Young Milton 4

Young Milton 4

“Problem?”

Gordon strode forward, managing to look both elegant and at home in the dingy back room of the ski shop. He was wearing a heavy coat and dark gray wool knickers and knee length rag socks. Well oiled leather boots were almost soundless on the floor.

“No,” Milton said through gritted teeth. He was done with all this. He’d already spilled his guts to Fred. The incident, as they would probably call it, was over.

“Who hit you?”

Milton choked back an unpleasant swear word. Gordon lectured when people swore, and Milton didn’t have the patience to deal with that at the moment. “They know. I’m not six. I don’t need people hovering all over me after a little bruise on the playground.”

“Caring is not the same as hovering.” Gordon grabbed Milton’s chin and with his other hand traced the scratch and the rising bruise. “Right now I am your mentor, and I am responsible for your well being. I didn’t put this bruise on you, so I expect to be told who did.”

“I don’t need someone responsible for me,” Milton growled. “I long ago passed the stage of life where I couldn’t tie my own shoes or blow my own nose.”

“I should hope so,” Gordon said frigidly. “I see you haven’t reached the stage where you measure your words before speaking. Do you intend to provoke me? Do you wish to have a beating? Do you need to have a beating?”

“Fuck no!”

Gordon’s eyebrows rose slowly. “As I have said before, I will not beat you without your explicit permission. Do you wish to give me that permission?”

Milton leaped to his feet. He was taller than Gordon, and he used his height to loom over the man. “I am not a submissive. I don’t want beaten. I don’t want someone making hot chocolate for me. I don’t want someone reminding me that I should wear gloves in cold weather.”

“Hot chocolate?” Gordon asked, his eyebrows going even higher onto his forehead and almost meeting his receding wisps of hair. “I’ve always fancied a lovely cup of cocoa on a cold winter’s night.”

Milton shoved his hands into his pockets and turned away. His feet made a clatter as he paced in the small space. No one asked Milton to stop. They watched him pace. They watched him glare at the diagrams of skier proficiency levels with wild eyes. Milton came to a stumbling halt and glared at the men.

“What?” Milton snarled.

“A beating or exercise you half to death, which will work for you?” Fred asked in a far too affable voice. 

“I can be bruised or I can vomit--lovely choices. Is there a third choice?” Milton’s voice dripped with sarcasm.

“You can pull yourself together,” Fred said in that same friendly tone, but I think you’d be much happier with option one or two. And God, boy, it’s not because you’re a friggin’ submissive. You’re about the furthest thing from it, but you’re unsettled and restless. Physical pain can be settling. You can prove your worth by enduring. You’re not soft. You don’t need to prove to me that you can tie your own shoes, but maybe you need to prove it to yourself.”

“Fine beat me.”

“Come with me.” 

The command in Gordon’s voice was impossible to ignore; Milton’s feet moved toward Gordon without his brain demanding their motion. A hand wrapped around Milton’s wrist, cool, comforting, and unyielding. 

It was frigid outside without his coat. The wind whipped through Milton’s hair and blew down the neck of his sweater. Gordon had brought one of the trucks, dark green and functional with a slightly battered appearance. Milton climbed into the passenger side and wrapped his arms around his chest. He tried to suppress the chatter of his teeth.

“Put the heat on, idiot boy. Freezing is not an acceptable means of self-torture.”

***

A fire was crackling behind the grate in the study, the flames dancing brightly and merrily. Gordon took his keys from the desk drawer and unlocked the cabinet; the canes lay all in a neat row. His hand moved between two canes before he chose the thicker.

“Senior cane. You will feel this. Milton, do you understand why we are doing this?”

“I was an ass.”

“No.” Gordon stroked his hand down Milton’s cheek in a gesture of infinite gentleness. “You were an ass, but I’m not going to cane you to change your behavior. I’m going to cane you to give you an outlet less destructive than what you were doing to yourself. A submissive might find pleasure in this. For you it is going to be about pain and suffering at my hand. In many months, I might be able to show you the pleasure of subspace. Today, I will only show you the pleasure of suffering. Your safeword will be Aryshire. Repeat it.”

“My safeword is Aryshire.” Milton couldn’t pull his eyes away from the cane in Gordon’s hand. It was bigger than the little twig that Gordon had used the first night. He swallowed and pulled the tatters of his courage around himself. “Where do you want me?”

“Pants and boots off. Over the desk. I will pull your shorts down.”

Even with the fire, Milton could feel the cold against his naked legs. He was sweating under his sweater, but goosebumps were rising on his thighs. The surface of the desk was hard and slippery, and he reached for the corners. He remembered something about hanging onto the corners from some long forgotten childhood story. Gordon pulled down Milton’s boxers with a swift tug. 

“Six.”

The first tap was to measure the distance. The next landed hard and fierce. Milton lurched forward, biting on his lip to stifle the automatic cry. He hauled air into his desperate lungs as two more stripes burned into his flesh. Gordon’s hand was on his back, keeping him pressed down. Milton would have run without that hand. Who held still and let themselves be tortured?

“Halfway.”

Milton still had three to survive. He screwed his eyes shut and gripped the corners more firmly. He wasn’t reaching back. He wasn’t going to safeword. He would endure. Two more cuts, and Milton heard his own whimper at the fifth. One left. He was going to make it without disgracing himself.

“Ah!” the pain was blinding. Milton couldn’t tell where the fire began and where it ended. He blinked back tears and tasted the blood in his mouth from biting his lip. That was the sixth he was done. He hauled his boxers up, not caring that the fabric felt like nettles against his skin. He stood and fought the urge to collapse back over the desk in a flood of tears.

“Lad.” Gordon manhandled Milton into his arms. “Bloody well hurts, I know. Take the comfort.”

“I’m fine.” Milton tried to worm his way out of Gordon’s arms, but he still felt weak and wobbly. 

Gordon’s hand landed across Milton’s inflamed ass. “Stop or I’ll give you another six.”

“No. Please.” That was Milton pleading. He couldn’t take another six. He couldn’t take the first six. He was faking it in the most desperate way. He wanted to lick his wounds in peace, and Gordon still had his arms around Milton’s back.

“It’s not weak to have emotions. You can cry, or you can rage, but stoicism is overrated. I consider it hiding. You cannot hide.” Gordon brushed Milton’s hair back and stroked his cheek in one of those terrible gestures that made Milton feel about three and Gordon so enjoyed. “Be proud. You took it well.”

Well? Milton wanted to bury his head and cry. He wanted to go into the quiet darkness of the old barn that stood ragged in the harsh winds of his grandfather’s farm and bury himself in the dimmest corner and never come out. He tried to steady his breathing, but it was ragged and kept trying to escape in harsh sobs.

“You are not weak. You are impossibly strong, but your strength must be nurtured by accepting yourself, by accepting that you have feelings, very strong feelings. I was hoping you would cry for me, but you appear unready to bend that far, and tears should be a willing release, not because I beat you to a point beyond endurance. Anyone can make someone cry with enough pain; a skilled dominant makes someone cry with emotion overlaid with a sprinkling of pain.”

“I want to--” Milton snapped his jaw shut. He wasn’t going to say more. He was stoic. He was a Brown man.

“In time,” Gordon said mildly. “Let’s get you settled for a nap.”

“I don’t nap.”

“Really?” Gordon smiled, a flicker of brightness before the more shuttered expression returned. “Is napping in the same category as cocoa and nursery rhymes?”

“Yes.”

“Come. Don’t bother with your trousers; no one will notice.”

Gordon had Milton firmly by the elbow. Milton was forced to trail behind. Half naked and covered in welts, he didn’t have the energy beyond the pitiful strength needed to shuffle down the hallway. Gordon pulled Milton into a large room. Bookcase ran from floor to ceiling and up a narrow stair more bookcases filled an overlooking balcony. The room was lit by large circular skylights. In the summer it would be beautiful with the sun’s rays bouncing off the shelves and splashing on the parquet floor. In winter it was gray, and the ever rising books loomed like guards to a forbidden castle.

“Here.” Gordon pulled a colorful volume from a shelf; a blue lake with a white swan decorated the cover. “Fairy Tales and Nursery Rhymes of the World. Bedtime reading.”

Gordon was serious. Milton could see it in his eyes. “Do I get a set of blocks also?”

“Would you like one?”

“You can’t be serious?”

“Cheek will be answered in kind. However in this case, I believe if I gave you a set of blocks you would hurl them at me. No blocks today.”

****

Milton propped his head on his arms and stared out the window. Far in the distance he could see the tops of the lift towers and the twin yellow chairs hauling people upward in the dimming light of late afternoon. He’d slept, brutalized into shutting his eyes by Gordon’s monotone rendition of some version of Cinderella. Wicked stepmothers were starting to look downright inviting. Milton groaned as he shifted, and the searing welts reminded him of the brutality of the cane.

“Awake?”

“Landon, go away.”

“I have gifts, a wonderful mug of cocoa.”

“Can I just die?” 

“Not without Gordon’s permission.”

“Agh.”

“How bad was it?” Landon set the mug down on the small nightstand and whisked the blankets down. “Beautiful. Have you admired your set of stripes? Gordon does a wonderful five bar gate.”

“You like this?”

“I’m a masochist. I enjoy pain. I am also Gordon’s submissive. I take pleasure in making him happy, and he enjoys causing pain. I suffer for him.”

“You’re supposed to love each other?”

“We do.” Landon stroked his fingers through Milton’s hair. “This isn’t wrong. Would you have liked to be the sir with the cane, marking the flesh of a beautiful and brave boy waiting for the kiss of his master’s will?”

“I’m not. I’m not.” Milton punched the bed. Why couldn’t he make his body listen? His mind knew the right answer. Why had he imagined the creamy skin turning red as he swung the belt, the redness spreading over the enticing flesh, his lips touching the flesh he just warmed? Why did he want to torture people? 

“You’re not evil. You’re not broken. You’re not wicked. You are very young and very stubborn. Now sit up and drink your cocoa. I’m not a service oriented submissive, and I made this all by my little and helpless self. Look it even has whipped cream from the local farmer. He brings it every morning in glass bottles. It will be up to your grandfather’s standards.”

“You’re crazy.”

“Probably.” Landon gave Milton a blinding grin. “Life would be no fun if we were all little automatons, punching a time clock and hurrying home to chicken dinner and the drone of the television.”

“Television and chicken dinner,” Milton said dreamily.

“Be a good boy and we’ll do that one night. Now drink your cocoa. Gordon wants you up to talk to Anthony, and you don’t want to miss it.”