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 10

Mike’s Saga 10

“Oh, great! Now he could be stared at by half the doms on the East Coast,” Mike muttered under his breath. He wasn’t surprised that Gordon and Landon had been invited to dinner; they were like vultures on carrion. The slightest discord and Gordon was staring down at you with cold disdain; he could make Milton look jolly. Ryan and Blade were more of a surprise. They were dorm parents, and their schedule wasn’t flexible. They would have had to beg a fellow teacher to cover for them. Blade had probably done the begging; he did precious and needy better than anyone Mike knew. He could convince the school’s president to happily spend a night in a dormitory with a bunch of sniveling freshman. 

Blade and Ryan had the youngsters in their dorm, the kids who were the most distraught about getting packed off to boarding school, because as Blade had put it, “Ryan smiles and the sun comes out. He’s got the best shoulder in three states for a crying fit, and he doesn’t make a teenage boy feel like an idiot for wanting a little cry. If only the administration knew that he practiced his skill for comforting homesick children by beating me to tears on a regular basis.”

Mike wasn’t all that sure that Blade and Ryan’s domestic arrangement was any sort of real secret to the administration, but more of a pretend secret. They all winked and smiled and believed in plausible deniability. Blade moaned about not being able to have a nice beating at school, but Ryan still worked professionally as a dom in the summer and on an occasional weekend and holiday, and with people in the know they were famous for their whipping demonstrations and in great demand for seminars. Mike rattled the chains between the pretty leather cuffs. This was Blade’s gig. Mike hated the damn chains. Milton had put them on after Mike had woken on the sofa all bleary eyed and stiff, and Mike’s complaint had been stifled instantly with a hand on already sore flesh.

“Learn to live with them, boy. I’ve given you plenty of slack.”

Yeah, but he couldn’t dress himself. He’d had to ask Tilden to unfasten them so he could put on a dress shirt, and Tilden had clipped Mike’s wrists to the bed and tied his tie. Protest had earned him another swat, softer than it had been from Milton but still a swat.

Mike rattled his chains again. He wasn’t going to be the life of the party. He buried his hands behind the couch cushions and tried to look casual. Looking casual with bondage equipment wasn’t an easy task.

“Hey.” Ryan dropped his big body onto the couch. “Pouting’s not going to make it any better. You’re already shifting around like you have a hot seat; goading Milton into another round isn’t a good strategy.” 

“Ryan.” Telling him to fuck off probably wouldn’t be a good strategy either. Mike would rather stay hidden in the corner, pouting in peace.

Ryan smiled one of his dazzling grins and kissed Mike’s forehead. “Someone feeling resentful? How bad was it? I see the chains. They look good on you.”

“They are not my fashion statement of choice,” Mike snarled.

“Hey,” Ryan said gently and caught Mike’s chin in his large hand. “You’re a submissive, sometimes submission requires submitting when it’s not the most fun or not your favorite. It’s about allowing yourself to be vulnerable, allowing yourself to be under the command of the dominant at his convenience, and bondage makes you feel vulnerable.”

“I don’t feel vulnerable; I feel like an idiot.”

“You’ll feel a lot more like an idiot if I freshen the red color of your ass to wipe that snarl out of your voice. I’m a dominant. I may play Mr. Nice Guy, but I'm more than capable of making you suffer."

He wouldn't? Ryan had never physically touched Mike except in the friendly way of two close buddies: fist bumps, a quick hug, a squeeze on the shoulder, or fingers ruffling his hair. Mike looked up into those brilliant blue eyes that were suddenly icy and determined. 

"Mike, do you need force from me? I was briefed over what went on today. If you need another bad ass to join the party, I'm happy to play. I bet you scream beautifully, music to a sadist's ears. I know there's a a paddle in the second drawer over there and a strap in the table by the fireplace, and I have several whips in my car. Do you need a demonstration?"

"No, sir." The words were right, but Mike knew the tone was wrong. There was still too much snarl and snark, and the sir had been sarcastic. Ryan lived with Blade; he'd know the difference.

"Do you want to try that again?"

"No, I'm getting my ass beat no matter what. I might as well go for the full fireworks."

"God help Milton." Ryan grabbed the chain between Mike's wrists, jerked him to his feet, and threw him over the back of the sofa. "Safeword, boy. What is it?"

Mike gritted his teeth as his chest hit the sofa. He was still sore. This was public. Gordon and Landon were circulating somewhere. Gordon had that new kid with him, funny name, big eyes, and hair jelled into spikes. Welcome to the Green Mountain Boys. We beat our stubborn boys several times a day.

"Safeword." Ryan's hand tapped Mike's ass.

"Kathmandu." Mike dropped his head. This was happening; Ryan hadn't been bluffing. 

A yelp was torn from Mike's lips. Ryan hit hard. It didn't matter that it was over Mike's pants. It fucking hurt. Mike couldn't stop the tears. They pooled in his eyes and flowed down his cheeks. He hurt. He was in the living room getting his ass beat. He was a submissive getting his due. Mike sighed and hung limply against the sofa."

"Good boy." Ryan pulled Mike up and kissed his forehead. His arm wrapped around Mike heavy and reassuring. "You make me do that again it will be on your bare ass, boy."

"It hurt enough already." Mike snuggled against Ryan's chest, suddenly not caring that he was taking comfort in public. "Hold me."

"I've got you. You fall hard. How long have you been hiding this from Milton or Tilden?"

Mike didn't have to answer. He wasn't sure he could have answered; his brain felt like mush. Leaning against Ryan was about all he could mange.

"I've got him." Milton's grip was strong and reassuring; his arm heavy and right as it wrapped around Mike's shoulders. "What happened?"

"It's the only way he knows to ask to go back down,” Ryan said. “I obliged him. He's lovely to spank. Someday maybe he'll give me the pleasure of showing him the magic of the whip. Keep him close tonight, Milton. He needs it."

Mike should mind that they were talking about him, but he couldn't muster the energy to protest. It was warm and comfortable in Milton's arms. The world out there could wait.

"He must have been miserable alone. He had to about break himself in half to realize the depth of his denial. Silly boy." Ryan kissed the top of Mike's head. "This is a safe place to let yourself be submissive. Let yourself go. We'll catch you. This room is crawling with dominants. No one will let you crash and burn."

Mike just kept his faced buried in Milton's blazer. He should respond that he was fine, that he didn't need a bushel of dominants looking after him, but somehow it all felt OK.

"Kneel for me." Milton's hand pressed against Mike's shoulder. "This is your only duty--to stay on your knees with your eyes down and your mouth shut. We can call it deep submission if you want. You can't truly find deep submission yet without a real beating, but imitation will do for now."

The floor pressed against Mike's knees. He lowered his head and stared at Milton's shoes. Milton's hand played over Mike's neck and back, stroking him toward Milton's thigh. Milton and Ryan had sat back down on the sofa. Blade threw himself onto Ryan's lap and was kissed thoroughly before being chased off with a friendly swat. Tilden came over for a second. His hand traced over Mike's head.

"He's fine," Milton said, his voice deep and reassuring. "He's not to respond to you. I put him in deep submission. He needs only to kneel and be silent and invisible. How's the new kid with Gordon holding up? I got an earful from Gordon about my domestic hiccups keeping me away from my duties as head of the Green Mountain Boys. At least according to him, he and Landon are much too old to train another submissive."

Ryan snorted. “Landon and Gordon love having a pretty young boy around the house. Don’t let them tell you otherwise.”

“Who is he?” Milton asked.

“A grandson of a business colleague,” Tilden said. "He's been in some trouble, nothing criminal, but enough that family name and money are being stretched to keep him out of trouble."

"He seems to have latched onto Sheldon," Milton said.

"He tried Austin first, but Austin looked at him as if he were some insane creature who escaped from the local zoo. Sheldon's been more accommodating."

"Sheldon will understand him," Milton said.

Mike glanced up. He was supposed to keep his eyes down, but Milton was occupied. Sheldon and the new kid were on the far side of the room. Sheldon snatched several shrimp from a silver bowl, tossing one to the new kid and popping two in his own mouth. Sheldon was relaxed and animated, and the boy's hazel eyes never left Sheldon's face. The kid was pretty in a delicate way with fine features that were almost too perfect.

"Eyes down."

Mike had forgotten Ryan. The whack on the head had been more friendly than punitive, but Mike lowered his eyes to the floor.

"I'll let you know if anything good happens," Ryan said easily, but Sheldon really is good at this. He has the new boy totally charmed."

"Two brats," Milton said dryly.

"I haven't seen Sheldon brat since you put the collar on him. Am I missing something?" Ryan asked.

"No, I'm the one who was missing something. He might as well have hired a ten meter high freeway sign with flashing lights. I'm supposed to be good at this."

"He wasn't exactly making his signals clear," Ryan said. "I thought he was doing nothing more than topping from the bottom and you were indulging him. He wanted complete control. That level of submission is frightening to ask for even with Sheldon's experience."

"He was always happiest when he was in trouble. I should have seen it. I missed it because the parts our friend here likes so well Sheldon doesn't tolerate." Milton ran his hand down Mike's back. "This is the one who will eat up the erotic side, but strangle me if I counted out his lunch money. I'd never seen slavery without it being centered on the most extremes of the erotic. I couldn’t wrap my mind around that depth of submission with it only brushing on the erotic and only that because I insist."

"Doug and your grandfather," Landon said, his feet stopping centimeters from Mike's knees. "When you were a child they hid it, and they played it close even in your adulthood. Your grandfather always knew how to handle Sheldon. Their relationship was entirely enmeshed in power, but your grandfather didn’t own a dildo or a set of handcuffs. Eyes down," Landon snapped at Mike. "You do realize your boy isn't close to his submission."

"He hasn't provoked Gordon to find a cane, so I'm currently satisfied."

"I'd chain his hands behind his back and blindfold him. He needs to focus on his submission, not everywhere else."

"He's at his limit."

"No, you haven't touched his limit. Make him suffer."

"Landon!"

"Milton," Landon shot back in the same tone. "I want him alone after dinner. I won't hurt him, but I will explain the meaning of darkness."

Mike knew he had his eyes up and that they were as wide as Austin's in his desperate pleading moments. Landon had always seemed the tamer of the two, the wise, mature submissive who topped with a gentle guiding hand. 

"Do you not require your submissives to make at least a slight effort in proper decorum?"

"I'm not punishing for fear and confusion."

"Sometimes fear and confusion is part of the submissive thrill. Mike's a big boy. Let him enjoy that side of himself. You used to do it for me."

Milton's eyes rested on Landon for a moment, but he didn't speak; instead a corner of his lip turned up in a slow, wry smile, and he inclined his head in a polite nod.

"Such a smart boy. Gordon might not have to cane you senseless after all."

"Landon," Tilden growled, a possessive hand shielding Milton. "No one touches Milton"

"That is between Milton and Gordon. Sometimes it is needed."

"Stop it." Milton's voice filled the small space between the two combatants. "I have no need or desire for a set of stripes today. Sometimes it's a part of me, but I am not conflicted nor do I need the escape. Tilden helped earlier in his own way." A crimson blush rose on Tilden's cheeks, and he dropped his head in a useless attempt to hide his embarrassment. "I need help with the logistics."

"You're not planning the Normandy invasion," Landon said.

"Does someone need trouble?" Milton's voice was hard and cool.

Landon heard the unspoken. He stepped back and clasped his hands behind his back. "No, sir."

"Thank you, Landon."

"My pleasure."

"I won't rat you out to Gordon unless you want me to,” Milton said, “but I would like you to try to explain to Mike the mechanics of graceful submission with strength and power."

“I will try,” Landon said, his eyes raking over Mike, “but surrender comes from within. He holds the key himself. He must let you see his pleasures, his fears, and his vulnerabilities. Those will be the passcode to the kingdom. It’s frightening to give so much of yourself, to give enough to know that your lovers can make you fly but that they can also hurt you in unimaginable ways, to stand not only physically naked but also mentally naked.”

“He needs a role model.”

“I’m a senior citizen, and I’m a switch. You don’t think he’s a switch?”

“In play only. Submission handed to him is even more frightening than giving it himself.”

“I’m here you know. I’m not deaf or stupid, and English is my native language.” Mike lurched to his feet.

“Get down, boy.” Milton had stood just as quickly. Any gentleness in his eyes and face had vanished. He stared at Mike with black fire spitting from eyes that had gone impossibly dark.”

“Let me get this.” Ryan’s hands were already on Mike’s shoulders. He was already pushing him away.

Tilden’s study was quiet and calm after the sudden roar that had consumed Mike’s body. Mike clutched the edge of the sofa, his knees shaking, his breaths coming way too fast. This was Tilden’s study. This was safe. It had a jumble of Russian textbooks on the desk and colorful propaganda posters on the wall. 

“Don’t arouse the Neanderthal dominant in Milton unless you want beaten into a quivering puddle. You didn’t look like you wanted that at the moment.”

Mike sucked in a deep breath, trying to steady nerves that he hadn’t realized he had. “Thanks,” he said in a shaky voice. “What’s wrong with me?”

“Nothing. Well, at least nothing that letting yourself be the submissive you really are wouldn’t cure.” Ryan pulled Mike down onto the sofa, his arm heavy over Mike’s shoulders.

“What if I can’t be?”

“You can.” Ryan kissed Mike’s forehead. “You came home.”

“I came home because I felt like a fraud. Here I was giving advice to a baby submissive while I was doing exactly the opposite.”

“Baby submissive?”

“Gabe. Josh knows about him.”

“Poor kid. Josh isn’t exactly warm and friendly.”

“He’s OK.”

“Do you like what Josh’s offers?” Ryan ran his hand down Mike’s back. “His dominance—it’s not the most sexual.”

“I wouldn’t want to live with him.” Mike buried his face in his hands. Josh just took it. There wasn’t all this chatting. Mike didn’t want to analyze himself; he just wanted to be whatever the hell he was.

“He doesn’t ask?”

“Yeah.”

“Milton wants to ask too much. He wants you to analyze your submission.”

“How in the fuck do I analyze something I don’t understand? I just want to be Mike, a happy and normal human being. I’m an adult. I don’t want someone organizing my work schedule or nagging me about my eating habits, but sometimes I just want to feel and not to think. I want to fight, but, God, then I want to surrender. I want to be hit, but then I think how wrong it is that I want to be forced and hurt and that I’m stupid enough to expose myself.”

“Mike, submission isn’t one size fits all; dominance isn’t either. Blade is an intense submissive in play. He surrenders entirely to my will, and we enjoy every moment of it. Blade is also an intense sexual being. His sexuality flirts close to the surface at all times, and we often flit in an out of our roles during everyday life. It’s a confusing and tangled mosaic, and sometimes we get everything crossed. Sometimes he’s playing, sometimes he wants me as his friend and lover and not a dominant, and sometimes he wants my dominance in real life. It is the third that gives me indigestion and has me calling Milton. The third is what Milton has with Sheldon and even some with Austin, and where you are desperate and confused.The third involves places where I won’t go without explicit permission, places where safewords became fuzzy, places where your submissive streak has long left the bedroom.”

“I don’t want managed,” Mike said softly. 

“Ever?” Ryan asked.

Mike ran his fingers over his thigh, picking at an imaginary thread. “They managed me in the beginning. They controlled my alcohol intake, my bedtime, and my study habits. I’m not a flakey college kid anymore. I don’t need that; I don’t get off on it sexually. I just feel belittled.”

“They don’t do that now, do they?”

“No.”

“They stopped dominating when you stop forgetting to turn in your homework assignment?”

Mike nodded slowly.

“Ah, I see it now.”

At least Ryan saw it. Mike couldn’t see anything but confusion. He was a submissive who was resentful of submission. He loved Milton and Tilden, but banking and timekeeping weren’t a mystery. He didn’t want to be parented. 

“Mike, you were very young when you came to Milton and Tilden, both in years and in understanding of your kink. They used your kink, not as a plaything or a means of sexual gratification, but as something you could grab onto and keep yourself afloat while you grew up. You submitted very deeply without understanding the ramifications or even truly understanding your own needs. Milton and Tilden are careful. They withdrew as you started to resist. The problem is that they withdrew for the wrong reasons. You need submission, real submission not an hour game in the playroom every weekend, but you don’t need it dressed in misbehavior or a guide to good living. You need it dressed in pleasing your dominants and submitting to their will. You know how to get enough sleep and brush your teeth.”

“I’ll never get it right.”

“Patience, boy.” Ryan swatted Mike’s thigh. “Talking might be the place to start. You tell Milton and Tilden that rules about bedtime and food and whatever else don’t make you find your submissive core. They make you feel belittled and resentful. You tell them what gets you hot and desperate. You tell them what makes you calm down and feel your submission beyond the erotic. You play as hard as you need; Milton can keep up, but you also live as hard as you need. I tread lightly with Blade, but I’m still there. I’m still the dominant. Milton treads heavily with Sheldon. He is the master, and he will always be more of a master than I will ever be. I learned to dominate in the playroom; Milton learned to dominate at Gordon’s knee.The Green Mountain Boys take their dominance into real life. Milton may be more careful and more articulate of the differences, but he is ultimately still a master. He’s a sexual dominant, and he gets off on dominating, but his dominance is beyond that. He’s Sheldon’s master, not because of the erotic, but because of something much deeper, something that is far more dangerous and far more complicated, something that both frightens and entices you.”

“I’m not a slave.”

“No, you’re not. Either is Blade, but sometimes I must take my dominance beyond the obvious scene. It’s the dominance that bleeds into real life that sets up the most erotic and dramatic scenes. It’s through my knowledge of Blade as the real man that I can make him fly and that I can push his limits. I won’t let him hide ever. It’s too dangerous. You can’t hide, Mike. That is what Milton is trying to teach you; that is why he spoke openly in front of you. He knew you were listening. He was trying to teach you about yourself in a way that is less abrasive and less confrontational. He can beat that knowledge into you, but make sure you want it that way.” Ryan rubbed the back of Mike’s neck, brisk and comforting. “Let’s go have dinner. You can watch me drop Blade for tonight. We’re both working, and I have to put him in headspace. He’s a beautiful sight, bound and on his knees.”

  

Mike's Saga 9

Mike’s Saga 9

Milton was in his study. The door was open; there was no excuse to hover in the hallway. Mike forced his foot over the threshold. The room looked as it always looked. The blinds pulled open to the trees and frosted grass below. The desk piled high with papers and books. Milton sat, head down, intently marking a paper.

“Shut the door. Take a seat.”

The door creaked and rattled and stubbornly tried to escape its latch. Old doors—old house. Mike perched on the edge of the armchair. Wood for a fire was stacked on the hearth, but no cheery blaze burned behind the grate. 

Milton still hadn’t looked up. He’d finished the first paper and moved to the next. How long was he going to make Mike wait? Mike reached for the book on the side table. It probably wasn’t interesting, but it was better than torture by tedium.

“I said sit, not read.”

Mike had only managed the title page. It was a book on Custer and his final battle. Prothetic? 

“I’m not a frog on a lily pad.” 

“On my time, not yours. Sit.”

Sit. Stay. Mike wasn’t a fucking dog. He wasn’t going to sit here and be ignored. “I’ll come back at a better time.” He stood and took one step toward the door.

Retribution was swift. Milton caught Mike in one stride, and a horrible sting landed on Mike’s thigh. Milton had a short whip; it must have been hidden behind the books and papers.

“Sit, boy.”

"No." 

Those two short letters were perhaps the most dangerous word in the English language at that moment. Milton flipped Mike over his lap and trapped Mike's flailing legs between his knees. Mike's boxers disappeared in an instant. He was bare and vulnerable and without any hope of mercy.

"Do you say no to me, boy?"

The correct answer was a fervent plea to the contrary, but Mike ground his teeth together in total silence. What was Milton going to do? A little spanking? Tedious lines or more tedious corner time? 

The first smack landed with an alarming strength. Mike hissed and grabbed at Milton's ankle. This wasn't some imitation of a childhood punishment. Why had he ever been under the illusion that Milton would go easy? Milton was hammering all the most sensitive areas. Mike squirmed and reached back, trying to cover his most vulnerable region.

No warning. No request to move his hands forward. The tiny whip stung across Mike's hand with a vicious cut. Mike bellowed something incomprehensible and jerked his hands away.

"You know better. Do I need to restrain you?"

Fuck Milton! Fuck this all! That wasn't fair. Milton didn't hit like that.

"I asked you a question, boy," The whip flicked across Mike's thighs, a searing line of fire.

Mike jerked and tried to tumble off Milton's lap. He couldn't do this; he couldn't breathe. "Stop! I can't!" 

The whip lit into his flesh again. Nothing could hurt that much. 

"Kathmandu!" Safeword. Mike was still trapped. Why wasn't Milton letting him up? 

"Steady. Breathe. I've put the whip on the floor."

"Let me up! Let me up, you fucker! I'm not doing this. I safeworded."

"Breathe, Mike. I want you to lie here and calm down. I'm not hurting you. This is not the first time for you to be over my knee. You don’t safeword out of a punishment when it’s not to your liking."

"Get off me!" Mike clawed at Milton's pants legs. He tried to hit Milton with his fists, only to have his wrists caught and trapped behind him.

"You aren't going anywhere."

"I safeworded." Mike knew his voice was panicked and desperate. He had to get up. Milton had to let him up.

"You did, and I'm not hitting you. This is punishment; walking away is not an option. I will let go of your wrists, but you will keep your arms behind your back, and you will stay down over my knees."

"I safeworded. It stops. I control this."

"To a degree. Punishment is different than play.” Milton’s voice was calm, a steady solid rhythm in a sea of fright. His hand moved up and down Mike’s back, the palm warm from the spanking. “That’s it. Calm. Remember those conversations long ago. In punishment a safeword brings about a discussion; it does not allow an escape. It’s not a get out of jail free card. Restraint is part of this punishment. I am not willing to yield there. I will calm you, I will talk to you, I won’t hit you, but I will not release you.”

“Please. Milton, please, let me up.” Mike knew his voice was full of panic, not a dignified adult tenor, but a childish whine, the little boy frightened by his first dark tunnel on a roller coaster, the chilled and exhausted boy after a long awaited trip to the zoo that turned into a deluge and an explosion of thunder.

"Mike, you must trust me. You want to submit. Submission is the giving of self; you can't snatch it back at the first sign of hardship. Give in to me."

"I don't like this."

"I know. You can handle physical pain, but here you must bend to my will. Pain you can bend to your own will and your own pleasure. Stillness, whether by word or by physical bondage, removes your control. You crave control and surrender, yet you fear it with all your heart. You will surrender to me. It won't be today. It won't be next week, but it will happen. I require it. I failed you before by not requiring it; I will not fail you again."

“I can’t. I don’t want this,” Mike mumbled, his words still thick with tears. Physically he’d stopped fighting. His body lay across Milton’s knee; his head hung down in a dizzying rush of blood. 

“Do you still need to safeword?”

Mike hesitated. He swallowed hard and shook his head, wishing he had long hair to hide his face.

"I know you're not happy. This wasn't about your pleasure."

"I hate this."

“I am going to let you up You will kneel beside me and contemplate your submission. You will contemplate my will. You will still be punished, but this is your break. I will separate the physical pain from bondage. Together it is an overload.”

Mike shifted on his knees. The rug next to Milton’s chair was soft, but still the position focused pressure on Mike’s knees. He’d knelt many times for Milton. It was Milton who had taught him proper protocol. Mike could put his body in the position; he always could. He liked this part, the sinking under the dominant’s gaze and hand. It was a role he enjoyed; he especially enjoyed the shock on men’s faces when he did this in public. He didn’t look like a sub, or at least not how most imagined a sub. He was tall and dark and didn’t walk with his eyes down. He wasn’t blond and small with a permanent blush on his cheeks.

“Let yourself go.” Milton’s thumb rubbed Mike’s neck, slow and hypnotic.

Mike looked up, catching a look of kindness in Milton’s eye that was almost overwhelming. “Have you ever safeworded, sir?” The sir felt natural; it rolled off Mike’s tongue without resistance.

“Twice for myself, and I have often pulled back with submissives, a silent safeword. Austin will fall easily and then panic. I’m the dominant; he’s very young; his safety is my responsibility.”

“You’ve often stopped scenes with me?” Maybe it was a question. Mike wasn’t sure; he wasn’t sure if he even truly wanted the answer.

“Yes, you don’t trust me.”

Mike stared at the rug. It was dark and worn at the corners with a few threads hanging loose. “I don’t trust anyone.”

“Tilden and I will make you trust. There is no other option. You have come home; we must now act.”

“What if you can’t?” Had he just said that? Why was he talking on his knees? He should be quiet; he was good at playing the role.

“We won’t fail.” The words were said with an absolute finality, a determination that was reassuring and frightening all at once.

“How can you be sure?”

Milton’s big hand cupped Mike’s chin. He forced Mike’s eyes onto him for a long searching moment. “I survived Gordon at seventeen. I made two into three and then into six. I have a slave. I have pledged his care and happiness. Austin loves you. Tilden, in all his careful gentleness, loves you. I love you.”

“I’m not Sheldon or Austin.”

“No, you’re not.” Milton stroked two fingers down Mike’s face. “You’re Mike. We live in a tapestry of relationships; each thread is important. The picture is not complete without every color of thread.”

Milton’s pen scratched across a paper. The desk drawer opened and closed. Somewhere downstairs there was the sound of footsteps and a door. The heating chugged and banged and blew hot air too close to Mike’s face. 

“Will you tell me why you safeworded?”

“Mike,” Milton said with a mixture of fondness and exasperation, “kneeling is usually a position of silent contemplation.”

“Sorry.”

“No, I’m not angry. I won’t punish you for talking. I’ve wanted you to talk to me without the easy shallowness that you pass off as conversation. Come here.” Milton reached down and pulled Mike to his feet. “The sofa is a better place for conversation.”

Mike allowed himself to be guided down against Milton and covered with a soft throw. He didn’t want coddled; he wasn’t breakable, but he didn’t resist the comfort.

“I don’t want you too comfortable.” Milton reached into his pocket and pulled out two leather wristbands. Black and brown leather was entwined together and finished off with a small brass clasp. “These are from Tilden and me. The black for me, the tan for Tilden. Separate yet one. They stay on all the time. You ask one of us to take them off to bathe or for any other reason.”

“At work?”

“They look like jewelry. No one will notice.”

Mike reached out and touched the soft leather. They were beautiful. They were his in all their symbolism and all their terror. “What if I say no?”

“This is a hard limit. You accept my bondage, or I will not dominate you.”

Mike stroked his fingers down the smooth leather. “I don’t like bondage.”

“I know. You gave me a demonstration earlier when you safeworded. Bondage represents me being in control. You both want and fear the control. This is nonnegotiable, Mike.”

Mike held out his hand, clenching his muscles tight to try to prevent the shaking. It had been a long time ago. Milton would never do that to him. This was the man who spanked and chatted.

“Mike, I know about your past. It’s time to let that go.”

“Tie me up. I’ll be fine.”

“No, you wouldn’t be. You safeworded less than an hour ago when I trapped you over my knee for a spanking. You must face your fears and conquer them. I will help, but it is you who must do the real work.”

“This is stupid. It’s all a game.”

“Real fear isn’t a game.” Milton circled his hand around Mike’s wrist and squeezed. “Someday I will bring both of us real pleasure, but first we must conquer the demons. I won’t punish you for safewording here. I understand the fear. I will release you, wait for you to calm down, and try again. I will teach you to accept bondage, to even like bondage. Having your wrists tied will be as common as brushing your teeth.” Milton fastened the slim pieces of leather around Mike’s wrists. “In a panic these would break. They are symbols of bondage, not actual implements. I want your brain to submit to the bondage. Hands behind your back. I have a quick release snap.” Milton showed Mike the snap. 

The snap clicked into place and Mike tugged against the leather and metal, feeling the panic rise in his gut. Last time… This was Milton. He was a college professor; he was harmless. He’d beaten Sheldon. He was feared in the community.

“Steady.” Milton tucked Mike against his chest and kissed the sweat streaked forehead. “Do you need to safeword?”

“No.” Mike gulped and swallow the bile that was rising in his throat. 

“Good boy. Trust. Submit.”

“Tell me about when you safeworded. Please.”

“Distract the hell out of me. I’m scared. I don’t want to do this. I hear you, Mike. Once I safeworded because I was terrified, the other time because I was angry.”

“You, afraid?”

“Very. Landon and Gordon play very hard and very close to the edge, especially Landon when he dominates. I lost it—freaked out as Austin would say.”

“What happened?”

“They aborted the scene in an instant and spent the next week analyzing it with me, teaching me to get through it, teaching me to enjoy the blurring of fantasy and reality, but also anchoring me in the reality by allowing me to see the protections put in place. They aren’t fools or reckless, just damn scary. Psychological manipulation.”

“That doesn’t sound fun.” The words sounded stupid to Mike’s ears, but what else was he to say? He liked the physical sensation. He liked a hot ass. He didn’t want whatever Milton was describing.

“Fun is such a generic term. Some people climb cliffs for fun or drive race cars; for other people fun is knitting a sweater for a friend or going to the movies and losing several hours pretending to be the hero. Scening with Landon and Gordon is all those things plus unimaginable arousal. Terror can be a powerful aphrodisiac when handled right.”

“Don’t I get more than generalities?” Mike shifted and felt the tug of the cuffs against his wrist. “I don’t like this.”

“Good boy.”

“Good boy?”

“Honesty, Mike. You want to play where Landon and Gordon took me, and without honesty it is unacceptably dangerous; some would always consider it unacceptably dangerous. I must have absolute trust that your responses are honest and genuine. I won’t harm you.”

What if Mike couldn’t? He knew he never let people close; Mike kept even Tilden with his gentle persistence at arm’s length. He knew he was family. He knew family was supposed to share everything.

“We can get you there if you want it.”

“You knew what I was thinking.”

“I watch you closely. You cannot hide--no part of you.” Milton ran his hand under the blanket and roughly fondled Mike’s cock and balls. “Not your sex, not your heart, not your mind. It must all be open and bare. The sex will be easy; it’s the other side you jealously guard. If you won’t give it to me, we are done here.”

“What if I can’t?”

“Do you want to?”

Mike nodded slowly. He wanted submission; he needed submission, but, God, he was incapable of it. 

“I will teach you, I will train you, and eventually I will force you. It is what Landon and Gordon gave me, and I was not an easy pupil. It is my duty to pass the knowledge onward.”

“You’re a dominant.”

“Yes, but to go to the edge I must be completely honest. I can spank a little and chase baby subs around for not eating breakfast and keep most of myself hidden. For what you want, I cannot hide anything. I would harm us both, and I would tear this sixsome to shreds.”

“Do the other boys have it?”

“Each relationship is different. You know better than to compare and contrast, but you are also not a child, and you deserve to understand everything to the best of my abilities. Sheldon owns me as much as I own him. I would never be master without that exchange. Austin I shield from my worst. I am still his teenage matinée idol; I hope to gradually draw the curtain back.”

“Austin’s not as young or as naive as you think.”

“You love that boy more than you understand.”

“Yes, and I hurt him.”

“You have to live with that. I can’t wish it all away. He is surprisingly resilient, and he’s very forgiving.”

“I’m an ass.”

“Stop it.” Milton landed a sharp slap on Mike’s ass. “It’s my privilege to punish and not yours.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good boy.”

Those two silly words felt good. Mike wanted the praise; he wanted to be Milton’s good boy.

“You could be a very good boy and you could be very happy if you’d let yourself.”

Right. Mike the perfect submissive. “Tell me about the rest of us.”

“Tilden has always had all of me; we were only deluding ourselves. He’s my friend and lover. He’s the softer side which I will never have. He’s who I imagined I would grow up to be.”

“Milton!”

“I’m a severe and intense dominant. I have learned to accept that. Tilden is far kinder, more generous, more of everything that I cannot be. Mothers grab their boys tighter when they see under my professorial persona; they hand their boys to Tilden with a smile. He isn’t dangerous; I am.”

“You aren’t dangerous.”

“I’m sitting here contemplating how hard I will finish our aborted spanking. I want to see your ass red and shiny. I want to hear you cry and beg. I want you to surrender to me. I am dangerous.”

“I want to surrender. I want to beg. Damn it! I don’t know how. Teach me. Make me.”

“That’s a challenge you might not want to give to me.”

“Make me,” Mike said more boldly. “Make me surrender.”

“I will,” Milton said with chilling ferocity. “I will, boy, and you won’t know what hit you.”

Mike swallowed hard. Milton sounded fierce and unforgiving. Mike had wanted this; he’d asked for it, however his brain and nervous system refused to pretend that all was well. 

“Stand up, boy. Turn around.” Milton unfastened Mike’s wrists. “Over my knee. Let’s finish our aborted spanking, shall we?”

Let’s not. How hard was Milton going to hit? Mike stood, staring at his bare feet and wishing he was still in bed with the lingering aroma of Luke and Tilden on the sheets.

“Mike,” Milton growled. 

Mike shuffled his feet; he crept closer to Milton’s waiting knees. He hated this position. He wasn’t comfortable over someone’s knee. He was too tall. Sheldon fit over Milton’s lap; Mike’s legs always hung in all directions as if they were oversized spaghetti. 

“Mike, is there a problem?” Milton asked gently.

Mike shook his head. Not wanting wasn’t a problem; Milton had made that clear enough.

“Over my knee is a declaration of submission. You are a submissive; you will yield to my will.”

“I’m trying,” Mike muttered.

“Take your shirt and sweatshirt off.”

“Milton!” Mike’s head shot up. He’d never been spanked naked in punishment. 

“Hesitation has consequences. It’s not as if I’ve never seen all of you. Strip off, boy.”

Mike jerked his sweatshirt off and threw it across the floor. Milton would want it folded; he could fucking ask, or Milton could do it himself. The T-shirt came off next. Mike left it at his feet in a crumpled ball.

“Temper.”

“Yes, I have a fucking temper. How would you feel standing here bare assed naked while I was fully clothed?”

Milton raised his eyebrows, his expression a granite coldness. “I lived with Gordon and Landon. I learned very quickly to keep a civil tongue and a proper attitude of contriteness. We have failed to teach you manners; our deficiency is most obvious now, and I will correct it. Come here, boy.” Milton patted his thigh.

Mike tried to move his feet forward. He’d gone too far. Milton was furious; those were the eyes that made Sheldon turn pale and could even shut up Blade and all his cocky bullshit.

“I can’t do this,” Mike heard the sounds, a strange and sick croaking. He bent down and snatched up his T-shirt. Milton struck him in a full body tackle. Mike tumbled forward, hitting the floor with a thump as Milton pinned him from above.

“So you didn’t want a spanking, boy?” Milton snarled, spit from his lips landing on Mike’s cheek and forehead. “Now you’ve earned yourself a beating instead of a nice hand spanking.” Milton jerked Mike upright and wrenched his wrists behind him. Milton’s voice changed to a fraction of its earlier volume. “Safeword?”

Safeword. Milton was giving him an out. Mike didn’t want an out. 

“Get off me you oversized gorilla. Get your fucking hands off me?” Mike tried to spin around; he tried to kick Milton. Barefoot and naked he was no match for Milton. He was plowed forward and bodily thrown over the desk.

Milton’s hand crashed down, an incessant tattoo on Mike’s ass. Milton slapped Mike’s legs apart and concentrated on the most tender skin.

“Shit! Asshole! Go crap on your mother’s grave!”

Milton shoved Mike forward, nearly knocking the wind from his lungs. Mike groaned and gasped for breath. He heard the sound of a belt being jerked through the loops.

The bellow was unintelligible. Mike flailed and scrabbled across the smooth surface of the desk. Papers fluttered to the floor; the desk lamp crashed down, followed by a stack of books. Nothing stopped the belt that was flying over Mike’s skin.

The tears came, deep and wrenching sobs. Mike had quit struggling. His fingers weakly clung to the slick corners; his chest heaved in a desperate struggle for air.

“On your knees, boy.” Milton spun Mike around and kicked his legs out from under him. “Ask me for the spanking you deserved earlier.” He loomed over Mike, his eyes a black fire. Sweat dotted his forehead, and his shirttail hung from his pants, the orderly neatness lost sometime during the struggle.       

“Please punish me, sir. Please punish your disobedient and disrespectful boy.”

“Over my knee, boy.” Milton sat in the desk chair, his broad thighs both inviting and terrifying. “Boy, this is your due. Don’t make me come get you.”

Mike stumbled to his feet and almost fell onto Milton’s lap. Milton’s arm wrapped around his waist, suddenly a comfort and not a restraint. His palm lightly stroked the inflamed skin on Mike’s ass.

“Spread your legs.” Milton’s finger stroked over Mike’s most intimate area. “True submission can be a pleasure. You want this.” Gently Milton slapped the skin on Mike’s ass and thighs, the strikes more a caress than an actual blow. Milton continued to spank, his hand making circuit after circuit. 

Mike hung limply across Milton’s lap, not trying to brace himself. The tears flowed down his cheeks unchecked. Nothing mattered but the rhythm of the hand falling and Milton’s strong arm anchoring Mike in place. 

“Submission.” Milton’s lips touched Mike’s sweaty back in a gentle kiss. “My sweet and beautiful boy. It’s in there. Only we must search for its buried treasure with more effort than Columbus stumbling onto the new world.”

Mike groaned. He was going to be so sore, but now it didn’t matter. He wanted only to lie across Milton’s knees and float. This was the rabbit hole where the world was topsy-turvy. Could he stay here forever?

“We’re going to walk across the hall to the shower and get cleaned up before both of us can’t move.” Milton slid Mike to his knees, stood up, and pulled Mike to his feet. Mike clung to Milton’s shoulders and somehow stumbled into the bathroom.

The water was hot. Milton’s arm was around Mike’s chest. Mike’s back pressed against the fur on Milton’s chest. He was being washed. Milton’s fingers massaged Mike’s scalp and trailed down Mike’s chest. A warm soapy cloth wiped over his abdomen, and confident hands soaped his groin area. Mike was bent forward and a thick, soapy finger pressed into his private entrance. The water and soap stung across his ass.

Warm spring rains. Tulips and daffodils and the return of the robins.

“You’re still floating, aren’t you, boy?”

Mike nodded. He knew there was a stupid grin on his face. He couldn’t help himself. His wrist cuffs were back on. The leather was smooth and beautiful. Milton had chained Mike to the towel bar. Why had this bothered him?

A fluffy towel patted against the chafed skin of Mike’s ass. He trembled and sighed as his legs seemed to spread apart on their own. 

“Next time, boy, not that it isn’t tempting.” Milton combed Mike’s hair and carefully shaved his face. He opened the medicine cabinet and coated one hand with gel before rubbing it across Mike’s ass and thighs. “You’ll feel these. It can’t be helped.”

“Feels good,” Mike moaned.

“You’re still high.” Milton smiled and kissed Mike’s cheek. “Am I going to need a helmet for when you crash?”

“Yeah,” Mike said, not really knowing what he was saying.

“I thought so. Put this on.” Milton wrestled Mike into an oversized shirt. “Come.” He held out his hand.

“Pants?” 

“Later maybe. I wanted to admire the lovely red that is peeking out in the most enticing places, plus pants will hurt. Come.”

Mike wrapped his hand in Milton’s. When was the last time he’d held hands like this? Strangers would take his hand as Mommy and Daddy climbed into a car, waved, and smiled.

“I’ve got you. I know it’s wearing off. I can see it in your eyes; they aren’t as glazed, but there’s no hurry. Subspace is to be cherished, especially if you’re going to make me break the lamp to get you there.”

Mike remembered the struggle to get him across the desk, the papers and the lamp. He felt a blush on his cheeks. “Sorry.”

“No.” Milton kissed Mike, his mouth demanding surrender. “Stay down a little longer. You deserve it. I want to enjoy my sweet and beautiful submissive for a few minutes.”

“I fought you.”

“Mike,” Milton growled. “I thought I told you to enjoy yourself. I guess my five minutes of obedience is up.”

“Sorry.” Mike felt tears welling in his eyes. He blinked and looked down.

“Ugh,” Milton said with wry amusement, “that wasn’t a reprimand. That was a fact. It is going to take practice to keep you in headspace. I was hoping you might enjoy it for a few more minutes.” Milton wrapped Mike in a firm hug. “We’ll talk about all this later when you can remember the name of the president and know the alphabet beyond the third letter.”

“OK,” Mike said, agreeing easily, but yet somehow knowing he should be pulling away. “I’m hungry.” 

“Good boy. Let yourself alone for a few more minutes.”

****

Mike lay sprawled across the sofa, his head in Tilden’s lap, Tilden’s hand tracing gentle lines down his back. Mike’s stomach rumbled contently. Milton had fed him: roast beef, crunchy French bread, cookies, and a glass of orange juice. Mike had stood at the kitchen counter and eaten with Milton comfortably at his back. 

“Mike, are you with us?”

“Uh,” Mike mumbled and tried to bring himself into the present. They’d been talking; he had heard the voices over him, but it seemed like too much effort to focus on the words.

“Tired?” Milton bent down and kissed Mike’s face. “You are a very good boy. Shut your eyes and drift off. There is nothing you need to do. Sleep.”

****

“Did he just fall asleep to your orders?” Tilden whispered.

“Maybe.” Milton sat down next to Tilden, his hand covering Tilden’s and momentarily stilling its motion over Mike’s back. “I didn’t kill him.”

“I heard the crashing. I took Austin into the basement. Urgent laundry. We couldn’t stay out running all morning.”

Milton squeezed Tilden’s wrist. “Consensual non consent. It’s what he needs.”

“What did you break?”

“The lamp. I didn’t break Mike.”

“He’s bruised.”

“Yes. Does he look unhappy now?”

“No.” Tilden’s eyes studied the sleeping figure on his lap.

“He’s sleeping because I threw him over the desk, pinned him down, and beat him with my belt. He’s sleeping because I made him get down on his knees and beg me to punish his disrespectful ass.”

“Milton.” Tilden tried to pull his hand away from Milton. 

“Don’t you pull away. We are his dominants. You don’t get to pretend your hands are clean from the part you consider ugly. I won’t ask you to throw him into the bookcase or punch him in the gut, but you don’t get to disapprove under that remote and polite exterior. We are in this together. I’ll do the beating, but don’t you dare silently disapprove, not when you reap the benefits of a sweet and happy boy.”

“Milton, I’m not this sort of man.”

Milton stood up and jammed his hands into his pockets. His fingers pressed into the few coins and his keys. “And I’m the brutal one, the one who hurts for fun, the one who is in the same class as Gordon? You’re married to me mister. You love it when I have my cock buried in your ass and your hands pinned over your head. You don’t get to pretend this is all clean and neat. I enjoy it. I enjoy the power; I enjoy the blistering heat of flesh well beaten; I enjoy a boy who looks at me with fear and desperation and longing and pure, unshielded adoration. I enjoy a boy who is thrilled to be at my mercy. I care about my boys, I love my boys, but I’m not pretending my power is some altruistic aid to teach boys to live a good life. It’s not. I dominate for my pleasure. I’m not a sociopath. The pleasure is not evil when handled with responsibility and care and love.”

“Milton, I didn’t mean it that way.” Tilden’s eyes were wide with pain and anguish. “I love you.”

“And yet you loathe this.”

“Make me understand it. I love Mike. I want Mike happy. I don’t want him leaving again. Teach me. You’re a teacher.”

Milton dropped to his knees and caught Tilden’s hand. He listened to the soft snores from Mike. That boy could sleep through a hurricane. He was enticing in his sleep, his face placid, his long legs hanging over the sofa edge, his face pressed into Tilden’s lap with complete trust. 

“His submission is as complicated as your dominance,” Tilden said gently into the silence. “I understand Luke. He doesn’t want to be bruised and battered and thrown into the furniture. I understand Austin. I feel he’s too young. I’ve heard your arguments, and intellectually I understand, but he was a child in this house. I know he’s now no younger than Mike and Luke were in the beginning, but I hadn’t known them as children.”

“He’s not a child. Do you think I’m a pedophile?”

“God, no! But I still see the shadows of the fifteen-year-old who sassed you at dinner when I see you kiss him, when I see him naked and the tattoo ripples across his back, when I hear him groan when you bury yourself in his ass. I know he’s an adult. I know he understood his choices; you made sure of that. I know he’s a submissive; it was obvious at fifteen.”

“Your mother has forgiven me.”

Tilden grimaced and then smiled. “My mother is far more forward thinking about sexuality than I am, but she was a high school principal. A seventeen-year-old with a man of your age was at first concerning, and then she saw you together. She thinks you walk on water.”

“She’ll be disappointed. I sink like everyone else.”

“You make me happy.” Tilden bent forward and kissed Milton gently.

“Even with this?”

“I don’t like physical violence. I’m trying to understand.”

“I spank you.”

“When you spank me it’s erotic. I give myself to you; you don’t beat me.”

“Mike can’t give himself to me without the fight. It’s who he is, and it’s where we erred before.”

“Will our furniture survive?”

“Stop it.” Milton swatted at Tilden’s knee. It wasn’t a real swat, more a feeble attempt to break the tension. They were both trying to lighten the mood, Tilden with his flippant comment and Milton with his swat. This wasn’t something that lent itself to lightness and joviality. This was hard for both of them. It was hard for the boy who was now sleeping so soundly.

Milton flipped himself around and sat on the floor, hugging his knees with his back to the sofa. Landon or Gordon would have forced him back around, but Tilden wasn’t that sort of man. It was easier to speak looking away. Milton valued his privacy; he’d revered his grandfather’s quiet strength, the solidness of a man of very few words, but Landon and Gordon had also taught him the value of words and the need to be able to speak of wants and emotions that few could understand.

“Mike needs submission. He needs deep submission, but he also needs to fight. We backed off when he fought before. We read it as a signal that he wished to go no further. We were wrong. He wants to go much further. He wants to give it all up; he wants to fly. He finds peace and release and a happiness that has always eluded him when the dominance moves toward absolute force. He faked it well enough for a while, but underneath that boy has never been happy. He loves you; he loves Luke, but he was missing something. Maybe it’s partially from his parents’ abandonment. I don’t know, but I am as uncomfortable equating extreme submission with bad childhood as I am equating extreme dominance with some childhood mishap. I had an idyllic childhood, and I am an extreme dominant. The proteins in my DNA must have been folded in the path of dominance.”

“Your grandfather was a dominant.”

“Yes, and most likely my father, but my father didn’t understand it, and he killed himself with drugs. No one ever spoke of my father except in guarded whispers when they thought I was out of earshot, but I’m a historian; I know how to put clues together to create a coherent and plausible history. I was packed off to Gordon and Landon at seventeen because my grandfather saw it in me. He wanted to keep me safe and my future lovers safe. They probably saved me from myself. I know they kept me out of jail; an adolescent with hormones and my tendencies is a menace to society.”

“You are a good man.” Tilden ran his fingers through Milton’s hair. “I know you are a good man. I don’t always understand, but I know you love us.”

“Gordon and Landon taught me that I was good, taught me that wanting to hit didn’t make me a freak, that I could control the dangerous side. They both beat me; they came very close to torturing me, or something that many people would consider torture, but yet they loved me, and I saw a generosity of spirit in those two that I have seen nowhere else. They are absolutely safe when the terror becomes too real to bear. I don’t submit easily.”

“They forced you.” 

“Consensual non consent. I was forced, but I had also consented. It’s a difficult concept, and something many feel is always too risky.”

“It was hard? You feared it?” Tilden’s hand rested on Milton’s shoulder, gentle and silent support.

“Yes, Landon creates very powerful dark fantasies. He is a dungeon master. There is an actual dungeon under the lake house. He locked me in there. I don’t know how long. There was no light but a bare bulb high overhead in a cage. The only stimulation was the guards coming to feed me and Landon and Gordon coming to torture me. I was the king’s prisoner, suspected of espionage and subject to the king’s inquiry and justice. The floor was dirt and straw, and the food gruel and scummy water. I safeworded.”

“What happened?”

“They took me upstairs to the big sunny room with the white couches. You’ve been in that part of the house. They held me while I was completely hysterical for several hours. I’d forgotten it was fake. I’d started to feel as if I were that prisoner. They spoiled me rotten for a week, showed my the inner workings of the dungeon, and we did it again. I flew the next time. It was the only time I stayed in subspace for any length of time. I understand the fantasy of being chained and beaten and kept in the closet as a convenient sex toy. I remember them both damn near raping me. I was kneeling on that filthy floor, and Landon had his cock jammed down my throat. My nose was mashed into his groin, and Gordon mounted me with a brutal thrust. I was impaled between the two of them: filthy, exhausted, entirely submissive to their will, and I loved it. I had the most spectacular orgasm. I had another great one a few days later in a very warn and clean bath with two very gentle lovers, but it wasn’t as good as when I was being tortured in their dungeon.”

“You want to lock Mike in a dank and filthy dungeon?”

Milton listened to the gentle sound on Mike’s breathing, the light snores and the occasional half sighs. Mike slept with such trust and beauty. Could Milton be worthy of what he needed? Could he take him to the very edge of sanity?

“I want Mike to be able to have that fantasy if he wants it. It’s not wrong or evil or sick to want that fantasy. He wants to fight and to struggle and to finally surrender. I was able to give him a taste today, but he must be more open and honest before he can have the whole meal. He safeworded on me.”

“When? When you threw him over the desk?”

“No, when I treated him like Sheldon or Austin. I tried to show him the daily submission, the submission that can be infused into real life. He needs that side also, but he wouldn’t yield. He fought and he safeworded. I was only spanking him over my knee. It wasn't about physical pain. It was about yielding, and it was about the idea of bondage and the submission bondage requires, especially self bondage which you cannot physically fight.”

“Did you stop?”

“Yes, but I kept him over my knee. I explained, but he cannot yet understand. Without the lamp smashing, he equates surrender with something he doesn’t want to be: weak, childish, needy, effeminate. He was very young and very lost when he first came to us. His submission was tied into a role of near guardianship by us. He doesn’t want that. He’s a man now, not a boy who can’t do his homework. Luke is gentle; he paints, enjoys classical concerts, and lives with his nose in a book with Cyrillic script. That is not a picture of modern masculinity. Mike has associated his submission with emasculation and childish behavior. We must teach him differently. We must teach him that a submissive is strong and masculine and adult, and right now he needs the brutality to feel strong. He wants to yield, and eventually he will yield as Jer does from a slight look, but not now. He has to feel that he is forced to yield, not that he offers it with demure pleasure. I can make him feel the force. I can be brutal and cruel, and I can and will enjoy it. Can you accept that?”

“I must,” Tilden said simply after a long pause. His fingers played in Milton’s hair, and without turning Milton knew the expression on Tilden’s face. The scatter of violet that brightened his blue eyes would be still; fine furrows would knit his brow.

“He’ll need you for aftercare. He’ll need your love and your gentle presence. You’re the contrast; you’ll show him the pleasure of yielding without being bruised and battered.”

“You’ll need me to,” Tilden said, fisting Milton’s hair with sudden strength. “You speak of enjoying the brutality, of understanding your demons, but I see how much you resist creating true pain. You’re kinder and gentler than you let yourself believe. You see the kindness in Gordon; let yourself see it in yourself.”

“I wanted to take him when I had him over the desk. I could barely stop myself.”

“Dominance is part of your sexuality. No one condemns a man for being interested in a beautiful, naked woman. Why shouldn’t you be interested in your own sexual pleasure laid out in front of you? You didn’t take him, not that I think Mike would have objected.”

“He wasn’t in any condition to consent. He was too far gone.”

“Next time he’ll understand more, and you can negotiate your pleasure. It’s as you called it earlier consensual non consent.”

Milton groaned and leaned his head back, trying to catch Tilden’s eye. “It’s the most difficult negotiation there is.”

“Mike’s not always honest. He might have to get burnt a few times to understand the value of honesty. It won’t kill him.”

“I won’t have him thinking it’s rape.”

“He won’t. You aren’t capable of rape. Don’t.” Tilden jerked Milton’s hair as he started to speak. “I live with you. I love you. I know what you are capable of, and rape is not one of your capabilities. I’m not naive. I fear your unshielded dominance, and I know you shield it with me and especially with Luke, and you’re going to turn it loose with Mike. I’ll stay out of the flames.”

“The flames are scorching. My dominance is worse than Gordon’s. It is deeper and darker than you can imagine.”

“It’s also sunny and light and damn close to fatherly at times. Trust yourself. Have you talked to Gordon or Landon recently?”

“Are you sending me to them?”

“I’m asking if you should go to them.”

Milton twisted around and studied Tilden’s face. “I’ll go to them, but I want you with me. He’s your boy, and I’m also your boy. You can’t step back anymore. You are a dominant.”

“I submit to you.”

“You are a dominant. You are not my submissive, not in the way of the other boys. You yield with grace to a friend and a lover. You submit to no one else. It is not your natural state.”

“With you it’s easy.” Tilden kissed Milton. At first his tongue swept against Milton’s teeth and demanded entrance. The kiss lengthened and with a gentle invitation he yielded to Milton and welcomed Milton inside. Tilden slid Mike’s head onto a pillow and stood. His long fingers undid the top two buttons of his shirt, and he shucked it over his head. He kicked off his shoes, and his pants dropped down over his slim hips into a pile at his ankles. “Take me.”

“Tilden!”

“Take me.” Tilden ran his hand over Milton’s groin, feeling for the bulge hidden under the layers of clothing. “I know you want to, and I’m offering.”

Milton grabbed Tilden’s hand and jerked it behind his back. He pulled Tilden close; Milton wrapped his arm around the narrow waist and kissed the offered neck. His tongue flicked over the skin and slowly he sank his teeth down. Tilden groaned, but didn’t move, his body still, a perfect offering.

“You’ll have a mark.”

“I’ll wear a turtleneck.” Tilden pressed closer, rubbing shamelessly against Milton.

Milton licked Tilden’s neck and bit down again. He knew it hurt; he could feel Tilden tense as the teeth broke his skin, but Tilden didn’t pull away. He stayed, offering his surrender and trust.

Milton pressed his fingers to Tilden’s lips. “Suck.” Tilden’s tongue was hot, wet, and heavenly. He laved the fingers in spit. “My wanton friend.” Milton pulled his fingers from the glistening lips, spun Tilden around, and shoved two deep inside the tempting flesh. Tilden yelped at the sudden intrusion. “Quiet. Don’t wake the sleeping boy.”

“Ah,” Tilden tried to muffle the groan as Milton’s fingers scissored inside him.

“Shh.” Milton bit down hard on Tilden’s shoulder and added a third finger. Tilden spread his legs; a delightful groan rose from his lips. “So ready. So wanting,” Milton whispered in Tilden’s ear. “You love being my toy. No proper Russian teacher here. You want more. You want to feel me buried to the hilt. You want to be helpless as you mewl and buck and pleasure me with abandon.”

“Please,” Tilden whined.

“It’s the middle of the afternoon on Saturday. Someone might walk in. It’s not proper.”

“I don’t care. Fuck me.”

“Very well, I will.”