Master

Master

Sheldon ran his hand down his bare neck; the collar was on the dresser of the hotel next to his laptop and cell phone. He knew he should button his shirt several more buttons and that his jeans were obscenely tight for a man of his age and position. He was Milton’s submissive. He was in a sixsome. Fuck it! He’d been Milton’s boy. What was he now—a member of some stupid pack. He swiped his hand across his eyes. He wasn’t going to cry again. He’d spent enough of the last six months hiding in bathrooms and crying his eyes out. He was supposed to be over it; he was supposed to be one of many.

The club was crowded. It had been unassuming from the street, nothing but a plain brown door in a cement wall filled with other plain brown doors. It could have been a warehouse or a call center or a machine shop. Two doors later and an inquisitive bouncer with eyes that showed a longing to do far more than look, Sheldon was inside the club. It had kept its warehouse feel with bare concrete walls and exposed metal beams, but it was anything but a warehouse. Moans and the thunk of a paddle against naked flesh rose above the conversation and the clink of glasses. Sheldon braced himself as a flogger struck a freckled blond submissive who screamed a full throttle plea at each blow. 

Sheldon ordered a Coke from a bartender and retreated to a far table. He still couldn’t make himself drink alcohol. Milton’s law. He should be free of Milton’s law, but it was habit. He crushed the ice between his molars and tried not to look at the man withering in bondage as his master flicked a line of clothespins on his chest.

“I’ve not seen you here before.”

Sheldon turned to see a tall man with dark curls smiling at him. “Original pick-up line.”

The man flushed slightly, a pleasant pink highlighting his cheekbones. “I never was any good at this.” The man laughed, the color deepening on his cheeks. “Might I join you?"

Sheldon nodded and pushed the chair from the table. This guy looked normal enough, boringly normal compared to most of the others. He was dressed in black jeans and a white golf shirt which outlined his tan biceps.

“Coke?” The man asked, glancing at Sheldon’s drink.

“Yeah, I don’t drink and play.” Sheldon tried to sound confident, the way he would imagine Blade answering the question.

“Smart. I’m Hank. So do you want to?”

Just like that—no preliminaries or getting to know him. “Yeah, cool, man.”

“It’s yes, sir, boy.” Hank’s tone had changed, and his eyes were no longer laughing. “Your safewords.”

“Red and yellow.” Unoriginal but somehow his normal safewords felt like they belonged to Milton. Everything belonged to Milton. Sheldon was going to stop that tonight. He was no longer Milton’s boy. Unconsciously he touched the smooth skin of his neck; he’d become used to the warm leather against his skin, the slight aroma that reminded him of saddles and horses and long ago summer camp.

“What do you like?”

“Hand, paddle, flogger.” Milton had used the flogger a few times. It wasn’t the hand, but it wasn’t the whip either. 

“Off limits?”

“No marks. No cutting.”

“I wouldn’t,” Hank said softly. “This is a little fun; I don’t torture strangers. Shall we?” Hank stood and held out his hand.

Hank’s hand was different, his nails manicured and his fingers more slender. Sheldon followed, not wanting to look, wanting to pretend. The leather of the spanking bench was smooth and smelled of polish. Sheldon tugged against the cuffs. They were unyielding, but not painful.

“Are you ready, boy?” Hank’s hand rested on Sheldon’s exposed ass cheeks: too light, too tentative, too gentle.

“Yes, sir.” Sheldon screwed his eyes shut. He could hear Milton; he could see Milton. A light slap brushed one cheek then another. The rhythm was quick, quicker than Milton's. Sheldon could feel his skin warming. Hank was hitting harder, each blow impacting the skin with reassuring force. Sheldon jerked against his bonds. The paddle stung down his thighs. He wanted to kick and cry out. He bit his tongue, tasting a mixture of blood and tears in his mouth. Hank swung the paddle with practiced force, the swats tattooing rapid heat and pain across Sheldon’s ass and thighs. 

Sheldon knew he was crying hard now. He could hear it in his ears, sobs that shook his shoulders and strained to escape his chest.

“Easy, boy.” The man’s fingers stroked Sheldon’s sweaty hair back; his lips touched Sheldon’s forehead. “Beautiful, boy. You took that well.” The man’s fingers were swift and sure on the buckles of the restraints, and he pulled Sheldon into a tight embrace.

It wasn’t Milton. The smell was wrong. The arm on Sheldon’s shoulder was light and cautious, not heavy and demanding. Sheldon sagged against the man, against Hank. He didn’t even know Hank’s last name. Hank didn’t know Sheldon’s name at all. He hadn’t asked. Sheldon stumbled against Hank. He’d just let a stranger beat him. He forbade Milton this joy, and he’d let a stranger hear him cry, and he’d fallen into a stranger’s arms for comfort.

Sheldon couldn’t stop the tears. Someone had thrown a blanket over his shoulders. Hank was offering Sheldon water, his voice laced with concerned.

“Kiddo, you’re OK. What do you need?”

“I want to go home.” Sheldon jerked from the reassuring touch. This wasn’t the right touch. What had he done?

“I’ll take you.” Hank’s voice had morphed into a demand. 

Sheldon swayed, still clutching at the blanket, unable to make his lips form the necessary words. He’d be fine; he just needed to be alone.

“Where do you live?”

“Hotel.” The word was thick and strained, not the voice Sheldon knew. 

“Where?”

“Radisson.”

Sheldon didn’t remember exactly how he returned to his room. His feet had moved along the sidewalk; the ding of the elevator bell had reverberated in his ears. He stumbled into the room and collapsed face first onto the bed. He buried his head in the hotel pillow, wishing for the scent of Milton or at least their usual laundry detergent.

“Sit up.” A hand grabbed Sheldon’s wrist. A collar was waved under his nose—his collar. “You’re someone’s boy. Milton Brown. Who?”

Sheldon shook his head and tried to bury himself in the too many pillows.

“Boy, who?” The hand is Sheldon’s hair jerked upward. The slap across the cheek wasn’t hard enough to mark, but it stung. “Who?”

“My dominant.”

“Jesus! I don’t play with other people’s boys. You idiot! You fucking idiot! Call him.” The last was a roar, and Sheldon flinched backward, the tears flowing unchecked down his face. “Boy.” The hand was gently as it stroked Sheldon’s cheek. “Can you call him? He’s not dead?”

Sheldon shook his head.

“Shh. You need to call.” The bed sagged as Hank sat and pulled Sheldon into his chest. He searched Sheldon’s pants, finding the phone, and scrolling through the contacts.

Sheldon sat, his mind unable to will himself to do anything but leak pointless tears down his face. He should call, or he should grab the phone and smash it into bits.

Sheldon wasn’t sure how he was understanding, but he knew it took three calls before Hank found Milton. The conversation had been half rapid, half apologetic on Hank’s end, but Sheldon knew Milton was on his way. 

“You’re coming with me, Mr. Zath.” Hank’s hand was on Sheldon’s elbow. There was nothing to do, but go where he was being led.

The house was big with glass wall and some crazy waterfall in the front hall. Sheldon was hustled and coerced through some semblance of a a nighttime ritual and tucked into a bed that could have slept five. 

“Stay put.”

*******

Hank swirled the liquor around in his glass. Even the best whiskey didn’t have much flavor tonight. Hank played; he wasn’t a lifestyle dominant, but he enjoyed his nights out at the club and his fun in his basement. He’d recognized the name on the collar tag. Milton Brown—the head of the legendary Green Mountain Boys. He hadn't believed his own eyes at first, but the prefix for the third phone number he'd called had been Vermont. Hank wasn’t sure how much of the lore was real or legend, but he’d come damn close to fucking Master Brown’s boy. What a fuck up!

He swallowed another splash of whiskey, letting the burn anchor him in reality. Milton had said he’d be here before morning. Hank checked again to make sure the outside lights were illuminated and settled down on the sofa. He’d turned on the TV, but his eyes were only registering swirls of color as his mind imagined the worst. He’d played with someone else’s boy, not just an anonymous someone else, but the head of the Green Mountain Boys.

Hank knew the legends. How many rules had he violated? How many taboos had he broken? No one played with any seriousness and didn’t know those names. What would they do to him? Hank had felt the whip a few times. It wasn’t something he was anxious to relive, especially for real. Shit! He ran his hand through his short curls. He needed to work Monday; maybe he should call in sick.

It was the doorbell that woke him. Hank stumbled into the hall and threw back the bolt. A big man with a single small backpack slung over his broad shoulders stood at the door.

“Milton Brown?”

“Yes.” The handshake was firm and natural. The eyes behind the glasses were friendly or at least not hostile. “Thank you, Mr. Aldershot.”

No threats. No growling. Hank was being thanked.

“Where’s my boy?”

Hank motioned Milton forward. Milton paused at the bedroom door and look into the room without a word. His eyes studied the sleeping figure, and he didn’t seem to relax until he’d observed the regular motion of the man’s chest.

“Sheldon.” The word was half whispered, almost a plea or an incantation, before Milton stepped inside the room and gently shut the door.

****

Sheldon opened his eyes to bright light and the smell of coffee. “Milton!”

“Yes.” The tone was flat and cool and curled in the pit of Sheldon’s stomach.

“Sir?”

“Am I still that?” Milton loomed over the bed; his finger traced Sheldon’s bare neckline. “What am I, Sheldon? Do you want out? You only had to ask.”

“No, Milton, no!” Sheldon grabbed for Milton’s hand, managing only to catch the sleeve of Milton’s shirt. His clung as tightly as any small boy to his mother. “Please. Don’t.”

“What do you want, Sheldon?”

Sheldon dove from the bed and clutched at Milton’s legs. “Don’t leave me. Don’t go. Master. Please. I need you.”

“I have never been master.” Milton buried his fingers in Sheldon’s short hair and jerked him to his feet. “Hands behind your head. Feet wide.”

Sheldon struggled to find the stance. He’d seen Milton do this with Mike and Austin. Milton’s hands were everywhere, circling Sheldon’s neck, tracing a line between Sheldon’s nipples. Milton’s hands caressed and prodded the red skin of Sheldon’s ass and thighs. A hacking spit, and a finger entered Sheldon’s ass as the opposite hand grasped his cock and balls.

“Be still.” 

The hands disappeared. Milton strode into the connected bathroom and washed his hands without a word. His steps clattered over the hardwood floor. He stood in front of Sheldon, his big body blocking everything else from Sheldon’s vision. Two hands grabbed Sheldon’s head, familiar hands, hands that smelled of home. 

“Physically you look all right. Mentally…”

“Milton, please. Oh, God!” Sheldon tried to swallow the tears. He fell against Milton, his fingers clutching Milton’s shirt. “Please.”

“Stand up.” The words were soft, gentle, far too sympathetic. “Wrap this around yourself.” Milton pulled the blanket from the bed and draped it around Sheldon. “What do you need?”

“I need you. Please. Sir. Master.” Sheldon knew he was incoherent. He just wanted Milton to hold him, to make it all right, to punish him. 

“Your collar is off, Sheldon. I will not have this conversation as dominant and submissive.”

“No,” Sheldon keened and threw himself at Milton’s feet.

“Sheldon, get up.” 

“No. Please, Master.”

Milton dropped to one knee; his big hand caught Sheldon’s chin. “What do you want from me? Do you want me to handle this as a wayward and ungrateful submissive, a disobedient boy?” Milton paused, his dark eyes never leaving Sheldon’s face. “I will beat you. We don’t do this.”

Sheldon swallowed hard and stared back. “I need to hurt. I want to suffer for you. I need to feel you.” Sheldon shook as he watched Milton’s eyes travel down his face and as he heard the soft swallowed sigh. The kiss on his forehead was firm and possessive.

“I love you, and you’re asking me to put you through hell. Maybe this is my punishment also. Prepare yourself, boy,” Milton snapped, his voice a frozen tundra. “Kneel. Hands behind your back. I will prepare.”

Sheldon’s knees hurt; he couldn’t escape the bite of the pine floor. Milton had been gone for minutes. Sheldon could see the glowing numbers of the clock. Each number slid into the next with agonizing slowness.

“Up, boy.” Leather was strapped to his wrists and ankles, and he heard the clink of chains. “This way.”

Sheldon was led into the hall, naked and chained. His bare feet were soundless across the floor. The house was vast, bigger than Sheldon’s first impression. They climbed down a set of winding stairs, the chains clinking as they brushed the metal treads. The basement was only half underground and looked out into a walled garden of tall sunflowers, finches feasting on the bounty.

“Here, boy.” Milton clipped Sheldon’s wrists to hanging chains and his feet to steel rings recessed into the floor. “Your safewords apply; use them.”

Milton’s hands disappeared, and Sheldon strained to look behind him. He could already feel the strain in his shoulders and thighs of a body stretched to an unnatural star. He’d been bound a few times but not like this. These were tight, and he curled his hands around the chain, trying to ease the already impossible strain.

“What do you want, boy?” 

God, Milton was behind him again. Sheldon hadn’t heard the footfalls. He flinched as a single finger stoked his shoulder.

“Ask for it, boy.”

“Punish me. Hurt me. I want to suffer for you, sir.”

“You will suffer, boy. I will take you places you never imagined.”

The leather struck Sheldon’s back, a thousand sparks as each tail lit a line of fire across his skin. The strands hit everywhere, covering his back in a hatch work of flames. Sheldon knew he was screaming. He could hear his voice reverberating around the room and pounding in his ears.

The blows stopped; fingers traced the new welts. “What do you want, boy?”

“Hurt me more, sir. I need to suffer more.”

“Very well, boy.”

Milton’s hand touched Sheldon’s face, wiping the wet tears. A cloth was tied snugly around his eyes. It was dark, totally dark. Sheldon felt himself shiver, fear cold against his skin.

“Do you need to safeword, boy?”

“No, sir.” It would be so easy to say the word. This could end right now. Milton would honor it; he would always honor it. He was a good man; he was a man of honor.

A whip snapped across Sheldon’s chest. Sheldon hadn’t known his voice went that high. The scream was still in the air as Milton’s finger outlined the single welt.

“Do we stop now, boy?”

“No. No! I want to suffer. I need to suffer.”

The whip struck like lighting, its fire on his chest, on his abdomen, down his thighs, and even across his testicles. He was sobbing now, uncontrolled wailing sobs. He couldn’t control the noise. There was nothing but pain and noise.

“Breathe, Sheldon.” Milton’s lips touched Sheldon’s fevered forehead. “Do you need more?”

Sheldon choked and gasped before finally managing a hoarse whisper. “Punish me, sir. Hurt me more, sir.”

Milton’s hand was on Sheldon’s ass, firm and heavy. The spank was hard, tearing a scream from Sheldon’s agonized throat. “Mine, boy. This is mine. No one touches this, but me and those who are mine.” The hand kept falling, an endless tattoo of heat and pain.

Suddenly Sheldon’s hands were jerked down. He hadn’t felt the chains being removed; all he could feel was the fire everywhere.

“Forward, boy. Bend over.”

Sheldon collided against something, a spanking horse, a sofa arm. He didn’t know. The welts on his stomach sang a fierce chorus of agony. Milton’s slick finger was against his ass, a perfunctory stretch before he was impaled. 

“Mine.” The growl was fierce and possessive and all encompassing.

Sheldon’s brain was short circuited. He couldn’t tell what was pain, what was pleasure. All he could do was lie there and take it. Milton’s hand was on Sheldon’s cock, bringing it alive with firm strokes.

“Come, boy.”

Unbelievably he came through the pain and the tears. Milton came at the same time, sinking his teeth into Sheldon’s shoulder with a fierce growl. Sheldon slumped forward. He couldn’t move. Milton’s arm was around his chest; wet fingers were shoved in Sheldon’s mouth. “Clean them, boy.”

Sheldon tasted himself as his tongue laved the fingers. His body and his mind had no will of their own. He knew he was in Milton’s arms; he knew water had been pressed to his lips and a blanket tucked around his limp and shivering body. The blindfold had been removed, but the world wouldn’t come into focus. He could feel pain and euphoria, and he didn’t know what.

“You’re going to hurt like hell. Swallow these.” Two capsules were placed on Sheldon’s tongue. “Swallow.” There was no question of obedience. Milton owned him, every piece of his pain and his pleasure. He owned the flaming skin and the screaming muscles and everything underneath. He owned Sheldon’s soul.

“Master.”

“Shh. You’re going to come down like a rock. Sheldon, that was one hell of a way to get into subspace.”

Milton’s voice was so real in Sheldon’s ear. It was all Sheldon wanted to hear.

“I love you.”

“I know.” Milton kissed Sheldon’s dry and cracked lips. “You love me even when I am a dominant asshole. I don’t deserve you, my precious boy. Fortune has been kind beyond words. Rest now. We’ll talk more later.”

****

Milton folded another stack of laundry. Sheldon still wasn’t moving well. His body was a mass of healing welts and a rainbow of starburst bruises. The mirrors in the bathroom hadn’t hidden anything from Sheldon’s prying eyes. Sheldon was still asleep on the sun lounger, stretched out on the oldest and softest towel in Gordon’s stash. This was Gordon and Landon’s beach house: private, warm, and well stocked. Everything from fresh flowers to grass fed beef grilled to perfection was only a phone call away. 

Milton would have to bring Sheldon in soon. Even with all that sunblock, he would burn and that was the last thing his boy needed. Sheldon hurt. It was obvious in every cautious breath and every guarded movement. The warm swimming pool helped; Milton would take Sheldon for another swim before he brought him in for lunch. They needed to talk more too. Milton twirled the knob on the washing machine. He was a silent and resolute New Englander. He’d hide in the laundry rather than force the words from his mouth. He knew better. Without Sheldon his world would fall apart. Why couldn’t he manage to get it across to the boy?

“You asshole! You fucking sadistic asshole!” Milton was thrown against the wall, a powerful hand tight around his throat.

“Ryan,” Milton gasped, trying to get his wits about him as his head rang from another brutal shove into the cabinet.

“Just shut up. I saw your boy. Did you leave any part of him unbeaten? You who talk about humane treatment and fairness and the rights of a submissive.You hypocrite. You beat a boy to shreds, a boy who loves you enough to stay with you when you can’t keep your own dick zipped up, a boy who’s not a masochist.”

“I know, Ryan,” Milton said softly. “I know,” he repeated.

Ryan grabbed the shoulders of Milton’s shirt and jerked him from the wall before propelling him into the dryer. “You harmed Sheldon! Damn you! Don’t try to wiggle out of it with apologetic words and historical explanations.”

Milton willed himself to stay limp and unresisting. This was Ryan, a righteously furious Ryan, but still a man Milton respected and even loved. This was also a man who was younger and stronger. A fight would leave them both physically battered, and with resistance there would be a fight.

“I hurt Sheldon. I didn’t harm him when I beat him. I harmed him when Tilden and I became lovers. I don’t argue that. It is my burden. I must accept it just as you told Sheldon he must accept the revolution in our relationship. Either accept or get out. He was doing neither. He was torturing himself in some personal purgatory.”

“So you added to his misery by beating the shit out of him. The golden boy of all dominants physically beats his partner into submission. Great example you are, sir.” Ryan’s voice dripped with anger and contempt.

“Ryan, if you believe Sheldon is not safe with me mentally or physically, we have a mechanism for intervention. I suggest you avail yourself on that mechanism.” Milton deepened his tone, his eyes never breaking from Ryan’s. “I will fight you for all that is mine, but it's your right to protest. I won’t stop you.”

With a final shove, Ryan released Milton’s shirt. “I’m taking Sheldon with me.”

“If he agrees,” Milton said mildly, smoothing his shirt and turning back to his laundry.

“Is that all you have to say?”

“Yes.” Milton didn’t turn from the laundry. He could see Ryan out of the corner of his eye. Ryan had a temper, but he wouldn’t strike unprovoked. The man lived with Blade after all.

“Milton.” The first break in Ryan’s tone. It spoke of unvoiced exasperation and confusion. “I’m talking about taking your boy and you're folding the damn laundry.” Ryan swept the laundry onto the floor.

“Now I have to refold it.”

“Fuck the laundry!”

Milton propped himself against the dryer, assuming an intentionally casual pose. “Ryan, if you believe I abused Sheldon you need to take him away. If you have questions or concerns, you need to talk to me, not swear at me or my laundry.”

Ryan studied Milton. Anger, disbelief, sadness, confusion chased across his expressive face like high clouds pushed by a strong wind. “Why did you do it?”

“Because Sheldon begged me to.”

“He’s not a masochist, I wouldn’t do that to his brother.”

“You would in the right circumstances. You love Blade the way I love Sheldon. It’s well beyond merely role play and games, but we speak our love through those roles and sometimes it’s not pleasant or comfortable or maybe even legal. Is it assault? Can it ever be assault when the victim is willing? Can anyone be willing at the level I beat Sheldon, or was he delusional or incapable of giving consent? You’re a dominant. Is the world always black and white?”

“I hit Blade because we enjoy it, because we get off on it. It’s not a substitute for dealing with problems in our relationship. I don’t pummel Blade into silence and acceptance.”

“Ryan, what are you doing here?” Sheldon was standing in the doorway; the weals and colorful bruises backlit by the sunlight. He was naked and a blush rose on his cheeks as Ryan studied his frontside. 

“He’s concerned for you,” Milton said, tossing Sheldon an oversized T-shirt that wouldn't rub on his inflamed skin.

“Hurts,” Sheldon said, “but I’m OK, or at least closer to OK than I was.”

“Sheldon?” Ryan seemed to struggle for the words.

“I wanted it and needed it. Don’t ask me to explain; I really can’t, but it wasn’t Milton.”

“You don’t like this.”

Sheldon snorted and choked down a bitter laugh. “No, I don’t consider getting my skin nearly flayed off a jolly way to spend the evening.” Sheldon ran his fingers through his red hair, wincing as he lifted his hand above his shoulder. “It hurt; it hurt more than I imagined was possible, but I gave permission. I begged Milton to do it. He didn’t want to. He finished with his hand. I know that was because he couldn’t do it any more. He couldn’t continue to hurt me with those impersonal objects.” Sheldon slid across to Milton and leaned against his broad frame. “I’m thirsty. That’s why I came in.”

“OK.” Milton dropped a soft kiss on the top of Sheldon’s head.”Juice, water, soda? Do you want more pain killers?”

“Nothing with codeine. All I’ve done is sleep for two days.”

“Your body needs rest.”

“I’m not an invalid. I’m a submissive who got a well deserved thrashing. And Ryan.” Sheldon turned to face Blade’s partner. “I like you, but this is none of your damn business. I asked Milton for this. I needed to give it up. I needed to accept I’m a full blown submissive, not some overaged jackass who likes a little spanking here and there. I’m not twenty-five anymore. I get who I am, and sometimes it involves suffering and sacrifice. I’ve been a shit for six months. I deserved my penance.”

“Sheldon, this wasn’t your fault. Tilden and I—”

“Stop it! I have to accept that. Ryan told me that months ago. Suck it up and ask how many beds need fresh linen. That might have been the catalyst, but—fuck it—Ryan knew. You knew too. I’ve been faking it. I took what I wanted, but I didn’t give it up to you.”

“Sheldon.”

“No! You put up with a submissive who mocked and sassed you.”

“I like it when you brat.”

“Not day and night.”

“It’s not why I and Tilden...I’ve always loved him.”

“I know, and I’m trying not to be so damn selfish.”

“Sheldon.” Milton swept the hair back off Sheldon’s forehead. “You’re one of the most generous men I know. I turned your world upside down.”

“Yeah, but it’s done. I see that now. You came after me.” Sheldon wiped his eyes. “You chased me and left four others at home. I can’t submit properly, and you came after me. I’m an ungrateful bastard, but I need you.” Sheldon slid to his knees and encircled Milton’s legs with his arms. “Master.”

Milton threaded his fingers through the red hair, stroking the silky waves. He glanced over at Ryan who nodded slowly. “Sheldon’s collar is in the drawer in the bedroom.”

Ryan understood. He climbed the stairs two at a time, and Milton heard doors opening until Ryan found the bedroom. Milton cupped his hands around Sheldon’s face and forced those tear filled green eyes upward. They didn’t need words. Ryan thundered down the stairs and placed the collar in Milton’s hand. 

“Sheldon, do I put this back on?”

“Yes, Master. And I understand what I just said.” Sheldon bowed his head, a silent, still, and complete offering. 

Milton buckled the collar with shaking fingers and drew Sheldon to his feet. “There’s no going back now.”

“I know, Master.” Sheldon bowed to Ryan. “I’m sorry for troubling you, sir.”

“I prefer Ryan. Take care of yourself, Sheldon. I never thought you would want this.”

“You’re the one who knew I was faking. You knew all along, so don’t look so worried and shocked. Milton will take care of me.”

“Yes, he will. I’m sorry about earlier, Milton. Whatever you think I deserve.”

“No punishment. I’ve punished enough recently. Take care of Blade.”

“Always. Thank you, sir.” Ryan nodded, turned, and left.

“Ryan, Ryan,” Milton called to the departing back. “You did the right thing. You should never just assume the submissive is OK.”

“I should have known,” Ryan said his hand on the door.

“No, I hold far too much power in my hands and power corrupts. I’m a historian; I know the pattern. I expect you to hold me to the standards we all profess to respect and value. Don’t let me get away with failure.”

“I won’t,” Ryan said, opening the door. “I’ll see you back home. Good luck, Sheldon.”

“Thank you, Ryan.” Sheldon entwined his fingers in Milton’s. “I think I found my luck.”

“Well, then for God’s sakes behave. It’s different now, Sheldon. I don’t want you hurt.”

“I know, Ryan. I’ve chosen this.” Sheldon dropped to his knees, silent and contemplative. Slowly Milton’s fingers spread over Sheldon’s head, the rituals of an ancient blessing comforting master and slave alike.