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.”

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.”

Young Milton 2

Young Milton II

“You need to get ready for dinner,” Landon said walking into the room without knocking and taking the book from Milton’s hand.

“I was reading, and haven’t you ever heard of knocking?”

“You have no privacy here; get used to it, boy.” The words should have inspired anger, but Landon’s face broke into a disarming and broad smile. It was hard to sustain anger at someone who was so easy and natural. “Did you already get into it with the master of the house?”

“He hit me.”

“Don’t pout; it’s not becoming in a dominant.” Landon ruffled Milton’s hair and flopped down on the bed. “He only had the itty-bitty cane. It couldn’t have been too awful for a sturdy farm boy like you.”

“What is this place?”

Landon waved at the books scattered on the floor and the bed. “You’ve been doing the research. You were raised by Andrew and Doug. You tell me.”

“They never did anything like this. Those men…” Milton flapped his arm at the books.

“Yes? Go on. We’re not shy here. You’re a teenager. You have sex on your brain every minute, and here you can talk about it.”

“I’m not a freak.” Milton raked his hand through his dark curls. This conversation was surreal. He felt like he was in some crazy movie that everybody would pan as being insane.

“No, you’re not. You’re a Brown man and a dominant. Andrew’s not much of a talker, but I knew he told you that much. I know you’ve seen a few things, whether you want to admit it or not. Andrew and Doug are discreet; they’re not invisible.”

Milton had seen. He’d seen Doug one step behind Grandfather; he’d seen Doug drop his head at the slightest sharpness in Grandfather’s tone. He’d seen and heard Grandfather take the strap to Doug as Milton had huddled on the far side of the screen door, afraid to be discovered, horrified and fascinated at the same time. He could still here Grandfather’s words the time he was found in the barn.

“You’re the dominant. It’s your duty to protect your friend. You scrambled to safety and left him.” It was the only time Grandfather had ever struck him. He’d taken the strap from the drawer and lashed Milton’s ass as he leaned across the table. “Your responsibility, Milton. I care little that you were with another boy, but I will not have you abandon him.”

“Milton, I know Andrew has spoken with you,” Landon said, rubbing his hand down Milton’s back.

“Once.”

Landon groaned and smiled. “I forget that it takes all day for Andrew to say ten words.”

“He’s--”

“Boy, it’s not an insult. Andrew is a good man, and I understand his reticence. His life has not always been easy. He’s done well with you. They both have. You’re gorgeous and smart and well together for such a youngster. I know Gordon went after you.”

“Good cop, bad cop. You two are playing me.”

“Some.” Landon smiled again. “You’re far too clever, boy.”

“I don’t play games with crazies,” Milton said, staring directly at Landon. “I’m not intimidated.”

“No, you wouldn’t be. Curious, I bet.”

“My curiosity doesn’t include being hit by a stick,” Milton said frostily.

“Oh, it can be fun.” Landon kissed Milton’s forehead. 

“Fun?”

Landon stood up and reached for the tie hanging over the back of the chair. “Turn around. I’ll get this.” He knotted the tie with deft fingers. “As for the other, I’m Gordon’s submissive. I enjoy the cane. You may never enjoy it, but you will understand it. I know this is overwhelming and less than fair, but Gordon will not hurt you, not for real and before he does more than tap you with a little toy, you will understand. You are one of us. Let yourself enjoy it.” Landon took Milton’s hand and pulled him from the bed. “Your first dinner as a Green Mountain Boy. Have fun.”

The dining room was vast with crystal chandeliers and bay windows that overlooked a garden that was covered in snow. Gordon was already at the table, surrounded by men close to his age. Gordon nodded at Landon and pointed to the seat next to him. 

“Sit. Bread?”

“Please.” Milton shook the starched napkin over his lap and tried to look around without appearing too interested. He was used to eating in the kitchen and helping himself from a pan. Linen napkins were for holidays, not every day, and ties were for funerals and weddings.

“He’s exquisite,” someone said from the end of the table.

“He’s off limits, Jack” Gordon said and took a sip of water.

“It doesn’t mean a man can’t dream. Look at those shoulders and those hands. I can imagine a whip in his hand. Stupendous.”

“Jack.” Milton heard a sharp swat. “The boy just arrived this afternoon. Try to find some manners.” 

“Manners are overrated, especially when there is a gorgeous boy at the end of the table. Can’t you see him in leather?”

“Collin, Jack is sitting far too comfortably,” Gordon said sternly.

Milton spread the butter on his roll. It was soft and flecked with herbs. He wanted to stare, but staring was bad manners. He wanted to shout a thousand questions or to grab a car and return to the quiet farm. He was the one who had been restless. He’d wanted to leave home, but this was crazy. Adults didn’t act this way. His grandfather would never condone this behavior. Maybe the rich had different rules.

“White. My ass is white, most disgraceful.” Jack sprang to his feet, his hand reaching for his belt. “Should I demonstrate?”

“No,” Milton growled. “I suspect you want to impress me. I can’t imagine the reason, but I’m not impressed by behavior that would reflect badly on a toddler. I thought this was dinner: china and linen and ties. I am told the young have bad manners, but I wouldn’t flaunt my backside.”

“Wow!” someone shouted from the opposite corner of the table. “Can we say dominant? Where did you find him?”

“I’m Milton Brown, and I understand the Brown name means something here. I come from a few hours down the road, and I’d like to eat dinner in peace. I am hungry.”

“You heard the man,” Landon said with a grin. “Eat before he pummels you. I’m sure he’s more than capable.”

“Not without my permission.” Gordon’s voice carried easily across the table. It wasn’t loud, but the authority swirled overhead in an invisible cloud. 

Milton stared. He stopped considering if it ware rude or not. He wasn’t threatening to strip off his pants, and in this crowd that passed as acceptable dinner behavior. He could feel the power and charisma that vibrated off the man in a suit at the end of table. This was a power that made him catch his breath, the power that the stupid would always be envious of and never understand. 

“You want it, lad, don’t you?” Gordon said under his breath.

All Milton could do was nod. He was trapped in that dark and steady gaze. He knew there were people around him, clinking glasses and spreading butter on bread, but he only saw Gordon, the perfect tie, the flash of silver at his wrists, the unbreakable severity in his features.

“Someday, boy. You have to survive my whims first.” 

“I don’t like your whims,” Milton said, enunciating every word slowly. It worked with teachers and the idiot school head who’d suggested that Milton should stay in school and take shop and home economics and some math course the average chimp could pass. Talking slowly and carefully made adults listen. Staring at them with the serene hardness of his grandfather’s eyes added to the picture. He’d never admit he’d practiced the right look for hours. He was seventeen, not six; being told by every Good Samaritan what his life plans should be stopped being entertaining in kindergarten. 

“I see your grandfather in you. You’ll have to work far harder to intimidate me. I’ve had practice. Eat. I expect you’re still growing.”

A plate of food was placed in front of Milton. He didn’t bother to look, but he was sure it was quality; everything else here was. 

“I’m not a fool who threatens to undress at the dinner table.”

“I would hope not. I can only manage one Jack in an evening.”

“He belongs in a zoo.”

“Do not insult those you don’t understand. You hide yourself behind a demeanor suited to someone two or three times your age; Jack hides himself on the opposite end of the scale. Neither honest--both understandable.”

“You’re an expert on someone you just met.” Milton rolled his eyes dramatically. “Another self-proclaimed expert telling me what to do. You may have lived longer, but it doesn’t mean you know a damn thing. I find most of your generation remarkably easy to deceive. I’m the quiet, polite young man who does well in sports and school, who works hard on the farm, who sucks it up and survives when sent off with crazy strangers. I don’t get pushed around.”

“I see,” Gordon said gravely, a faint trace of a smile on his lips. “I suspect you’ll find me far harder to deceive than most, and I will push you around. You will yield to me, boy, not because I’m older or because I’m your current employer, but because I have the keys to the kingdom. You want what I have.”

“Ugly chandeliers and a big house.”

“Don’t pretend to be less intelligent than you are. I have a man who kneels for me, a man who hurts for me, a man who gives me everything, a man who forges my fire into warm and comforting flames.”

“So romantic.”

“Real.” Gordon tapped the table with his finger. “Eat, boy. I won’t win this conversation in an evening, but I will win.”

Milton smiled to himself. The old folks were always confident. They were so easy; smile and nod at the right places and they would believe everything. Most of his teachers at school were useless. They missed half the true pieces of work because the nasties with half a brain would smile nicely and hand their work in on time.

“You’ll believe me eventually,” Gordon said and most irritatingly tousled Milton’s hair. “You will be fun.”

“You’d call me a brat and beat me black and blue,” Jack complained through a mouthful of food.

“Chew then talk,” Collin said, slapping at Jack’s hand as Jack stretched across the table for another piece of bread.

“You’re just mean to me.” Jack ignored the slap, grabbing the rolls and the butter.

“Jack,” Gordon growled.

“Enough.” Collin pointed to the floor and clicked his fingers.

“Noooo. Please.” A tear dripped from enormous green eyes. Jack leaned against Collin and rubbed his head against the starched shirt.

“Now.” 

Collin’s voice was flat and even, but somehow Milton knew the man wouldn’t budge from his position. He’d heard that sort of voice from his grandfather and from the history teacher who had returned to his family farm to take care of his aging parents. He’d taught in one of those high powered preparatory schools. He’d tried to get Grandfather to send Milton to his old school, but Grandfather had been equally stubborn. They’d stared at each other across the scarred kitchen table, the polite cup of coffee left un-drunk. The teacher hadn’t begged or pleaded; he’d stood up and taken his leave, dignified and slow.

“It’s your mistake,” the teacher had said as he shrugged into his coat.

“His education is here right now,” Grandfather had said, reaching for his own coffee. “I won’t chain him here, but there are things he must learn about himself before he belongs away from this safety. Thank you for your interest.”

The next day in history, Mr. Baird had held Milton after. “Your Grandfather will not budge, and I recognize a man who is not open to persuasion on the topic. He’s the first.” Mr. Baird raked his fingers through his already messy hair, leaving chalk dust clinging to brown curls. 

“My grandfather is the most stubborn man in the history of the planet. I’m used to his ways.” Milton had shrugged and stuffed his hands in his pocket. “I’ll live.”

“I suppose you will. You’re remarkably philosophical about being stuck out here.”

“I won’t be here forever. He’s promised that after high school I can go away, and he keeps his word,” Milton had added after a short pause. “It’s not all bad.”

“Being a man of his word is admirable, even if I don’t understand his reasoning.”

“He doesn’t explain. He liked you enough to let you in the door. That was a long conversation for him.” 

Milton and Mr. Baird never spoke of prep school again. The man’s parents died within a month of each other over the summer. Grandfather, Milton, and Uncle Doug had gone to both funerals, and Mr. Baird had returned to his world of brick buildings and ivy.

Jack must have recognized the tone that meant no compromise and no wiggle room was allowed because he slid from his chair and sank to his knees. He placed his hands behind his back and lowered his eyes to the floor as color flooded his face.

“Good boy,” Collin said gently, running his fingers through Jack’s hair. “My good boy.”

Collin fed Jack, one bite at a time. Collin held the water glass for Jack to take a sip. He wiped the small bit of lettuce from Jack’s mouth.

“We can do that sometime.”

Milton startled at Gordon’s words. Milton had been staring. He turned his attention back toward the last potato on his plate, trying to hide his embarrassment. He couldn’t keep his eyes off those two men. He threw them darting glances as he reached for his water or asked for another roll.

No one else was paying attention. They were eating and talking. Snippets of conversation floated overhead: world politics, tax policy, some business selling shoes. Someone told a story about his new car.

“Milton, help clear,” Gordon said. “You may have dessert in the kitchen.”

The kitchen was ordinary enough in a vast industrial sort of way. Milton had never worked in a restaurant, but some of his friends earned extra cash in the summer at the local cafe. The stainless steel and the oversized bowls were familiar enough. Someone at the stove waved a hand at Milton, bracelets clanking on his wrist.

“Stack them over there. I’ll get them.”

“I was told to eat dessert in the kitchen.”

“Did you get into it with the dragon?”

“Do you mean Gordon Lewis?”

“Who else?” The man turned from the stove, his smile wide and showing the gap between his front teeth. Colorful ink sprouted from the open neckline of his shirt and more ink peeked out on his bulging muscles below his shirtsleeves. 

“Um…” Milton mumbled. 

“Don’t incriminate yourself. I’m George by the way.” The man wiped a beefy hand across his jeans and reached out to shake Milton’s hand. “You the new kid? The Brown boy?”

“Milton Brown.”

“Andrew’s a good man. Maybe now that he’s not raising you full time, we’ll see him occasionally. He and Doug are very devoted to you.”

“You know him?”

“A long time ago. You look like him, same eyes, same coolness.”

“He wouldn’t do these things.”

“Kid, he raised you. We’re different as parents. My little girl had no idea; my wife had no idea. This is a safe place. You can find out what’s inside you before you go out there and fuck it up. Most of us have fucked it up big time. Here you don’t have to be bland and pretend to fit the neighbors’ stereotype for upstanding citizens.”

“Someone knelt at the dinner table?”

“Who?”

“Jack.”

“To be expected. He’s lots of work, but Collin adores him and is up to the work. You want to kneel?”

“No,” Milton snapped.

“You’re awfully interested,” George drawled. “It ain’t wrong, you know?”

“I’m not doing it.”

George smiled, his face suggesting the outcome would be different. “I wouldn’t bet anything important on that.”

“I’m not interested. Do you want help with this?” Milton flicked his hand to indicate the pile of unwashed pans.

“Are you offering to do the dishes?”

“I think I just did.”

“Well, I’m not asking a gift horse too many questions. Get cracking.”

Young Milton 1

Young Milton I

Milton circled around the pile of baggage that littered their usually neat kitchen floor. The kitchen smelled of their last lunch. No, that wasn’t right. He was going away for six months, not forever, but the lunch had been special. Uncle Doug always did the cooking: the fresh muffins at breakfast, the New England boiled dinner that didn’t make Milton gag, the berry tarts, the roast beef and mashed potatoes when company came. Lunch today had been steak sandwiches with thickly cut fries and a berry tart topped with fresh whipped cream. Milton couldn’t remember the last time Uncle Doug had served tart at lunch, maybe Milton’s birthday.

Uncle Doug had just been weird all week or maybe longer, even Christmas had felt strained and subdued. Milton wasn’t a little kid anymore; maybe Christmas had just lost some of its glitter. Sweaters and a very fancy suit weren’t as exciting as bicycles or new sleds. Doug had always loved the toys as much as Milton. It was Doug who had pulled him on the sled, taught him to cross country ski, and hung on to the back of Milton’s bicycle the first time the training wheels came off. Milton couldn’t shake the feeling that Doug had looked close to tears when Milton had unwrapped the charcoal gray suit. It was beautiful and very clearly not off the rack from some warehouse style men’s clothing store. Milton didn’t think he’d ever seen something that elegant, not that he could imagine where he needed elegant. A suit wasn’t exactly the right attire for slopping around in frozen cow shit.

“So grown up,” Doug had murmured as he’d smoothed Milton’s shirt and insisted on tying the red tie around Milton’s neck. Milton had posed in front of the Christmas tree, and Grandfather had snapped a picture with a Polaroid that he’d pulled out of some drawer. He wasn’t a big picture taker. The family photo album was sparse, Milton’s annual school photo and a few at the state fair.

The suit had been carefully packed into a garment bag, and Milton was dressed in his more ordinary jeans and heavy flannel shirt, topped by an oversized wool sweater. His shoes were off, as always in the house, but a pair of cleaned and oiled leather boots awaited him at the shoe rack by the door. Uncle Doug hovered over the stove, slicing the last of the tart and carefully wrapping it in aluminum foil.

“They’ll feed him,” Grandfather said in a sharp tone that suggested he thought Doug was spoiling the boy again. They kept much of their relationship out of sight, but Milton recognized that tone well enough. Doug would turn back to his stove or back to the cow he was milking or busy himself with the sputtering tractor. It meant the discussion was closed. Milton knew there was more. He’d seen it once, and he’d experienced it once, but even now it was hidden and discreet. Everything about his grandfather was hidden. This wasn’t a booming metropolis for gay activists.

Milton didn’t really know when he’d realized he was gay. Maybe it was when his classmates had started sharing the forbidden magazines they hid under their mattresses, and he could muster no interest in the svelte and luscious babe showing her wares. Maybe it was when he was trying to decipher why tall, thin, blond women with oversized chests were always featured in the automobile ads. Milton only knew that by fifteen he was very much on a different path. His school was progressive for such backwaters, and there had been some ridiculous attempts to teach about the diversity of sexuality. Boring lectures with awful overhead projections punctuated by crude jokes in loud whispers and giggles of the popular girls that flocked together. Milton hadn’t hidden his sexuality, but he hadn’t flaunted it either and most of his classmates seem to know. He’d been briefly suggested for homecoming king last fall until a smart remark from one of his less than bright classmates that they’d need a homecoming king and prince instead of a king and queen quashed that prospect.

Milton had been just as glad anyway. It wasn’t his idea of a good time to ride around a muddy football field in a bright red convertible and wave to the crowd. The waving of pompoms and bleating about school spirit all seemed silly anyway.

“Not my berry tart,” Doug said with the slightest edge in his voice. He’d turned back toward the counter and the small window that looked out onto the driveway. Milton couldn’t see Doug’s face, but he knew from the shoulder set and the tightness of the corded muscles in Doug’s thick neck that he was angry. Grandfather reached out and touched Doug’s back, a brief gesture that Milton almost never saw. His grandfather would stand shoulder to shoulder with his family, and he’d shake anyone’s hand in his fierce grip, but he didn’t touch, not in masculine backslapping and over joviality and not in gentle affection. 

“He’ll be fine,” Grandfather mumbled in an undertone that was perhaps not supposed to be heard by Milton. “He’s not a child anymore; he needs to understand what he is.”

“Have it beat into him?” Doug’s eyes were wide and upset, and they glittered with surprising moisture.

“Not here.” Grandfather’s voice held a dangerous softness that suggested barely checked anger. Milton rarely heard that voice here at home, but he’d heard it in town as Grandfather had leaned across the counter at the small hardware store and told the weasel of a new owner that he’d never set foot in the place again.

“Not in front of the boy that you’re sending into the lion’s den.” Doug grabbed his insulated coveralls, jammed his feet into his boots, and stomped out the door, holding it open in the cold draft. “I’ll check the water before I open my mouth again.”

“Doug.” There was a plea in Grandfather’s voice, but he didn’t reach for him.

“No, I don’t agree, but I yielded. I’ll take any penalty you wish to extract, but I can’t be here. Make sure he gets the tart.” Doug slammed the door and strode off into the packed snow.

“Grandfather.” Milton turned to face the tall and stern figure who stood with an eye cast toward the window. 

“It is an old argument, and it’s not about you. Do you have everything?”

“Yes.” Grandfather’s brown eyes were dark, the same blackness that Milton saw in his own when he was angry. The subject was closed; no more would be said about it.

“Let me talk to him.” Milton reached for his coat. He already knew the answer, but he suddenly didn’t care. He didn’t mind the fierceness in Grandfather’s eye and the stubborn set of his jaw. Milton didn’t mind the calloused fingers that suddenly gripped the counter in a crushing grip. 

“He needs time. He’ll be OK. Stay here.”

“No.” Milton stared back at his grandfather, dark eyes meeting dark eyes. “I’m not a child for you to order around. Doug is upset; I have a right to comfort him.”

“Comfort,” Grandfather said, drawing out the word between his teeth as if it hurt. “I will see to him.”

Milton hesitated, his hand half reaching for his coat. He was angry, confused; he didn’t know what.

“Easy.” Grandfather’s voice was suddenly gentle. “You’ll figure it out, just not yet.”

“What? What will I figure out?” Milton turned on Grandfather, anger hot in his blood. “Don’t talk in these stupid riddles.”

“Milton.” Grandfather’s body sagged, the lines around his eyes deepening, the glare softening into tiredness. “I don’t speak of my feelings easily. I’m not that sort of man who can gush and bubble through life. Doug and I love you very much. I know I don’t say it, and even here it’s not easy for me.” Grandfather gripped Milton’s arm. “My blood courses through your veins, and you must learn to control and live with what you’ve inherited. You’re changing. You’re not a child anymore as you just reminded me of that fact. Uncle Doug and I are your parents, but you are now reacting to Doug differently. You can’t help it; it’s not wrong, but you can’t be here now. You must move on. It is hard for all of us.” Grandfather raised his hand and brushed the tangled curls back that hung on Milton’s forehead and gently pressed Milton’s head to his chest. “Gordon and Landon are good men. They’ll teach you what you need to know. Listen to them and be good. We’ll miss you. Doug will miss you very much, but he understands, and he knows even if he wishes not to believe his own senses.”

Grandfather straightened and pushed Milton away. He ran his hand absently down his thigh, his thick fingers brushing the stiff material of his trousers. His eyes fell back to the window and the gray sky and snow covered hills.

“I’ll be good,” Milton said very softly, hunching into his sweater and drawing his hands back into the sleeves.

“Thank you.” Grandfather didn’t turn from the window. “I see their car.”

The car was dark blue, an expensive German sedan with all wheel drive. Milton didn’t understand what Landon and Gordon did, but he understood they had money. Everything about them spoke of money and soft living. Grandfather was comfortable, but he woke before dawn everyday to tend the herd. They didn’t go on expensive vacations or have a wardrobe of fancy suits.

Both men exited the car, neither of them as tall as Milton. Gordon’s black overcoat fluttered in the wind. He was without a hat, his dark hair thinning and absent on the crown. Landon was wearing a ski jacket and a colorful striped cap. He hurried to the door, Gordon trailing at a more dignified pace.

The cold was sharp as they stepped into the kitchen. Neither opened their coat or stepped from the small square of tiles for wet and dirty boots. “Is the boy ready?” Gordon asked Milton’s grandfather.

“Yes.”

Grandfather shook Milton’s hand, formal and somber. Milton hefted his trunk and headed for the car. There was nothing else to said. The handshake had been goodbye. Doug hurried from the barn, his strides long in his heavy black boots, and caught one side of Milton’s trunk.

“I’ll help you load it.”

They loaded Milton’s bags in silence. Grandfather was still inside with Landon and Gordon. “I guess it’s goodbye,” Milton said awkwardly. He would only be gone for winter and spring. He’d taken every course offered in his small high school. Earning a little spending money for college was a good idea. “It’s not forever. I’ll be back.”

“I know,” Uncle Doug said slowly, “but you’re growing up. I’m proud of you.” Doug was smiling, but Milton could see the sadness. “I’m losing my little boy.”

“I haven’t been a little boy for ages.”

“I know big and adult teenager. I’ll miss you.” Uncle Doug wrapped his arms around Milton and held him tight.

Milton touched Uncle Doug’s shoulder. They weren’t demonstrative; he shook people’s hands; he didn’t hug them.

“Don’t be maudlin. He’s not going to war.” Landon was leaning against the open car door, smiling. His blue eyes seemed to capture everyone in their brightness. Milton almost smiled in return. He couldn’t pull his eyes from the warmth and kindness that seem to radiate from Landon’s face. 

“He might as well be,” Uncle Doug said, his lips hardly moving, his foot scratching at the hard packed snow.

“Doug, he’s growing up. We can’t hide this from him forever.”

“I know what you’ll do to him.”

Landon caught Doug’s wrist and pulled him close. He kissed the rough cheek, oblivious to the hay that was caught on Doug’s coat and the ever present odor of a dairy herd. “You live with a Brown man. You know what they’re made of. We’ll be good to your young man. Now go back inside before Andrew becomes upset.” Landon gave Doug a light shove toward the house. “Go.”

“I’m not leaving forever,” Milton mumbled.

“You’re not seven anymore and he knows that. It’s hard to see your children grow up; even though, you seem not to have put your parents through the hell I put my dad. Get in the car. Don’t make this harder for Doug.”

The car was spacious inside and smelled of leather and polish, not of hay and spilled grain and cow shit not removed from boots. Milton fingered the soft seats and stared out the tinted windows. Landon turned on the engine and the heat. Gordon came out of the house, his strides long and even. He removed his coat and slid behind the wheel. The wheels crunched over the snow of the driveway and onto the main road.

The drive was silent. Landon had turned the radio to a public station and was listening to the business report. Gordon drove. Milton caught those stern eyes in the mirror a few times, but he didn’t turn or acknowledge Milton. It was as if Milton wasn’t in the car. It was familiar countryside, and Milton stared idly out the window at the snow and the houses shuttered against the fierce frost. They passed few cars, pickups with tarps covering hay or grain and tourists from New York with skis strapped to the roof.

A final steep climb and the car stopped in front of an enormous house. Its roof rose high into the air and its sides seemed to go on forever. Milton had only seen pictures of such places in fancy magazines. He knew he was staring, trying to count the windows and imagine the number of bathrooms.

“We only live in part of it. The rest belongs to the Green Mountain Boys,” Gordon said. “Get out and we’ll get you settled.”

“I’ll give you a map and compass and a day’s ration of food in case you get lost,” Landon said, the tease evident in his voice.

“The boy isn’t stupid,” Gordon said sharply.

“He’s only seventeen. He’s allowed to be a kid sometimes and have fun with this behemoth. Losing the way to the dining room is half the fun.”

“Landon.” Gordon’s tone held some sort of warning. Milton could hear it. Landon sighed, but opened the door with no further words.

“Come on, Milton. I’ll give you the nickel tour.”

They entered into a vast marble hall with a cathedral ceiling that ended in a row of skylights. Banners and tapestries of some sort hung from the walls. Across the hall a college aged man grinned and waved.

“You have him. So it wasn’t a myth after all. I was beginning to think it was like the Loch Ness monster.”

“Sam, behave and get the luggage.”

“Yes, my captain.” Sam saluted with two fingers before whistling sharply. “Tommy, come give me a hand. The mysterious new boy is here.”

“Your manners are appalling.”

“That’s Gordon’s line,” Sam said with a crooked smile. “Everything about me is appalling.”

“Boy, that’s Mr. Lewis to you.”

Milton heard the sharpness in Landon’s voice. He saw the eyes that had been kind and warm earlier shift to frigid.

“Sorry, sir.” Sam placed his hands behind his back and lowered his eyes. He stood frozen as Landon slowly walked around him. Landon ran his finger down Sam’s cheek.

“Do you need something, boy? I will see what I can arrange.”

“No, sir. I’m good, sir.”

“Then don’t bait. Go on; get the luggage.” Landon swatted Sam hard across the seat of his trousers. “Behave, boy.”

“Always.”

Landon snorted. “I might not be the sir in the family, but I wasn’t born yesterday. I’ve got the wrinkles to prove it. Now fetch and carry like the good boy I know you can be when you’re deathly afraid a beating’s coming.”

Milton knew he was staring. He knew he’d strained to hear every word of the conversation. What sort of world was this? The rich had strange habits, but he’d thought their habits was more in line with expensive restaurants and giant houses.

“Milton, this way.” Landon draped his arm around Milton’s waist. “Sam’s an unattached submissive on break from college. He wanted to play. We don’t beat the help.”

Milton nodded and stared. Where was he? In a hallway of someone with a ridiculously large house with corridors that went on for eternities and rooms in all directions.

“This is our apartment. Your room is here.” Landon opened a door to a simple room with two sets of bunk beds and a line of dressers against the back wall. “You’re the only boy right now, so it’s all yours. Gordon will come in and talk to you.” Landon ruffled Milton’s hair in an annoying gesture more suited for young children and left with a quick nod and a firmly shut door.

Milton sat down on a lower bunk and tried to make a coherent picture of the past few minutes. He didn’t like puzzles or mysteries. He didn’t like feeling that everyone else knew more than he. His eyes tracked to the small, rough hewn bookshelf. There were the usual throw away novels that could be purchased at any drug store and a series of binders with no titles. He stood and pulled one from the shelf. It was full of pictures with captions in a variety of different scrawls. Milton grabbed a handful of the others and spread them across the bunk, flipping from one to the next and reading hurriedly across the pages.

Milton didn’t hear the door or the footsteps on the wood floor. “It is customary not to remain sprawled on the bed when I walk in the room, boy. Get up.” Milton lurched forward and stifled a startled cry as a sharp sting radiated across his hip. “The cane, boy. A young dominant’s closest companion. Now stand up and let me get a proper look at you.”

Milton scrambled to his feet and stared at Gordon. He braced himself for further attack. This man had just hit him with that stick like thing he was carrying in his hand. 

“Steady, boy.”

“You just hit me.”

“Yes, and I will again if you don’t stand up straight and put your hands behind your back.”

“Are you crazy?”

“No, I’m your dominant, boy. My duty is to train you to be a dominant. You were reading those.” Gordon waved at the books. “How far did you get?”

“Not enough to understand.” Milton challenged. “Hitting people is wrong.”

“Getting in a brawl is wrong. Beating your spouse because you’re in a drunken rage is wrong. Physical stimulation because you enjoy it with a consenting partner is a different scenario. You cannot change that you want to control, that you have dreamed of warm flesh against your hand, that you have dreamed of a beautiful boy kneeling at your feet. To deny such feelings is unhealthy, but also to have those feelings with no training is dangerous. You are a big strong lad with more than a touch of temper. You must learn control and respect for those who will kneel to you all your life. They give you a gift you must cherish. You must understand the strength needed to submit. You will submit to me before I turn you loose in the world as a dominant. Now stand here, boy, and let me get a look at my prize.”

“I am not your prize.” Milton growled and stepped away from Gordon. He deliberately leaned against the wall, a posture Milton had already found relaxed combatants, yet generated respect. 

“Now you are my defiant boy.”

“I haven’t been a boy since I was in elementary school. You don’t intimidate me, Mr. Lewis, with all your wealth and posturing and silly little stick. I’m not a little boy afraid of the big, bad teacher.”

“Smarter than most of the teachers, I expect,” Gordon said with a wry twist of his lips. “Your intellect probably exceeds mine, but I have experience. I’ve seen far more sunrises than you, and I love a man who kneels for me, a man who is a dominant in his own right yet will swear his allegiance to me. That is power. It is far more than all the baubles I have managed to collect. You will see if you are not afraid to travel the path. It is a hard road. I am not a gentle man. I am not kind in the traditional ways, but I will protect you, and I will teach you. Untrained you are a menace to society and yourself. Your father died young. Do not go down that path.”

“I never knew my father. I am not my father. I do not take drugs and disappear to Mexico. I am not a loser.” Milton glared at Gordon. No one spoke of Milton’s father, but Milton wasn’t stupid. He’d looked at the pictures in the old photo album. He’d found the letters tucked away in the sock drawer. 

“Circumstances were different for you, boy. Andrew and Doug knew how to handle you, but now you are too old to remain in the nest. You must learn to tame yourself. Look at me, boy. Tell me you have never wanted to hit your boyfriends. Tell me you are not impossibly bossy with them. Tell me you never imagine them looking at you as if you make the sun rise and set.”

“It’s wrong.”

“But you want it?”

Milton watched the man in front of him. He was calm and possessed, and he spoke easily of things that Milton didn’t even want to allow in his thoughts. Hitting was wrong. Milton wasn’t a brute. He’d accidentally seen Grandfather with Doug. He tried not to think of it. Grandfather had taken the strap to Milton once. It had been controlled and quiet and deliberate and something Milton hadn’t understood.

“Answer me,” Gordon snapped into the silence.

“Yes.”

“Good boy. I knew you weren’t a coward. Now, in the middle of the room and let me get a look at you. Come on, boy, no lollygagging.”

Milton moved his feet to the center of the room. He wasn’t sure why he complied, but he was curious about this insane man in front of him. He might as well humor him for at least a little while. 

“Hands behind your back.” Gordon waited for Milton’s slow compliance. He walked around Milton, his eyes burning fire into Milton’s skin. His finger traced down Milton’s cheek, and Milton flinched at the touch. “Be still. I will touch you.”

“Don’t,” Milton hissed as the fingers stroked Milton’s cheek. Milton jumped at the strike of the cane against his calf. It wasn’t hard, more of a promise or a warning.

“No, boy. You endure what I do to you. Eventually you may like it, but for now you must endure. Stand still or I’ll show you the real use of the cane.”

“I’m not afraid.”

“Good. This is not fun with a fearful boy.”

“Being stared at like a prized bull isn’t fun either.”

“You should be proud. You are beautiful, a wonderful specimen of young manhood.”

“Are you done?”

“For now. You may sit down.” Gordon pointed at the small desk chair. 

Milton slouched, but didn’t move toward the chair. He wasn’t going to be ordered about by this martinet.

 “Stubborn.” Gordon shook his head, a faint smile on his lips. “It is not important; I only wished you to be more comfortable. Tomorrow you will start your employment at the ski slope. You will work from seven to five as this is the busy season. The remainder of the time is to learn about this. Read the books. Ask anything; we are not shy. Watch the men here; they are your model. We will dine in the dining room tonight. I won’t ask you to cook until you are more settled. Dinner is a six thirty. Wear a tie.” Gordon turned and walked out.

“Ass,” Milton mumbled under his breath. He wasn’t going to be cowed by that fool with a stick. He’d do his work; he didn’t mind work, but the other… Well, Gordon could always dream.