Always and Forever

Always and Forever

Only Gordon’s footfalls had that sound, the slow measured tread of a man who knew the world was at his feet. Tilden’s fingers tightened on the pages of his book. He wasn’t ready to deal with this man, not now, not ever. It had been awful enough before when he’d technically stood on level ground as a fellow dominant. Nu, tak. Who was he kidding? No one stood on level ground with Gordon. Milton, who could hold his own against any man, knelt and kissed his palm.

Tilden braced himself to be pleasant, a worthy member of the family. Milton loved this man, and intellectually Tilden knew that Gordon was a decent man in the world he inhabited, the world Tilden inhabited by default. This was a world where power and violence were placed on display; Gordon epitomized that power and violence. Tilden could still feel the horrible sting of those strokes of the cane. Milton had been shockingly compliant. He’d bent over the desk with his pants around his knees and taken all those strokes with nothing but a hiss as the cane beat into his flesh. He’d slowly pulled up his pants and buried his head in Gordon’s shoulder as the hand that had just hit stroked his hair. Tilden had stepped forward and taken three of his own. He’d cursed himself a thousand times over that he hadn’t said no. He wished that he hadn’t followed Milton in everything like the perpetual younger son trying to keep up with big brother. 

Gordon had tried to pull Tilden into his arms after the three strokes; he’d said something that Tilden hadn’t heard. Tilden could still remember that peculiar smell of sweat and sunblock that had permeated the tiny room. He could still remember the feel of Gordon’s fingers as he’d squeezed the back of Tilden’s neck in hopeless reassurance. Tilden had been desperate to pull the cloak of normalcy back around himself. No one had ever hit him that way. He hadn’t known what to feel, what to think. He’d felt exposed and naked, and he’d been the one fully clothed.

Milton had tried to talk to Tilden the next week. Milton had walked with Tilden away from the school and the pledge to only speak Russian to a distant children’s playground in the early morning. Tilden remembered leaning against the dew covered monkey bars, his feet damp from the wet grass and listening to Milton.

“I’m a dominant,” Milton had said firmly, seeming to relish the solitude to speak in English. “I can’t change that, Tilden. In many ways I belong to Gordon. He trained me. I owe him my allegiance and my obedience. I’d be a monster without him.”

“I hate him.”

Milton had kissed Tilden’s cheek, a gesture tinged with sadness and a loss that Tilden didn’t understand at the time. “I know.”

Their relationship had changed after that. Milton over several long evenings had explained his lifestyle, but it had been detached and remote, as if he were giving a lecture. They’d never been together sexually, but any slight spark Milton now brutally snuffed out. Milton had continued to be a wonderful friend. They’d somehow ended up teaching at the same college and bought a house together. Sheldon had come shortly after that with his fiery red hair and personality to match. Milton had never hidden what he and Sheldon did, and Sheldon had always looked happy, even when he’d been crying. It hadn’t seemed all that bad with Sheldon. The boy did something crazy, and Milton punished him with a small spanking.

Sheldon had been young and irresponsible and desperate for steady authority. That was easy for Tilden. It seemed natural to tell the red haired maniac not to stand on the roof or shout in a restaurant. It had been natural to help him get to work on time with all his shirt buttons done correctly. Tilden had even swatted him a few times when the outlandish baiting was obvious to all. Tilden watched. It hadn’t been hard to learn the signals and mimic the tone and inflection, and Sheldon always responded. 

Even the first years with Mike and Luke hadn’t been difficult. They were young; they needed guidance, and they responded to the corporal punishment. Luke had just needed someone to believe he wasn’t an idiot and to stop reinforcing that warped perception of himself, and Mike had needed the security he’d never known. Tilden had never understood Mike’s passion for kneeling or his strong masochism. Tilden got no pleasure in administering corporal punishment. It was a duty. Milton spoke of pleasure, and Tilden nodded politely. It had all changed when Milton pulled Tilden over his knee and bared his flesh. It was like the blinders had come off, and Tilden had suddenly mastered a language that before had been nothing but gibberish and rote repetition. 

The footsteps had stopped. Tilden lifted his head, unwilling to raise his eyes above the charcoal wool slacks. He didn’t want to see the sternness and the demands in Gordon’s rigid features. 

“It is customary to acknowledge my presence,” Gordon’s voice was measured, his accent still obvious in the rhythm of his speech and different quality of his vowels. 

“Gordon, careful.” Milton’s voice was soft, but rich with power. Tilden looked into Milton’s dark eyes. They were calm and steady. “He’s mine to protect.”

“He is,” Gordon acknowledged. “I’ve come in peace and hopefully forgiveness. May I speak with your boy?”

“Yes, but I stay.”

“As you wish.”

Tilden leaned into the familiar hand that was on his shoulder. He wasn’t alone. Milton was behind him figuratively and literally. 

“Tilden.” Gordon’s voice was at Tilden’s level. The man was down on one knee. His eyes rested on Tilden’s face, a window that was usually drawn shut, but now flickered with sadness. “I ask your forgiveness. I cannot take it back, but I wish with all my heart I could. None of us understood you then, including yourself. It was an unforgivable action against a vulnerable submissive. I’m sorry.”

“It was only three. I didn’t know myself. I didn’t die from it.” Was he saying those words? He’d wanted to throw the hurt back in this man’s face for so long, and now his words were of forgiveness. “You’ve done much for us, and you’ve always been a good friend to Milton.”

“I hurt you. That is not a good friend.”

“You didn’t hurt me out of malice. I know that now. I don’t know if I can be like the other submissives. I don’t know if I can obey you, but I don’t hate you anymore. I know what you mean to Milton. I’ll try to be good.”

“Tilden, you are always good, maybe too good. It’s not wrong to want things. It’s not wrong to occasionally be selfish. We are alone. You may call me everything you have wanted to call me for years. You may choose to have me punished.”

“No.”

“Milton, it’s your right. I harmed your submissive.”

“Tilden?” Milton asked, one eyebrow arching into his hairline. “It’s our way.”

“No!”

“Can you forgive him without it? Gordon, can you forgive yourself?”

“I don’t wish to forgive myself. It is the pain of mistakes that keep us honest and true. I need that pain. The punishment would be for your boy.”

Milton stood and walked over to the window. He leaned on the glass and stared out into the snowy whiteness and bare trees. He turned back, his eyes black with determination. “I will not do it, but as head of the Green Mountain Boys, I declare this over. Gordon, I have noted the error, and my own complicity for not recognizing the true nature of my friend or responding appropriately in the immediate aftermath. No punishment is due, and I expect you to treat Tilden as you would treat any other submissive with care, compassion, and respect as well as firmness. Tilden, you will obey Gordon, and I will punish you if you choose a different course. That is all.”

Gordon rose slowly. “Thank you, sir, Tilden. I am honored to serve.”

“Gordon, stop it,” Milton said with exasperation. “I’m not sir.”

“In this role you are. Those were orders as head of the Green Mountain Boys, not as Milton the boy who knelt at my feet. Time marches forward, and you are the master now.”

“Gordon--”

“Milton, I’ll take that role when you need me, but for now we all need you as master. Wear the mantle proudly. You deserve it, and I am honored to call you sir. Be good to your boy, and I’ll be cautious with any orders. Tilden doesn’t need punished.” Gordon bowed his head slightly and left the room.

Milton turned back toward the window; his fist curled tightly, the clenched fingers the only tell that Gordon’s words had caused a surge of anxiety. Tilden might never understand it, but Milton, who stood tall and strong, leaned on Gordon. He deferred to a man who in Tilden’s mind had half his kindness and goodness.

“Milton,” Tilden said, rising to his feet. “You are the master. My loyalty is to you.”

“I’m the master because he taught me.” Milton advanced on Tilden, catching Tilden’s shoulders and pushing him into the wall. “You will obey him. I will have no more disrespect and disobedience. I will have no more of your avoidance and looking away.”

Tilden gulped as Milton glared into his eyes. “He hurt me.”

“I hurt you a thousand times over, and you forgave me. I didn’t recognize you were a submissive. You haven’t put me on your permanent terrorist list. Gordon begged your forgiveness. You will give it to him. It’s not up for debate, boy.”

Boy. Not up for debate. There was no leniency or wiggle room in Milton’s expression or words. Tilden swallowed again. There was only one answer. “Yes, sir.”

“Good boy.” 

The hug was bone crushing: possessive and all encompassing. The entire world narrowed to Milton’s arms and chest, to Milton’s scent, to the scratch of Milton’s beard.

“I’ll be good for you. I love you.” Tilden blinked back the sudden wetness in his eyes. “I’ll try. I promise.”

“I know.” Milton kissed Tilden’s lips. “I shouldn’t have shouted at you. I know he scared you very badly, but I need him. I can’t explain him. I know you see me as nicer and gentler than Gordon on his best days, but he gave me that. He turned me loose today, and I still need him.”

“You weren’t listening,” Tilden said gently, running his hand down Milton’s back. “He opened the gates of the pasture, but he promised to be in the barn waiting for you. You’re not seventeen anymore; you’re strong. You have us.”

“I know.” Milton stroked his finger through the twin cowlicks on Tilden’s forehead. “He lost his master unprepared. Gordon isn’t a young man. He’s preparing me for that day, like he’s prepared me for everything else.” Milton smiled, a wry and wistful smile. “What was with the barn metaphor?”

“I heard Mace use it, and I liked it.” Tilden’s eyes lightened to their usual dancing violet. “I am the linguist after all, and I stayed in English. You should be proud.”

Milton snorted and swatted at Tilden. “Someone’s been practicing bratty. Behave.”

“Do you know the submissives’ most frequent word choice is different than the dominants’? The intonation pattern also shows slight variations.”

Milton rolled his eyes. “And Gordon said you were too perfectly behaved.”

“He’s sometimes wrong.”

“We are all sometimes wrong.” Milton wrapped his arm around Tilden’s waist. “Forgive and behave. Those two words are no longer optional.”

“I know.” Tilden dropped his eyes. “I might need your help sometimes.”

“Always.” Milton kissed Tilden’s cheek. “You have always had all I can give you, as inadequate as it sometimes was. I’m always yours, now and forever.”

Sins and Sinners

This is an interlude that chronologically takes place prior to the last few chapters, but I thought fit best here.

Sins and Sinners

Milton sighed and added a few more specifics to the notes for tomorrow's lecture. He'd given this lecture for as long as he could remember; he could do it backwards, forwards, and in his sleep. He didn't need lecture notes, but he couldn't stop fiddling. He raked his fingers through his hair, a gesture he'd intentionally obliterated from his repertoire as an obvious tell. He was a dominant; he was supposed to be in control. He wasn't supposed to long to kick several asses from here to some unknown eternity.

Milton slapped his own thigh hard. He shouldn't be wallowing in self-pity. Chin up and grind it out. He bent his head back to his notes, pushing too hard with the pen and tearing a hole in the paper. Milton bit his tongue to prevent colorful language in full volume. He whacked his hand against the desk, flinching as his fingers struck the unyielding surface. Stupid! He'd bruise himself.

Back to work. He couldn't think about European nation states. Sheldon had offered this morning. He'd dropped to his knees encircled Milton's legs with his arms and kissed his master's knee.

"I can do what Landon used to do for Gordon."

"No." Milton's voice had been too hard and too curt. He'd seen the hurt in his boy's beautiful green eyes. Sheldon wasn't the boy for that; he wasn't a masochist; he couldn't control the fire that raged inside Milton.

"Lad." 

The voice was unmistakable. Milton turned to see Gordon in the doorway, his black coat damp with a dusting of early snow, his leather gloves perfectly fitting, and a cane in his hand. He'd walked across campus and into this building with a senior cane clearly visible.

"How did you get here?"

"I drove, and a young student was kind enough to let me in."

"With that in your hand?"

"Yes," Gordon said with perfect calm. 

"I'm out, but I don't carry implements into my classroom," Milton said with ice in his voice.

"It might improve your humor. Give me your hand."

"Why?"

"I saw you hit the desk. If you need pain, I will hurt you; you don't hurt yourself."

Milton had a perverse desire to refuse. Gordon wasn't strong enough to force him. Milton balled his hand into a fist and stared at Gordon.

Gordon stared back, eyes hard and far too shrewd for comfort. "If you want a physical fight, I'll call Ryan."

"He wouldn't touch me."

"In this mood he'd be delighted to hand me a carefully wrapped package already adorned with festive stripes. His geniality is perhaps exaggerated."

Milton held out his hand.

Gordon's grip on his wrist was firm; his other hand probed the sore spots. "Foolish, but no harm. Do you care to tell me what that was about?"

No. That wouldn’t be a politic answer; that would be a brat spoiling for a fight, Gordon’s lack of patience for bratting was legendary.

“Punishing yourself?” Gordon asked in a gentle tone. “You are very good at that.”

“Well, I did turn my family into a three ring circus,” Milton snarled. “I deserve punishment; I deserve to hurt as much as all the rest of them. Even Ryan with his dazzling blue eyes and kind smile didn’t hesitate to let me know of my utter incompetence and infidelity as a dominant.”

“Enough.” 

That tone still froze Milton. He swallowed on a throat suddenly dry and automatically dropped his eyes. 

“Better. Good lad.”

"I hurt everybody. Mike's run off; I had to chase Sheldon across the county." 

Gordon still hit hard with the same nasty and quick backhand that he'd used years ago. "I don't see incompetence and infidelity; I see a lack of perspective and willful disobedience. You have disregarded my request for silence."

"No." Milton stared at the ball gag that Gordon produced from his pocket. Gordon had used it early in Milton's training and knew Milton's aversion to gags. Voice and reason were power in the arsenal of a skilled dominant. Gagged these powers were nullified; Milton would be reduced to a slobbering, incoherent fool.

"Yes."

"Please. Gordon, please."

"Do not beg to escape deserved repercussions. Put it on please. Your safe signal applies."

Milton could refuse. He wasn't seventeen and intimidated by the sharp looks and even sharper tongue. Gordon's eyes were searching and demanding. That man had always been able to look through Milton, to see past Milton's weak fortifications, to open Milton's very soul. Slowly, Milton reached out and took the gag; his fingers still had the memory, and he fastened it around his head as his tongue tasted the horrid rubber.

"Good lad." The praise was real. Milton felt a slight blush on his cheeks. Gordon reached out and ran his knuckle down Milton's cheek. "You may sit. I have much to say." Gordon pointed to the floor at his feet.

The floor was dusty and hard. Milton knew he should be grateful that he didn't have to kneel. He pulled his legs into an awkward cross-legged position. Gordon had taken the desk chair. It creaked as he reached forward and carded his fingers into Milton's hair. Milton leaned into the touch; he couldn't stop himself.

"Tactile, but guarded. You mustn't hide from your best qualities. You are an affectionate man; you love your boys. None of us would argue that your method of incorporating Tilden into the fold wasn't abrupt, but it is done. Live with the consequences; most, I would argue, were favorable. Even Ryan, who I believe you see as condemning your relationship, has told your boys in his hip parlance to deal, and he has been harsher to you than is justified. He sees the submissive world through Blade's eyes, a young man who could not survive a polyamorous relationship. Blade and Sheldon are brothers but they are not identical submissives. You are exquisitely aware of your submissives' needs. They are being cared for, perhaps coddled. You ignore your own needs, never your submissives."

Gordon clipped Milton hard across the ear. Milton jerked at the sudden pain. He wanted to protest, not the crack across his ear, but the assertion that he neglected his wants. He'd wanted Tilden. Sheldon hadn't begged him to fuck Tilden.

"You didn't cast a magic spell on Tilden. You didn't charm him from the trees with a golden singing voice and promises of happily ever after. You didn't assault him in a public toilet and force yourself on him. He wanted you. He has always wanted you. It was a dance of two, not of one." Gordon's voice hardened. "Don't you dare have the arrogance to assume all the guilt on your head. Tilden is not an innocent. He is a man who is more than capable of defending himself and his positions. Any guilt must be carried by both of you.

"As for the boys, they will adjust and grow. Sheldon is a slave. He has always been a slave, however he was immature and feared his own needs. The bratting became an outlet, an avoidance tactic. Such defenses were always destined to failure. He might not have all of you in the tradition of one partner, but he has a master, and he has you as that master." Gordon stroked Milton's hair. "Being master suits you. You are everything a slave could want in a master.

"Mike needs you to hurt him. He needs to fight, but you must win. Something happened in his past. I don't know all the details; none of you have confided in me. Whatever it was makes him fake his submission, makes him play when he needs to see you as his true lord, not his dungeon playmate. Mike needs to bow his head to your will. He needs to taste, to smell, and to feel his submission through his entire soul. He's not a Sheldon. He's not a slave, even though his need for dominance runs as deep. He rejects the guardianship, the guidance, the care that you lavish on Sheldon and your beautiful cub Austin. He needs love and protection, but he will not allow it until he's exhausted his ability to take a thrashing. You are a man who can enjoy the fire that Mike demands. Let yourself. He will curl at your feet like a contented cat when you are finished. It is a confident, loved, and fully submissive Mike who will be able to absorb your moods. His darkness will match yours.

"I will punish you today, not for your infidelity. I cannot punish that away. I will punish you for your inability to move forward. You and Tilden chose this path for your relationship. I will not judge and punish your choice; I will punish this incessant wallowing in guilt." Gordon stroked his hand over Milton's hair and down his neck. "I expect this over now. You do not have the luxury of guilt. Up."

Gordon didn't need to say more; Milton knew the position. As a young man, he would have scrambled to his feet. As an adult, he eased to his feet and tried to maintain his dignity as he went across the desk. His fingers grabbed the smooth, polished edges; his eyes roamed over the books on his shelves: The History of the World, Das Kapital, The Collected Works of V.I. Lenin. He was tenured faculty, a well respected expert on European history, and he was going to be caned as if he were a naughty schoolboy in the Victorian era. Ironic. His department head might have enjoyed being in Gordon's position. Milton was retained for his expertise, but his experiences and the peculiarities of his lifestyle made advancement to the prestigious history chair impossible. Beating boys wasn't considered an appropriate extracurricular activity. Getting beat himself might be a ticket worthy activity, entertainment for the faculty senate.

Gordon's fingers worked the buckle of the gag. Milton spat the hated rubber ball to the floor and moved his jaw in relief.

"Will there be anyone here tonight?" 

"There shouldn't be." The cleaning staff would have finished hours ago, and Milton had the latest office hours of anyone on the floor.

Milton flinched as Gordon smoothed Milton's thin khakis, making the cloth tight over the flesh, an amplifier that would carry the sting deeper. The first tap of the cane was only the measure of the distance, not a full stroke.

"How many?" Milton knew his voice was more a squeak than a masculine and controlled timbre.

"I'll decide."

Milton jerked forward as the first blow landed, the air leaving his chest in a sharp hiss. No matter how hard he braced he never could be entirely still during a caning with the heavy senior cane. Intellectually he knew it hurt; yet he always forgot the intensity of the strokes until the first one fell. Gordon wasn't holding back; fire raged across the cane's track. The next stroke sent Milton onto his toes, and the third rung a whimper from his throat. He lost the battle with tears at the fifth, and by the sixth his shoulders shook with silent sobs."

The cane hit the floor with a clatter. Only six. A generous gift from Gordon.

"Idiot boy." Gordon pulled Milton into a crushing hug.

The arms were familiar: strong, confident, and reassuring. Milton had spent hours in those arms as a young man as he'd raged against the injustices of his temperament. Milton let his head rest against Gordon's shoulder, inhaling the familiar scent of wool and soap and Vermont and a time less complicated where obedience was all that was needed to be a good boy.

"They love you. Go home to them." Gordon wiped Milton's face with a starched handkerchief and bullied Milton into collecting his papers and books and donning his coat.  "Home, boy." The kiss on Milton's lips was chaste and proper. The hand that tousled his hair one final time was full of affection. The final reassurance was almost too soft to hear. "I'm proud of you, boy. You're a good boy."

The Christmas Ogre

The Christmas Ogre

Gordon untied the ribbon and tore the paper off the box. Sheldon watched as the tissue paper was folded back, and Gordon lifted out the sweater: a brilliant purple with an orange lightning bolt across the front. Gordon lifted out the second item, a magenta pink scarf.

“I take it my wardrobe needed a little more color,” Gordon said with a slight smile.

Sheldon could feel the heat and color filling his face. Gordon was acting like an orange and purple sweater accompanied by a magenta scarf was a fine and appreciated gift. Milton had turned his full attention on Sheldon, and Sheldon dropped his head quickly at the steel in his partner’s eyes. 

“It’s most interesting,” Landon said with a laugh. “Do try it on.”

“Of course. I’ll wear it to breakfast.” Milton started to interrupt, and Gordon silenced him with a brief shake of his head. “It’s Sheldon’s first Christmas with us. I will be honored to wear his gift.”

Sheldon looked down at the package in his hand. It was from Gordon and Landon, beautifully wrapped in gold foil with elaborate ribbons all in perfect bows. Sheldon was sure it was a thoughtful and generous gift, and he had been intentionally mean, giving Gordon that hideous sweater and scarf.

“They might not be colorful enough, now having seen your taste,” Landon said with a wide grin. 

Sheldon opened the box. Inside, carefully folded, were three dress shirts. By touch alone, Sheldon could tell they were the finest cotton and didn’t come from the mass market catalog retailer where he bought serviceable but unexciting clothes. 

“We weren’t sure about the green pinstripe,” Landon said. “I thought it would highlight your eyes. You can’t help that your partner has no clothes sense. The only reason Milton doesn’t look like the stereotypical rumpled professor is because Gordon drags him shopping every year.”

“I hate clothes shopping,” Milton said.

“We all know,” Landon said. “Fortunately you hate the cane more, or we’d be forced to kidnap you to get you clothed.”

Sheldon studied his partner’s corduroys and cashmere sweater. He didn’t look badly dressed. He’d never seen Milton badly dressed; everything was always pressed and well fitting.

“Gordon picked these out,” Milton said. “He’s rather emphatic that I be well dressed.”

“You looked like you bought your clothes at a yard sale before we took over,” Gordon said.

“I’m frugal,” Milton replied with a small smile.

“There’s frugal, and there’s stubborn. You’re the latter,” Landon said.

“All right,” Milton admitted with a grin. “I’d rather spend the day in the basement stacks of the library than go shopping, but I do it now.”

“Only because Gordon grabs you by the collar and drags you to the store.” Landon winked at Sheldon. “I do hope you will be a good influence on your wayward partner.”

Sheldon blushed, fingering the shirts. They were beautiful and expensive. He had some idea of the price for fine cotton shirts. “They’re lovely. Thank you.”

“Try one on,” Gordon said. “Milton supplied the measurements. I hope they were accurate.”

Sheldon lifted the green and white shirt from the box; the stripe was so fine as to be almost invisible, just enough to pick up the green in his eyes. He pulled off his sweatshirt and t-shirt and slipped into the new shirt. 

“Stand next to him, Milton,” Gordon ordered. 

Landon whistled. “They are a beautiful pair.”

“Gorgeous,” Gordon said, “but Milton is your iron broken?”

Sheldon looked down at his wrinkled khakis. As usually, he’d left his clothes in the dryer for hours, and he only wielded the iron if Milton threatened bodily harm. “It’s my fault. I hate to iron.”

“And you don’t insist?” Gordon asked Milton dryly.

“It’s my fault,” Sheldon repeated. “He reminds me to take my clothes out of the dryer and hang them up. Only I don’t listen.”

“Milton, you need to keep appropriate discipline in your home,” Gordon said.

“I pick my battles, sir,” Milton said, wrapping his arm around his partner’s shoulders. 

“He’s a beautiful boy. Don’t let him look like a slob.”  

“Yes, sir.”

“Beautiful boys are to be admired.”

Sheldon blushed. Milton always said he was beautiful, but Sheldon always thought it was a lie or at least an exaggeration. 

“He doesn’t know he’s beautiful?” Gordon asked, his eyebrows climbing into his hairline.

“I’ve told him,” Milton said. “He doubts the truth.”

“Do we have pictures from last night with both of them in their tuxedos?” Gordon asked Landon.

“I’m sure we do.”

“Good. Get one framed for them. Sheldon needs to know why I have to threaten guests with eminent harm when their eyes go astray.”

Milton pulled Sheldon closer, letting his boy bury his red face under his arm. “You’ll never forget to iron your clothes again,” he teased gently. “I can’t have my beautiful boy looking rumpled.”

“I gave him a purple and orange sweater,” Sheldon whispered.

“And a pink scarf,” Milton added in an undertone.

“I was mean.” Sheldon snuggled tighter against Milton.

“You need to fix that with Gordon. I got warned off.”

Sheldon held tighter to his partner. He didn’t want to face Gordon. He liked to pretend that he hated Gordon, that his opinion didn’t matter, and that he wasn’t thoroughly intimidated by the older top.

The door to Gordon’s suite of rooms stood open. Inside Sheldon could see Gordon stretched out on the sofa in front of the crackling hearth, a book in his hand. He was still in that awful orange and purple sweater. Sheldon swallowed hard, screwed up his courage, and knocked on the door.

“It’s open.”

Sheldon stood in the doorway, his courage having evaporated.

“Sheldon, stop hovering and come in. Shut the door after yourself.”

Oh, God, he was going to have to have a private chat with this man and all because he bought him an ugly sweater. A hideous sweater, Sheldon thought, staring at the orange lightning bolt. “I’m sorry,” Sheldon mumbled.

Gordon patted the sofa. “Come sit here. I’m not shouting across the room. And rumors to the contrary, I only bite with warning.”

Sheldon perched on the edge of the sofa, eyeing Gordon as if he might strike at any moment.

Gordon’s armed snaked out around Sheldon’s chest, and he pulled the boy hard against his chest. “Milton loves you which means you’re part of my family, and we need to come to a workable arrangement.” Gordon kissed the top of Sheldon’s head. “What do you need from me, boy? We need to get along.”

Sheldon tried to pull out of Gordon’s grasp. He wasn’t ready for this. He thought he could apologize and maybe get swatted a few times. He didn’t want to have a heart to heart with Gordon. He was old; he was terrifying. He had canes and whips, or at least that was what some of the others said.

“You don’t get to run away,” Gordon said, swatting Sheldon lightly. “I assume this is about the sweater and the scarf. They are rather lurid, and I don’t believe you’re color blind nor have that bad of taste. If either of those were true, you wouldn’t be bleeding guilt. Talk to me about it, boy.”

“I’m sorry,” Sheldon blurted, but still trying to pull away.

“No, boy, you need to say more. Is this easier if I put you over my knee?”

Sheldon froze. Gordon was going to spank him.

“Does Milton do these conversations before, during, or after the spanking?” Gordon asked his voice surprisingly soft and his touch easy and almost reassuring.

How did he answer that kind of question? Milton took care of it. He didn’t ask for a dissertation on spanking.

“All right, over you go.” Gordon, with the horrible efficiency of much practice, stripped Sheldon of his trousers and guided him over his knee. His arm wrapped firmly around Sheldon’s hip.”Let’s try this again.” Gordon’s hand rested on Sheldon’s boxer covered rump. “Why are we having this little chat?”

 Because he was being a shit hardly seemed like an appropriate answer. Milton would cover his ass with hard swats for such an answer, and Gordon was unlikely to be different. 

“This has to do with your motivation behind purchasing the sweater, doesn’t it, my boy?” Gordon prodded much too kindly. A quick swat landed, not horrible but a promise that this wouldn’t be only a tap. “I won’t do all the talking.” 

Sheldon jerked as Gordon landed three swats in the identical spot. “I wanted to be mean.”

“Why?” Gordon landed a flurry of swats when Sheldon didn’t answer. “Let me remind you this is not a one way conversation.”

“I don’t like you,” Sheldon mumbled, clutching the pillows in front of him.

“Fair enough,” Gordon said mildly. “I’m a stranger; I have a reputation as an intimidating dominant, and I was Milton’s mentor. Those are all legitimate reasons to dislike me. Why the guilt, my lad?” Gordon ran his hand over Sheldon’s shoulders and down his back.

“You’re being nice to me, and I was mean,” Sheldon mumbled on the verge of tears.

“I have you pinned over my knee, and I’m going to spank you. Most people wouldn’t call that nice.”

“I’m a brat,” Sheldon wailed. “I need spanked.”

“Milton has done a good job with you,” Gordon said with genuine warmth in his voice. “You understand this, and you two are a good match. Milton would be bored with an easy submissive. I don’t think there is any danger of you being too easy.” Gordon ran his hand down Sheldon’s back again and snugged his arm tighter around the Sheldon’s hip. “Do you need a spanking over this beautiful sweater?”

Gordon was going to make him say it. “Yes, sir,” he mumbled and shut his eyes. Please let this be over quick. He wanted to sit down tonight. Everybody would know he’d been spanked on Christmas.

Gordon pulled down Sheldon’s boxers, and his hand landed with a measured crack. Sheldon jerked; he never took a spanking stoically, and Milton was an expert at connecting with a kicking, squirming target. Milton had obviously learned from Gordon who with an almost languid ease landed measured blows. He shifted his legs easily and trapped Sheldon’s flailing feet between them. 

Sheldon was crying hard when Gordon pulled his boxers back up and flipped him upright. 

“That’s my good lad. You’re a good boy.” Gordon brushed back Sheldon’s hair and kissed his forehead: possessive and kind. “You’re Milton’s boy, but you’re also a Green Mountain Boy and one of my lads. Are we sorted now?”

Sheldon nodded and let Gordon pull him into a tight hug.

“Merry Christmas,” Gordon said softly and kissed Sheldon’s hair.

Licorice Whips and Candy Canes

Licorice Whips and Candy Canes

“Sheldon,” Milton shook his partner’s shoulders. “We need to get up. We’re to show up at breakfast, dressed and presentable.”

“It’s vacation,” Sheldon mumbled into the pillow. “Don’t make me get up at the crack of dawn.”

“Breakfast is at eight; you have thirty minutes. I don’t think either of us wants to deal with Gordon if we’re late to meals.”

“Ogre,” Sheldon said and tried to pull the blanket over his head.

“Up! Now!” Milton snatched all the blankets and tumbled Sheldon out of the bed in one smooth motion.

“I could be hurt, being tossed out of bed,” Sheldon moaned from the floor

“Not from the boy who slides down the banister rail.”

“You put a stop to that. Said it was dangerous, and now you toss me out of bed. I’m probably bruised.”

“We’ll both be bruised if we don’t get to breakfast on time.” Milton pulled Sheldon up and half pushed, half swatted him into the shower. “Hurry. I’ll lay your clothes out.”

“Corduroys, it’s not a work day,” Sheldon said. “I’m on vacation. I want to wear jeans.”

“Meals have a dress code,” Milton said, keeping his voice patient. “Blue denim is not acceptable.”

“This is ridiculous. It’s not 1920. Gordon is stuck in the ice age.” 

“I think the ice age was well before 1920,” Milton said dryly. “Do you need to spend part of today on a history review?”

“No! And I’m not wearing these pants.” Sheldon threw the pants at Milton who caught them with an all too practiced hand and a mere second later had Sheldon flipped over the bed, his hard hand landing on the bare rump.

“Enough, or do you need a full spanking?”

Sheldon twisted away and rubbed his pink rump. “Why couldn’t we stay at home for Christmas?” he asked his voice thick with tears.

Milton sat down on the bed and scooped Sheldon into his arms. “Honey, I have responsibilities. I have to show up at least once a year, and you’ll have fun if you let yourself. Landon loves Christmas.”

Sheldon sniffled against Milton’s neck. “Do I have to go to breakfast?”

“Yes.” Milton kissed his boy’s forehead. “Get dressed.”

“They’ll know I’ve been crying.”

“Nothing new about that here. They won’t think anything less of you, but my name will be mud if we don’t get to breakfast.”

Gordon, Landon, Uncle Doug and Granddad were all seated at the table. Around them, two tables were filled with men already eating, but Gordon’s table was conspicuously bare. He wouldn’t allow anyone to eat until they were all seated.

“What time is it?” Gordon asked.

“Ten after eight, sir,” Milton answered. It was no use equivocating; they were late. At least Sheldon now looked more together with only a slight trace of redness in his eyes.

“What time is breakfast?”

“Eight, sir.”

“I trust you can remember that we prefer to eat meals on time.”

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.” Milton ducked his head. He really wasn’t particularly sorry. Sheldon had needed reassurance, and that was more important than breakfast.  A few minutes wouldn’t kill Gordon.

“Very well. Sit and we’ll eat.”

Sheldon edged his chair as close to Milton as possible, and Milton dropped his hand on his boy’s knee under the table. “I’m sorry I got you in trouble,” Sheldon whispered.

Milton smiled and shrugged. “Eat your breakfast.”

As if by magic, a young man in a pressed white shirt and dark green pants arrived with a silver tray. Silently the young man passed out the dishes. The food was as Milton remembered, perfectly prepared and beautifully presented. Milton poured the genuine Vermont maple syrup over his buckwheat pancakes and glanced over at Sheldon’s plate. Sheldon didn’t like buckwheat, and he was usually vocal about letting everyone know his food preferences. Milton smiled to himself; Sheldon had chocolate chip pancakes. 

Milton nudged Sheldon. “It looks like someone took care of you this morning.”

Uncle Doug from across the table winked, smiled, and held a finger to his lips. Uncle Doug would always remember everyone’s favorite foods. Milton couldn’t go home without a berry tart appearing on the table.

The conversation was genial. Landon was regaling everyone with his latest trip to somewhere which had required high speed sprints through airports and train stations around the world. Milton was politely included, but the others were discreetly giving him time to focus on his boy. Sheldon, for his part, was keeping his head down and eating.

With the meal over, the young man resurfaced and collected the plates and refilled the coffee. “No one leave yet,” Landon said as Milton started to ease back in his chair. Landon reached under his chair and pulled a sack full of gaily wrapped packages onto the table.

“Party favors?” Sheldon mumbled.

“It’s Advent. I forgot. Landon always gives presents every morning,” Milton said.

“I have to put up with Scrooge for a partner,” Landon said and handed out the gifts. “I have to have double the Christmas cheer to make up for it. This one’s for both of you,” Landon said and handed Milton a small box with gold ribbon, “and this is a little fun for Sheldon.”

“Do you want to open it?” Milton asked.

Sheldon shook his head.

Milton carefully slid off the ribbon and opened the box to a blizzard of tissue paper. Under the paper, he lifted out a crystal star of blown red glass.

“This is your first one,” Gordon said. “Landon and I thought you should start your collection.”

“Thank you,” Milton said. Milton had helped put up Gordon and Landon’s tree the two winters when he’d lived with them. Every year they purchased a new star, always in beautiful crystal, hand blown with vibrant color streaks. They called it a celebration of not killing each other during the darkest days of winter. Milton knew it was actually a celebration of their love and commitment, and the star was a gift to cherish. It represented their support of Milton and Sheldon’s relationship.

Gordon reached over and ruffled Milton’s hair. “I expect to be able to give you both one for many more years.”

“We’re honored,” Milton said.

“Enough with the lovey-dovey stuff,” Landon said, “open the fun stuff now.”

Sheldon tore the wrapping off his present. “An ice cream scoop? I guess that’s useful.”

“No, you silly boy, it’s a snowball scoop,” Landon teased. “Snow and tops, you have to be ready.”

“Are you encouraging my boy onto the wild side?” Milton asked gravely.

“I hardly think he needs encouragement,” Landon shot back. “You were late for breakfast.”

“Landon,” Gordon’s voice was a clear warning. Milton still reacted to that tone and swallowed hard, even though it wasn’t directed at him.

“Grinch,” Landon said, “I was only joking.”

“Sheldon doesn’t know you well,” Gordon said, trapping Landon in his icy glare. “If you can’t behave, I will need to insist, and Sheldon will have a front row seat.”

Landon blushed at that and dropped his head. “Yes, sir,” he said politely.

“Thank you. Shall we open the rest of the gifts?” Gordon asked.

Landon nodded, turned, winked at Sheldon, and gave a theatrical sigh. “That was close. I thought I was going to have a toasted butt. I was only playing earlier. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“I know,” Milton said when Sheldon didn’t answer. Milton looped an arm around Sheldon’s neck and casually pulled him close, before dropping a kiss on the red hair. “He’ll give you a run for the money once he gets his sea legs, but for now try to be gentle.”

Landon grinned. “You know me.”

“Yes, all too well.”

“That’s for sure,” Landon said and rubbed his butt. “You survive Milton,” he said to Sheldon. “You must be in my league.”

Sheldon smiled faintly and blushed.

“I told you he liked you.” Milton kissed Sheldon’s head. “Let’s see what Landon gave Gordon; it’s usually something funny.”

Gordon unwrapped his lumpy package. “I hope the gift is better than the wrapping.”

“You’ll see.” Landon grinned; he still looked boyish when he smiled.

Gordon held up a candy cane and a long strand of black licorice. “Is this a message, boy? A cane and a licorice whip.”

Landon grinned widened, dimpling his cheeks.

“Tonight, boy.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

Gordon snapped his fingers, and Landon knelt by his top’s feet. Sheldon stared wide-eyed at Landon. “He wants to be spanked?” Sheldon whispered. “I don’t get it.”

“It can be a lot of fun,” Landon said and started to pop up from the floor but was stopped by Gordon’s hand.

“You need to settle, boy, or it won’t be fun,” Gordon said, his voice deep, his accent more pronounced. “Sheldon,” he continued, “Landon and I play this way. You might enjoy it. You can talk to Landon about it this week, but right now he needs to find his role as my boy, or it will be most unenjoyable.”

Sheldon nodded, but Milton could feel the tension in Sheldon’s body. “It’s not a punishment spanking. It’s not about being a naughty boy,” Milton said softly. “Don’t panic. It’s not something we ever have to do, but you might like it.”

“Never.” Sheldon said, shaking his head violently.

“Go on,” Gordon said to Milton and Sheldon. “Go play with your new snow toy. I imagine Sheldon does like snowballs.”

“He does,” Milton said, glad for Gordon’s understanding. “Come, boy. I’m sure I can make a better snow fort than you.”

College Boy II

College Boy II

Milton shifted as he felt the weight on the bed; he must have drifted off.

“Landon said we needed to have a little chat. Are you all right, my boy?” Gordon squeezed Milton’s shoulder as he spoke.

To anyone else Milton would have answered he was fine. He was no longer cold; he could if he concentrated finish that wretched paper without too much hardship. He hadn’t run his car into the guardrail. “I’m trying.”

“What happened, my boy?”

“Didn’t Joe tell you?” Milton asked as he struggled into a sitting position.

“He’s resting comfortably, but he only answers questions in monosyllables.”

“I hit him,” Milton said and dropped his eyes to the quilt covering his knees. All the beds had quilts; this one was a traditional patchwork pattern of multicolored cloth bits. As a boy, his bed had been covered by a similar quilt. When he’d been sick, he’d whiled away the day trying to find repeated cloth pieces and invent patterns in his mind for the color choices.

“Tell me what happened, boy.” Gordon’s words were short, but his tone was anything but impatient, and his eyes, while searching and impossible for Milton to look into their depths, remained friendly.

“I hit him,” Milton blurted out.

“You punched him; you slapped him; you threw him to the ground? Please clarify.”

“No,” Milton said, horrified.

“Milton, you are familiar with our procedures. Please start at the beginning and tell me everything.”

Milton nodded. He wanted to trace his fingers down the quilt or go off on some wild tangent like many of the brats, but he knew better. Gordon had little tolerance for obfuscation. “I was running the little loop like you ordered.” 

“And whose fault was that?” Gordon asked sharply.

“Mine, sir.”

 “Yes, shifting blame is not appropriate.”

“I know, sir.”

“That’s right, boy. Please, go on.”

“I was wet and not very happy,” Milton continued. If Gordon was going to treat him like a brat, he could act like a brat--well, not really. He wasn’t a brat, and that wasn’t how Gordon was treating him. He guided a submissive; with Milton Gordon merely insisted. 

“Yes,” Gordon said in a deep slow tone that Milton found both reassuring and infuriating.

“I came upon the car. You saw where it had gone off the road. Joe was sitting beside the car, totally oblivious to his surroundings. I was trying to get him dressed, and I swatted him. I shouldn’t have; I didn’t have the right,” Milton said hurriedly.

“My lad, talking faster will not get you out of telling me all the details. Pray continue, more slowly and without the gaps.”

“I didn’t have his consent.”

“Did I not tell you to relate the incident in full detail?” Gordon dropped his hand on Milton’s thigh in a clear warning. “I don’t expect to have to tell you again.”

“Yes, sir. As I was saying, I was trying to get Joe changed. He was mostly unresponsive, and I was concerned he might be suffering from hypothermia. I was cold also; I wanted to get out the rain; I didn’t have the patience to explain things to him.”

“A blinding rainstorm with a semi-coherent man hardly seems the place for a philosophical conversation, but you have yet to tell me what happened.” Gordon raised his eyebrows inquiringly. 

Milton sighed and rubbed his hand on his chin, feeling the traces of his new beard. “I found some clothes for him in his car, and I gave them to him. He wouldn’t change; he was just standing there. I started to undress him, and he started flailing at me, acting hysterical. I swatted him three times on the hip. I shouldn’t have. I didn’t have the right. I hadn’t told him I was a top. He hadn’t told me he was a submissive or given me permission to top.”

“He’s a submissive. That’s obvious,” Gordon said with a soft chuckle. “What did he do when you swatted him?”

“He accused me of abuse, and he was right.” 

“Did you swat him again or use any other physical force after Joe told you to stop?”

“No, I helped him change and carried him to the farmhouse when I couldn’t get him to walk.” Milton searched Gordon’s face for some hint of his fate. He wanted to get this over with. He was in the wrong, and he knew it. Why did Gordon have to dissect everything into the smallest detail?

“Do you think you used excessive force?”

“I shouldn’t have used any force. I had no agreement. I scared him.”

“Hmm,” Gordon said noncommittally. “I think you may have scared him less than many.”

“That kid’s been hit. I hurt him.” Milton said, his voice rising.

“Don’t shout at me, boy.”

Milton turned away, struggling to regain his temper. Gordon was death on bad manners, and temper tantrums fit clearly in his definition of bad manners.

“Do you have yourself back under control?”

“Yes, sir,” Milton said, turning back to Gordon.

“What could you have done differently?”

“I could have not hit him.”

“Milton Andrew Brown,” Gordon growled. “I asked for a real alternative, not a smart answer.”

Milton squared his shoulders and stiffened his back. He was getting very close to Gordon thrashing him. Then he’d get two: one for being less than charming during the interrogation and one for being a stupid fool with Joe.

“Do you need me to punish you?” Gordon asked in that remote and polite tone of his that sounded like do you need me to pick up a fresh liter of milk.

Milton ducked his head and felt a blush rising on his cheeks. This was a question he still couldn’t answer comfortably. He hated being asked to analyze his own feelings.

“You’re going to have to ask today if you need it, my boy. I do not see any easy solution to the predicament in which you found yourself.” Gordon held up his hand to still Milton’s protest. “You found an unresponsive young man on the road leading to our lodge. This is a dead-end road, so logic tells you this man had either read the map upside down or was heading here. With that information, you jumped to the obvious conclusion that the young man was a submissive, and I do not think you’re wrong about that conclusion.”

“It still didn’t give me the right to hit him.”

“No, it didn’t,” Gordon said with aggravating calmness, “but it made your reaction more understandable. You swatted him, not because you’re mean, a pretty tyrant, or a myriad of other unpleasant possibilities. You swatted Joe because he was a young man in clear distress in a bad situation. Your role as a Green Mountain Boy and a top does involve protecting men it that very situation.”

“Protecting them, not hitting them.”

“Yes,” Gordon said slowly. “I didn’t say I condoned your action. I said I understood your motivation. Your motivation wasn’t evil. You are too kind for that. You are far more kind and gentle than I ever will be. I will not lie to you; I enjoy wielding the power I have as a top. I enjoy directing people; I enjoy having authority over them. You, my lad, are more altruistic. You want to protect your friends and anyone else in need.”

“I like it too,” Milton said half to himself.

“That’s not a fault. Do you condemn a submissive for wanting a partner to lean on, a partner who will direct and guide him, or for enjoying himself in play?”

“No, but...”

“Finish your sentence, boy.”

“I’m inflicting it. I could hurt the submissive.”

“Yes, you could, but you are not cruel. You do not enjoy suffering.”

“I hurt Joe.”

“That was a mistake, an accident. You didn’t set out to hurt that boy, and you had no good options.”

“I could have thrown him over my shoulder from the start.”

“You are a large man. Do you think that would have been less frightening?”

“I wouldn’t have hit him.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

Milton looked up at Gordon’s face. He knew where Gordon was leading. He was trying to show Milton that all solutions were bad. “I wouldn’t have hit him,” Milton repeated.

“Stubborn boy.” Gordon caught Milton in a piercing stare, a look that told Milton he was stepping close to that line that would find him over Gordon’s knee or leaning over the bed waiting for the strike of the cane.

“I hurt him. I scared him.” Milton wanted to cry, to run to Gordon the way a child might run to a parent after a fall off a bike, or to strike the wall in unsuppressed fury. He ruthlessly crushed those feeling. He was a dominant; he controlled and mastered his emotions. He wasn’t a sub where the world was washed bright and clear by a spanking. Not that he believed that either; it was a myth. He’d seen Landon and Gordon do their dance too many times to think a spanking made the world spin right on its axis. It was about negotiations, rituals, and expectations. Landon was more than capable of managing his own affairs, but sometimes he wanted that freedom to throw it all at Gordon and tell him to make it right.

“Milton,” Gordon said softly, “he was scared already. You certainly didn’t physically hurt him, and if I understand you correctly, you stopped the minute he objected. Joe might not understand it now; he might not understand it for months, but you showed him today that he has control. He couldn’t have made you stop, but you stopped because he asked.”

“He should never have had to ask.”

“You have a one track mind, boy.”

“I thought determination was a valued trait in a top.”

Gordon raised his eyebrows and gave Milton a slow appraising look. “I take it you would like me to punish you?”

Milton looked away; he could feel the redness rising up his neck.

“You look at me, boy, when I’m talking to you.” Gordon’s tone had sharpened. 

Milton had crossed the line; he was going to be punished. Milton wasn’t sure if he was relieved or dreaded the next few minutes. Gordon hadn’t wanted to spank him that was clear from the earlier conversation, but Milton knew once Gordon committed there would be no reprieve. 

“I take it you need this,” Gordon said, his hand resting on Milton’s shoulder both as a light restraint and a reassurance.”

Milton nodded. He didn’t want to talk about it. It was embarrassing, and humiliating; Milton could rattle off a whole host of unpleasant words for it.

“Nodding won’t do it, my lad. I expect more from you.”

Milton could think of a thousand nasty retorts. All would land him in a corner probably on his knees to contemplate his manners. Those would be easy to say; asking for this was hard. He stroked the stubble of his new beard.

Gordon captured Milton’s hand, his grip firm but not harsh. “My lad, you’re a top; I won’t allow you to evade here. I will spank you, but you must ask for it. I do not feel this needs to be punished. You understand your error, and I understand the difficulty of the situation in which you were unexpectedly trapped. No solution was easy or good. This was not a situation of you snapping unthinkingly at a rampaging brat nor was it a bad decision made from tiredness, crankiness, or pure self-centeredness. You had a boy in trouble, and you used a solution that was not perhaps appropriate, but no malice was intended, and you changed tack immediately in response to Joe’s distress.”

“I scared him,” Milton said, gritting his teeth and insanely wishing he could tuck his head inside his pajama top and disappear.

Gordon squeezed Milton’s knee. “It’s frightening how easy it is to do that, isn’t it?” Gordon lips twisted into a slight smile or maybe more accurately a slight grimace. “It’s a power that can be used for real evil.” Gordon bent forward and kissed Milton’s forehead. “I have no qualms with you. You’re a good boy; you don’t want to hurt. Now I’m not always so sure about myself.” Gordon laughed mirthlessly. “Fortunately I have Landon to keep me in my place.”

“You’ve always been kind to me,” Milton said softly.

“Not everybody sees how I’ve treated you as kindness.”

 “You taught me to respect my dominant side, even fear it. I needed that, and it would have been far more unkind to set me loose on the world as a raw and impulsive top.”

Gordon kissed Milton’s forehead and entwined his fingers in the younger man’s hair. “You must also embrace and enjoy it. I think you forget to have fun with it sometimes. Landon reminds me to play. You need that also.”

“Maybe,” Milton acquiesced. Milton lifted his head and squared his jaw; he hadn’t inherited his grandfather’s stubbornness for nothing. “You are changing the subject. I forgot the primary role of being a top. I am to do no harm. I did harm today, and I want you to punish me.”

“Very well.” Gordon deepened his tone. “You will, as in all punishments, set this aside after I have finished. With punishment there must be forgiveness. Will you forgive yourself?”

Milton kept his eyes on Gordon’s face, studying the slight furrows that were starting around his eyes and the dark hair that was now beginning to show traces of gray as it receded off the high forehead. “I will,” Milton said his voice steady.

Gordon shifted, making a place for Milton to fit across his thighs. “All right, my boy, let’s get this done.” He patted his thigh. He didn’t have to do more. 

Milton slid out from under the quilt and dropped his pajama bottoms. Quickly before he lost his nerve, he draped himself over Gordon’s thighs. He’s wanted this. It was too late for regret or negotiation. He’d earned this, and he would be brave and stoic.

 Gordon tightened his arm around Milton’s hips. “This is about putting your mistake aside, learning from it but not being crippled by it. Remember this was your choice.”

The first smack landed hard, and Milton flinched before remembering his resolve to take this stoically. The swats landed one after another in a cresting wave of stinging pain. Milton squirmed, and Gordon hitched him higher, landing a flurry of spanks on Milton’s sensitive thighs. Milton groaned, screwed his eyes shut, and bit his lip. He jerked as a hard slap landed on the most sensitive part of his inner thigh.

“Part of this arrangement is that you do not hide your emotions from me,” Gordon said, landing a swat with each word.

“Yes, sir,” Milton choked and let the tears spill down his face. His ass hurt; he wanted to cry. Actually he wanted to start the whole day over again. Milton clung to the bed covers, burying his face in the quilt as Gordon continued to apply a rigorous use of physical force to Milton’s exposed flesh. What an idiotic way of thinking about it! He was getting thrashed; there were no other words for it, and he had asked for it. He needed to have his head examined!

Milton collapsed over Gordon, no longer fighting. The tears streaked down his cheeks. 

“Good boy.” Gordon’s hand stilled on Milton’s backside, but he kept Milton pinned against his thighs. “Do you need more?”

“No,” Milton groaned. He was sore; he wanted up.

“Don’t struggle,” Gordon said sharply, tapping Milton’s sore flesh. “You may request punishment, but I’m in charge now. Why were we doing this?”

“Because I hit Joe without permission.”

“No.” Gordon landed a flurry of hard smacks, causing Milton to hiss and squirm. “Why are we doing this?” Gordon repeated.

“I asked you to,” Milton choked out. He didn’t say that he must have been temporarily insane at the time. 

“Closer,” Gordon said, resting his hand on the heated flesh. “Tell me more.”

“I was feeling guilty. I have a martyr complex,” Milton blurted out. “Are you satisfied now?”

“Milton,” Gordon growled, but Milton thought he heard a trace of humor in that growl. “You are lying over my knees. This is not a good time for smart comments. Do you need more?”

“No. Please.” Milton said unable to not plead. He was sore; he wanted up. He’d done his penance.

“Do you forgive yourself?”

Milton hung over Gordon’s knees, exposed, half-naked, and also safe. Gordon knew what he was feeling. For all his orders, demands, and draconian rules, Milton had never seen Gordon not be kind to a man in true distress and not spend as long as necessary to explain his position. He might turn the unfortunate fellow’s backside a glowing red, but Gordon would have convinced the poor soul of his position and the overall desirability of being spanked to tears. 

“Do you need time in the corner to think, boy?” Gordon asked, his hand swatting lightly, a promise of more if Milton didn’t answer. 

“No,” Milton said, hearing the desperation in his own voice. He hated the corner; he especially hated the corner on his knees.

“Why did I do this?” Gordon asked, his hand stroking down Milton’s shoulders.

“I was punishing myself instead of learning from my mistakes.”

“What have you learned?”

“To be careful whom I swat.’

“You knew that already,” Gordon said, laying his hand warningly on Milton’s hot buttocks.

“There are sometimes no good solutions.” Milton squirmed on Gordon’s lap. He was beyond dignity; He just wanted this interrogation over. “Sometimes I’m going to make mistakes.”

Gordon ruffled Milton’s hair and swung him upright. “You are a very good man and a very good top, better in many ways than I will ever be. We all make mistakes, and we must learn to accept are errors and endeavor not to repeat them”

“What do I do with Joe?”

“What do you think? You have some experience. How would you mitigate this?”

Milton rubbed his eyes, trying to scrub the signs of crying from his face. “I’ve never dealt with an abused submissive. I don’t know.”

“How do you deal with a new submissive or a new dominant for that matter?”

“You explain everything many times. You make the correct path easy and all other routes very hard.”

“You do the same thing for Joe.” Gordon said gently as he held Milton close. “You’re not the boy who came here at eighteen having overgrown your peers in high school but not quite a man. You’re a man now, a beautiful and intelligent man that anyone would be proud to know. You will make mistakes; you will feel overwhelmed at times. It is the way of the top. Landon and I won’t abandon you, but we will also not shield you from your own folly. Now, how do you manage Joe?”

“I treat him like a new submissive,” Milton said tentatively. 

“Maybe even more cautiously. Adam and I spoke briefly. He believes under no circumstance that Joe should be physically touched. He suggested the experienced couples model the relationship, but allow Joe to gradually find his place as a submissive and realize he’s safe.”

“I made it take longer.”

“Milton,” Gordon said sternly, “we’ve dealt with this.”

“Yes, sir, but it’s true.”

“You’re impossible, boy. You will stay in bed the rest of the day. I’ll send Landon around later with dinner.”

“You already spanked me,” Milton muttered under his breath.

“Do you want to go for tomorrow also?” Gordon asked in that irritatingly gentle tone of his that meant he was frighteningly serious.

“No, sir,” Milton said hastily.

“I thought not. Back under the covers with you. Out of bed only to go to the bathroom.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Don’t glare at me,” Gordon tapped Milton’s nose sharply. “We had an agreement.”

Milton wanted to toss his pillow at Gordon, but Gordon wasn’t Landon. Milton would end up on his knees for half the night. Landon would have a rousing pillow fight and get the other subs and even some of the tops to join in.

“Do you want me to go, so you can sulk in peace?” Gordon asked.

“I don’t sulk.”

“Right then. Have you a better verb?”

Milton turned in the bed and smacked the pillow with his fist. “No,” he growled.

“As I thought.” Gordon kissed the back of Milton’s head. “I’ll send Landon in later. You might actually talk to him.”

******

“I hear Gordon has you confined to bed,” Landon said in a much too cheerful voice.”

“I feel like a leper.” Milton sat up in bed, hissing as his sore butt pressed into the sheets.

“He spanked you?” Landon’s eyebrows shot up into his hairline. “He told me he was only going to talk to you. It’s not like he’s perfect.”

“I asked him to.” 

“You are insane. You know how hard he spanks, and this was not in play. I try to keep his hands off me unless we’re playing or of course having sex.”

“Is that how gentlemen talk?” Milton asked, not able to hide his smile.

“No, that’s how subs talk who are trying to cheer up a grumpy top. I brought treats also: a ham and cheese sandwich, potato chips, and a chocolate bar. I couldn’t get the chocolate cake out in my trouser pocket, and you know the rules.”

“Bread and water rations if you’re not at dinner.”

“Not quite but close enough. Basic brown bag rations are OK.” Landon flipped Milton’s dinner to him.”

“Does Gordon know about the chocolate?”

“What do you think?”

“No.”

“And hopefully he never will. Unlike you, I prefer to avoid punishment spankings.”

“I needed it,” Milton said softly, toying with the bread on the sandwich.

“Milton,” Landon said, sitting on the bed and pulling Milton into a hug. “Don’t you think I know? I’m Gordon’s boy. I know what it means.” Landon sat silently for a moment, not loosening his arms that held Milton locked against him. “Did it help?”

“Yes. Is Joe OK?”

“Are you sure it helped?” Landon pushed Milton to arm’s length to study his face.

“Yes. Don’t you get all toppy with me now.”

“Milton!” The tone was sharp, easily as sharp as Gordon’s. Landon might be Gordon’s boy, but he wouldn’t hesitate to be a top if the situation warranted. 

“It helped. It’s not easy for me.”

“I know.” Landon ruffled Milton’s hair. “When you finally get a beard instead of that hideous stubble I’ll drag you around by it every time you get too serious.”

“And I’ll spank you. Baiting a top is a dangerous sport.”

“I like danger. I get bored easily.”

“Don’t we all know.” Milton smiled; he couldn’t help himself. Landon had this effect on people; he made them happier.

“That’s better.” Landon smiled back. “Oh, and we all think Joe will be fine. Adam has attached himself like a leech. A couple of guys already started a betting pool.”

“Landon,” Milton spluttered, sending bread crumbs across the bed. “It’s been two hours.”

“Four now,” Landon said, his eyes laughing. “I’ve seen it before. I’m betting for a summer announcement. They’ll be perfect together. Adam has a rescue complex, and he’s a softie. Have you ever seen him spank anyone? He’s allergic to force.  What do you want to bet?”

“Not against you. You always win.” 

“I’ll give it to August. We’ll be getting out our vests and morning coats. Maybe you’ll be best man.”

“Stop.” Milton grabbed the pillow and whacked Landon. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“No more than you and no pillow fight until after dinner. I don’t want to explain how we got mustard on the sheets.”

“All right, you win for now.”

“I want more than that,” Landon said with a grin. “If I’m right, you have to be the wedding planner.”

“They’re eloping. I heard there is a great deal in Vegas.”

Vegas,” Landon snorted. “Don’t give up your day job. Wedding planning is not in your future. 

“I’m a student; I don’t have a day job.”

“You’re definitely feeling better. You’re getting smart with me.” Landon ruffled Milton’s hair. “Now eat. I’m not responsible if Gordon finds the chocolate.”

“Yes, sir.” Milton set down the sandwich and opened the gold foil of the chocolate bar. “The evidence has been lost,” he said and took a big bite.”

Landon laughed. “And I thought only bratting boys ate chocolate as a first course.”