Young Milton 5

Young Milton 5

Everything about the room was formal from the two seating clusters of matching armchairs and sofas to the paintings of coastal villages along the wall. Fresh flowers from somewhere brightened the room, and like all the rooms being used a fire burned behind the ornate grate. 

Anthony was standing in the middle of the room, his hands shoved into his pockets, his eyes focused on the gathering darkness out the bay windows. Anthony had changed from his ski wear to jeans and a cream cable knit sweater. He was in his socks, his boots most likely left at the door. Outdoor shoes weren’t allowed inside, a rule that was enforced with a long day mopping floors for those who forgot.

“Anthony,” Gordon said as he settled onto the sofa, “please come sit down.”

“Why don’t you just get it over with? You’re going to yell at me. You’re going to tell me my behavior is not worthy of my family name. Well, fuck the Vanhorns, every last one of them. They made me this. They should live with the results as ugly as they are.”

“I have no plans to shout. I have far better ways to get men’s attention.” Gordon crossed his legs and folded his hands on his lap.

“You would.” Anthony whirled around, his face a mask of rage. “You beat the poor suckers. Maybe that’s better than my dad pouring money at the problem. The money’s never worked; maybe I should sign up for a beating. Your little pets certainly enjoy it. Or do they do it for a few crumbs of your wealth? I don’t need your money. My family name endowed me with hordes of cash in cash in case you haven’t noticed. I don’t have to sign up for perverted games.”

Milton stared at Anthony. Milton had been angry in the shop. Harry wasn’t a fighter and didn’t deserve the hate spewing from this guy’s mouth, but here in the elegance of Gordon’s house, the self-hate that was drowning Anthony induced more pity than anger.

“So what did you give that big, strong boy to lick your boots?” Anthony leered. “It must be fun to ride that sort of boy, knowing he could break your face and that he cowers at your feet instead.”

“Did you like it when I had you dangling in my hands? Did you want me to flatten you?”

“He speaks. I thought you’d have him tamer than that.”

“Young dominants often have a will of their own. My request for silent observation seems to have been forgotten.” Gordon rested his eyes on Milton, seeming to be expecting something.

“Sir?” Milton asked after a painful silence.

“Thank you, Milton. Obedience is not degrading. Obedience reflects your strength. It takes a true belief in yourself to gracefully submit. Someday you will be having this conversation, but right now you haven’t seen enough sorrow or enough joy to have this conversation. You will be quiet now.”

“Yes, sir.”

Gordon nodded, his eyes softening for an instant before he turned back toward Anthony.  “Now, young man, you’ve been on this world a few more years than Milton, and you have even less understanding of what we have just spoken than the young dominant to my right, and you are a submissive. For you the denial of your true nature is painful. Milton bleeds and sweats dominance; it comes off of him in every exhale. You want his attention; you cannot help yourself. Slapping him wasn’t the ideal method, especially as I won’t let his dominance have free rein, or perhaps more importantly Milton still checks his own dominance. It is a difficult hurdle to learn to beat someone with both confidence and love.”

Anthony rolled his eyes. “Such fancy words for such bastards.” He leaned against an armchair in a posture that might be considered rakish and flipped the hair off his forehead in a practiced motion. “I’m sure you’d love to get your hands on my ass.”

“Are you offering it?” Gordon asked with a sly charm. “I’ve been known to enjoy young pale skin reddening under my hand.”

“Not on your life.” Anthony threw his head back and laughed. “As I said before, I’m not bedazzled by your wealth and power. I have my own portfolio with lots of zeroes before the decimal point.”

“You have mentioned your money twice. Do you identify yourself any other way?”

“And you don’t?” Anthony waved his arms in a broad circle. “The ceiling might as well be plated in gold.”

“Landon and I have far more than our portfolios. I will not deny that we can be described as obscenely wealthy, but we have more than our wealth and our family names. We have what you want. You are a child looking in the sweetshop window. I’ll open the sweetshop and hand out the chocolates, but you must ask. You must point to the sugary confection and say I want it.”

“Oh, please,” Anthony snarked, his eye roll dramatic. “I’m not begging to kneel at your feet and get beaten. I’m not begging to be tied up and have someone stick a plug up my ass. I’m not begging to simper and scrape and smile gratefully when some arrogant prick kisses me on the forehead or tousles my hair. I may not be my family’s example of a model citizen, but I’m not that needy or that stupid.”

“What other fantasies do you have?”

“Fuck you! I’m not playing your fucking games; I’m not fantasizing about being a submissive. I’m not a submissive.”

Gordon’s voice never changed, or maybe it became slightly softer, a gentleness tinged with sadness. “I can only help you if you accept your identity as a submissive. It’s not a secret. Your father already knows. He called me, and after some awkward stumbling, he asked me to look after you.”

“He just wants me out of the way. He doesn’t know anything about me. He’s always been too busy counting his millions to notice me.” Anthony collapsed into the chair he’d been leaning against and curled into himself. “What did he tell you? Did he tell you that according to him I’m a failure at everything and always will be? Did he tell you that I failed out of a college where two buildings carry our family name? Did he tell you he’s probably single handedly funded every shrink and rehab program in the state of Connecticut? I’m not fixable. I’ll never be a good Vanhorn.”

“Submissive isn’t broken. Your father may never understand the draw of the power exchange, but he realizes your orientation, and he wants you happy.”

“He wants me out of the way. He doesn’t give a damn about me. He just doesn’t want scandal--bad for the stock price. I guess he’s decided he’ll settle for a good little submissive standing two paces behind his dominant. Well, he can fuck himself I’m not playing.” Anthony jerked himself to his feet. “Are we done here?”

“Without your permission, I am powerless to stop you.”

“You’re not even going to yell at me for hitting your precious boy?”

“No, if you were an acknowledged submissive, I would punish you, but as you have chosen to deny your submission, all I can do is ask you to leave. I will not subject others to assault because you cannot or will not restrain your temper. That is all.”

“Where am I supposed to go?”

“I gave you a choice. Now that you’ve made your choice, you live with the consequences. If you had chosen submission, I would have taken the other responsibilities, at least temporarily. I can do nothing without your declaration of submission. It would be assault. Consent is the foundation of a power exchange. Now go.”

Anthony stood and threw his head up, looking down his nose at the two seated men. “I am not submissive.”

“As you wish,” Gordon said mildly. He didn’t move as he waited for Anthony to leave. 

Milton watched the slow trek of socked feet across the hardwood floor and heard the thud of a door pulled too hard. He turned toward Milton who was staring into the fire, watching the flames flicker over the logs.

“Damn.” The word hung in the air with a quiet dread. Gordon’s hand stroked down his thigh once then returned to a controlled stillness on his lap. “It can’t be helped. Come, boy.” Gordon rose and strode toward his apartment, not looking to see if Milton was following.

Landon was in the apartment, stretched out on the sofa with a paperback in his hand. He swung to a sitting position and tossed his book to the floor.

“Where’s Anthony?”

“Put the book on the table, not the floor,” Gordon said, his voice flat with and heavy with tiredness. “He went home.”

Milton had never seen jackals or hyenas except on television and one childhood trip to the zoo, but the rapid movement of Landon, the gleam in his eyes, and the features twisted into a vicious mask reminded Milton of those fierce scavengers. Instinctively Milton stepped back to regroup and to some sense of safety. Gordon reached forward, resting his hand on Landon’s tense shoulder.

“Get off me!” Landon snarled, his blue eyes blazing with a demented fire. “That was a submissive. You failed him. You’ve sent him out there.” Landon waved his arms at the windows as if Milton had put Anthony out into the snow.

“I must have consent,” Gordon whispered.

“You get consent. You do handstands or backflips or read Moby Dick. You don’t let him walk out the door or in this case send him out the door.”

“Enough, Landon,” Gordon said in a mild voice.

“Don’t tell me enough. I’m not the one who didn’t protect the boy, who didn’t keep him here.”

“I can only offer protection to someone who wishes to be protected. I’m not a policeman.”

“No, you’re a useless dominant who hides behind his perfect suit and his pretty manners.” Landon bent down, picked up the book from the floor, and rifled it at Gordon. The paperback bounced from Gordon’s shoulder and skidded to a halt in the corner of the room. “Fuck it! I’m going skiing.”

“You’re going nowhere, boy. On your knees. Contemplate your sins.”

Gordon’s voice raced through Milton, unchecked force in every word. This was a man who demanded obedience without thought or pause, only Landon hadn’t bent his knee or bowed his head. Landon’s expression matched Gordon’s for fierceness and open challenge. He stared with a gaze belonging to a general marshaling thousands of troops, not a lone figure in the living room.

“No.” Landon’s single word circled the room in a banner of defiance.

“This is not a debate. I am your dominant. You obey. You abdicated your choice to me long ago.”

“Your choice was wrong.” Landon grabbed Gordon’s lapels, his fingers clawing at the cloth. Landon’s eyes ground into Gordon, his chin a centimeter from Gordon’s “You were wrong. Damn it! You can’t let him go.”

“I have let him go.” Gordon’s hands closed around Landon’s wrist. He didn’t push; he didn’t struggle. He waited.

“Damn you!” Landon’s hands fell from Gordon’s shirt. Gordon clicked his fingers, and Landon went to his knees, his hands locked behind his back and his head bowed. 

“My decision may be wrong, but I saw no other path, and it was my decision to make. You are my submissive. You obey and respect my decisions. The correctness of such a decision is a moot point.”

“Yes, sir.” Milton heard the slight tremor in Landon’s voice. The blue eyes peeked upward, wide and swimming in a glint of wetness. 

Gordon’s finger’s curled in Landon’s hair, a fleeting gesture of affection. “I will punish you.”

“I know, sir. I deserve to be punished.”

“I wanted to make the boy stay.” Gordon’s hand rested on the back of Landon’s neck, comfort for Landon, maybe comfort for Gordon. “I failed that boy, I know. I’d be an abusive bastard if I made him stay.”

“More abusive than throwing him to the wolves, or merely easier on your conscience?”

“I don’t know, but the decision is made. It is your duty to obey my decisions.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Milton,” Gordon said, turning to face Milton, but his eyes remained on Landon. “I am going to hurt Landon. You like Landon. Go in your room and shut the door. Go, lad. We’ll talk to you later.” Gordon reached out and pulled Milton’s head down, planting a kiss on his forehead. “We will survive this. Go now.”

Half of Milton wanted to stay, to defend Landon. He’d only argued; it was hardly a capital crime. Doug never argued with Grandfather. Once maybe, they’d been in the barn. They hadn’t known Milton was hanging new fly strips in the milking parlor. It hadn’t been a real argument, not like he’d seen at other people’s homes or on television. Grandfather had shaken his head, and Milton had seen the word no on his lips. Doug had ducked his head and Grandfather had stroked his fingers through the thick salt and pepper strands.

“Go, Milton. I know your grandfather demanded obedience; I expect the same,” Gordon said. He was standing over Landon. Maybe it was protective; maybe it was the lion with his prey.

Milton’s feet went. He didn’t know if it was cowardice or habit. He closed the door and crouched against it. There was only silence outside. Milton could hear his own breathing in his ears. He could feel the sting of the stripes against his ass. 

Milton jerked his head up. It wasn’t the sound of the cane against flesh; that had been silent compared to this. Leather slammed against flesh again. Milton shut his eyes and gritted his teeth. The blows were falling fast. The first cry was wrenching, a long wail followed by a choked sob. Still harder. Still faster. The sobs were unbroken now, racking  crying of true pain. No more blows. How long had it lasted? Ten minutes? Fifteen minutes? It seemed like eternities. 

Milton had to see. He untangled himself from his ball on the floor and cracked the door. Landon was kneeling, his head buried in Gordon’s lap. The wheals vivid on his ass, some already purple. Beautiful. Enticing. Horrible. Gordon’s hand rested on Landon’s hair, a gentle blessing of protection. He was murmuring something. Milton slipped back, shutting the door silently. That was private; he shouldn’t have looked. God! What had happened? Landon looked so broken.

Milton dropped onto his bed and pulled his pillow overhead. Childish. Hiding under the pillow wouldn’t make it go away. It wouldn’t make the fact that he’d wanted to stroke that battered flesh vanish from his mind. It wouldn’t stop the confusion of did he want to kill Gordon or had his thoughts turned more to the thrill of the conqueror. He wasn’t six when he’d hid from monsters under the blankets and Uncle Doug would sweep the closet for evil and hairy creatures before settling down to read Milton a story. He wasn’t six when homemade ice cream could conquer all evils and sadness. Milton loved homemade ice cream, the pureness of the vanilla and the unique richness that only came with the slow hand cranking. They used to sit out in the shade of the two large maples and pass the ice cream churn around. Each would crank for a few minutes.

Milton needed to stop thinking nonsense. He was too young for nostalgia. Soon he’d be thinking of cows as decorative additions to the hillside instead of animals with shit encrusted tails that forced you to get up on freezing, dark mornings. How many mornings had he traipsed outside with his eyes half shut and his fingers nearly frozen within a minute of leaving the warm kitchen? How many nights had they been outside with heat lamps trying to keep the water thawed? Dairy cows drank enormous quantities of water; a night without water and the milk production would plummet.

This was easy work. There was no wrestling with frozen everything. There was no all night trying to pull a calf because the only vet was at a colic in the other side of the county. It was winter now, but summer brought its own miseries. He’d stood on the wagon and stacked hay until he couldn’t see from the sweat, and it felt as if there was more hay inside his shirt than on the wagons. Milton remembered the first time he could pitch bales to the top of the wagon. He was fourteen and had gone through his first growth spurt. Uncle Doug had whistled when the bale had sailed to the top, smiled and changed places with Milton. From then on, Milton had been the man for the heavy work. 

“Milton.”

Milton unburied his head from the pillow and flipped over to find the voice from the doorway. Landon was standing with his hand still on the knob. He’d changed to a pair of corduroys that hung off his hips. The sweater was also oversized with the sleeves rolled up at his wrists. Landon’s face was still too red and his eyes bloodshot instead of the usual crystal blue, but he looked surprisingly normal.

“I thought I better reassure you that I still lived.”

“It’s not my business.”

“It’s very much your business.” Landon walked across to the bed and crouched down before settling on one knee. “I’m not sitting for at least another few hours. I hate the strap. At least the cane has rituals and grace, but Gordon won’t use the cane when he’s angry.”

“He hurt you.”

“It is his right. He caned you earlier today.”

“Not that hard.”

“You weren’t defiant, and I’m an experienced submissive. I’m a masochist. It takes force to drive pain away from pleasure for me. That wasn’t pleasure.”

“But… You were only disagreeing with him. Can’t you have an opinion?”

“Until Gordon says enough. Milton.” Landon gripped Milton’s knee and squeezed. “I agreed to this. It’s something you must understand about these relationships. I willingly and knowingly abdicated my rights to Gordon. You will have your own submissive some day. The submissive will yield to your judgment even if it’s wrong.” Landon continued quickly, “It wasn’t wrong. I hate the results, but the first step must be voluntary. We can’t help Anthony.” Landon swayed to his feet with a groan. “It’s not fair, but life’s sometimes unfair. Hell, I’m a submissive; I should know that.”

Milton sat up and folded his legs under himself. His ass still burnt from his earlier adventure with the cane, but it hadn’t been the savage attack he’d heard on Landon, a man who looked at peace and almost cheerful.

“Kid, it’s OK. I’m not tortured or at least not more than I want, and I’m not abused. Gordon caned you. Was that awful?”

Milton grimaced. “Unpleasant.”

“Did it feel unsafe?” Landon prodded.

“No.”

“Gordon’s not unsafe. He’s a hard and exacting man. I knew that the first time I knelt for him, and I more than knew it when I took his ring and signed our contract. I’m not naive or innocent. I chose to be his submissive, and I knew it would include days like today. No one forced me to be his submissive. I’m a switch. With many men, I want to be the dominant. I want to be the one with the whip in my hand, but I want to be at Gordon’s feet. I begged him to let me have my place there. He’s a good and fair dominant. He lavishes attention on me when I’m good, but submission isn’t always easy or pretty, and it’s not always about mutual fun. I’ve chosen to be on my knees, and I take the consequences when I forget my place.”

“How can you stand it?”

“Spoken like a true dominant.” Landon reached forward and ruffled Milton’s hair. “It’s my pleasure. I kneel for a strong man. Together, me with my head bowed and Gordon with a whip in hand, we are greater than each of us individually or each of us without the flow of power. I give him my submission, and I’m proud to be his. I wear his yoke, but it is also my crown.” Landon smiled, tired, but still full of life. “It sounds like mystical bullshit, but we’ll teach you.”

“I’m not sure I want to learn.”

Landon scooted onto the bed, wincing as his butt touched the mattress. He wrapped his arms around Milton and rested his head on Milton’s chest. “You want it. Someday I will say sir to you with both pride and longing.”

Milton found his hand stroking Landon’s back. He circled his arms behind Landon. He needed to touch and comfort, to provide whatever protection he could give. He needed not to think of the other parts, the confusion of want and hate.

“Protective little beast,” Landon said with a laugh. “Next time I know where to find comfort.”

“Sorry.” Milton jerked his hands back. “What am I doing?” Milton scrambled to his feet, putting distance between himself and Landon.

“I don’t have cooties or crabs.” Landon rolled onto his side and smiled, his face infused with genuine warmth. “Your instinct is strong to protect and comfort. I’m still fragile and not all together. If you weren’t a fellow dominant, Gordon would never have let me out of his sight. Now get back here and do what your heart demands. I’m more than happy to enjoy your care. What’s not to like about being in the arms of a beautiful young man?”

“I…”

“I’m older and your grandfather’s friend. I’m your employer, and I have a zillion dollars. None of that matters. I’m a submissive who wants care, and you want to give care. Indulge me and enjoy yourself. Don’t fight your instincts. We might not be easy or the picture of normal from your grade school reader, but we do understand this, and no matter how bizarre our methods, we will stand shoulder to shoulder with you until you figure it out. You may feel that you’re flailing unprepared, but you’re a dominant, and you must find your own way. Your way won’t be Gordon’s way or anyone else’s, but uniquely your own. Gordon will drive you to find the right feelings; some days he may even beat you to get you there, but you must figure the path from those feelings toward your dominance. Now get over here and put your arms around me. Suffering submissive needs assistance.”

“Are you always this crazy?”

“Always, my dear baby dominant. Come on.” Landon patted the bed. “I don’t bite, or at least I don’t bite when all I want is a hug.”

Milton sighed and moved back to the bed. “You’ll never leave me alone if I don’t play along.” He sat on the bed and drew Landon against him. The words were half a lie. He tucked his head against Landon’s thick, dark hair and enjoyed the solid weight against his chest and the quiet breathing. Time slipped quietly by as they sat together, Milton feeling something he couldn’t explain. Comfort given and comfort taken. Discoveries and puzzles all around.

“Stop thinking so hard. You will be OK, I promise,” Landon said, his voice thick with near sleep and still touched with hoarseness from crying. “Time and patience. We have both, and you will learn both. You will get this right. I have no doubt.”