Young Milton 3

Young Milton 3

Milton ran his finger over the edge of the ski. It was sharp now. He tagged the pair of skis and placed it in the rack for pick up. Life had become fairly normal if you could call anything in this crazy place normal. Milton went to meals and to work and was harangued by people to talk about crazy things. Semi-lunatics galloped around the halls, sometimes with few clothes on, and then in a blink of an eye changed into a dark suit and disappeared for important financial meetings. Gordon had dragged Milton to his study one night and unlocked the toys: rows of floggers and canes and whips of all sizes. The leather had slid through Milton’s fingers as he’d been guided to touch. Gordon had flicked the flogger across Milton’s shoulders.

Gordon’s voice had been almost lyrical as he spoke of each toy, as he drew a few from the rack and swished them in the air. “Pleasure, pain where does one begin and the other end? I will show you both. You will conquer your fear of your desires. I will guide you down the path. I owe you my best, and I won’t let you fail.”

“You will beat me with these things?” Milton had asked as he stared at those wicked toys. What would it feel like? Against his back? In his hand? No!

“Yes.” Gordon’s hand had rested on the back of Milton’s neck. “No dominant should go out in the world without being under the lash. Submission is a precious gift; you must learn to cherish it. Otherwise you will be the brute you so fear.” Gordon’s fingers had stroked over the cane. “I won’t beat you until you understand more. I can be a cruel man, a hard man, a ruthless man, but I try not to be an abusive man. When I beat you, you will be a full partner in the act. You will obey me, and there will be consequences if you do not, but I won’t beat you until you ask.” Gordon had secured the cabinet doors. “The keys live in my desk, but you will not touch until you have knelt at my feet and felt the sting on naked flesh.”

“I will never kneel for you.”

“Never is a long time. Don’t make promises you cannot keep. Someday your words will be a lifeline for a boy, and he must know that you will move heaven and earth to keep your word.” 

From the front of the shop, Milton could hear loud shouting. It was only Harry upfront, quiet and terminally shy. He was the proverbial wimp, the kid who always got shoved in the locker at school. He usually stayed close to Randy, his partner, who hovered like a mother dropping her kid at school for the first day of kindergarten, but Randy had gone to pick up a delivery.

“You flipping idiot! You’d be fired if you weren’t one of Gordon’s pets.”

Milton hurried to the front. A man in his early twenties leaned against the counter. He was dressed in one of those ski jackets that Milton already realized would feed a family of four for a month. A too large of watch with a gold band sat on his wrist, and his fingers were clenched around his expensive ski gloves.

“May I help you, sir?” The sir mollified people. This asshole would think he was entitled to be called sir.

“My skis.” The man stabbed his finger at a pair of red Atomics. “The wax and deburr was completely inadequate. There’s a gash on the bottom.”

“Rocks will do that,” Milton said mildly. “Did you request a complete tune or only a wax and deburr?”

“I brought the skis in to be made ready for the season. You’re the experts.”

Harry pushed a work order slip toward Milton. “You didn’t request a tune,” Milton said.

“If the skis needed a tune up, you should have damn well done it. The incompetence here is stunning, but I guess I can expect nothing more from pets. None of you will ever do more than fetch and carry and lick people’s boots,” the man sneered.

“Excuse me,” Milton said, drawing himself to his full height.

“I’ve heard some of the biggest boys are the best cock suckers. Bigger throats.”

“Harry, go in the back. Now.”

Harry was obedient. He took one look at Milton’s face and fled. Milton heard a bang as Harry must have collided with something in the back, but he could deal with that later.

“No witnesses. Should we take care of this like men?” Milton stalked toward the man. 

White skin, bloodshot eyes, breath that smelled like mints hiding alcohol.

“Subby boys know not to hit their betters.”

“I might not hit my betters, but I see no problem in beating up a piece of shit.”

“Manners.” The man’s hand shot out and slapped Milton across the face, a hard open handed blow.

Milton grabbed the man’s jacket, heaving him half over the counter. “Don’t you ever touch me. Don’t you ever touch Harry. I’ll beat you until you make the man at the hospital at two in the morning look like he had a beauty treatment. Get.” Milton threw the man down and turned sharply away. A coward wouldn’t hit him now. He shouldn’t beat the man. He clenched his fist and punched his own thigh. He wanted to beat the shit out of those smirking lips. He wanted to see that soft piece of flesh cower on the floor and beg for mercy. Milton drew a long breath and then another, He counted to ten three times. He turned back around. The man was gone as well as his skis.

“He hit you!” Harry came charging out of the back room. His voice was too high, too excited, too everything. “Do you need ice? Do you want me to get Gordon?”

“Shut up!”

The hurt was evident in Harry’s huge eyes and in his hurried step back. “Sorry.” He dropped his eyes.

“Don’t. Don’t go all meek and mild on me. I shouldn’t have yelled. I’m sorry.”

“It’s OK. You’re hurt.”

“I’m not hurt. I got slapped by a prick.”

“He cut your cheek.” Harry stepped forward and traced a scratch on Milton’s cheek.

“Bastard had a ring. I’ll be fine.” Only he’d wanted to beat the guy. He’d wanted to make the guy pay for every last humiliation. He’d wanted to see the asshole on his knees. “Harry, I’m sorry.” Milton wrapped his arm around Harry’s shoulders and pulled him close in a brisk hug. “I’m not mad at you.”

“Are you OK now?”

“Yeah. Let’s get back to work before Randy finds us idling the day away.”

“You should put ice on it.”

“Don’t fuss. I’ll be fine.”

“Sure?”

“Yes.” Milton kissed the top of Harry’s head. He’d seen Gordon do it enough times. It somehow felt right to do it. “I’ll be fine.” He’d be fine after he stopped wanting to kill the bastard. He’d been so close. He was strong. He knew the damage he could do. 

****

“Give me a hand unloading this stuff,” Randy said as he poked his head inside the door. He was dressed for the weather in a heavy parka, gloves, and a wool hat pulled well down over his large ears. 

“Sure.” Milton reached for his coat. He was used to wearing a heavy lined canvas coat and insulated coveralls of all northern farmers, but Gordon and Landon had insisted that he’d be outfitted for a ski resort. The coat was light and comfortable and pretty if you were into that sort of thing.

“Hat and gloves. It’s frigid out there.”

“I’ve lived in Vermont all my life,” Milton said, ignoring the request for hat and gloves. “I know cold.”

“Tough. I’m responsible for you. Put on your hat and gloves.” Randy gave Milton one of those serious looks that always made Harry run for cover, but Milton found more amusing than anything. Randy was a pushover, a nice guy with an overly developed sense of care taking. Milton wouldn’t get frostbite in the five minutes it took to unload a few boxes. “Be sensible. I don’t want to be the heavy here.”

Milton grabbed for his gloves and hat. He carefully pulled his hat over his ears and zipped his coat all the way to his chin. “Happy?”

“Ecstatic, brat. Put on your gloves. Hey.” Randy reached out and grabbed Milton’s arm as he tried to walk past. “What happened to your face?”

“Scratched it. I tripped and smacked into some skis.”

“That looks like a slap to me. Do you want to revise your story?”

“No. Now that you made me put on my gloves and hat can I go outside? It’s hot in here.”

Randy sighed. “Gordon has more fortitude than I do. Harry, what happened?”

“Nothing,” Harry said in an entirely unconvincing voice. He was melting against the wall, making every effort to disappear into the display of ski socks.

“Harry, I don’t do lying. Do you want to try that again?”

“Anthony went off and hit him. He was horrible, called him all sorts of names.”

“The son of the pharmaceutical guy? That Anthony?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Harry, go get Gordon. You--” Randy pointed at Milton. “--take your hat, gloves, coat, and boots off and sit on that bench.”

“Boots?”

“I don’t know you well enough to know if you’ll run. You won’t be going anywhere without your boots.”

“This is ridiculous.” Milton threw his gloves and hat against the bench. “I got slapped by an irate customer. The guy was an asshole. It’s not a federal crime.”

“Boots.”

“No.” Milton crossed his arms across his chest and stretched his booted feet out in front of him. “I’ll sit here, but I’m not playing some crazy game.”

“Look.” Randy straddled the bench. “I’m not all into these power dynamics every second. Can’t you just humor me? If I have to tell Gordon you were disobedient, he’ll put you with one of the brute types who’ll beat obedience into your stubborn skull. Do you want that? You do understand the power dynamics here, don’t you?”

“Yes.” Both Landon and Gordon had sat down an explained it or more accurately dictated it. Milton was a dominant in training, the bottom of the heap. He was supposed to learn about submission by being put in the submissive role. Gordon had been dispensing the daily lecture on the subject, or maybe it was a twice daily lecture. Milton could hear the words easily enough.

“You’re a dominant. Your grandfather, Doug, Landon and, I all know it, as do you once you find the courage to admit you want to dominate the man you’re supposed to love. You will love that man, but it won’t fit the Valentine card model. There will be tears and sweat and welts. It’s not wrong or evil, but it must be understood, embraced, and controlled. That’s my role here. I will bring you across the chasm of half-child half-man to the adult dominant who is escaping his prison despite your desperate attempts to keep him behind bars. You must learn this.” Gordon had leaned forward and stroked his fingers through Milton’s hair. “You’re like stroking a wild animal, but I must tame you. You will submit to me, not because you’re a submissive, but because you want to control the force inside of you. You’re not cruel, you’re not evil, you’re not brutal, but a tendril that runs deep through your soul wants to be the predator, the wolf at the head of the pack who will destroy a disobedient challenger, but who will also fight to the death to protect his pack and his mate. You must understand and tame the part of you which might have been adaptive in the society of hunters crouching in front of a smoldering fire, but is destructive and unacceptable except in the narrowest of realms of today’s society. This is the narrow realm. This is your tribe. You won’t believe me now or next month, but someday.”

“You wish to defy me?” Randy asked in a voice that was too gentle to be intimidating. He wasn’t Gordon. He was prey, the soft and fluffy bunny with an even fluffier partner. 

“I’m not playing,” Milton snarled, gripping the bench too tightly. He wasn’t a predator. He didn’t want some crazy fight for supremacy. They were all wrong.

Randy gave Milton a long look as if he thought his sad gray eyes would make Milton change his mind. “This is not who you are. I see the soft side with Harry. You’ve chosen the hard way.” Randy stood and reached for the wall telephone that only called within the ski area. 

The conversation was muffled and mostly inarticulate mumbles on Randy’s end. Something about a Fred stopping by. Milton didn’t know a Fred, but there seemed to be an ever changing rotation of faces. Whoever this Fred was must have been close because the bell at the front door tinkled and a large man blocked the passage. His eyes roamed around the room before resting on Milton with a glare that equaled his grandfather’s.

“Gordon’s new boy. Is he your problem? Who struck him in the face?”

“Customer. Not his fault as far as I can tell.”

“So why did you need me?”

“I asked him to take off his boots, and he flat refused.”

“I see. Get your boots and socks off now. Tie the laces together; you have five seconds,” Fred barked. 

“No.” Milton leaned backed against the wall and picked up an old ski magazine.

“If you make me take them off you, you’ll regret it.”

“Try.”

Milton had wrestled in school. He’d thought he was a relatively good fighter, but he hardly saw Fred as his body torpedoed into Milton. The force knocked him to the floor and the breath out of his lungs. His arm was wrenched behind him with too much force. Milton tried to flip Fred off, but the leverage was wrong. 

“Get off me.” Milton gasped, trying to replenish his empty lungs.

“Are you taking off your boots, or do I need to hold you down here and have Randy take them off? The smart answer is yes, sir I’ll take them off. It might save you a beating, but it might not. I always enjoy a good beating.”

“Fuck you!” Milton rolled his body hard left while trying to jackknife into a standing position.

The retaliation was brutal. A knee was planted in Milton’s back and his neck was arched upward. “Stupid, boy. I have all the advantages here. You gave it a good fight; now lose your boots. There is no disgrace by my beating you. The odds were stacked in the house favor. Good gamblers go home when they still have money in their wallet to play another day.”

“Fine.” The pressure disappeared and Milton rolled to his feet, ignoring the offered hand up.

“Don’t be a sore loser.”

“That wasn’t a fair fight; that was an ambush.”

“Someone’s angry,” Fred said with a blinding smile. “I guess I should have kept you down there longer, let you work off more aggression.”

“I have every right to be angry.” Milton snatched at his laces and kicked his boots off. “There, no boots.”

“Tie the laces together and put your socks in them.”

“Are you going to throw me on the floor again if I don’t?”

“I might. Come on, kid, just humor me, the crazy son of a bitch.”

“Fine.” Milton yanked off his socks, shoved them in the boots, and tied the laces together. “Special delivery.”

“Thank you.” Fred hooked an arm around Milton’s neck and kissed both his cheeks. “The rules are unfair, I know. That’s the way it is for the young and the strong. No hard feelings.”

“Don’t know.” Milton leaned back and stared at the ceiling. No hard feelings? He’d just gotten literally kicked around for refusing to give up his boots, and the kicker was smiling. 

“Fair enough, but you’d do better with some organized workouts with me instead of making me do fire suppression. You might learn to beat me some of the time with practice, and being Gordon’s boy you’re going to need an approved way to unleash some aggression.”

Milton grimaced and let his eyes rest on Fred for a second. Even in his sweater, it was obvious the man was serious about exercise. The sinews of his neck popped and bulged, and he moved with a sleek pouncing motion. 

“Do I get to keep my shoes?”

Fred rolled his eyes and laughed. “Brat. For that I’ll make you run up the hill in your ski boots. That will teach you not to have a smart mouth.”

“I’ll look forward to it.”

“You’re going to be the death of all of us.” Fred swatted the back of Milton’s head. “Young dominants--impossible is their middle name.”

“I don’t want to be.”

“A dominant or impossible?” There was still a smile on Fred’s lips, but his voice was different, and the lines around his hazel eyes deepened.

“Nothing,” Milton mumbled. He didn’t want to talk about it. He was tired of people asking all these questions. He longed for his grandfather’s comfortable silence.

“It’s not nothing.” Fred placed a foot on the bench and gripped its back in his big hands. “Do you not identify as a dominant? You need to talk to Gordon. He really cares about you, and he’s very close to your grandfather.”

“Everyone says I’m a dominant.” Milton swung his bare feet against the painted concrete of the floor. 

“You’re only a dominant if you identify as such. You look, feel, and smell like a dominant to me, but it is your choice.” Fred ran a hand through his hair that curled well onto his neckline. “Gordon and Landon are the ones to do this. I’m just muscle. I just do what my instincts tell me. They can explain this in big, long words.”

“I don’t want big, long words.”

“You also don’t want to be told what you are. That’s part of being dominant. We want to be in charge; we want to control our own destiny.”

“I don’t want to hurt people.”

“You would have gladly beaten the shit out of me if you could’ve.”

“You jumped on me. I wasn’t going to roll over and die. I protect my own.”

“You protected Harry. That’s how you got slapped, wasn’t it. Someone was harassing him.”

“Anthony,” Randy said. 

Milton had forgotten about Randy. Fred seemed to occupy so much more of the space. Fred commanded his attention; Randy faded into the background, half hidden in the colorful skis and the long row of poles.

“Anthony Vanhorn. I’ve lifted his ticket twice for going under the ropes in the last week. I’m surprised you didn’t put him through the wall.”

Milton felt the heat rise in his face, and he clenched his fist. “I wanted to.”

“More restraint than I have,” Fred said with a lopsided smile. “I about shook the life out of him when I found him in that damn rock field. Sidestepping on unstable snow makes me cranky. Told him I’d do it the old-fashioned way if I ever caught him again. I’d beat him to a pulp instead of pulling his ticket. The kid didn’t believe me, but I’m not as pure as Gordon. If I can hurt him a little bit to stop him from hurting himself a lot, I’ll do it. Fancy permission be damned. So why didn’t you flatten him?” Fred gave Milton an appraising look. “You’re certainly strong enough.”

“He seemed...I don’t know.” Milton rubbed the scratch on his cheek. “He seemed breakable.”

“He is. He wants broken to harness. He doesn’t know how to ask for it, and we’re just too damn polite to just take it. Gordon’s going to have to do some fancy tap dancing with this one now that the idiot boy has pulled the trigger. Watch Gordon closely when he has a little chat with Anthony. He’s an artist. You’ll never see a dominant better at it. He’ll get the confession and after some wee suffering the boy will be loads happier. He’ll make someone a gorgeous little sub when he stops snarling and finds his spot on his knees.”

“It’s not right,” Milton said sharply. “We don’t have the right. No one should be made to scrape and beg. It doesn’t matter if I can or if I want to. It’s not right.”

“Whoa!” Fred caught Milton’s wrist as he started to punch the bench. “Don’t break your knuckles.”

“I can if I want to.”

“If you want to hurt, I’ll do it or Gordon will do it. You don’t have permission to do it to yourself.”

“I can’t hurt myself, but I’m supposed to hurt others. My generation is told we don’t have any morals. I’ve never seen such fucked up morals in my life.”

“Don’t shout,” Fred said in voice that was barely above a whisper. “Shouting won’t make the pain easier. You’re driven to hurt, and you’re driven to protect. It’s a terrible and tangled mess, but we hurt with permission. The submissive wants it; we are not beating up a random stranger in a bar or coming home and beating on a weak and vulnerable partner. Do Landon and George look like victims? George would pour boiling water on anyone who tried to take advantage of him, and we wouldn’t find the remains of someone who thought Landon was easy pickings.”

“What about Harry?”

“Randy, do you want to explain your boy?” Fred asked. “I know he does the soft, cuddly, and vulnerable awfully well.”

“Harry likes the good things in life, and I like giving them to him. He can take care of himself if he has to, but I like doing it for him.”

“Anthony was walking all over him,” Milton said.

“You were here to protect him. You might not know it, Milton, but you throw out strong dominant signals with every breath and every twitch of a facial muscle. Harry delegated the job of protection to you.”

“I didn’t ask for it.”

“Did you not like it?” Randy asked, his posture a calculated casual, but his eyes were firmly on Milton. “I find it fun occasionally.”

“You’re hardly the action hero,” Milton said sarcastically. “You’re obsessed with wearing gloves.”

Randy laughed. “I’m a mother hen. I don’t deny it, but you’re also fun to irritate. Your eyes get so full of fury when I bug you about a hat. You should let me take care of you some; you’ll be taking care of plenty of people when you’re older.”

“I don’t need a mother.”

“You don’t,” Fred said with a grin, “but sometimes it’s nice to know there will be hot chocolate waiting for you after you’ve shoveled the snow. Randy likes taking care of you, and he likes having someone around with enough muscle to play the true white knight for Harry. Can you try not to provoke the life out of Randy?”

Milton drummed his fingers on the wood of the bench, listening to the sound in the quiet room. “I didn’t know.”

“Of course you didn’t.” Fred squeezed the back of Milton’s neck. “We see the world through our own eyes. To wield power humanely, you have to see the world through other’s eyes. I’m not good at it. I don’t want to wield the power Gordon does; I don’t want to wield the power that is in your destiny. I like to bash a few heads. I don’t like the intricacies of why Harry is different from George. I’m not that adaptable, and I’m not that smart, but you are once you get your head out of your ass.”

“You don’t know me.”

“Gordon and your grandfather have been watching you since you turned fourteen. They know men. Trust us. We’re trying to save you some of the shit most of us went through to end up here. You’ll hate Gordon. You’ll think swimming in a sewer and eating rats would have been more pleasant at times, but he’ll teach you about yourself, and he’ll make sure you never really harm someone. That’s what you fear. That’s what all decent dominants fear when we’re thinking half clearly. Sometimes we’re only thinking one quarter clearly, and that’s what this is for. We’ll kick you around so much that you’ll be able to make the right choice when only thinking one eighth clearly, when exhausted and strung out and fed up to the last tips of your dark curls. You’re going to be really good at this, kid.”

“Do I have a choice?” 

“Yes, you can leave, but I think you’re hardly a quitter. You want challenges, and they’re being handed to you on a silver tray. Take them.”

“God,” Milton groaned and buried his head in his hands. He shouldn’t be hiding. He wasn’t a coward. He needed to face the world even when the world had turned insane. Milton forced his head up and stared into those challenging hazel eyes. “I’m in.”

Fred gave a sharp nod. “Good. Now I’m going to massacre Gordon for making me have this conversation. He’s the talker. I’m the doer.”

“We’ve had it, I think. I just didn’t understand.”

“Time, boy. It takes time.” Fred reached over and flipped Milton’s boots at him. “Put them on. You earned it. You won’t run.”

It wasn’t a question, but a statement. Milton nodded and reached for his boots.