Entanglements

Entanglements 

“That bad, huh?” Trent leaned against the counter and watched Mace in a pile of flour, bowls, eggs and milk. Dusted cake pans were stacked on the counter, and the timer was ticking away on the stove.

“Minute,” Mace said, scraping the bowl with a spatula.

“That bad.” Trent hooked an arm around Mace’s neck and kissed the short brown hair.

“He didn’t whack me or anything. I think he’d guessed you’d already done the deed.” 

“You’re stressed.”

Mace spun around and glared at Trent. “He was being a bossy assed bastard.”

“He’s always been a bossy assed bastard, as you put it.” Trent gave Mace a wry smile. “You usually like it.”

“Not to this degree.” Mace turned back to his baking. “I need the egg whites whipped.”

“Sure, and stop bothering you. Is that the message?”

“Yep.”

“I’ll do the egg whites, but you get to tell me the long sad story. We’ve already done the stomping and the snorting, and I’m not the top to scorch your ass twice in one day.”

Mace absently ran a hand over his butt. “He threatened it.”

“Oh.” Trent caught Mace’s belt and pulled him close. He should probably say something easy and comfortable and infinitely reassuring, but Trent wasn’t that sort of man. He wasn’t quick with words and bold reassurances. He’d seen Milton do it to soften Gordon’s hard edges, but it wasn’t catching. He hadn’t learned the trick.

“Yep,” Mace said and pulled away, “and I spooked and folded like a skittish two-year-old colt.” Mace stirred the batter too hard, sending flecks onto the counter and spotting the floor.

“Don’t. We already did that once today.” Trent ran his hand down his partner’s rigid back. 

“Oh, fuck it!” Mace slapped the bottle of vanilla against the counter. “I can’t even get this right. I just put in too much vanilla.”

“It won’t hurt. We’ll add some orange peel to counter it.”

“It’s not an orange vanilla cake.”

“Go sit down. Hands on your lap.”

“What?”

“Go on.” Trent turned Mace’s shoulders and aimed him for the chair.

“You don’t even know what I’m making.”

“Orange vanilla cake.” Trent steered Mace into the chair. “Hands in you lap,” he repeated.

“Oh yes, my lord and master.” Mace rolled his eyes and kicked his feet against the chair’s wooden rungs.

Trent clicked his tongue, but otherwise ignored the moaning. He had a cake to make after all. He busied himself with the pans. He didn’t have Mace’s baking skills, but he could manage.

“Do you think Milton will even let Sheldon have any?”

Trent ignored the question and pulled the first set of cakes from the oven. He tapped the top for doneness and set them out on the cooling rack. It was some sort of white cake, probably one of the more fussy ones from Mace’s mood. Trent skimmed the remaining directions, set the timer, and put in the next set of cake pans. He was in no hurry; Mace could stew for a few minutes. The slow baked recipes were always better. He tided up the kitchen, wiping the splatters from the counter, and finally turned toward his partner.

Mace was sitting with his hands on his lap and his feet hooked around the legs of the chair. He caught Trent’s look and lowered his eyes.

“Yep, kiddo, you were agitated. So what happened?” Trent straddled a chair and sat down.

“You already know about this morning.”

“The great breakfast battle.It will go down with The Battle of Hastings as a momentous occasion.”

“Milton’s the historian.” 

“It’s rubbing off. Should I have some of his dominance rub off on me too?”

“No.” Mace slapped the table with his palm.

“Hands in your lap,” Trent growled.

“Oh, God, it’s contagious!” Mace cracked a small smile before looking down and biting his lip.

“I take it Milton was forceful with you.”

Mace shrugged and swung his feet once before stilling them around the chair legs again. “He pulled me up on his lap. He talked.”

“Anything else?” Trent prodded.

“He threatened to punish me if I asked Sheldon about breakfast again. It’s breakfast, not if he wants to run off to Colorado with me.”

“Sheldon is Milton’s slave. Milton has that right.”

“How can he? It’s ridiculous!” Mace shouted.

“Don’t,” Trent said levelly. This was becoming his favorite word. “After we joined this merry band, Milton was upfront that we might see some odd and unusual goings on. This is just one more of those occasions.”

“He’s taken everything from Sheldon. How can you be so cavalier about it?”

“Does Sheldon look upset?”

“It’s probably not allowed. Ten lashes for calling your dominant a horse’s ass.”

“I’m sure it’s more than that,” Trent said half seriously. “Milton’s an old-fashioned master. He’s enforcing the master/slave contract.”

“How do you know?” 

“I called Ryan and Gordon. My personal oracles about all the more extreme elements of this lifestyle. Gordon has seen the contract. He was the witness. Sheldon has sworn obedience to Milton and freely offered himself as chattel. He has only the rights that Milton bequeaths on him.”

“Sheesh!” 

“He wanted it. Sheldon wrote the contract, not Milton. Milton only added to his own obligations to protect and cherish his property and to increase the safeguards for Sheldon.”

“And you think this is all right?” Mace started to rise from the chair.

“Sit down.”

Mace collapsed back into the chair and shot Trent a murderous look.

“We do this. Most people wouldn’t call this fair either. I spanked you this morning.”

“You can’t sell me as property.”

“And you’re not Sheldon.” Trent leaned on his elbow and studied Mace. “Sheldon, for all his antics, is deeply submissive. He needs this, especially now.”

“He needs to be muzzled so Milton can do whatever he fucking wants! Milton hurt Sheldon.”

“And he knows it. He would never have agreed otherwise. It’s more restrictive and all encompassing than Milton wanted. It’s work to be a good master. Ultimately Milton’s responsible for Sheldon’s happiness, and he takes his obligations seriously.”

“It makes Sheldon happy to be penniless and get dragged around naked on a leash?”

“I haven’t seen Sheldon naked on a leash, have you?”

“He could be. He can’t stop it.”

“True.” Trent checked the timer over his shoulder. “But Milton is obligated to Sheldon’s mental well-being. Dragging Sheldon around on a leash would hardly be productive.”

“No,” Mace snorted, “but controlling his diet is?”

“He making choices for Sheldon without punishment or pain. Think about it. Sheldon always was happiest when he was in some sort of trouble after the initial dust settled. Sheldon has this need. I don’t think either of us can understand it, at least not completely, but it is our role to show tolerance. He’s still your friend; you just need to ask Milton first before you do something for Sheldon. He’ll grant it as long as you ask, but he’ll punish you if you don’t.”

“How do you know? And you’ll let him?” Mace asked in rapid fire succession.

“We talked, or Milton talked and I listened. Mace—”Trent stood and leaned over his partner, lifting Mace’s chin so he couldn’t look away—“it’s always been understood that Milton has the final say in this household. We may be on the periphery of this family, but he is the head of the household. If you can’t accept that any longer, we should move.” Trent kissed Mace’s forehead and stepped back. “Consider it, kiddo. I can’t change that.”

Mace nodded slowly. “Milton asked me today if I still considered myself a submissive. I am, and I submit. I don’t like it today, but I will submit.”

“Good boy.” Trent almost never used that expression. Mace would know exactly what his partner meant. It wasn’t an empty or casual platitude. It was a reaffirmation of their way. 

Jack of Diamonds

Jack of Diamonds: Trent Long

Trent rubbed his eyes and took his last swig of Coke. He was exhausted; he’d driven from St. Louis, and only the incessant pressure of his bladder was keeping his eyes open. He needed to find a motel and a bathroom, not necessarily in that order. He could always just pull over if he became more desperate, but the road had a moderate amount of traffic and no cover. With his luck, someone would report him for indecent exposure. He was in Texas after all. This was not a country he wanted to be found with his pants unzipped.

Trent had thought the magazine that had commissioned the article on sport shooting in Texas realized he was gay. He didn’t advertise it, no gay pride stickers on his car nor rainbow tie tacks, but he’d never hid it, and he’d written several articles targeted to the gay audience under his byline in various publications. Being sent to the Republic of Texas was not the highlight of his career. He planned to keep his head down, go on this hunting safari, and get the hell out of Dodge. He didn’t plan to enjoy Texas hospitality any longer than necessary. 

The famed hospitality didn’t seem to include roadside rests. Trent knew that Texas took a different approach to government services, but he hadn’t imagined they would eliminate public bathrooms along with state supported education and health care. The guns were another crazy novelty of the Republic. Trent hunted; he was comfortable with a wide variety of firearms, but he’d never passed giant billboards advertising discount ammunition and liquor before. One stop shopping. Lethal one stop shopping. Trent reminded himself not to venture out into unknown neighborhoods at night. He didn’t want to be the target of a liquored up lone ranger. 

Finally he spotted a tiny sign pointing to a roadside rest. He pulled off the pavement, the rental car bouncing wildly as the road disintegrated into potholes and gravel. Trent hoped he’d still have four tires and an oil pan as he pulled into the dimly lit, weed infested parking lot. No wonder they advertised liquor and ammunition along the highway. This looked like muggers’ paradise. Trent grimaced; a swig of liquid courage and a cold piece of steel on his hip wouldn’t be amiss at this moment. With the light of the miniature flashlight that he always carried on his key ring, Trent picked his way down the crumbling path to a small tumbling down wooden building. A breeze had picked up, and in the dim light Trent watched sheets of newspaper and crumpled fast food bags blow and skitter in the unkempt grass and weeds. The door of the wooden shack banged in the wind, each swing sending a stronger smell of unclean pit toilets to assault Trent’s nostrils.

Duty fulfilled, Trent hurried back to his vehicle. Next time he would use the side of the road; the good Christian folk and police be damned. At least the assault on his senses had fully awakened him; he was in no danger of dozing off, only of hallucinating about the joys of running water.

*******

Trent carefully disassembled his shotgun and stowed it in his locked case. The Texans had looked incredulous at his precautions in between long diatribes about the unhindered right to bear arms. Considering the copious amount of beer these gentlemen had swilled every evening in front of the campfire, Trent was more than a little relieved to be leaving this country without a foot blown off. The wildlife had been safe. With their crashing around and stellar marksmanship, a barn would have had time to reduce itself to a pile of lumber and hide, and any target smaller than an aircraft hanger would have been an insurmountable challenge.

Trent could have easily shot the birds that the beaters had chased toward him, but somehow that felt like a massacre, not sport. It hadn’t stopped the men from bragging to their wives about their hunting prowess and the bounty of the slaughter. His hosts had gone off to celebrate their success, their over jeweled wives draped on their arms. Trent had begged off, insisting he needed an early start. He didn’t actually need to leave at four in the morning, but the sooner he saw the border the happier he would be, plus the thought of enduring one more sexist, homophobic, or racist joke was beyond his endurance. He doubted the presence of the women would improve the men’s choice of dinner conversation. Maybe at least they wouldn’t talk about their prowess in bed with their wives present. Trent had known a few guys who liked to brag about heavenly blow jobs or the conquering power of their dicks, but the last few days had been an eye opener. While he would write the requested article on the game preserve, Trent was already planning a humor piece on Homo texanis, the Texas native, in his home range.

Trent itched to pull out his laptop and start typing the adventures of the fine Texan citizenry, but a potential search by the border patrol forced Trent to be patient. He’d have to be content with the safe topic of the hunting lodge until he was back under the forty-nine stars of the United States. Trent zipped his case and headed downstairs. He’d promised his host he could manage his own dinner. Trent knew his way around a kitchen. He was sure he could find something edible in the monstrosity of granite and stainless steel appliances he’d seen earlier.

Trent froze as he crossed the foyer to the kitchen. In the great room, Levi, his host’s son, was entwined with another boy. It was beyond obvious that they were not watching the basketball game on the oversized television screen. The boys each saw Trent simultaneously and jumped up in a tangle of half removed jeans and thrown aside shirts. Levi blushed crimson before paling to a sickly gray.

“Uh,” Levi stutter. “We were watching the game.”

Trent didn’t bother to tell them that their state of semi-undress gave them away. “I was going to raid the kitchen. If I can find the ingredients, I make a mean pizza. Would you boys like some?”

“No thanks,” Levi muttered, still trying to organize his shirt and pants.

“Are you sure? Boys your age are usually hungry.” Trent smiled softly, trying to reassure. “I’m a damn Yankee. All I saw was two boys watching television. Just be safe, boys, please. Next time your audience might not be so sympathetic.” Trent took a deep breath. Both boys color had returned, not to a robust tan, but better than gray. Their expressions warred between hope that their secret was safe and utter terror. “I’m not just a damn Yankee; I’m a queer damn Yankee. Come help me figure out the kitchen.” Trent dropped an arm around each boy’s shoulders and surprised himself by kissing their foreheads in turn. “Breathe. You’re safe for now.” They might be safe, but what in the hell had he done? They tossed people in jail for being homosexual, and Trent didn’t think his US passport was protective. Now he was exposed and as vulnerable as these children, but they needed to know they weren’t freaks. Tonight he could try to give them a little hope.