Boys at the Seaside 4

Chapter IV

Harry flinched as the shower water hit his very sore arse. Each stripe ached, and they would be purple by morning. They were already a lovely shade of red. Those men. He shivered under the warm spray at that thought. The boy with the eyes that had swum with hurt and horror was a jewel that he’d tarnished with his own idiocy. Milton was a dominant who spoke of everything that Harry had always imagined in a dominant, a man of obvious contradiction even in the mere few hours that Harry had known him. His love for his submissives was blinding in its obviousness along with a fierceness that rolled off him in magnificent glory. But he’d also been alone and staring into the countryside, contemplative and quiet.

Harry snapped off the taps and dried himself with the towel. He shouldered into an oversized white T-shirt, not bothering with his shorts and threw himself face down on the bed. Resting his chin on his folded hands, he looked blankly at the glimpse of sky he could see through the mostly drawn curtains. This morning had begun normally with a day at the shore watching the young and sometimes foolish frolic in the blue water. Austin had seemed like most of the brats here: young, shy, and desperate for approval. He’d thought the defiance was merely the usual ploy for attention; instead, the boy had panicked and raced for protection, and Harry’s world had been turned upside down.

“Hey, mate. Did you hear about the ruckus? Oh, shit!”

“Danny,” Harry said with a smile. “I was the ruckus.”

“Who whipped you?”

“Caned. The head of the Green Mountain Boys.”

“Have you lost your fucking mind?” Danny bent down and kissed Harry’s mouth, a quick peck before staring unabashedly at the marks. “Jesus, dude, I didn’t think you were hard core.”

“I learned something about myself today. I’m going back with them.”

“Harry?!” Danny flopped down on the bed, his shirt shedding flecks of hay from the stables. He ran his rough fingers through Harry’s hair. “You’re going to leave me with all these crazies all by my lonesome.”

“Come with me. I’m sure they’d take you. They’re in crusade mood.”

“I have obligations.”

That was Danny’s way of saying that financially he didn’t have the freedom of Harry. This job had been a much needed safety net for Danny. For all his pretense of surfer dude, Danny was a desperate recently qualified graduate in French literature with few job prospects and heavy debt. They were paid for their loyalty, and Danny needed every Euro.

“I have enough to get us by.”

“I can’t. Don’t ask.” Danny stood up and started to shed his clothes. He was unselfconscious as his pants and shirt fell to the floor, exposing his lean torso and faint wisps of fair hair that matched his even faired hair on his head.  “You need to get your lazy ass out of bed. Cooper and Robert want everybody on the floor. Your new hero is giving a seminar and a demonstration, and we’ve been told to expect trouble. Up now.” Danny pulled Harry from the bed. “Dress.”

“Aye, sir,” Harry said with an easy grin.

The largest conference room was already seething with people. Harry braced himself as the wave of energy hit him. Groups of the braver brats were chatting loudly and galloping around the room like young colts just let out to pasture. Several of the tops, who Harry recognized from repeat visits, had their brats firmly in hand as they pushed forward to the front of the room.

“Andy, don’t run,” Danny said in his automatic voice of authority. “You’ll fall.”

“You’ve heard, haven’t you? It’s going to be exciting. I want a prime view.” Andy bounced up and down, a wide smile on his face.

“Where’s Camden?” Danny asked as he caught Andy’s elbow. “I can’t imagine he wants you here by yourself.”

“I want to see. I don’t care,” Andy said with a full pout.

“You need to go back upstairs. You know the rules.”

“Danny,” Andy whined. “It’s a once in a lifetime chance.”

“Upstairs, little boy.” Danny dusted his hand over Andy’s hip. “You don’t want to push me.”

“Danny!”

“Let him stay,” Harry said. “It’s not as if he’s trying to drive under the influence. He is an adult.”

“Harry? It’s our job.”

“I’m not doing it, mate. You’re on your own here.”

“Danny?” Andy questioned.

Danny shrugged. “Stay out of trouble.”

“Thanks, man.” Andy disappeared into the crowd.

“You’re some help,” Danny said, turning on his friend. “We’re supposed to create a uniform front.”

“I told you I’m not doing it. You’ll see.”

Harry found a place against the wall where he could see Milton who stood in front of a whiteboard as if he was holding court to the crowd around him. His submissives were clustered at the first table, looking calm and relaxed despite the palpable hostility of the crowd.

“As I understand it you believe we are abusive bastards,” a heavy set man with a brusque voice and a pugnacious jawline demanded.

“Some believe the Green Mountain Boys are abusive,” Milton said diplomatically. “We believe the definition of abuse hinges on consent and knowledge, both which seem lacking here. Perhaps we should start this conversation on the topic of consent. How would you define consent?” Milton looked out into the crowd which was surprisingly silent. “Austin, will you start us off as the crowd has developed acute laryngitis.”

“Safeword,” Austin murmured, a flush rising on his cheeks.

“I agree a safeword is vital for proper consent.”

“For play,” someone said in the back. “We are talking about apples and oranges. I do not play with my partner. I provide my protection and guidance. We do not need safewords.”

“Protection and guidance that felt like assault to my boy. Are you sure your boy understands it as protection and guidance? Are you sure you believe it’s protection and guidance. Will you pretend that you have no arousal when a beautiful boy is naked and ass up over your knees? Does your boy ever actually learn from this protection and guidance? The evidence is overwhelming that corporal punishment retards learning, not enhances it. As dominants, especially as dominants, who take the relationship out of the playroom and the bedroom, we must be aware of such studies. To use corporal punishment, without an overt and fully understood erotic overlay of dominance and submission is foolish and most likely criminal.”

“So you never punish your boys?” a dominant from the back row asked.

“Within the confines of the relationship–yes. In the more general definition of punishment–the way you want to define it–occasionally.” Milton said slowly. “Can I say it was just–I don’t know. Sheldon,” Milton said, standing directly behind his slave and looping an arm around his neck, “I punished you for drunk driving, real punishment.”

“Master, I never saw it as abuse. I hated it, but it did what you wished. I don’t drink and drive.”

“I also made you permanently fearful of the belt, and you no longer drink at all. Is that fallout each and every one of you is willing to inflict on your lover, someone you should protect and cherish? It is an ethical dilemma that must never be ignored. Real punishment, real discipline, whatever you want to call it is dangerous. I’m not a perfect enough dominant to tell you that it should never occur, but I will tell you it is the most difficult and dangerous part of any relationship with a submissive. To pretend what you do here is the simple or the easy option is shameful. Your little smacks, your little rules, your belief in guidance of the weak or the boy in the wrong is dominance and submission at its most difficult, at its most dangerous, and you deny it entirely. I fear for how many boys you have injured.” Milton kissed Sheldon’s hair and fingered the thin leather collar. “We have a demonstration planned. Please make your way outside.”

****

Blade stood in the light of the setting western sun. He watched the crowd gather and look up at their improvised whipping post and stage. Ryan was behind him: tall, handsome, and looking as bad ass as possible. He was dressed in nothing but khaki shorts and had oiled his chest to outline each muscle. He held the bullwhip loosely in his hand. Blade smiled at his partner and licked his lips. This was going to be fun.

“You ready, boy?”

“Yes, Ryan.” Blade slid his white shirt off and tossed it over the pool fence railing. He stroked his hand down his chest and tugged the gold ring in his right nipple. He groaned and wiggled his hips. He had the crowd now. He could feel their eyes on him. He strutted over to Ryan and stood with his hands planted on his hips. “Big boy, do you know how to use that thing, or is it just decoration?”

“So you want to play, little boy? Can you play with a real man?”

“Real man,” Blade laughed. “I think you spend your days admiring yourself in the mirror.”

“Really.” Ryan fisted the bright red hair and pulled Blade’s head back. He sealed their lips together in a fierce kiss. “Is that real man enough for you?”

“You can kiss.” Blade wiped his hand over his mouth. “But can you do anything else?”

Ryan grinned and unfurled the whip. “I can do this.” The whip arced across the air with a loud crack. He flicked the whip and let only the lash trace its way down Blade’s chest. He coiled the whip back in his hand and stared at Blade. “Is that enough?”

“Pretty tricks. Let’s see more.”

“You want more?” Ryan caught Blade’s wrist and pulled their bodies against each other. His lips rested against Blade’s ear. “Still good?” he whispered. 

Blade nodded and smiled, all challenge and sex. Ryan always checked. It didn’t matter how often they did some variation of this game, Ryan always checked.

“You want more,” Ryan said silkily, his smile the smile of a lion in front of a delicious steak. He skimmed the billowing white shorts from his boy’s body and landed two slaps on the tender pale skin of the thighs. “You’ll give it all to me. You’ll scream and beg and bleed for me. Never will you tease again.” Ryan grabbed Blade’s hand and dragged him to the improvised whipping post. “Now for my pleasure.”

Ryan’s hands traced over Blade’s back and ass. This was his ritual before he swung the whip. This was the last tactile reassurance. 

Without boots, there were no footsteps as Ryan strode away, only silence until the crack of the whip and the lash warm on Blade’s shoulders. Blade flinched at the noise; he always did for the first few strokes. The lash fell in a languid rhythm, hot and somehow soothing despite the pain that was beginning to build over his skin. Blade breathed deeply and let the fire of the whip consume him. It was only Ryan and the whip. His nerves sung, his muscles heaved and swayed without command. He knew he was moaning and screaming now, both begging for it to stop and for it to never end. The strokes were shortening. Suddenly Ryan’s hand was on Blade’s shoulder. His breath blew across the welts. A wet tongue skimmed his hypersensitive skin of his back.

“Come for me.”

No hands. No direct stimulation. Blade arched and shot a spew of sticky white. He sagged against Ryan, trusting in everything, boneless and spent, a plaything for his man.

*****

John’s hands massaged Rick’s neck and shoulders, chasing away the stiffness. This was hard for Rick. His boy looked both apprehensive and aroused. John had Rick do a warm up and stretching. For what he had in mind, he needed Rick’s muscles prepared. Rick was bare from the waist up. It was all John was ready to allow for other’s view. Rick’s lithe body was covered with a thin layer of sweat, and tiny tremors racked his muscles under John’s hands. Rick was gorgeous, but when pushed out of his comfort zone, Rick looked stunning. There were no other words for it. John’s heart boiled both with pride and jealousy. Soon dozens of people would see Rick at his most vulnerable, a dazzling beauty that was usually reserved for John alone.

He undid Rick’s braid and gathering his loose hair in his hand, arranged it over Rick’s left shoulder. He looked into Rick’s emerald eyes and leaned forward to place a kiss to his forehead.

“Ready, angel?”

Rick shook his head, his eyes going larger, looking like a spooked deer caught in the headlights. Ryan and Blade were finished, and Ryan was caring for his boy. They were still on the stage, Ryan’s attention captivated by his boy, while Milton addressed several words to the crowd, explaining the just finished scene. Rick’s eyes roamed over them and then back to Johnny. They were pleading with Johnny, Rick’s hands clutching at John’s biceps.

“Angel,” Johnny captured Rick’s face between his large hands and kissed Rick gently on the lips. “It’s only me. There is no one but me. Concentrate on me.”  

Rick bobbed his head, eyes transfixed on John. He tilted his head slightly, clearly begging for a kiss and John gave him that.

“Mine?” he asked, tracing Rick’s face with his finger.

“Yours, Master,” Rick murmured, his entire attention zeroed in on John.

Rick was already slipping into that place where he existed for his dominant. John had deliberately driven him there since the moment the decision of displaying their play was made. He had pushed and twisted Rick until his public persona was shuttered and all that remained was John’s Rick. It had bordered on brutal at times, but it was better than having his boy come apart on the stage in front of others.

John assessed Rick once more, to make sure the glimpses of desire for display he had seen a day ago when Rick had knelt for him in the hotel restaurant, wasn’t the fruit of his imagination. This was something Rick wanted to do, but was afraid to take the final step. John had pushed enough young recruits out of a plane for their first parachuting experience to know that sometimes helping meant pushing. He smiled at Rick gently and pulled him toward his chest.

“I need you to trust me, Ricky. I’m going to do some things that are new to you.” Rick had wanted to show Harry the power a dominant held over his submissive. Now they had a lot larger audience, but the message they needed to deliver didn’t change. John wanted to show them what it meant to wield that kind of power over another being, what a dominant could do to his submissive, how much a submissive was ready to invest in his dominant.

Rick slowly nodded his head.

“Do what you will. I trust you, Master.” That one word told John Rick was there.  

John kissed him once more – a short peck. He turned Rick around and pressed Rick’s back against his chest, his hands roaming over Rick’s chest and abdomen, arousing him further.

“I’m going to blindfold you now, beautiful.”

Rick hissed and jerked, trying to turn around, but John pressed at his shoulders, forcing him to stay where he was.

“Don’t Rick,” the order was soft, yet it carried all the authority John could muster. “I don’t give you reasons, Rick. I give you orders,” he hissed in his boy’s ear, his hand kneading the soft skin of Rick’s abdomen with a punishing harshness. “This one time I will give you my reason. The blindfold will help you concentrate on me.” He turned Rick around and forced his face up, to look him in the eyes. “I will not suffer any further disobedience, Rick.”   

“Forgive me, Master,” Rick uttered, lowering his eyes, the lush eyelashes casting long shadows over his delicate cheeks, making Rick look like a beautiful and fragile figurine made of porcelain.

John nodded and turning Rick around put the blindfold over his eyes. He led Rick to the makeshift stage Ryan had organized for the purpose of the demonstration and waited for Mike to bring the tools he was going to need.

“Your safeword is Orion,” John spoke loudly enough for everyone to hear. It was for their benefit anyway; Rick knew his safeword. “Use it and I will stop,” he said the words with heavy emphasis. “Perseus is for slowing down. Use it if you need me to go back down, but don’t want me to stop entirely.” His voice carried over the gathered masses and John hoped that it reached at least some of the ears.

From that point the crowd ceased to exist for John. His whole attention was concentrated on Rick. He gathered Rick in his arms and swayed with him slightly, kissing his neck and shoulders until he felt Rick relax and separate from the surrounding world, his attention training on John. When he knew his had all of his boy, John led him to the whipping post. He tied Rick’s hands and pulled the bindings, making Rick’s arm stretch over his head. Rick took a sharp intake of breath and shuddered in John’s arms. Bondage was hard for Rick, even if he thrived in the constraints of bindings. John’s hands played with Rick’s body, caressing, stroking, pinching and prodding him, until his ministrations focused on Rick’s nipples, making Rick writhe under his hands.

“Don’t you dare come without my permission,” John barked, squeezing his nipples hard enough for Rick to yell with pain.

John reached for Rick’s feet and hoisted his lower body up, resting Rick’s weight against his hips. He bound Rick’s ankles and adjusted the bindings, so that Rick was suspended in the air, but his ankle bindings were providing enough purchase, so that his shoulders would not carry all the pressure. He put his hands under Rick’s knees and pulled them apart, opening Rick so wide it was almost humanly impossible. Rick was very limber and flexible, but it was too much for him also, tearing a desperate cry out of his throat as his muscles popped and strained. Rick was a sight to behold when he suffered. John could get drunk on his cries and whimpers. He held Rick’s knees open in that painful position as Rick bucked and twisted, whimpering with pain; his cheeks already flushed with pain and arousal. John regretted the blindfold. He would love to see the green eyes shining with tears, as his ivory cheeks were being painted in tears, the tip of his nose turning bright red, completing the picture of misery.

Finally he let Rick go and went for his implements. The knife was ice cold, taken out of freezer right before being brought to him. He touched it to Rick’s back and pressed down, dragging it around, while his other hand drizzled warm water on the blade which then ran down Rick’s back in small rivulets. Rick screamed, not from pain, but from shock. To Rick’s heightened senses the cold blade was cutting sharp, the dripping water creating the impression that he was being cut open. Rick’s hands wound tight in the ropes, and his body turned rigid. Words tumbled off his lips in a litany of pleas. For a second Johnny thought Rick might safeword, but he hung on and didn’t utter a word beyond a soft “please, please.” John gentled his hands over Rick’s flanks and played with his nipples some more; the knife abandoned. He pinched and twisted Rick’s nipples before putting some ice on them, forcing Rick to shriek in shock. When Rick finally went limp in his bondage, John went back to the knives. He alternated with heated and frozen blades, until Rick was practically incoherent, spicing it all up with hot wax and ice cubes.

There was no place on Rick’s torso that was untouched or unclaimed. Rick was a mess. He was crying continuously and freely, begging Johnny to let him go and to hold him tight. Rick was rock hard and only John’s continued commands to not come kept him from shooting in his pants.

Finally, John went for the strap. He unbound Rick’s ankles, letting him hang from his wrists, which got him a long and suffering moan from his boy. In the state of his utter arousal, Rick went wild as John started the beating. It looked like Rick sought out every strike, arching toward John, trying to guess where the next blow would land, so he could rush toward it. John brought the strap down, alternating between Rick’s back and his ass, delivering several well placed licks to his abdomen and chest. Rick jolted and kicked his feet, his body trembling and twisting. Rick’s hips were moving in a frantic and instinctive motion, all too familiar to Johnny. Rick was seconds away from disobeying him. John grabbed him from behind, held his waist and growled once more.

“Do not come. Don’t you dare disobey me,” he roared in Rick’s ear.

Rick froze, his body obeying immediately. The jerking movement of his hips stilled, and Rick let his head fall back against John.

Johnny took the blindfold off Rick’s eyes and cut Rick down from the post. Rick’s green pools focused on John immediately, and it was clear they reflected nothing but John. As soon as John let Rick go, his boy slid down to his knees and touched his forehead to John’s feet. John bent down and gathered Rick in his arms. Austin ran to them with a quilt that John wrapped around Rick.

Clutching Rick to his chest, he looked around at their audience for the first time since the scene started. They looked captivated and enthralled, even those who desperately tried to look disgusted and bothered. Rick was gorgeous in his submission. There was no one with dominant tendency in the world who would not get aroused by the sight of his submission.

“You saw how deep the control a dominant wields can run. It’s enthralling and empowering to have a submissive yield to you like that, and if any of you don’t feel at least the slightest of worry and fear over what you have just witnessed than you have no business in dominating someone,” he said shortly, before he turned his attention to Rick once more.

He deliberately stayed on the stage, letting everyone see how he was bringing Rick down from his high. Soon Rick was asleep in his arms, and Ryan walked to him to take the boy from his hands. He reluctantly let go of Rick, realizing that his own arousal had made him shaky, his muscles unreliable.

*****

Milton stood and strode to the performance area. He wasn’t an exhibitionist. It was something he’d endured a few times with Landon and Gordon, but he didn’t consider it pleasurable. Blade and Ryan reveled in their display. They were both beautiful men supremely confidant in their roles and their relationship together. They were one when Ryan held the whip or when Blade sank to his knees. It was very different than watching Landon and Gordon or John and Rick. Landon was a beautiful submissive and devoted to Gordon, but there wasn’t the abandonment of Blade who stood firmly and untouchably as a submissive. Landon lived in both realms. His mind, at least in public displays, was always three steps ahead, calculating what the audience would see and what Gordon would desire. In private he was different, freer with his submission, more true to the call of his heart. Rick fought his man. Submission, no matter how much desired, was never going to be simple or uncomplicated for Rick. It was only with difficulty that Rick separated his identity as Richard Masters, hotshot attorney and man who bent to no one’s will from the boy who craved John at his most dramatically dominant.

“John, your services pleases.” Milton shed his shirt, tossing it into the pile with the other clothes and drew his belt from his pants. “Twenty please.”

Blue eyes met brown, a slow appraising gaze. John understood. He silently nodded toward the post. Milton grasped the handholds and concentrated on his breathing. It had been years since he’d absorbed such a beating. He knew John wouldn’t hold back. This would not be pretend. 

John’s hand touched Milton’s shoulder, and heavy fingers traced Milton’s muscles and palpated each lump of his spine as if they wanted to memorize each bump and curve. “Are there any injuries or limitations I should know about?”

“No.”

“If you lower your hands or say red I will stop. Brace yourself.”

Milton knew it would be only a few seconds before the belt would leave a line of fire across his shoulders. John had stepped away. He would be tucking the buckle safely in his hand and mapping each strike on the tempting flesh.

Milton hissed and lurched forward at the first crack of the leather against his skin. It had been too long; he’d forgotten the fire. He drew a deep breath, braced again, and searched in his mind for the place that made whippings tolerable. Gordon could get Milton into subspace, but it could take days, but there was another spot, a spot where the pain both burned and soothed, where he could think of nothing but each stripe as it bit into his flesh, a spot where all this craziness would melt into a haze that didn’t need his attention for a few minutes.

Milton lost count somewhere between twelve and fifteen. All he knew was that his body burned. The flames had escaped his mere skin and now scorched through his body with cleansing fire. He didn’t try to hide the silent tears that dripped onto his cheeks or mask the grunt at each blow.

Milton hadn’t noticed that no new thousand stings landed on his abused flesh. He stumbled forward as he felt a hand on the back of his neck.

“Steady. Give yourself a minute.”

“Mine.” Sheldon’s voice said sharply. “This is my duty and my honor.” Milton didn’t hear John’s words, but in the corner of his eye he saw the retreating figure. Sheldon held a bottle to Milton’s lips. “Slowly, Master. May I say I think you’re an idiot.”

“Most likely.” Milton took a small swallow. He swished the liquid around in his mouth and let it dribble down his throat. “Get my shirt,” he croaked. The cloth over his back was excruciating; maybe worse than the actual blows. Focus, he demanded of himself as he reached for Sheldon’s hand. “Thank you.”

“As always, Master, but you will hear my opinion of this foolishness.”

“I would expect no less.” Milton drew a long breath and let it out slowly. He stared into the crowd, now lost in the evening shadows. “Never ask of your boys something you don’t understand yourself. You ask your boys to live under silly and ridiculous rules and call it healthy. I know none of you who consider yourself tops feel the need to remind yourself not to jump off roofs or drown in knee deep water. Think about it, gentlemen.” Throwing his arm around Sheldon’s shoulders, Milton walked from the stage.

****

Milton slid out of bed, swallowing the hiss as his muscles screamed over the abuse last night. He stepped out onto the balcony and let the cool air drive the sludge of sleep and pain from his head. The first rays of the sun were just breaking the horizon and lighting the sky and sea in a thin grey mixed with a few streaks of red. He braced himself against the balcony railing and watched the tide come in. Directly below he could see the first stirrings of guest services. They were spreading tablecloths and laying out a continental breakfast for the earliest risers of the patio area. Milton wondered rather naughtily if someone had been sent out for coffee. 

Milton smiled to himself. If he were a cruel man, he could enjoy the upheaval they’d created. Perhaps he was cruel, but not in this sort of way. These men, who regularly came here, would think he was cruel. He was a dominant in all the ways they rejected and found repulsive. He’d been trained to be a dominant from almost the earliest stirrings of his hormones, and he believed with all his heart that what he was seeing here was a gross distortion of the sacred trust between a dominant and a submissive; he believed this was nothing but abuse, an ugly word for sure, disguised in a pretty wrapper of phony concern and caring. Milton enjoyed pulling his boys over his knee and turning their flesh a gorgeous crimson. He enjoyed the control he exercised over his boys. He enjoyed the lowered lashes and the demure flush on his boys’ cheeks. He didn’t enjoy real punishment. He’d been trained to fear the abuse of power. What made his choices better than his submissives? What gave him the right to hit in the name of training or guidance?

Milton rolled his shoulders and stretched slowly, feeling the pull across his abused muscles and skin. The cold towels and the liberal application of aloe had helped, but he was sore. He wasn't twenty-five anymore as Sheldon had pointed out. Sheldon had been annoyed last night, calling Milton's action needless bravado.

"Getting yourself beat raw isn't going to make them see. They're invested in this pretense. We just look even more crazy to them," Sheldon had said.

"You don't ask your boy to do what you can't give yourself."

"I know." Sheldon had kissed the back of Milton's neck. "I also know if you only reach Harry and Danny you will consider it a success. It doesn't mean I have to enjoy someone else touching you in that way. You are my master."

Milton walked soundlessly back into the room. By some silent agreement to which Milton hadn't been privy, only Sheldon had come back with him last night. He'd have to talk with all of them today. Austin was so young. This was the darker side of their world, a part of their life from which Milton shielded his youngest. Tilden had looked pale and had been clutching Luke's hand, and Mike would be higher than a kite. Milton wasn't sure he had the energy to take Mike down today, but maybe Ryan could.

Milton pulled on his swim trunks and carefully arranged a cotton shirt over his battered skin. A swim and a run on the beach would loosen his muscles and make him fit for human company. 

The beach was deserted, and the few hotel minions carefully avoided him. The water stung as it rose above his waist. He dove under the silly barricade and concentrated on the evenness of his strokes. He swam steadily; the quiet broken only by the occasional gull screaming for a handout. Switching from the crawl to the breaststroke, he retraced his path. 

The shore was no longer empty. Tilden jogged over the sand, the water lapping around his ankles. He stopped and called as he spotted the swimmer in the sea. Milton headed toward shore. Shaking the water from his hair, he joined Tilden at a steady jog.

"Are you all right?" Milton asked as they continued to jog. Tilden's feet were nearly silent in the sand, his eyes followed the waves, seemingly desperate not to meet Milton's.   

"I didn't like last night." Tilden continued to run, his strides rhythmical across the sand. "I know you."

"I frighten you," Milton said.

"That frightens me."

"Would you prefer I pretend that you're incompetent or stupid or whatever else they pretend? It's about power and sex."

"I prefer not to see a man I love get beat raw. You didn't enjoy it."

"It was necessary."

"You're an articulate man. You didn't need to sacrifice yourself."

"I did. Words would have been inadequate. My skin and muscles will heal. The damage they are doing to those boys may never heal."

Tilden stopped, bent down, and picked up a shell which he tossed into the waves. "Does it have to be so brutal?"

Milton reached for Tilden's hand and kissed the palm. "You're a submissive, and you're not like that. Is that the question?"

"I don't want bound and beaten to ribbons."

"You don't even want to think I'm capable of it, but I am. I control the darkness, the horrible creature that demands to be fed by embracing all that I am. I know what it is. I don't pretend it's benign or altruistic. I hit those whom I love, even you, my friend."

Tilden nodded, his vivid eyes resting on the sea. "I like it when you spank me. I would hate the whip."

"I know, and I don't do it with you. I tame my fire; I fear my fire. These fools do none of that."

"You wouldn't take me as a lover because you were afraid of what's inside yourself."

"Yes," Milton said softly. "I'm still afraid. I am the extreme. I am dangerous."

Tilden turned and drew a soft finger down Milton's cheek. "I trust you. I'm yours, sir." Tilden dropped to one knee and pressed against Milton's leg.

"My beautiful one. You don't need to. I only ask what you're comfortable giving. Up, now."

They ran back together, strides matched in perfect synchrony.