Snowbound Season 2
Winter - At the Green Mountain Boys’
Landon listened for the precise thump as the jet’s tires touched the tarmac. This was home, or more precisely they’d be home in a little more than an hour. Despite the wonders of private aviation, they still had to deal with the bureaucracy and inefficiencies of customs and then the Herculean task of scraping ice and snow from the car windows. He could park his aircraft indoors, but amazingly there was no long term indoor parking for cars. Well, he could set John to the task of window scraping. The man had a penchant for freezing exercise, and at least it was daylight.
John had been restless for most of the flight; a caged tiger might have been calmer. Landon had winced through the dragging of protesting Rick to the bathroom and the subsequent spanking, strongly fighting his urge as a dominant to protect Rick. After all he was the one who had suggested that John be more forceful and direct in his conquering of Rick, but Landon was a Green Mountain Boy to his core. Dominants could be harsh and unyielding, but expectations for dominant care were exacting. Landon had wanted John to cuddle his exhausted boy in his arms, not sit on the floor with an expression on his face that Landon couldn’t read. Pity Ryan had been unavailable to make the trip. He could have coaxed more from John with his affable but prying questions.
Customs had been efficient for the slow town of Vermont with a lone official who looked as if he’d been awakened from a long winter’s nap. Winter time customs were by special arrangement only, so he had probably been dragged in from ice fishing or fur trapping.He’d definitely had the two day old beard of someone who’d been out in his hunting shack away from the ministrations of society. John had leapt to unfreezing the car with an urgency and vigor that had made Landon uneasy. Ice wasn’t an enemy at the castle’s gates, and the snow didn’t need beaten into submission.
Landon would have preferred to allow his guests to drive, so he could observe John and Rick without one eye on the road, but rural Vermont roads were treacherous. Landon knew the locations of the common icy spots, and while the car claimed innumerable safety features, Landon preferred not to test them. The conversation in the car was strained, and after a few attempts to point out local landmarks, most of the drive was undertaken in silence. Rick’s head was buried in John’s shoulder, and he refused to make eye contact or speak with anyone. Gregory was leaning against Arthur, his eyes following the white landscape.
The car swept between the stone pillars and followed the final winding hill to the house. Several brave sparrows perched on the snow covered rock wall, chattering a warning of an approaching car. Gordon and Sheldon were standing at the front door, matching soldiers guarding the entrance. Sheldon was dressed in a dark overcoat with a white scarf. This was the boy looking elegant who had been a struggle for years to get a tie on for dinner. Landon always pictured Sheldon in a battered ski jacket and jeans just short of the trash.
Gordon and Sheldon moved in unison toward the car. Sheldon’s smile was radiant; Gordon’s scowl could illustrate the opposite in the dictionary. Sheldon opened the back door with a flourish; Gordon zeroed in on the front door.
“Boy,” Gordon said in a warning undertone, “we will talk.”
Landon nodded. It was good to be home. It was good to be glared at by his dominant. Landon lowered his eyes in submission, and a small smile graced his lips.
“Brat,” Gordon hissed, but ruffled Landon’s hair affectionately.
John had grabbed most of the baggage, seemingly glad for an actual job. Rick was trailing behind John, his eyes still red and puffy and his steps shaky. Gordon, as always observant of a submissive in distress, closed the gap hurriedly. He walked beside Rick, not touching but lending an air of support and reassurance by his mere presence. Rick flushed, and Landon could see the struggle in Rick’s eyes to be seen in such a disheveled and submissive state.
They split in the hall. Sheldon led the guests to their rooms, and Gordon wrapped his arm around Landon’s waist and guided him to their quarters. “Are there any redeeming features of this escapade which I haven’t been able to piece together?”
“It wasn’t an escapade. Sir,” Landon added as Gordon’s glare burnt into his body. “Rick deserves are help.”
“He looked miserable, and his dominant was not Mr. Sunshine. Are Arthur and Gregory supposed to be shields against that lunatic? Gregory is still convinced I dine on submissives, and Arthur has a peculiar attraction to his psychotic protege. Ryan is working and cannot escape his duties even for a weekend. Milton sent Sheldon, but he himself won’t arrive with the rest of his family until Friday night on the express train. We are not exactly young and trained members of the special forces.”
“John is deeply passionate, but I don’t believe he’s homicidal. Rick triggers his partner, sometimes intentionally, sometimes oblivious to the possible ramifications. Rick is not an entirely innocent party in John’s less than steady trajectory as a dominant.”
“The dominant is responsible for his own control.”
Landon dropped to his knees and rested his head against Gordon’s thigh. “Does my own submission not steady your passions?”
Gordon stroked his fingers through Landon’s hair, his body still except for his fingers’ steady motion. “You gave me your submission from the beginning. Submission is the balm on a dominant’s soul. Rick will not give his submission. Without the gift, John must find the control himself.”
“Rick must also give his submission. The submissive has the power. His power is through acceptance.”
“Landon, you are not the only one who feels a submissive’s misery, but we haven’t the ability to change someone’s fundamental temperament. Perhaps despite the submission we both feel from Rick, he is not ready to give of himself. He does not willingly sacrifice. Submission is about giving your will to your dominant for your dominant to cherish and guard and do what he will with it. You give me yours willingly and without reservation, and in exchange I return most of it to you. I require the deepest submission only rarely, and when I do you are a creature of beauty and perfection. I treasure those moments when I have all of you, but I also treasure your independence and fire and passions and recognize the dominant beast you chain for my benefit. Rick can’t or won’t give of himself. He fought Milton and he fought Ryan, two men who are both consummate dominants and strikingly appealing to submissives. Both deflected Rick’s hostility, but their diplomacy made him no less defiant. He doesn’t submit. It matters little if his soul demands submission if he overrides it with his will.”
“Rick needs shown.”
“Landon,” Gordon growled, his hand heavy on Landon’s neck. “As the old proverb says, you can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make him drink. I won’t be a party in beating a boy into submission. John is capable of great violence, and violence is not wrong if it is both partners' will, but I have no assurance that it is both partners' will. Enough of those two.” Gordon rose to his feet. “You deserve punishment.”
“Yes, sir.” Landon bowed his head. This was Gordon’s right. He didn’t entirely agree to Gordon’s reasoning, but he was the submissive. He accepted Gordon’s will, good or bad.
“Fetch the cane. The one you feel is most appropriate.”
Landon reached for the keys. They rested in the drawer where they had lived for years amongst the rulers, stamps in odd denominations, and generations of calculators. They’d always kept the canes in the study. It was Milton’s study now, but the canes still lived there. They both enjoyed rituals, and fetching the cane was a ritual. Being sent alone to choose the cane was a punishment. Landon had to weigh his own infraction, dwell on his own disobedience, and remember his pledge to follow Gordon’s will as he studied the tools used for generations on errant young men.
The dragon canes were out; Gordon would never use those for punishment short of Landon committing a real crime. They were for marking with exquisite and precise red welts and for play at the furthest end of the spectrum. Ryan might use his bullwhip; Gordon would use a cane. Unfortunately the dragon canes were now more to be admired than to be used. Landon’s body was no longer as resilient as it once was. He didn’t heal from that level of welting and bruising, the scourge of old age. The nursery cane was too gentle. It’s short, sweet sting would not be enough. Landon chose the junior cane, serious but not awful. He stroked the wood and gently lifted it from the rack, automatically inspecting it for cracks or other damage. Milton cared for these now, and he did it well. It was in perfect condition. Landon tucked the cane under his arm and headed back into the hallway.
“Landon?” Rick’s voice was soft and surprisingly tentative.
“Rick,” Landon said easily, making sure he smiled at the boy who looked fragile in his jeans and bare feet with an oversized sweater hanging off his shoulders and threatening to swallow his entire frame. “You’re not sleeping?”
“John’s in the shower.” Rick eyed the cane with trepidation.
“Relax. I’m owed a few.”
“What did you do?” The bewilderment was clear on Rick’s face.
Landon dropped an arm over Rick’s shoulders, feeling the tremor run through the slight body. “It matters little what I did. This is the will of my dominant. I gave him this right almost fifty years ago when I first knelt at his feet. He has the right to punish me when and how he chooses. My only recourse is my safeword. While I don’t agree with all of Gordon’s arguments today, that does not matter. I am pledged to obey his will, and I accept his will.”
“But--”
“I’m strong and fierce and run a multibillion dollar empire. Rick, that makes no difference. I am Gordon’s submissive. I yield to him.”
“What if you couldn’t?”
“I wouldn’t be his submissive.”
“What if it were wrong?”
“If I truly thought it was wrong, I would safeword. I would talk to him, and if I still felt it was wrong, not disagreed, but truly wrong, I would go to Milton or Josh. There is a difference between not agreeing or feeling that it is a touch unfair to it being wrong.”
“You can always submit?”
“Not always easily. I’ve had years of practice. The last time I really missed was in front of Milton. He took me apart, left nothing but tatters of my misplaced stubbornness and pride flapping in the breeze for all to see.” Landon grimaced. “It was not an experience that I care to repeat in this century. I remember my place.”
“But--”
“Milton is head of the Green Mountain Boys. I kneel to him. He has the right, and not only did he have the right, he was very right. I was being an ass, and I deserved every last sting of his words and his belt.”
“I can’t do that,” Rick said in a shattered whispered. “I just can’t.” He wiped quickly at his face.
“Can you do it for John? Not for Gordon or Milton or Ryan, but for John.”
Rick shook his head, an untrapped tear trickled down his cheek. “I can’t. I’m no good at it.”
“It’s not an exam. All you need is the will. Rick, it’s about you. It’s not about the world out there. It’s not about your career or your colleagues or all those who think submissives are weak. It’s about you, and it’s about John.”
“Landon.” Gordon stood in the doorway of their rooms, his hands on his hips.
“Yes, sir.” Landon nodded once to Rick and walked toward Gordon.
Landon followed Gordon back into their rooms. With a precision of much practice, Landon dropped to his knees and held the cane out for Gordon. “I present myself for discipline as requested, sir. Please punish me.”
They weren’t always this formal or this rigid, but the request to fetch the cane alone demanded a ritualized punishment scene. With age had come an increasing use of ritualized and formal behaviors. Landon was a masochist, but his body could no longer suffer relentless abuse. A cane stripe that fifteen years ago had been only a thin red welt was now a livid purple bruise. They’d never talked about the changes; maybe they knew each other well enough that talking was extraneous. The changes had been slight at first: a junior cane instead of a senior cane, a thicker cushion when Landon knelt, no spontaneous sex with Landon clinging to the table in desperation as Gordon drove savagely inward. They used the bed now or at least the sofa.
Gordon took the cane from Landon and ran his hand reverently along its smooth surface. Landon watched Gordon through lowered lids. Depending on Gordon’s mood, he might immediately be ordered to present himself for a caning, or Gordon might stand above Landon, letting the superiority of Gordon’s position sink through Landon’s mind and body. A view of worsted wool and shiny shoes were humbling sights. Gordon sank into his favorite armchair, the cane resting across his knees. He reached for a cushion half tucked under the coffee table and tossed it toward Landon.
“Use it.”
Landon shifted, resting his knees on the padded surface. He was to be left to contemplate his sins, not that he agreed they were sins--unorthodox, not sins. Rick was a submissive in distress; they were Green Mountain Boys. There was only one solution--interference. Abstractly Landon believed in refraining from using his business clout to bring the reluctant into the fold, but reality was different from the abstract, and he hadn’t deceived either Rick or John. He’d only deceived the firm. Landon would pay the usual billable hours, so no harm done.
John was the more difficult question. Rick without a partner and Gordon himself would be searching for a proper cufflink design and planning his initiation into the Green Mountain Boys. It was John who stiffened Gordon’s back. Gordon didn’t trust John. John wasn’t amenable to the standard lure of camaraderie among one’s peers. He was a loner, a man who bristled with fortifications, a man who suggested danger to any approaching dominant. Approached as a submissive, the feel had been different. He wasn’t a Green Mountain Boy dominant, but he hadn’t overwhelmed Landon with a feeling of danger. Landon would never kneel to an abusive dominant. Gordon, for all his perceived harshness, had zero tolerance for even the scent of abuse. Gordon had his own reasons, personal and frightening from his days as a child and his first year at boarding school. It had been a different era, but Landon knew what it would be called today. Gordon would take John on with nothing but his bare hands and an antique vase if John intentionally caused psychological or physical harm to his submissive.
“Pants off.”
Landon rose, listening to the crack and pop of his joints. He toed off his shoes, positioning them neatly by the door before removing his trousers and underwear. His shirttails flapped against his skin, reminding Landon of his vulnerability and sending a thrill of excitement to his nervous system. Dark socks and no pants were an incongruous picture, further emphasizing Landon’s place as the submissive. Landon positioned himself over the broad back of the sofa. It was more comfortable than the traditional desk and perhaps a slightly less effective height for delivering the strokes, but Gordon was an expert.
Landon felt Gordon gather his shirttails and contain them with a steady hand on his back. The first tap was to measure the distance. The strokes were hard as always: a whistle through the air, a thud, and a line of fire. The flaming strokes spread evenly down Landon’s exposed ass cheeks. Landon heard his grunt and hiss as the number increased. They were at four now; six and twelve were the traditional number. Five fell against the top of his thighs, eliciting a yelp. Six landed on the diagonal, the traditional five bar gate. Landon jerked and squawked as fire overlaid already singed skin.
Gordon’s finger traced the welts. One hand kneaded roughly at the battered flesh. “That’ll do. Stand in the corner, so I can admire my work.”
Only six--Landon considered that a kindness. His ass throbbed and stung, and Landon fought the urge to rub the abused flesh. He stood in the corner and let Gordon admire the view. The tram lines would be perfect; Gordon was skilled. Landon would remain on display as long as his dominant desired it.
“Beautiful. Had enough, boy?”
“As you wish, sir.”
“Come.”
The bed had been turned back, and it wasn’t for sleep. Gordon guided Landon into position. He didn’t strip off Landon’s shirt, nor did he do more than lower his pants. Landon felt the familiar wool of Gordon’s sweater vest as a slick finger smoothed the way for entrance and a palm fell rhythmically against the stripes. The entry spoke of power and desire and long understood love. Landon groaned, a mixture of pain and pleasure. He held himself still, a boy ready to be taken.
****
Rick trotted back to their room, his mind still reeling from the image of Landon so casually walking through the hallways with a cane under his arm and knowledge that he was going to be punished. Landon was going to allow himself to be beaten only because his dominant desired it. The idea was enough to make Rick's mind go blank.
Rick had seen enough guilt ridden men to know when one was considering himself not to be in the wrong. Landon wasn't allowing the punishment because he had a guilty conscience, quite simply he was submitting to it because his dominant considered he should be punished, no matter Landon's own feelings. That was something fundamentally unacceptable for Rick. His entire life has been governed with the ideas of just punishment for proven offenses and even more prominently by the right to fight to get out of that punishment. No one was expected to meekly accept a punishment or consequences for their actions. In his world people fought for a better chunk of cheese no matter whether they were right or wrong, they didn't simply accept judgment from others. In his world accepting such judgment meant you had tried to fight it and had lost. It was impossible for Rick to understand not trying to fight it and not putting all his weight into the fight.
He stood in front of the door, still not feeling ready to face Johnny. He looked down at his bare toes, wiggling them to chase away the coldness that was seeping into his body through the marble floors. Johnny was angry with him, as always Rick had managed to ruin things. Johnny wanted someone like Landon, someone who could offer his obedience without any fight. He didn't need a feral and stubborn man like Rick.
Rick felt tears running down his cheeks. He hugged himself, trying to lose himself in Johnny's scent, in his large sweater. He wanted Johnny. He wanted Johnny to cuddle him, to tell him Rick was his good boy, only Rick wasn't. Everybody was a good boy, but Rick wasn't.
He pushed the door open and slipped inside the room as silently as he could. Johnny was sitting on the bed. He was dressed and was now pulling his socks onto his feet. As soon as the door cracked open his gaze lifted and Rick was scorched by the blazing fire in his eyes.
"Where the hell have you been?" Johnny growled, displeasure evident in each word. "I don't remember allowing you to wonder around without me."
Rick started to cry without meaning to. He was hurting all over, and he was tired and confused, and he didn't want to fight Johnny. He wanted Johnny to just hold him. He wasn't Landon; he didn't want punished, even if he knew he deserved it, but even less he wanted to make Johnny angrier. He threw himself at Johnny's feet, bending his head on his lap.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he cried desperately, hugging John's knees.
Johnny's hand was heavy and comforting on his head.
"Up," Johnny tugged at him.
"No, please," Rick sobbed harder. "Please, don't." He didn't want to be cast aside. "Don't toss me aside, please!"
"Ricky," Johnny bent over him. "Obeying me without an input from you is what submission is about," Johnny said gently. "It's not your job to try and guess what I'm going to do. Your job is to simply do as you are told."
Johnny hoisted him up easily. It was as if Rick weighed nothing. John pulled Rick up into his lap and slid backward until he was resting against the headboard. Collecting Rick into his arms so that he was almost lost in Johnny's embrace, John kissed his temple.
"Your knees must be killing you by now," he soothed into Rick's ear. "I think it's quite enough kneeling for one day, and your duty is to obey me."
Rick nodded and burrowed deeper into John's chest, hiding from the confusing world.
"Now, what was that about tossing you away?" John's hand was rubbing calming circles on Rick's back.
Rick sobbed harder, clinging to Johnny.
"Angel?" John forced Rick's face up and looked into his eyes. Rick's gaze rested on the blue oceans so loving, so calm. "You have a safeword for when I go too far. I was being intentionally cruel. I wanted to push you, but it looks like I might have pushed you too far. You need to tell me these things." Johnny looked worried now.
"I didn't want to safeword," Rick said, hiccuping. "I deserve to be tossed aside. I'm not good at this."
"Stop," John's tone was full of authority. Rick couldn't have disobeyed him even if he wanted to, especially not with those intense eyes boring down on him. "I told you hundreds of times I am not going to leave you. In fact--" John bent closer to Rick's face--"You might want to consider a restraining order for when you want to be rid of me," Johnny said, smiling gently and Rick's heart melted. John was delusional if he though Rick would ever want to be rid of him.
"I'm not a good submissive," Rick whined. "I'll never be as good as Landon or Gregory or any of the others." Fresh tears spilled down his stained cheeks.
"Angel, how come the only time you listen to me was when I was saying something that didn't really mean anything? All this time I have been telling you that I do not want other submissives that I want you. You do not hear me. One time, during an intense scene, I tell you that you need to thank me for not tossing you aside and you take that as focal point of my intentions and feelings."
"But I will never be like Landon and…" Rick insisted on incriminating himself.
"Rick." the voice was stern now. "This is not a competition! How many times do I need to tell you that?"
"But I can't, I don't know how to," Rick begged desperately.
"Undo your braid, angel," John said softly, conversationally, and Rick hurried to comply without any thought.
"Beautiful," Johnny patted Rick's scattered hair. "See? This is submission. You doing what I ask you to without endless analysis and questions."
Rick looked at Johnny doubtfully, pouting at him.
"It was just undoing my braid; it wasn't something difficult."
"And what did you expect that I was going to ask you, to find the cure for cancer or end world famine?" John asked with humor shining in his eyes.
"Noooo," Rick whined. "You know what I mean. Undoing my braid isn't submitting."
"No?" John asked, raising his eyebrow in a question. "So, if let's say, Ed asked you to undo your braid you'd just do it."
Rick looked at Johnny as if he'd lost his mind.
"No, I would advise him to see a shrink."
"Why?" John asked casually.
"What do you mean why?" Rick reacted vehemently. "He has no business asking me such things!"
"And I do?"
"Yes!" Rick shouted out the obvious. "Oh," he said a second later as he realized the point Johnny was making. "But still, it was easy. The other things are the hard ones," He insisted, unwilling to concede.
"Other things like what?"
"Landon was taking the cane to Gordon. He was going to be punished," Rick blurted out hurriedly, unsure he could say it if he stopped to think.
"Gordon is Landon's dominant. It's his right," John said easily. "If I told you to go grab my belt you would too."
Rick keened and hid in Johnny's arms.
"But I wouldn't want to. I would probably beg you not to punish me and…"
"And ask me why and argue with me," John continued unfazed.
"See?" Rick sniffled. "I'm no good."
"Angel," Johnny captured Rick by his chin once more. "First, Landon has decades of practice on you. And second, you don't know his internal thought process. He might have the same conflict inside; he just has learned not to voice it."
Rick tried to say something, but John's slight shake stopped him.
"In the beginning, even the simple request of undoing your hair would have gotten me an intense interrogation of whys and for what reason," Johnny continued, studying Rick carefully. "Now you just did it without any of the struggle. In the beginning I had to shove you forcefully down if I wanted you kneeling; now you do it on your own, even if there is still some residual resentment and fight left." John stopped for a while and then went on, his rich, rumble heating Rick's insides. "With time everything will become easier. The trick is to trust me to get you there, kicking and screaming if I have to," John finished with amused determination on his face.
"I trust you, I do," Rick said, jumping up to kneel at John's side.
"Good." Johnny pulled Rick in and kissed his nose. "Now let's practice a bit of obedience, shall we?"
"Yes, Sir," Rick said, basking in the magnificent aura of his lover.
"Strip," Johnny said, sliding down from the bed. "And lie belly down," he instructed, watching Rick intensely.
Rick almost opened his mouth to ask what Johnny was going to do to him. His ass hurt too much for another round with anything, even just Johnny's hand. Then he noticed Johnny's raised eyebrow. No questioning, no asking for reasons, just trusting your dominant, that's what Johnny said submission was about.
Rick stripped obediently and laid belly down, vulnerable and exposed, unsure of what was going to happen. He almost jumped out of his skin when John's gentle hands started to knead at his shoulders.
"Hush," Johnny purred into Rick's ear. "You did very well, angel. Remember, no trying to anticipate my moves. It's not important what I'm going to do, because you are going to accept it anyway. It's not about what you want, but what I desire. Submit, Rick." Johnny's voice was hypnotic, his hands soothing. Rick melted under his ministrations.
Johnny conjured oil from somewhere. He was rubbing it into Rick's body, massaging him from his neck to his toes. Every muscle was mercilessly attacked until it relented and melted into a liquid, boneless, weightless mass. Rick felt as if he was floating. Johnny didn't avoid his bruised ass, but Rick didn't mind. The deep pain was healing. It felt right to hurt under Johnny's hands as much as it felt right to melt under them with pleasure. Johnny pushed his thumbs deep toward the junction of his legs and massaged the joints there, simultaneously teasing his intimate parts. Rick whimpered and wiggled around. A forceful pat to his bottom reminded him of the bruises Johnny had put there.
"Keep still for me," Johnny husked into his ear and Rick stilled immediately. It wasn't hard to keep still. Oh, he wanted to wiggle and to thrust; he wanted to turn around and grab Johnny for a good kiss and furious shag, but Johnny wanted him still, so he stayed still.
Johnny didn't tell him to stay silent, so Rick keened and whimpered and let out small tortured, yet happy noises. Johnny kissed his nape and called him a good boy, and Rick decided that walking over sizzling coals was doable if Johnny wanted him to, even discovering a cancer cure didn't sound so farfetched.
"Turn around, keep your eyes closed," Johnny instructed. "I'm not blindfolding you with any material thing, just my will, Rick. Obey it."
"Yes, Sir," Rick chocked out, close to hyperventilating.
Johnny massaged Rick's chest and thighs, avoiding the places Rick was most desperate for contact, but then Rick realized he didn't really care were John touched him as long as John murmured those words of appreciation, telling Rick how good he was being, how well he was obeying him.
All of a sudden Johnny's mouth was on Rick, taking his engorged member deep into his throat, and Rick lost any coherent thought. All he could remember was that he was supposed to keep still and his eyes closed. Rick cried and shrieked, and he wasn't sure if he did it until he was coming down from his orgasm to John's thick voice whispering in his ear.
"Beautiful, just beautiful. You did so well, angel," Johnny kissed him on the forehead, his hand still rubbing against Rick's contracting belly.
He didn't remember more after that. Only that Johnny had climbed into the bed and was holding him. He had gotten naked at some point, because Rick could feel John's warm skin against his own. He wouldn't open his eyes. He still wasn't told he could do so. Then John whispered in his ear, "Sleep." And Rick obeyed.
******
Johnny startled awake. Artillery fire, his heart raced as he tried to figure out his surroundings. A second later all became clear and he cursed silently. He looked beside him where Rick was sleeping undisturbed. Good thing his psychoses didn't wake Rick. His boy needed to sleep.
He eased himself out of bed and went to the window. It was barely past midnight, perhaps one o'clock in the morning. The dark yard was peaceful and calming. He wondered what he’d heard through his sleep, maybe a private party with fireworks. He still had hard time not flinching through the cracks of fireworks. While everyone else admired the bursts of color and cheered, John usually found himself struggling not to look for cover. He sighed deeply and turned around. He leaned against the wooden windowsill and considered his sleeping boy; his beautiful boy. His current uneasy state made no sense. Rick had been great last evening.
Johnny thought back to their evening. Rick had been perfect. His beast still hummed with contentment at the memory. Rick might not find submission easy, but when he did it was a sight to behold. He turned into a radiant magical creature. If only he didn't need to beat Rick into that state, if only he could lead him there with just a gentle stirring.
Rick did well when John had used a small thing to catalyze the submission. Maybe that was the answer, to keep asking for Rick's submission in the apparently small things: his food, his clothes, his routine. Rick seemed to respond fine to that kind of things. Although he had never tried to do it out of blue, he had always presented such request to Rick after a very harsh struggle, when Rick was already in submissive mindset. Would it work to anchor him to John's dominance without the more violent part of dominating? The truth was John was scared of that much of dominance. It was the heavy dominance, controlling the everyday aspects of one's life. It was where things could go south. Having complete control over someone was just too damn intoxicating for him. Where did he draw the line? How would he know he wasn’t overstepping, how would he know he still has his submissive's interest and enjoyment in his heart? He needed to talk to Arthur; he was bound to know. He did it with Gregory, only Gregory didn't require an army to take him down into his subspace. Gregory was always ready to offer it like the most precious gift it was, on a silver plate, served tastefully and gracefully. Milton had a slave too, a slave that looked like a canned volcano. Maybe he had some pointers. Only Milton wasn't at the resort, so even if John would come up with a way to ask the correct questions, there was no one to ask them to.
Johnny sighed, rubbing his hands over his face. It was too late for this kind of meditation and his mind was too unsettled. He needed to rest.
Gathering his boy back into his arms, Johnny closed his eyes and waited for sleep to claim him. Rick's enthusiastic wiggling to get imbedded in John's side, made him smile a fond smile on his boy. Oblivion didn't take long to come after him.
John woke up from a snarl. His snarl, he soon realized. He was covered in sweat, crouching on all fours, muscles rigid like a trapped animal. Rick was kneeling on the floor, calling his name. They had done this before; enough times that Rick knew touching him wasn’t safe.
"Johnny, please wake up, please," Rick pleaded with him as the horrible storm of violence and animal fear raged in John’s soul.
As soon as Rick saw Johnny sit up, he jumped onto the bed and threw himself against John.
"You're awake," he chocked, hanging down John's neck.
"Don't," John snarled, not even recognizing his own voice. "I'm not safe." He tried to push Rick away but the boy wouldn't let go. "Obey me, Rick," he barked snatching Rick's arms from around his neck with enough force to threaten dislocation.
Rick yelped, begging Johnny with his eyes as he pulled Rick determinedly out of bed and to the door. There was not much penetrating to John's brain. All he could think of was that he needed to get Rick to safety. They marched through the empty corridor to Arthur's room. Johnny snarled at the closed door and banged at it with little concern for the time of night.
The door opened revealing a sleepy looking Arthur, his usually elegant and trim appearance disheveled and worried.
"What is it, Johnny?" He asked anxiously, while a terrified looking Gregory pressed against his back.
"Keep him away from me," Johnny articulated with difficulty as he shoved Rick to Arthur, his insides howling and screaming, his mind numbing itself to the pain and bloodlust, shutting down from the reality.
He practically ran back to his room, desperate to conceal from the world the monster that was fighting to get out. He heard Rick's struggle against Arthur, his frantic, “Let me go.”
Even if his mind was starting to shut down, the primal part of his brain was in overdrive. He was acutely aware of his surroundings. He could hear every squeak of the bedsprings straightening out as heavy bodies left the beds, he could hear the doors opening, he sensed without seeing Gordon and Landon standing in the corridor and someone padding to where they stood, perhaps Sheldon. What he had ignored was Rick's small body slipping back inside the room as he tried to close the door.
His defiance made John's beast roar in rage. He grabbed Rick by his throat and slammed him against the wall. Only at the last second he decreased the velocity, making sure that he didn't smash his boy against the solid wall with bone shattering force.
"Obey me, Rick," he heard the pleading in his voice, the rage overridden by fear; fear of hurting his boy.
"Please, sir," Rick begged. "Please let me stay."
"I'm not safe, Rick. Do as you're told," he insisted, still clutching Rick's throat tightly.
He pulled Rick off from the wall and tried to return him to Arthur, who was standing expectantly by his side.
"Orion," Rick uttered almost too soft to be heard, but John did. His fingers relaxed involuntarily and he let go of Rick, taking a couple of steps back.
"Please, sir. You told me to use my safeword when I want you to stop. I need to talk freely," Rick pleaded, walking to him. "Please don't send me away," he begged, kneeling down gracefully at John's feet. "Let me serve you." Rick's beautiful eyes implored. "Master," the boy spoke the last word tentatively making John's mind reeled from the word. He was shocked and stunned into inaction. After several long second he finally looked at Arthur.
"I'm not safe, Arthur," he beseeched, hoping his friend would intervene and take his boy to safety until John would get this under control.
"Johnny," Arthur said cautiously. "Maybe it's time you faced your own doubts. There is a remarkably smart and intuitive boy at your feet who thinks you are safe. You need to trust his judgment. You ask him for his trust, you owe him the same. Do not insult his ability of reading his dominant."
This was Arthur, the same Arthur that had always guided him through his most dark times. The same Arthur that had taught him the safe ways of unleashing his beast.
Johnny looked at his feet. Rick was the epitome of submission. He was frozen in a perfect pose of readiness, graceful and willing to serve his dominant. Master, Rick had called him master. Johnny wasn't sure Rick meant it or understood it, but he himself was too raw to understand much.
He sank down, hunching before Rick, studying his beautiful face; cheeks stained with tears, long shadows casted by lush eyelashes, full lips and downcast eyes. His boy, all his.
"Let me serve you, sir," Rick murmured softly, flicking his eyes momentarily to Johnny's.
Johnny felt the bone deep tiredness overwhelm him. He nodded his head and extended a hand to Rick, helping them both to their feet. Arthur gave him a curt nod and a smile when he looked at him and ushered Gregory out of room. Johnny knew there were others standing behind the door, others who would demand an explanation, but he had no energy for it. He let Rick lead him to the bed and allowed himself to drift off under the expert ministrations from his boy. It felt like Rick was worshiping his body. The red mist suffocating his mind evaporated, giving way to contentment and warmth.
In the morning, they would face the world together.
