the hardwood floor. He studied Milton’s shoelaces and the fine polish on the boots. Mike hadn’t remembered Milton in shiny black boots; he’d always been more a loafer man, but today his boots were black with a mirror finish. 

Mike squirmed and shifted. He listened to the turn of the page and the noises of the house. Austin was out there somewhere. The house was never empty; maybe someone would stumble into the sitting room and relieve Mike from the torture of boredom and perverted kindness. The whip would have been welcome across his inflamed back and ass. The pain took him from himself; it loosened his inhibitions; it made everything easier.

“Please.” Had that come from his mouth? Had he spoken that word?

Milton’s eyes were immediately on Mike, the book forgotten. “Do you need to stand up and stretch?”

“Pee,” Mike muttered, knowing his face was red.

“OK. This is thinking time, not torture.” 

Those words could have fooled him. Mike was beginning to wonder if having his fingernails pulled out one by one might be more pleasurable. Milton helped Mike to his feet, his hand secure on his elbow. He marched him into the bathroom and pulled his penis through the fly. Milton’s hand was warm and strange on Mike’s cock as he stood looking at the toilet. It wasn’t that Milton hadn’t touch him plenty, but not for the mundane use of the toilet.

“You could unchain me,” Mike said, trying to find a sarcastic tone. “I don’t need an audience.”

“Go on.” Milton’s hand was wrapped around Mike’s cock, pointing it at the toilet.

Mike stared at the water and the porcelain. Nothing happened.

“There are more unpleasant ways to do this,” Milton said blandly. “You don’t have a choice here.” Milton reached across and turned on the water at the sink.

“I can’t. Not with you here,” Mike said in a strained voice. “Oh, God.”

“Relax. I’ve seen it all before. It’s humiliating if you let it be. It’s very submissive, and you are a submissive.”

Mike knew his cheeks were red; he could feel the heat in his face. He couldn’t do this. Milton was fully dressed, and Mike was standing over the toilet, wishing he could make himself invisible, wishing his heart wasn’t beating wildly, wishing he wasn’t embarrassed as hell and pervertedly excited by this.

Failure. Mike’s bladder clenched in stubborn protest. Not a drop anywhere.

“We’ll do it the other way,” Milton whispered in Mike’s ear. His hand pulled down Mike’s boxers and rested warm on his tummy. “I’ll pass a catheter.”

“You know how?” The question shot out of Mike’s mouth.

“Milton Brown purveyor of all kinky skills,” Milton said with a smile. “Head of the Green Mountain Boys–remember. Gordon’s boy for several years. I know all kinds of scary and crazy things. Step into the tub for me. We’ll do it there in case we have some dripping.”

“I…”

“Boy, do it.” 

The swat to Mike’s exposed ass wasn’t light. He jumped forward. It couldn’t be that awful. Milton wouldn’t hurt him, not for real, He could always safeword.

“Easy.” Milton’s arm swept around Mike’s waist; his beard rubbed against Mike’s neck, familiar in its scratchiness. “This isn’t painful. It’s not the most pleasant, but not painful. It’s about trust and submission. Can you trust me here?”

Mike managed a small nod. He let Milton guide him into the tub. He stood with his knees locked, trying to stop the shaking. Milton kissed Mike’s neck and rubbed the small of Mike’s back. Milton’s fingers ghosted down Mike’s thighs. Mike squeezed his eyes shut, pressing the stupid tears back into place. He wasn’t a wimp. He could do this. It was only Milton; the man taught history.

“Kathmandu,” Milton said in a voice that was barely above a whisper. He unclipped the chains and kissed Mike hard on the forehead. 

“What?” Mike sputtered. “That’s my safeword.”

“My choice.”

“I could’ve done it.”

“Go to the bathroom,” Milton said in a voice that suggested argument would be fruitless. “I’ll be outside.”

Mike slumped against the cool tile and clung to the towel bar. He’d failed at this too. He couldn’t stop the tears; they crowded over the barrier of his eyelids and spilled down his cheeks. He turned the spigot on in the tub and splashed his face with water. He was tough; he wasn’t showing this side to Milton. He wasn’t a little boy who needed coddled and guided. He grabbed a towel with too much force and swiped at his face. The toilet, he needed to use the toilet; that’s what had started this debacle. It was easy without Milton’s body behind him, without Milton’s hand on him. It was all so ordinary and normal and without any thrill. He washed his hands and stared at himself in the mirror above the sink. Ordinary, boring, useless, coward. He was a coward. His brown eyes leered back at him; his lips twisted into the word. Coward.

Mike forced himself from the bathroom. Milton was stretched out on the bed, another book in his hand. He rolled over and smiled at Mike, a small uncomplicated smile full of sympathy that Mike didn’t want.

“I’m fine,” Mike snarled.

“You aren’t. Come lie down with me.” Milton patted the striped blanket.

“Leave me alone.” It was a colossally stupid thing to say in front of a man like Milton. It would guarantee that Milton would never leave him alone. Mike wasn’t a novice at this; he’d seen the results of those words with the other boys.

“Mike, come lie down.” Milton’s hand again patted the blanket. 

“I don’t need this.”

“It’s not about need; it’s about want.” Milton rolled to a sitting position, his chin propped on his hand. “You’re very submissive. Let yourself have it. It doesn’t make you weak or needy or whatever other vile word you want to attach to it. I will play all the games you want to play, but you will also submit to me. It’s that simple. Now come here.”

Mike shuffled forward, wanting but not wanting. “You safeworded for me,” he said, still hovering out of reach.

“Yes, you weren’t ready; it was more control and humiliation than you wanted. You’re happy to have me flay the skin off your back, but you aren’t happy for me to control you that intimately. We’ll work on it. It’s not a failure; it’s just a delay. Now don’t make me beat you before you’ll get comfortable on the bed.” Milton half rose to his feet and caught Mike’s wrist.

Mike should have remembered that Milton was quick. He tumbled forward, landing on the bed. He tried to buck away, but Milton now had superior leverage and easily and rapidly arranged Mike over his knees. Milton’s hand stroked Mike’s tender flesh, a reminder of his capability to hurt. Mike shuddered and lay still.

“Good boy, my beautiful and spirited boy. You’re lovely sprawled over my knee, your skin quivering at my touch.”

Mike fisted the blankets and willed himself to survive the onslaught. He’d provoked another beating. Stupid! Fucking stupid! 

“Relax. I’m only admiring my beautiful prize.”

Mike snorted. Relax while hanging over someone’s knees. Milton was insane.

Milton’s hand traced down Mike’s thigh. It kneaded the bruised flesh, the pressure gentle. It moved upward, running parallel to Mike’s spine. The pressure grew over his shoulders and softened near his flamed ass.

“Better,” Milton said gently, his hand continuing its ministrations. 

How long had Milton been at his impromptu massage? Mike sighed softly at the touch. He couldn’t move now if a grizzly jumped out of the closet; his muscles were all lulled into some sort of trance. 

“This is submission. It can be about pain, but it can also be about pleasure, and harder for you it can be about control. I know you’re not Sheldon or Austin. I won’t organize your lunch or harass you about mowing the lawn. You’re not that sort of boy, and I won’t try to make you that sort of boy. We can have a great deal of fun together, but you will also learn to submit to me, not just during a scene or in role play, but for real. You live with us; you’re not meeting me at a club. I love you. You are my boy. You belong to this family, and you will learn that lesson. I will not give up.”

Mike's Saga 16

Mike's Saga 16 - Austin's Interlude

Austin sat crushed together with his friends. They’d started out the evening with an innocent ice cream soda, but now they were in a very crowded club. Six of them were jammed around a table that was meant to seat two. The room smelled of too many people, a strange mix of sweat and spilled soda and sexual heat between all manners of genders. This was a bar, but tonight it was conspicuously dry with tape over the taps and the harder liquor high on the shelf behind yellow caution tape. The Crossroads was hosting an event for the local BDSM community combined with several college clubs.

Austin vaguely knew that a friend of Ryan’s owned the place and had bought it after some scandal. He also knew it was considered reputable and safe. He wasn’t totally out to his college friends about his lifestyle, but he’d thought at least one or two had guessed, and as a member of the GLBT club who was co-hosting the event, Austin had been quietly pulled aside and asked. He’d ducked any outright confirmation of his lifestyle, but he had muttered that he knew the place was safe.

Austin fingered the collar around his neck. He damn well looked the part now, and unless he wanted to pretend he was playing leather boy dress up, he was going to have to drop some broader hints about what went on at home. He’d forgotten that this event was tonight, or he would never have wanted to go out. Milton must not have. It sure explained the obvious symbols of the Green Mountain Boys on his belt and collar. Men recognized those stylized mountains here, and they nodded politely and backed off. Austin guessed it was probably easier than trying to explain to some flirting dom that he was well and truly taken, but still it was odd to sit in a mini vacuum in a crowded room.

Austin sipped his Coke and watched the mix of bodies on the dance floor. He’d danced a couple rounds with Floyd, a friend who was seriously unattached at the moment and easily as submissive as Austin, so no great threat. Floyd was watching the movement on the stage and chugging back Sprite as if he wished it was something far stouter. He really was a good kid, but he was an awkward disaster around any guy who said more than hello. As treasurer of the club, he’d been coerced into coming and just watching the crew anchor a whipping post on the stage had made a sheen a sweat appear on his forehead, and he crunched ice in nervous haste. 

“Someone’s really going to get whipped?” Floyd asked.

“I suppose so,” Austin said in a lazy drawl that he’d picked up from Mace and drove Milton mad every time he used it. 

“Sensation play,” Carla said, reading the single page flyer. Carla was in Austin’s sociology class, and he hoped Phoebe, her current girlfriend, found her more appealing than he did. She was a big city girl who gave the impression that she’d gladly kick anyone in the balls who got in the way. “That includes impact play, better known as whipping.” 

Great now she’s an expert on BDSM also, Austin thought and took another sip of his drink. He wouldn’t mind coming out to Floyd as a full blown submissive, but he’d prefer Carla never know anything. She probably had a lecture all ready on the evils of polyamory.

“He’s hot,” Floyd hissed, his eyes on the stage.

Ryan! Shit! This was going to be a whipping demonstration. Ryan checked the security of the whipping post and paced several steps back from it, putting small strips of tape on the floor at different locations. He was hot as he moved purposefully across the stage in his tight leather pants and a green silk shirt that hung partially open and showed glimpses of his bulging muscles and the leather straps across his chest. Blade stepped out of the shadows, still dressed in his everyday jeans and a black turtleneck. He was carrying a large duffel which Austin assumed must hold the implements. He set it down beside the sturdy wooden chair and, as Ryan had done before, went to check the whipping post. He stepped toward Ryan, and they spoke words that Austin couldn’t hear over the loud music. Ryan squeezed his boy’s neck as they spoke and gently swatted Blade on the ass as he pushed him back toward the duffel. Blade unzipped the bag and pulled out a beautiful flogger, a crop, and a signal whip. He laid each implement on a narrow table. Ryan checked the sound system and the lights. He scanned the crowd as he tapped the microphone, and for a split second his eyes met Austin’s. He smiled and nodded, small motions that were probably missed by the crowd as it danced and jostled. Austin sipped his Coke and reached for the pretzels--safe gestures. 

Floyd was staring at Ryan, his eyes following Ryan as if they were magnets drawn to the largest metal deposit on earth. “He smiled this way.”

“Yeah,” Austin mumbled, crushing the cocktail napkin in his hand.

“Oh, God…” Floyd trailed off.

“He’s not available. The redhead’s his partner.” Maybe it was cruel to tell Floyd, but it would be just as cruel to leave him dreaming about the impossible. 

“You know him?”

“Yeah.” Austin was going for dumb blob tonight. Milton probably would have slapped him by now for his inarticulate pronouncements. “Do you want to dance?” Anything to disappear into the crowd.

Floyd didn’t answer. He continued to stare at the stage. Slowly, he licked his lips and leaned forward on his elbows. “He’s going to whip him.”

He as in Ryan and him as in Blade, Austin made the translation in his head. “Of course. He’s an expert,” Austin said with false disinterest. He’d seen the marks on Blade a few times, and he’d watched Ryan practice with the bullwhip, but he’d never seen him actually give a show. He was as fascinated as Floyd.

“I’m going to get another soda. You want something?” Austin asked, getting up from the table and away from the awkward conversation.

“No.” Floyd didn’t look away from the stage as he spoke.

Austin pushed his way through the throng of people. A bartender in the signature green jacket of the establishment poured Austin another Coke and added a twist of lime.

“Have a good time.” The bartender grinned as he pushed the drink toward Austin.

“Very taken, Chase,” Ryan’s voice rumbled in the background.

“Can’t a man even smile?”

“Not at the head of the GMB’s precious cub.” Ryan looped an arm around Austin’s neck, pulled him close, and kissed the top of his head.

“And you’re kissing him.”

“Personal friend, and I have something to ask him.” Ryan steered Austin into a hallway and pulled him into a private office.

“I have permission--”

“You’re not in trouble,”Ryan interrupted. “Do you want to play?” Ryan handed Austin his phone. “Read first.”

Austin scanned the text messages. “Go for it and have fun.” The second message was more cryptic, Tilden’s gentle style all the way. “I trust Ryan and your judgment.”

“Your men have given their blessing. So what do you say?” Ryan gave Austin a megawatt smile.

Austin’s brain balked and stumbled. The crazy part was sending urgent message to nod and jump for joy and to forget commonsense or anything else. He knew his face was flushed and that his heart rate had shot through the ceiling. This was in public. This was without Milton.

“You’re young, and you only live once. I’ll be gentle and careful, but this is supposed to be fun and exciting, Only say yes if you want. No, won’t hurt my feelings.” Ryan cupped Austin’s chin and gently kissed his cheek. “Your choice.”

“What...What will you use?”

“The flogger. Back only. I’ll keep your pants on.”

“The people?”

“I’ll keep your focus on me.”

“God! I’m scared.”

“Good scared or throw up scared?”

“I think good scared. I want to do it.”

“Sure?” Ryan asked.

“Sure,” Austin said, putting strength in his voice. “I’ll be angry for missing this chance if I don’t do it. Milton and Tilden won’t do this with me.”

“Milton might. He hides great swaths of his craziness. Ask Landon sometime; the stories are wild.”

“Milton?”

“He’s not all strict and button-downed. You should know, you live with him.” Ryan traced his finger around the medallion hanging on Austin’s collar. “He dressed you like this. Doesn’t that say something?”

That he wanted to scare every dom away within one hundred kilometers. That he missed his chance to play with dolls as a boy. 

“Think about it. You love him. You know what’s inside him, and I don’t think it’s all prim and proper.”

It wasn’t. Austin knew, but sometimes it was easier to see the steady and the calm and not the blinding, unshielded dominance. Austin had wanted that, but too close and the fire scorched. He also wanted the side that was maybe even more embarrassing to admit--the protected cub, his shield and sword. 

“Maybe easier with me,” Ryan said too wisely. “No need to live up to anyone’s expectations including your own. Now go back to your table. I’ll guide you through this, and it will be fun. I promise.” 

Ryan swatted Austin hard enough that he hissed and reached back to rub the heated skin. “Jeez!”

“Boy, I know you’re tougher than that. Now go, and don’t worry. I’m not as old as your men, but I do know what I’m doing. I haven’t killed Blade yet, tempting as that might be sometimes.”

***

Austin returned to his seat in a slight daze. He’d said yes. He was going to publicly play with Ryan. The music had stopped and men and women were shuffling to their seats or melting toward the walls. Carla was up on the stage with several other college aged people that Austin didn’t know blathering on about gay rights and BDSM safety, topics that she thought she knew more about than she really did. Milton taught history; he was the head of the Green Mountain Boys. Carla’s version scraped the surface and skittered around some of the safety issues that Milton had thumped into Austin’s head. Milton was a hard ass about what it meant to be a submissive, especially in his explanation of every day, all day, and forever. It wasn’t a role that Austin stepped into for the evening. He’d given Milton the power; he’d begged Milton to take it, and such acts had consequences. Austin knew it in ways most of this audience never would. They played in their fancy fetish clothes and would run screaming from Milton in his sweater vest, blue blazer, and loafers polished by Sheldon’s adoring hands.

Sheldon, who wouldn’t be caught dead being whipped in a public setting unless forced by his master, was the strongest submissive that Austin had ever seen. He gave everything to Milton, but he didn’t walk around in chains or indulge in strange fashion statements. Blade, Sheldon’s brother, was so different. Austin could just see him standing at the rear or the stage next to his man. He was still dressed ordinarily enough in jeans and a turtleneck, but his feet were bare and his turtleneck had been pulled out of his waistband. Blade would try anything, especially in public, but Milton had told Austin that Blade was far less submissive than Sheldon.

Where did Austin fit? Milton kept telling him to be patient, but Austin was twenty. He’d known he was a submissive since about the same time he’d realized he was gay. Even at twenty, he knew he’d been lucky to stumble upon Milton and his household.

“So you’re a gay submissive. You’re still a teenager, and we’re going to treat you that way.”

Austin had wanted to kill Sheldon for those words back when he was sixteen, but now at the ancient age of twenty, he knew Sheldon had been right. Austin had wanted what the boys had or maybe more specifically Sheldon. He’d wanted Milton. He’d watched Milton under coquettishly lowered lashes, dreamed of Milton, and done everything possible to land himself in Milton’s circle of attention. It was a miracle that Milton hadn’t shot him or left him with a note pinned to his shirt, free to a good home. Tilden had parented him in ways that still embarrassed the hell out of Austin, but he knew he was lucky. Austin chatted with his friends. Tilden had been a saint, and Milton had stayed in the background except to thwart the most desperate stupidity, and then he’d just been scary, stern, and horribly proper. Sheldon had mumbled something once about the spirit of Milton’s grandfather.

Why was he stewing over the past? He was Milton’s boy now, but he hadn’t done this. Milton shielded him, much to Austin’s dismay. He’d been spanked with a slew of awful things that were kept in the kitchen drawer, and Milton had used some simple bondage, but he didn’t go much further. He wouldn’t give Austin a collar, and he usually kept Austin off his knees in public. Too young. Too inexperienced. He was always going to be too young. No one had a time machine in their garage.

Ryan had taken the microphone. What had he been saying? Floyd was practically drooling on the table. Ryan was gorgeous, the green silk shirt now entirely unbuttoned, the muscles of his chest and abdomen shimmering in the light.

“Ready?” Blade was standing at their table, his smile brilliant and dazzling. “First time I was pretty scared too, but Ryan will keep you safe,” Blade whispered and held out his hand for Austin.

Austin grabbed Blade’s hand, his palm sweaty and his grip too hard. He’d said yes to this insane idea. His legs were following Blade, but his mind was everywhere. He was going to be completely out to his friends. Insufferable Carla would know that he really did this, that he wasn’t pretending. Austin almost stumbled up the step.

“Steady.” Ryan’s voice was gentle and infinitely reassuring. His smile was even better. “I don’t eat my volunteers.” Ryan dropped his arm over Austin’s shoulders and Blade melted back into the shadows. “Your safeword, Austin.”

“Kalamazoo.”

“Do you have a slow word?”

Austin shook his head. Milton could read him and was slowing before Austin had fully formulated the idea that he was getting scared shitless, and Tilden stayed away from the sharp edges and terrifying abysses. 

“It’s yellow for tonight. Repeat your safewords.”

“Yellow for slow, Kalamazoo to stop.”

“Good boy.”

Austin could feel his knees knocking less from Ryan’s careful ritual, and his heart had stopped trying to burst though his ribs. He took a long, slow breath, hearing Milton’s constant demand to breathe in his head.

“Good boy.”

The words weren’t a toss off meaningless phrase. Austin could hear the sincerity in Ryan’s voice, and he gave Ryan a genuine, but shaky smile. Ryan kissed Austin’s forehead in that casual possessiveness that was familiar and comforting.

“The first step in any proper whipping or flogging is to have your boy in the right mindset,” Ryan said to the audience, keeping his arm tight around Austin and sending silent reassurances. “Austin is a friend, but he isn’t my boy, and he isn’t experienced in public displays. I would have aborted if he’d continued to look that shaky.”

“I want to,” Austin protested.

“I know you do, but who makes the choice?” Ryan was speaking to Austin, but his voice was loud enough that it would carry to the people in the audience.

“You do, sir,” Austin said, looking into the quiet blue eyes.

“Ryan, not sir.” Ryan stroked his fingers through Austin’s hair. “I want you to remember its my hand on the flogger. It’s your friend who holds the flogger, someone who will take care of you and who will always stop. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Ryan,” Austin said, holding Ryan’s gaze.

“Good boy. Blade, the flogger.”

“Yes, Ryan,” Blade chorused and scampered forward with the flogger. He was playing with the long leather strands as he passed it to Ryan.

“Eager beaver,” Ryan half scolded. “By the chair. Kneel and watch. Dream of the lash that will soon be on your body.”

“Yes, Ryan.” Blade folded into perfect kneeling position. His state of arousal obvious to Austin who caught himself staring at the prominent bulge in Blade’s jeans.

“Eyes on me,” Ryan barked. This was the first hint of hardness in Ryan’s voice, and it snapped Austin’s attention away from Blade. “You haven’t permission to play or desire my boy.”

Austin could feel the scarlet burn on his face. He hadn’t meant it that way; just Blade was beautiful, and Austin’s eyes had fallen naturally on the beautiful creature kneeling in perfect form.

“Go with this,” Ryan said in a voice that carried only as far as Austin’s ears. “We’re playing. I’m not mad.”

Austin blushed even more furiously at his own stupidity. Of course, Ryan wouldn’t be mad. He was teasing Austin and all the rest of the crowd with his boy. This is what they did; they were performers.

“Touch the flogger.”

Austin’s fingers slid through the soft fronds. It felt heavenly against his hand, softer than the one Milton used.

“Kiss it.”

Austin’s lips touched the leather. He inhaled deeply, letting the smell of leather waft through his nostrils. He kissed the lashes reverently.

“Shirt off, boy. Here against the post. If your hands come down, it’s a safe signal.”

Austin fumbled with his shirt. The room had felt too warm before, but now he shivered as his bare back met the air. He gripped the handholds and shut his eyes.

“Perfect skin.” Ryan’s hand traced down Austin’s back. “You’ll mark beautifully.” Ryan continued to talk to the audience, his hands doing something fabulous to Austin’s shoulders. Austin sighed and let his head fall forward. “You like this.” 

One hand continued to massage Austin’s back. The second hand disappeared and Austin felt the slightest tickle of the flogger. It was nothing but a whispered breeze. Austin pushed back and moaned, not remembering making the sound, but hearing it in his ears.

The flogger was falling steadily, softly. Austin sighed and arched his shoulders, hoping for more. It was only the softest breeze, warm palm fronds in the Caribbean. His back felt warm as if he’d been sunbathing too long. The strokes were harder now, almost a sting, but they still felt so good.

The lash stopped, and Austin felt Ryan’s hand against his back, the weight heavy against the heat of his skin. “Do we go on?”

“More,” Austin whined and tried desperately to rub against Ryan.

“It will be pleasure and pain now, not just pleasure.”

“More. Please.”

Austin rocked forward at the first blow. It had thudded against his back, no warm ocean or tickle of wind, but a sting of heavy tentacles. He moaned and arched.His body absorbed the blows and begged for more. Pain. Pleasure. Hurt. Comfort. He couldn’t tell. His brain couldn’t sort it out. His nervous system was confused and on overload. He shouted as the flogger fell, yet he wanted more. He could taste the salt of the tears that were streaking his face.

The lashes seemed to be tickling again. They slithered across his super heated flesh. Austin keened and whined. He clung desperately to the whipping post.

“Spectacular. Absolutely beautiful.” Ryan’s voice was right in Austin’s ear. “Milton has a gem.” 

Austin felt cold. He shivered, and his head swam. His throat was terribly dry. Ryan was covering him in the softest of blankets. A water bottle was held to his lips.”

“Slowly. Your body’s going to take a few minutes to come back to earth. I’ve got you. I’l hold you until everything falls back into place. You may hear me talking to the audience. The words don’t matter. Just rest.” 

Austin collapsed against Ryan. He drank whenever Ryan held the bottle to his lips, and he heard the rumble of Ryan’s voice over his head, but the words were lost in a haze. Nothing much mattered. Austin leaned against Ryan and shut his eyes.

Austin didn’t know how long he leaned against Ryan. It was comfortable nestled against the blond giant’s chest. Ryan was broader than Milton, and his voice suggested an easy humor and warmth. Ryan’s outside person was always cheerful and friendly, his blue eyes twinkling, a ready smile on his lips. Milton was more taciturn, almost aloof with strangers. He wasn’t mean or sharp, but you didn’t feel like you should flop down face first on the sofa with a cold brew and a bucket of wings. The cold brew was out for Austin anyway. Milton had made it very clear that underage alcohol was a hard limit.

“Austin, I respect what you ask me not to touch. This is the same. Violating the law, including drinking alcohol, is a rejection of your submission. Don’t do it.”

Austin had grabbed a can of beer once. He hadn’t even taken a drink, and Ryan confiscated it. He’d led Austin outside into Landon’s rose garden with the blooms cascading down the white trellises and butterflies circling the brightest blossoms. He’d held Austin much like he was holding him now, his big arm over Austin’s chest both trapping him and keeping him safe.

“That’s a no go with your men, isn’t it?” Ryan’s voice had been friendly, almost light, but he’d turned Austin’s head and made him look at those quiet blue eyes. 

“Yes, sir,” Austin had finally managed. His face had been hot with shame, and he’d wanted to do nothing more than flee, even if it meant fleeing straight into an angry Milton. “Hard limit,” he’d mumbled after another eternity.

“What were you thinking?” Ryan had released Austin’s chin, and Austin had stared at the stone walkway. His finger had traced the mortar and plucked at some brave moss trying to find purchase in the stones.

“Don’t know.”

“Has Milton or Tilden ever violated your limits?”

“No.”

“Hard limit, Austin. This was the equivalent of a dominant blowing through your safeword. It’s not done. Full stop. Don’t.”

“I didn’t...I…”

“I know,” Ryan said very gently. “No matter how much you hate to hear it, you are young, and you’re going to make giant mistakes.You just made one.”

“Are you going to tell Milton?”

“Not this time.”

“Austin squirmed around and looked at Ryan. Dominants didn’t cover up for submissives. They grabbed your wrist and dragged you to your doom.”

“Not to save you, but to save Milton. We’re dominants; we take pleasure in hitting, but not in this. Crossing the line to real punishment is a terrible place to go. Sometimes in the intricacies of this relationship it has to be done, but it takes its toll. It rips at the very fabric of the relationship and the very idea of love and consent. A violation of a hard limit leaves very little room for the dominant. He can release you; he can withdrawal attention for a specified period, or he can try hurting you in ways that are awful. This is pain without the thrill, without the erotic, without the victory for the submissive of enduring and conquering. I hate it. It makes me ashamed to be a dominant. I don’t think Milton needs to go there today. We’ll quietly chalk it up to inexperience, and it will never happen again. Agreed?”

Austin nodded. “I wasn’t...Other people do.”

“No, Austin. Milton said absolutely not, and it’s over. Submission, cub. That’s what it means. If you want a little play, you ask or you do something silly. Leave the laundry all over the floor. Milton will swat you, and you’ll both have a good time. Don’t go where you were heading. Milton is far more tolerant of bratting that I ever will be, but he has no tolerance for violations of the fundamentals of the relationship. You gave him your submission. Now you keep your end of the bargain.”

What had Ryan been saying? Austin had been drifting in one of his not so favorite moments of the past. Why had that come to mind? Ryan’s broad chest, his steady breathing, the heaviness of his arm--it all reminded Austin of the other time. This was far better memories. The flogger had been fucking spectacular. Swearing--not in Gordon’s earshot.

 Ryan was talking to the audience, answering questions. Blade had moved. His shirt was off, and he was moving around the stage: rubbing the floor with a small towel, putting more water bottles under the table, stashing a plaid blanket nearby. His movements were easy and confident. He twisted off the cap of a water bottle and took a long drink. He touched the whip, coiling it into a more precise spiral.

“Impatient, boy.”

“Yes, Ryan.” Blade flashed Ryan a giant grin and swished his hips in an obvious invitation.

“Impatient boys get more.”

“You don’t scare me.”

“When you’re begging and crying, you’ll be scared.”

“Never,” Blade taunted.

“Drop your pants, boy. Let’s see how cocky you are with a breeze brushing on those fine ass cheeks.”

Blade fumbled with his snap and zipper; he hopped from foot to foot as he tangled in his pants. This was a show. He was playing nervous. Blade caught Austin’s eyes and winked. “Finally,” he mouthed.

“Did you say something, boy?”

“Never.” Blade huddled down, covering his skimpy underclothes with his hand. The small bit of green cloth couldn’t really be called underwear. It covered Blades crack, sort of, and his cock with a tiny and inadequate square of shimmering green. Even the most unimaginative would be able to imagine what was underneath.

“Show those folks your lovely white ass. I want them to remember this color before I paint it the color it belongs--crimson with purple trimmings. You good here. Austin?” Ryan asked, his voice only for Austin’s ears. “Or do I need to invent some more shtick? Your eyes no longer look hazy and you’re not limp, but I’m not moving until you give me the heave ho.”

“I’m good.”

Ryan stroked Austin’s hair back and studied him, looking for something that Austin couldn’t fathom. Someone stepped out of the shadows and slid almost unseen into the crowd. 

“Boy, let me test that pretty whipping surface,” Ryan almost shouted at Blade. His partner skipped and pranced and stayed just our of hand’s reach. “White. Shocking! This dominant must have been napping.”

The shadowy man returned almost towing Floyd, who in any other light might have been green. In the stage light he was a yellowish, sickly white, only broken by frantic pale blue eyes.

“Get to the post, boy and find the strength to endure,” Ryan called to Blade before his voice returned to his normal tone. “Floyd, I need you to sit with your friend. If anything doesn’t look absolutely right, you yell Ryan. Can you do that for me?”

Floyd managed a nod. 

Ryan stood and kissed the muddy blond hair. “Good, kid. Water when Austin needs it and a shoulder to lean on. Your friend’s mostly back with us, but I prefer extra precautions.” Ryan’s voice was directed at the audience and at Floyd. He was in teaching mode as well as dominant mode. “My boy Blade is experienced at public scenes, as you should have noted from our verbal jousting. He’s not in the full submissive mode I would expect if we were alone with his full concentration on me. He knows this is a demonstration, a teaching seminar. We will both enjoy it, but he acting as much as feeling. Tonight, I’m not going to try to drive him close to the spot where he becomes one with a lash. This is a novice whipping demonstration, and I have another boy here. I’d never step toward the edge when my attention is divided. We will stay where I can safely support Austin and not damage my Blade.”

Ryan went to the table and picked up the signal whip. He cracked it in the air. Floyd stiffened and flinched backward from the sound.

“I think you were supposed to be comforting me, not the other way around,” Austin said and reached out and caught Floyd’s hand. “He’s never maimed Blade yet.”

“Someone’s back with the world,” Ryan said, his eyes shifting between Austin and Blade’s exquisite and waiting figure.

“I’m fine. I’ll get my shirt and go.”

“You stay right there,” Ryan growled. “I’m not dealing with an infuriated Milton because I didn’t take care of you properly. That man’s scary when he’s angry.”

“He’s not that bad.”

“You’re his precious cub. You have more protection from him than I would, a fool dominant who did something irresponsible. Off with my head.”

“I’m standing here. Are you two going to chat all night?”

“Boy, a smart mouth in front of a man holding a whip hardly seems wise.”

“Holding is the key word. It’s a pretty picture,” Blade said, turning his head and looking at Ryan with obvious appreciation in his eyes, “but I prefer the action figure.”

Ryan cracked the whip and stalked toward Blade. Ryan swung the whip, the lash streaking toward Blade’s pale and unmarked skin. Five quick strokes with five perfectly spaced red lines.

“I measured the distance before the demonstration started,” Ryan said to the audience. “At this distance, I’m only touching my boy with the very tip. This stings and leaves a faint red line, but won’t raise a welt. With a new boy, this is a far as you go. The whip is psychologically a terrifying implement. Everyone has mental images of horrific flaying with blood flying and horribly scarred backs, and with a whip I could easily draw blood and leave scars. Consensually doing either is fine if both parties agree. I won’t scar my boy. It’s a place I won’t go by my choice, but I have made him bleed.”

“He won’t get me red at this rate,” Blade snarked. “Maybe I need to put out a sign: Experienced whip master wanted. Previous employee left to join the lecture circuit.”

“Smart boys get punished,” Ryan said, his voice hot with menace. He caressed Blade with the lash. Blade shifted and a very faint grown left his lips as the lash rubbed on the inside of his thighs.

“More. Don’t tease me.”

“Beg.”

“Please, Ryan, please. Whip me. Your boy wants to feel your whip, please.”

“You will.” Ryan stepped closer, pressing into Blade’s body. Ryan kissed Blade’s shoulder, his tongue licking the faint red stripes. “You ready, boy?”

“Yes, Ryan.”

Ryan’s strokes were quick and precise. The whip fell everywhere, a hard stroke on the ass, a softer stroke on the thigh. Blade shifted and moaned, his head snapped back and he screamed at a particularly hard stroke. His skin was red now, and sweat was beading on his forehead. Ryan cracked the whip overhead and laid three diagonal strokes on Blade’s shoulders. The welts shown against the general redness. 

“Hurts,” Blade moaned. Blade’s finger’s clutched the whipping post as he slumped forward. 

“It should, boy.” Ryan ran his hand down Blade’s back, eliciting a shudder. He coiled the whip carefully, set it on the table, and reached for the crop. “And this will hurt more, boy.”

Ryan raised his arm and swung hard. The crop landed against Blade’s ass with a shattering crack. The scream was almost instantaneous, and the tears from Blade’s eyes were very real now. Two more horrible blows fell. Blade’s screams were still echoing from the walls as Ryan gathered him into his arms and silenced the pain with a fierce kiss. 

The words between Ryan and Blade were private now. All Austin could hear was a slight mumble as Ryan cradled Blade against him. Ryan’s fingers stroked down Blade’s cheek and wiped the flowing tears. Someone came running with a blanket and water.

“Shit!” Floyd mumbled, his hand clutched at Austin. “You do this shit.”

“Not like that,” Austin said quietly. He’d thought he’d known about this stuff. Milton certainly didn’t hide anything, and Austin had felt the crop a few times, but he’d never been whipped. Milton had whips, but they stayed upstairs. Austin had taken the keys once. He’d stroked the fine lash and felt the weight in his hand. He’d even flicked the lash against his pants covered leg. It had burned through the heavy weight of his jeans. He’d coiled the whip, tucked it back into the trunk, and fled downstairs. He’d never told Milton. 

It had been so beautiful. What would it have felt like to be Blade? Could Austin do that? Could he be brave enough? 

Blade must have known Austin was staring at him because he untangled himself from Ryan’s arms and smiled. “I’m fine. It’s going to hurt more in an hour or so when the good part wears off, but I’ve done this enough time to know to lie on my stomach and have Ryan at my beck and call.”

“Look fun or scary?” Ryan asked, his fingers combing through Blade’s hair.

“Don’t know,” Austin said truthfully. Some part of him wanted it, even though his brain was telling him he was a total idiot. 

“No hurry.” Ryan turned his full attention back to Blade. “Was it good for you?”

“Bastard--with the crop. That fucking hurt!”

“It’s not always what you expect.”

“I know.” Blade snuggled against Ryan. “I’ll forgive you this time.”

Ryan smiled and laughed softly. “I should’ve given you six, but I didn’t want to scare the kiddies.”

“Three was ample. Thanks anyway. Good for the kiddies to be a little scared. It’s not all sweet and fluffy with pink unicorns. I’m supposed to hurt tomorrow. I want to hurt tomorrow.”

“Not everybody is as intense as you.”

“Even without the pain it’s still not sweet and sugary, and you know it.”

“I know,” Ryan said softly. “I know.” He closed his arms around Blade, and they communed silently for a moment before Ryan turned toward Austin and Floyd again. “You guys good to go now? Chase is giving us a ride home. We can drop you off Floyd. if you like?”

“Um…” Floyd licked his lips and cleared his throat. “I…”

“I’ll make sure your friends know. Don’t worry,” Ryan said with one of his most reassuring smiles. “You’ll never find them in all that bedlam and noise right now. I have them play the loudest dance music possible after a show, so Blade and I can disappear into the background. They run a tight ship here and have us covered.”

“Uh,” Floyd said inarticulately.

“Car ride, nothing else.” Ryan stood with Blade still in his arms. “Austin, put your shirt on. Let’s go.”