Snowbound Season 2 - Episode 5

Snowbound Season 2 - Episode 5

Winter - The Night

by Korusialhogi and Natasha

“Pith helmet, safari jacket, first aid kit--”

“Landon,” Gordon growled.

“Well, we’re dealing with a wild submissive. I need my supplies ready.”

“I believe it was you who invited them,” Gordon said dryly as he knotted his tie. “We’ve undertaken this responsibility. It’s now time for a stiff upper lip and memories of the six hundred.”

“Retreat is way underrated.”

Gordon turned his full attention on Landon. He still had the presence and charisma that has attracted Landon all those long years ago. “Do you give up so easily? That is not like you, my lad.”

Landon raked his fingers through his hair and shook his head. “Rick needs to be taken down. Can we do it? He only respects physical force, and we’re not exactly in the Atlas competition.

“There are ways of dominance that require little physical force. Put on the red tie.”

“I’m already wearing the green one.”

Gordon said nothing. To an outsider, he wouldn’t have even appeared to move; only his shoulders shifted minutely and a dangerous glint appeared in his eyes.

“Yes, sir.” Landon lowered his eyes and clasped his hands behind his back.

“Bring me the red tie and your cufflinks with the green mountains.”

“Yes, sir.” 

They shared racks of ties in all colors. If Landon searched hard enough, he could probably find a skinny tie or a wide tie in psychedelic colors. He chose the required red tie with a tasteful micro floral motif and searched for the cufflinks with the green mountains. They were the logo of the organization and the symbol of both his relationship with Gordon and Landon’s historic role in the Green Mountain Boys.

“I’ll tie it, boy.” Gordon’s fingers were sure as he knotted Landon’s tie and fastened the cufflinks. He ran his hand slowly down Landon’s shirt as if pressing out some imaginary crease. “Mine to dress. Mine to enjoy.”

“I’m not the one who needs taken down.”

“Did I ask your opinion?” The tap on Landon’s cheek was sharp, almost hard enough to be considered a slap.

“No, sir.”

The dining table was perfect as always. Gordon strode into the room with Landon at heel. They were the last ones, fitting for their rank. The other men at the table rose in a mixture of ease and awkwardness: Sheldon easily in his role as slave, John equally easily from his years in the military, Gregory and Arthur trailing not knowing the protocol, and Rick with a reluctant slouch. Sheldon, noting Landon’s careful one step behind Gordon, had moved to pull out Gordon’s chair and now stood at slave rest.

“Serve the meal,” Gordon said curtly to Sheldon as he took his seat.

Sheldon nodded, and with a grace that had been slow to acquire, Sheldon served the meal. Landon remembered the tedious process of teaching Sheldon the rudiments of serving. Meals had often been interrupted by an explosion of cursing, followed rapidly by a volley of swats and a river of tears. Landon had finally taken pity on a permanently tearful Sheldon and served the meals in tandem. Gentle encouragement had worked wonders, and Gordon had stopped dining in his raincoat. 

Sheldon’s service was now as perfect as every other aspect of his decorum. He knelt unabashedly with the trays of food, offering a choice to each dominant. “John, and for your boy.”

“I am capable of choosing my own dinner. I didn’t check my brain at the border.”

Here we go again, Landon thought at Rick’s outburst. Two minutes and the battle lines were drawn. John took the dinner of roast chicken and put it at Rick’s plate.

“I didn’t want that.”

“You can eat in the kitchen,” Gordon said serenely. “No boy goes to bed hungry, but I will not have my table disturbed.”

“We will create no further disturbances,” John gripped Rick’s wrist in a bruising grip and shoved the fork into his hand. “Eat.”

Rick’s fork hit the plate with the strength needed to bayonet a charging enemy. His eyes spoke volumes: hate, embarrassment, confusion, desperation. Landon longed to kiss the forehead furrowed in anger and soothe the wounded tiger inside, but Gordon’s expression was death itself. He expected Landon in deep submission, and he was going to enforce it. He’d decided that delicacy and diplomacy were overrated, and Rick was going to have a crash course in submission. Landon expected plenty of crash: broken glass, broken eardrums, broken dominants if they didn’t play this right. John had shown remarkable patience with his boy, but no one’s patience was infinite.

Sheldon had finished serving and was standing silently waiting for instructions. Gordon halved his own meal and slid it on the empty plate at Sheldon’s place. “You may eat with us, boy.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“He gets the leftovers,” Rick said with loud disdain. “My parents treat their dogs better than that.”

John shifted, maybe to spank Rick, maybe to drag him from the table, but Gordon stopped him with a raised hand. “Allow me. This is my dinner table. This is a formal dinner. Rick, you will be quiet, and you will eat. Those are the requirements and your only choices. All other deviations will be punished.”

“I’m not a garden gnome. I--”

The sound of the slap echoed through the dining room.

“You’re on their side now,” Rick shouted, grabbing his water goblet.

“Don’t.”

“Master.” The word broke from Sheldon’s lips in an explosive whisper.

“Eat, slave.”

The words were harsh and remote, but Landon could see the fondness in the almost invisible smile that Milton favored on Sheldon for a second. Sheldon saw it too, and he dropped his eyes back to his plate with a happy sigh.

“You’ve been separated for how long, and your greeting is eat. Count me out. I’ve had enough of this silly game.” Rick moved to stand up.

“Rick, do you want me to take you into the kitchen and beat you senseless, or do you want me to pass you to each dominant with their favorite implement right at this table?” Milton asked, closing the gap to Rick’s chair and standing directly behind him. “You’re not a stupid man, nor are you an entirely inexperienced submissive. I read your behavior as intentionally provocative, and I believe the provocation is directed at us, the Green Mountain Boys. I am sure John has punished you, and the behavior hasn’t lessened. It’s escalated. That leads me to one conclusion: you want to experience life as a Green Mountain Boy. John, do I have your permission?”

“Yes.”

“Very well. Life is simple with us. You obey, and you are answerable to every one of us who are in a leadership role in the Green Mountain Boys. At the moment that’s Gordon and I. Fetch me my supper. I’m perishing with hunger.”

Milton dropped into a spare chair. He shed his long overcoat and unwound the plaid scarf from around his neck. Gordon asked Arthur about the art show, and Gregory picked up his fork. Rick didn’t move. His green eyes were huge, almost swallowing his entire face.

“Rick, my dinner. I won’t ask again.”

“You can ask until hell freezes over. I’m not your servant boy.”

“I’ll get it, Master,” Sheldon said, rising to his feet.

“No, Sheldon. I want my food from Rick, but it appears I haven’t earned it yet. Rick, come with me. We’ve disturbed everybody enough.”

Landon watched in horror and amusement. It was a classic and predictable slow motion train wreck. Milton stood and held out his hand. Rick refused to move. John grabbed Rick’s ear and lifted him to his feet. Not to be outdone, Rick wrapped his fist in the tablecloth and jerked. Plates, glasses, silverware, all went tumbling. Milton grabbed Rick’s shoulders and tossed the errant boy across his lap. Rick screeched and fought, but Milton was practiced. He trapped Rick between his knees and lowered his suit trousers. Rick’s flesh was already red with a sprinkling of light bruises.

“You like to hurt, boy. Sheldon get a tawse, a strap, a nursery cane, and a paddle. Hurry.” 

“Nooo!”

“Boy, you do not ruin everyone’s dinner and expect to get off with a warning.” Milton landed several hard swats with his hand. Rick bucked and lurched and screeched. “Save your energy, you have a long way to go.”

Sheldon came back at a run, carrying the requested implements. Milton wrapped the strap around his fist and landed a hard blow on the delicate skin between the thighs and the buttocks. 

“Fuck you! You’re not fucking beating me!”

“I seem to be doing just that.” The screams and cracks echoed through the dining room. Rick’s skin turned from the faded red to bright crimson. He was sobbing now, all attempts at dignity gone. Milton smoothed the long braid, his voice soft. “Go ask Gordon to punish you.”

“Please,” Rick pleaded.

“Don’t beg to escape justice.” Milton kissed the back of Rick’s head. “Go on now. The quicker you do this, the faster you can get back to John.”

“I can’t,” Rick gulped and swiped at his eyes.

“Do you need to safeword?” Milton’s voice was impossibly gentle. “You control this Rick. You control everything that is happening to you. You are not a victim. This is the first course. If this is more than you expected, safeword out. There is no shame in that. It is not a failure. It’s only not what you wanted.”

“I didn’t want to be beaten.”

“You did everything, but put the implement in my hand. You’re a smart boy. You knew where your path was leading. Now go ask Gordon.”

Rick slid off Milton’s lap and stumbled toward Gordon, his pants tangled around his ankles, his face streaked with tears. “Please punish me,” he choked out, wiping his eyes furiously with his suit jacket.

“Good boy.” Gordon kissed both Rick’s cheeks and arranged the boy over his knees. “A nice traditional six of the best.” Gordon’s strokes were efficient and purposeful, but Landon could tell they were well checked, not that it lessened the howls. All inhibitions lost, Rick was an expressive submissive. He was splayed over Gordon, the thin lines of the cane decorating his ass. He was making no effort to get up or cover himself. He clung to Gordon’s pants and cried. “Easy, lad. You’re a good boy. Go to Arthur.”

Arthur reached out and took Rick’s hand. He had a kindness that was obvious even to Landon who didn’t know him well. “Have you ever felt the tawse?”

Rick shook his head. He wasn’t trying to staunch his tears. They ran down his face in flooded oceans.

“It will sting.” Arthur rubbed Rick’s back, guiding him into position. “Let go, Rick. It’s who you are. It doesn’t have to be this hard, sweetheart.” Arthur landed the tawse only twice. The fresh red lines were almost lost in the already crimson skin. “Go to John.”

Rick stumbled across the floor and collapsed at John’s feet. His head touched John’s boots. “I’m sorry. Punish me, Master. Keep me, Master.”

“Always.” John lifted Rick and kissed him thoroughly before laying his boy across his lap. His hand rubbed the heated flesh. Rick cried quietly and constantly: defenseless, submissive, and totally beautiful. 

The paddled landed on the already scorched flesh. Rick whimpered and his fingers clutched John’s pants, but his body was still. He was offering himself to John. Pain was to be taken for his master. John paddled thoroughly, the wood striking every centimeter of the exposed flesh. John tossed the paddle to the floor and cuddled Rick into his arms, hiding his small crying boy in his much larger body.

“We’ll be in the kitchen. Take care of your boy,” Milton said, rising to his feet. “I’ll check on both you later.”

“We’ll get this mess,” John said, his eyes taking in the remains of their dinner scattered on the floor and across the table.

“We’re capable of cleaning.”

“It’s our mess.”

“Yes, usually, but your boy is shattered. I can find plenty of tasks tomorrow. Sheldon and I will get this tonight.”

****

“Milton?” Landon’s eyebrows rose into his hairline.

“I thought you were in deep submission, boy.”

“Not if I’m eating cold sandwiches in the kitchen.”

“Don’t you approve of my technique? You’re always telling me to stop being the perfect diplomat.”

“Maybe you could find a halfway point. That was brutal.”

“Too brutal?” Milton asked, leaning against the counter and reaching for the pickles.

“No,” Gordon said sharply. “That boy had been asking for it. He needed pushed over the edge. Milton was merely the instrument. We’ve seen him now at his absolutely most submissive and most desperate. Hopefully he won’t continue the charade of denying his own nature. He has nothing to hide from us now. You took the right course of action. Don’t doubt yourself.”

“There is always doubt at that level, and you know it.” Milton leaned against the counter, his deep brown eyes full of the intense emotion that always coursed through Milton’s soul. “That wasn’t kind.”

“Master.” Sheldon wrapped his arms around Milton. “Sometimes you have to be cruel to be kind. Rick tortures himself far more than you tortured him. You’re a dominant. You enjoy a lovely boy at your mercy. It’s not wrong. Rick wants to be at his dominant’s mercy; only he talks himself out of it. Maybe he won’t now. Pain and humiliation are excellent memory aids.”

“Precious boy. What if I had asked that of you?”

“I’m not Rick. You wouldn’t,” Sheldon said with absolute confidence. “You know your boys. Stop worrying, or I’m going to push you at Gordon and run for cover.”

“Brat,” Milton tousled Sheldon’s hair and kissed the scattered red strands. “You dare, and I’ll think of something worse.”

****

Milton knocked on John's door. He wasn't sure what he'd find, or even if John

would let him in the room. The scene in the dining room had not been with John's permission, let alone planned with John. John wasn't a Green Mountain Boy dominant. He wasn't duty bound to follow Milton's lead. The last visit had

suggested that collective dominance wasn't in John's comfort level. He'd forged

tentative ties with Ryan, but not enough that Ryan would touch John's boy, even

though he had seriously considered it. Ryan was a trained professional dominant,

and a boy, who hurt as much as Rick, tugged at Ryan's heart.

"The kid's lost, Milton. He's desperately submissive in a world where he cannot

see how to balance his submissiveness with all that he thinks he should be. I

don't think he's the vicious little sod, as Gordon so bluntly described him. God

only knows I might be wrong, but I think he's one terrified little boy who hides

behind cruel attacks. Find the appropriate flanking maneuver, and he's going to

shatter in a thousand pieces. John never finds it. They keep battling head on.

John, despite his semi-psychotic tendencies, is a good dominant. Only he's bound

by an honor that his boy doesn't share. He fights openly, not with Machiavellian

plots. Gordon or Landon could break the boy, and if he ever shows up on our

doorstep again, they should."

The boy was broken, or at least he had sounded broken. Milton was a dominant, he was a sadist, but he didn't like desperate tears. He could play hard and rough

and enjoy it enormously with a boy like Mike who begged for more. Utter

humiliation was not one of his kinks, and he'd played that card in trumps

tonight, and it hadn't been in play. Milton had wanted the boy broken. He'd

chosen his words and tactics to knife Rick's soft underbelly. It had been

intentional cruelty, and if he were John, forgiveness wouldn't come easily.

Gordon had played John perfectly. Maybe play wasn't the right word. Even Gordon didn't reveal his secrets to manipulate others. Whatever. Gordon had gained John's trust, disarmed him, and Milton had charged the flag of truce. Milton's goal had been to change the flavor of their relationship, shape it to Green

Mountain Boy standards. What right had he to such manipulation? He was head of a men's social club. He wasn't trained in marriage counseling or psychology. They used both these men's fears against themselves. John had battled enough real enemies; Milton didn't need to make himself into one.

"Milton." John stood in the doorway. He'd lost his jacket and tie, but was still

in his dress pants. Behind his great bulk, Milton could just make out Rick. He

was sprawled stomach down on the bed, clad only in an oversized T-shirt. "What

now?"

"John, it's my responsibility to check on both of you. It's one of the rules for

us supposedly non-psychotic dominants." Milton gave John a small smile. "May I

come in?"

"I assume the question is actually a pretense at social politeness. You'll come

in anyway." John stepped from the door.

"Rick." Milton inclined his head a fraction. "John, usual protocol would be for

me to talk to you and your boy separately. Would you grant me that privilege?"

"Fine." John's tone was clipped, the edges of control fraying. "Going running

will have you calling out the National Guard."

"We have a lovely swimming facility. I highly recommend it," Milton said,

feeling absurdly like a tour guide. "John," Milton called softly to John's

departing back. "Gordon and I can do the other, but I prefer not to. Just let me

know."

"Arthur's here, but thanks, Milton. I know how much you disapprove."

"I don't disapprove. I only want both you to have more tools. I'm a trained

Green Mountain Boy. It colors my perceptions just as your time in Afghanistan

colors yours. We are all products of our experiences. John, we have similar

passions; I only deal with mine differently."

Milton waited for the door to shut before turning his full attention on Rick. He

smiled softly and sat on the foot of the bed. “Are you surviving OK?”

Rick propped himself up on his elbows and stared at Milton. “So now you’re going to be Mr. Nice Guy. Is that how you manage your harem of five boys? You have multiple personalities?”

“Rick, have you ever met a dominant you don’t verbally attack? You even attack

John. For a submissive toward his own dominant such behavior is unacceptable.

Toward me on a public street, it would be rude, but I wouldn’t stop it. Here it

is in a nebulous zone. I’m not your dominant, but this is the home of Green

Mountain Boys. I expect a level of respect and obedience that is beyond normal

and ordinary.”

"I'm not one of your boys," Rick ground out.

"Rick." Milton wrapped his arms around one knee and studied his guest. "Do you

have any idea how ridiculous you look arguing with me dressed in a T-shirt with

very red flesh peeking out in tantalizing glimpses? At least when Sheldon gets

in this mood, he dresses first, and it's usually not right after being

dramatically put in his place. Part of being a submissive is a desire to please

your dominant. I like an occasional good battle; it reminds me that my

submissive isn't a doormat. John doesn't want sweet and easy all the time. He

revels in physical domination, but a dominant must have his partner's true

submission at least occasionally. Submission is our food, our balm, and our joy.

This is not John's natural environment. Do you think my actions with you made

him happy? I tossed it in his face that you failed to submit."

"I didn't ask for that." Rick rolled away from Milton and faced the wall.

"And what are you asking for now? I'm trying to have a civilized conversation

and you turn your back on me. In one of my boys, it would suggest insufficient

heat in critical parts of his anatomy. What does it mean in you? I have trouble

imaging you want another beating. Landon is a strong masochist, and he was

flinching at the end."

"I can take more." Rick struggled to his feet. He glared at Milton, his hand

planted on his hips. "You didn't break me."

Milton smiled and shook his head. This boy was a yo-yo. "Rick, dearest, I would

suggest you cease with the dramatic gestures and ridiculous lies. I'm not a

half-baked dominant you might find at a club and manipulate to your heart's

content. I'm also not one of your professional colleagues who probably both

respect your mental acumen and wish desperately that you'd get a handle on your

temper. They're probably intimidated by whatever it is you're doing right now.

I'm not, and either is your Johnny. This is the everyday part of dominance, the

part that means you won't intimidate and manipulate me, the part you desperately want." Milton leaned back on the bed and smiled. "The part that scares the hell out of you. You pride yourself on your power over people with your voice, your intellect, your ruthlessness. Your arsenal is useless against me, and it's useless against John. In this arrangement, I'm the one doing the manipulation."

"You have no power over me. I could press charges for assault. You're a teacher.

Can you imagine your career after I sell my story to the tabloids?"

"Let me tell you a little story." Milton stood and patted the bed. "Come, little

boy. I'll tell you a lovely bedtime story."

"It's not late."

"It is for naughty boys, plus you want to know why I'm not intimidated by your

threats. I only tell stories to good little boys who are under the covers."

"I thought I was naughty."

"You are, but you want to be good."

Rick stalked over to the bed and flopped down on his stomach.

"Bedtime story. I once lived in a lovely Victorian house with a friend who was

very lonely. Sheldon, the dearest redheaded imp, was desperate to help this

friend. He schemed and schemed, but nowhere was the perfect boy. They were too short or too tall, too fat or too thin, too cranky or too sweet. The redheaded

imp never gave up. He searched the entire kingdom for that perfect match. He

fretted and he hoped and finally a solution to his problem--a contest throughout

the kingdom. Ten delightful young men would be paired with ten lucky tops.

"Well, our redheaded imp was not without resources. He entered the loneliest and sweetest of tops in this contest. Lo and behold the top won a coveted spot. His name was trumpeted throughout the kingdom; his picture appeared on every corner. Men with moving picture cameras invaded our humble burg. The whole kingdom watched with baited breath as a beautiful young cherub snared my violet-eyed friend. The good people prayed and cheered and wished the new couple well. The less good people dreamed of making money and fame from the noble competition.

"The evil people searched and searched for all thing bad. They crawled in our

gutters and inspected our trash. They spread the news far and wide that we

smacked pert little bottoms. All in the kingdom knew are greatest secrets."

"You could have sued for breach of contract."

"We did resort to legal arm twisting."

"Did you get a decent settlement?"

"No money, but control of content."

"I could have done better."

"I thought you wanted to burn me in oil, not rescue me."

"Not you. That doesn't matter. The case sounded interesting."

"You need to meet Sean. He did the legal work and can give you all the inside

scoop."

"Is he...Is..."

"He's a submissive. Rick, being a lawyer is perfectly compatible with being a

submissive. There are no job description for submissives. It's only your own

prejudice that harms you."

"It's not that easy out there," Rick muttered under his breath.

"That's why we have here. You and John can celebrate your relationship here.

We're all just as crazy as you and two."

"John's not crazy."

"That might be debatable. Now I've told you your bedtime story. Sleep, my

naughty boy."

****

John swam, his powerful body cutting through the water. This wasn’t his favorite activity. Indoors there was something claustrophobic about endlessly swimming back and forth. John’s hand touched the pool edge, and he turned to swim the next length. Running was more pleasurable, the rhythm of his feet on the pavement, the ever changing scenery. This was monotonous, but Milton had made it clear that nighttime running wasn’t permitted. No, that wasn’t entirely accurate. Milton was far too careful for that. He’d recommended the use of the pool, and John was sure that Milton would have a hundred reasons why swimming was a better choice than running on icy, dark country roads. Worse, Milton was right. It wasn’t sensible or sane to run on unfamiliar roads in the dark.

Being sensible had never hurt this much. He’d been sensible and not exploded at dinner. Rick, his precious Rick, had made a loose cannon sound like a quaint euphemism these last few days. He’d ricocheted from submission to full blown fight in less than two seconds. Such maneuvers might be praise worthy in a roller coaster; they were not in his submissive. John hadn’t been steady himself the last few days either. These Green Mountain Boys had him off balance.

John switched to the breast stroke. His body glided across the pool as his mind churned. He was the expert in psychological warfare, and they’d walked all over him, Landon with his disarming frankness and Gordon with his direct and quiet revelations. Gordon, a man who needed to tell him nothing, had told him everything. Gordon was a dominant who had been beaten and most likely raped, even though he’d been too delicate to actually use the word. He was a man who had somehow balanced those horrors with his own need to sexually dominate. Gordon had been the victim of evil, and yet he managed to harness and tame his own dark desires. Landon and Gordon had been together nearly fifty years. A year with Rick had been a struggle. John wanted fifty years, but he couldn’t really imagine their relationship having such a fairy tale ending.

John loved Rick, his wildcat with the emerald eyes. He wanted his boy forever. Forever was a long time; sometimes one week felt like forever. Did Rick want forever, or did he only want someone who could contain his anger, who didn’t shrivel at the first hint of Rick’s rage? Did Rick really want a dominant? Did Rick really even understand the relationship between a dominant and a submissive? It wasn’t supposed to be a constant battle. 

Landon didn’t doubt that Rick was a submissive. Ryan had clocked Rick as a submissive with the only evidence a half overheard phone call. Why was is so difficult? What was John doing wrong? Every second someone was demonstrating how easy this was for him. Even Landon with his peculiar switch personality dropped deeply into submissive headspace with no dramatics beyond Gordon’s steady look.

Oh, God, he was starting to sound like Rick. This wasn’t a competition. Every submissive and dominant pair were different. This would be simple if they were all cookie cutter models; a submissive or dominant could order the appropriate model from the factory floor. Rick was his model; John knew it in his gut. He couldn’t explain it, not the way Milton or Gordon could. They were practiced with words for concepts most people barely whispered. John wanted a Rick; he wanted to physically dominate, but he also wanted the reassurance that he hadn’t cowed his boy into submission. Rick fought; he wasn’t frightened of John, not even when he should be. John could smash Rick to a a pile of dusty bones and ash. A slight loss of control and a measured slap becomes a bone crunching punch.

“John?”

John hadn’t heard the footsteps. He’d been so preoccupied with his own troubles that he’d left himself physically vulnerable. He turned toward the sound of the voice, treading water as silently as possible in the middle of the pool.

Arthur stood against the potted palm still decorated with tiny Christmas lights. He’d changed from dinner into a comfortable sweater. In one hand he was holding some sort of drink with a large pink parasol floating in the liquid.

“Lemonade with all the trappings. If they have liquor here, I haven’t found it. Sheldon was most insistent about the pink parasol.”

Spoiled. Sheldon was spoiled. John shook his head at himself. Sheldon was a slave. He belonged to a strict master, but John saw him as spoiled. Sheldon had wanted to tease Arthur with a ridiculous pink umbrella floating in his drink, and he had.

“I thought you might be running.”

Arthur had always been very good at that, making statements when he was really asking questions. It made the choice of answering appear to be John’s. “Milton strongly suggested I try the pool.”

Arthur looked around, appearing to take in the pool and the surrounding area. Like everything else in this mansion, the pool was comfortable, tasteful, and no doubt frightfully expensive. It’s extreme understatement was probably in inverse proportion to the cost. There were no gaudy signs pointing to Waikiki beach or a private bar, but the pool decking was hand laid rock and the furniture was most definitely not plastic.

“I’m surprised you didn’t go running on principle.”

“I’m not that stubborn.”

Arthur shrugged and sat down in a heavy wrought iron chair. He plucked the offending umbrella from his drink and took a long swallow. “They have you both off balance. I did warn you.”

John swam to the edge of the pool and clung to the side with one hand. “I’m the trained expert. They shouldn’t affect me.”

“This is not an infiltration into enemy territory. You are a houseguest with people who share our lifestyle. I am almost defenseless against them, and I know their tactics.”

“Are they right?”

“About what, John?”

John plunged his head under water, He wiped his hair back and shook himself hard. “Did we need intervention?”

“They think everyone needs intervention.”

“Am I doing right by Rick?”

“Is he doing right by you is an equally important question.”

“I’m the dominant. His success as a submissive is my responsibility.”

Arthur crossed his legs and took another long drink of lemonade. He picked up the pink umbrella and inspected it. “Rick might like these when you entertain.”

“Over my dead body.”

Arthur smiled. “There’s my boy.”

“I don’t like pink umbrellas.”

“No, you exercised dominance outside of the rubric of ritualized violence. They use violence, lots of it, but it is for the other that the Green Mountain Boys are most known. They live in a total power exchange. Your boy might need that.”

John headed back to the middle of the pool and swam several laps. Total power exchange. Landon had said as much on the plane ride here. Be your boy’s dominant everywhere. That was easy when you were richer than most African countries and could hide in your own private retreat. It wasn’t easy. Who was he kidding? His beast snarled and rumbled. His boy always ready and compliant, John’s beast purred with pleasure.

John slowed and paddled toward the edge again. “Rick prizes his independence, I couldn’t take that from him.”

“You don’t take it. Rick gives it to you.”

Rick strode around his office. He ordered his associates to their tasks with no thought of difficulty and with only a very rare word of praise. He could be silver-tongued in the courtroom, but he could also be cutting and vicious, especially with work not up to his exacting standards.

“Rick can’t give that much up. He loves his work.”

“Being a submissive and being a top flight professional are not incompatible. Landon flaunts both sides of himself.”

“Landon is a switch.”

“I have done business with Landon. He is perhaps harder to deal with on his submissive side because he sheds his need to protect the weak and the innocent. As a dominant, I’m supposed to protect myself from Landon’s traps.”

“Is it right?”

Arthur wouldn’t need John to say more. He would understand the question. Was it ever right to take that much power? Outsiders flinched at the dramatic scenes: the whippings, the bondage, the cock cages, but for anyone who played this was the safe zone where roles were defined and understood. True lifestyle dominance was a different animal. Here the roles blurred into real life and the dangers abounded. The power could be intoxicating.

“Greg and I do it. Not as deeply as some, but Greg eats and dresses to my orders.”

“It’s part of the eroticism for you.”

Arthur swirled his drink. “Rick needs it to feel real.”

John pulled himself from the pool and dried himself with the oversized towel. “He wants real punishment.”

“Have you talked to him?”

John stared at Arthur. It was no secret that Rick was impossible to talk to about the subject of submission.

“Rick may need the fantasy taken deeper. He’s a lawyer. He understands the impossibility of you being the judge, jury, and executioner. As long as somewhere in your mind, you both know it’s fantasy, it’s not harmful. I read once that children learning a new language will use the less familiar language first in fantasy with their dolls or action heroes. It’s perhaps the same for Rick. He needs the scaffolding of fantasy. He’s still in many ways very young. He’s testing his language of adulthood in the fantasy. You’re his first relationship that has survived more than a month.”

“I’m not an action hero.”

“Can you learn to keep the lines properly drawn? The Green Mountain Boys can provide a plethora of assistance.” Arthur paused and took another drink. “John, I may be Greg’s master, but I understand your concern. Away from the sex and the beatings, the boundaries are not clear. What many describe as the softer option is often the most dangerous. A submissive will safeword from a too harsh of beating. Will a submissive safeword from the insidious loss of custody of his own life? I hope for Gregory I have laid the proper foundation, and he would come to me if I overstepped my bounds. The Green Mountain Boys, for all their prying and interference, are a collective check on excess. They advocate a deep and comprehensive bond, but they also advocate elaborate precautions. They understand the dangers and the joys.”

John wrapped the towel around his neck. “I should talk to Milton.”

“Yes.” Arthur stood. “Do you need anything else from me?”

John understood the invitation. It would be a relief to lose himself in the fierce pain, but this wasn’t the time. “I’ll manage.”

“You know where to find me.”

John was left alone in the pool room. He should go back upstairs. They’d look for him soon. Excess swimming was probably as frowned upon as midnight calisthenics.

John wrapped himself in a towel and headed back upstairs. Would Milton still be with Rick? They couldn’t have talked this long. John had been in the pool almost two hours. He’d left his submissive post beating unattended for almost two hours. What kind of dominant was he? A lousy one according to GMB standards.

John pushed open his room door. A small lamp glowed on the table by the one chair. Milton was still there, his head bent over a legal pad where he was jotting notes. Sheldon was on the floor wrapped in a quilt with only his nose and red hair sticking out. Rick was on the bed. From the regularity of his breathing, he was sleeping.

Milton held a finger to his lips and pointed toward the hallway.

John mouthed back, “Clothes.”

It only took a second to pull on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt for an Italian football club. John gently touched the loose strands of Rick’s hair. He didn’t want to wake his boy. He looked so peaceful and small in the large four poster bed. Milton hadn’t managed to get Rick under the covers. Rick was lying catty-corner with he head at the footboard. Milton had pulled a wool blanket over him and tucked a pillow under his head. With one final look, John made his may into the hall.

Milton was standing in the hallway, leaning against the wall in an awkward stance of relaxation, or maybe he was trying to looked bored, to give the impression that everything was routine. He’d loosened his tie, but otherwise he was still dressed as formally as he had been at dinner.

“Nice swim?”

“I prefer running.”

“No fun in the dark with ice.”

“Let’s not pretend,” John said with a snort.

“Not everything I do is an act of dominance. It’s foolhardy to run here in the dark. If you don’t slip and break a leg on the ice, you’ll be run down by a car.”

“How’d you get Rick to sleep?”

“I told him a bedtime story.”

John raised an eyebrow.

“No one is too old for bedtime stories, especially ones featuring the misadventures of Milton and friends.”

John just shook his head. There was something absurd about standing in the hallway with a man in a tweed blazer, nattering about bedtime stories. 

“We need a drink.”

Drink. Arthur had said there was no drink in the house. Arthur loved a fine cognac after dinner, and he’d been reduced to drinking lemonade with a pink parasol. Milton didn’t seem disturbed by the impossibility of finding drink. He bounded down the stairs and vanished in the bend of the hall. 

John perched on the deep window ledge and touched his hand to the glass. With the lights behind him, nothing was visible outside besides blackness and the silver reflection of an outdoor security light in the snow. If he strained hard enough, he could imagine the small outbuilding that was perched under the security light. He remembered the building from this morning. It was small and rustic and almost hidden in the surrounding pines. No path had been cleared to it, but the position of the trees suggested a path in the summer. John noticed the details; his life had once depended on his ability to read the environment as well as the inhabitants. It wasn’t a skill that he could turn off at will.

Milton came back up the stairs, carrying a picnic basket. It was night and winter. Running was forbidden, but picnicking was OK. Somewhere downstairs Milton had lost his tie and tweed blazer and gained a Banner College sweatshirt with frayed cuffs. Milton dropped to the floor and opened the picnic basket with a flourish.

“Join me.” Milton waved a bottle of vodka at John. He poured two stout glasses, not the tiny shot glasses of a bar, but instead coated the bottom of ordinary juice glasses. “Let’s drink to our boys.”

John stopped trying to hide his stare. This had entered a world so bizarre that any ordinary frame of reference was impossible. He had fallen down the rabbit hole. Should he send a search party for the white rabbit?

“I didn’t think you drank.” It was a pointless comment. The man was holding two glasses of vodka. Of course the man drank. John reached for his glass.

“In general we don’t serve alcohol here because alcohol and play don’t mix. We’re not playing. To the boys.” Milton clinked his glass against John’s and swallowed rapidly. He put the empty glass down and rooted in the picnic basket. “Herring, pickles, potato chips?” Milton bit off a spear of a dill pickle. “You don’t like vodka?”

John liked vodka, and this was good vodka. He’d seen the label as Milton had poured it. This wasn’t the cheap stuff that was only fit for hiding in sweet syrups. Better still it was cold. He’d been to American parties where the vodka was at room temperature and came from a plastic bottle.

“This isn’t spontaneous. Everything you do is calculated.”

Milton ate a handful of potato chips and spread his long legs out in front of him. “It’s not poisoned.”

No, it wouldn’t be. That would be too straight forward.

“I’m not the enemy,” Milton said softly. “I don’t want to lecture you. I do that for my day job, and you wouldn’t listen anyway.”

John had told Arthur he’d talk to Milton, and Milton was doing everything to make it easy, and John was standing mute with a glass of vodka in his hand. He swallowed the cold liquid. “What would you do with Rick?”

Milton ate another pickle and poured himself a dollop of vodka before passing the bottle to John. “I’m not you. Our styles and needs are different. What do you think you should do?”

“Everything and everywhere were Landon’s words.”

Milton looked up, his eyes way too knowing. “Scary shit.”

“You swear?”

“All the vices. Well, not women, but I have five boys. No time for women. Chips?” Milton passed the bag. “John, silly comments aside, I’m a dominant; I understand the fear. Domination is not benign nor altruistic. It feeds a craving inside ourselves. We hurt whom we love. It’s easy as an exchange of pain for pleasure. It’s the other. Your boy wants the other, the part that keeps decent people up at night. I do it. I bleed the dominance beyond the easy category of erotic. You have to make your own peace with that. Not all dominants suit all boys.”

“Rick is mine.”

Milton’s eyes rested on John for several long minutes. “Then I need to teach you what I know.”

“I thought you weren’t going to lecture,” John said with a wry smile.

“I could try charades.” Milton brought his hand back and pretended to spank an imaginary victim.

“You’ve only had one glass. You can’t be drunk.”

“One and a half. I’m a light weight. Remember that I don’t usually drink.” Milton rolled his shoulders and took another swallow of vodka. “I have to have my wits about me. I have five at home.”

John was making a mess of his one; he couldn’t imagine handling five. A dominant and a submissive, who were more than an occasional play partner, needed to have compatible kink. John had met three of Milton’s boys: Austin, Mike, and Sheldon. They weren’t all the same model with different brands of paint. 

“I know-- crazy. It was an act of long restrained impulse, and poof I had five boys.” Milton raked his fingers through his hair, destroying its tidiness and making himself look younger and somehow less sure of himself in the process, more human. “This is advice that starts out with do as I say not as I do.”

John leaned back against the window, letting the cold anchor his mind. He was in the rabbit hole. Where was the Mad Hatter or the Red Queen? Learn from the indigenous people; only these indigenous people were crazy. Were they any crazier than Rick or himself, if he was being honest? Sheldon hadn’t dumped dinner from the table. Milton didn’t wake up with nightmares and insist he wasn’t safe.

“Sheldon…” John fell silent. He didn’t pry this wasn’t his right.

“What do your want to ask?”

“You’re a master.”

“So is Arthur,” Milton said, swallowing the remains of his vodka. “This is our home. I’ve left it more visible. Sheldon needs it visible, and--” Milton grinned-- “I’m a control freak.”

“Do you ever punish him?” John swallowed a gulp of vodka. 

“As part of his submission, yes. As part of real life…” Milton ran his thumb across the glass rim. “Once or twice. I can’t say it’s right. In the abstract, I’d say it’s absolutely wrong. Does Rick want that?”

John looked back out into the darkness. “I understand what Rick did today. That wasn’t real--pulling the tablecloth down.”

“No, he was bratting,” Milton said with a chuckle. “He might as well have thrown himself ass up over my thighs. For a second I thought I was watching Sheldon.”

“Bratting?”

“Intentionally doing something awful to get the dominant’s attention. Not everybody defines it that way, but that is our official definition." Milton made air quotes around the word official. "Sheldon is the recognized expert at it, even though it's now only allowed with my specific permission. Your Rick is a bit like my Sheldon, I think, only far more of a masochist. With Sheldon more than a hand spanking, and it's starting to be more punishing than I would generally use, not that I don't occasionally remind Sheldon that implements are my choice."

 "You impose your will?" John fell silent. The question was far more complicated than he'd asked. As a dominant, Milton would impose his will, but an arbitrary enforcement of will was different than putting checks on behavior or punishing. Rick had asked for punishment the time he’d almost driven John away. John had looked at his boy's beautiful green eyes, coated in a sheen or real tears, and acquiesced. Rick had been content, and John had swallowed the revulsion that pricked at the corner of his brain.

"It's more do I impose my will beyond the obviously erotic, isn't it? Sometimes," Milton said after a long hesitation. He fingered the label on the vodka bottle and poured himself a small swig which he swallowed instantly. "Not with Mike and not with Luke, at least not now. With Austin occasionally. He's very young. With Sheldon often and also with Tilden, but I'd never strike Tilden to impose my will. Our relationship isn't structured that way. I cajole and convince and argue until he yields to my point of view out of gentle exasperation. Lifestyle dominance is complicated.”

John had known he was a dominant since high school. At first he’d run from his desires. He’d grown up in a family where violence was an anathema. He’d been taught to defend the weak and to never raise a hand against another human. His career and his lifestyle did neither. As a soldier, he’d hoped to defend the weak, to be on the side of angels, but in the confusion of war or peace keeping or police action or whatever the hell the politicians were calling it any given week, he’d shot at those who were shooting at him. At home he beat his lover. There was nothing else to call the purple bruises and welts that decorated Rick’s flesh.

“John, this is consensual.” Milton leaned back against the wall and snagged another pickle from the jar with his thumb and forefinger. “Rick, for his occasional childish tantrums, is an adult and a man of strong will. He’s not the personality that can be steamrolled by a dominant. I’ve seen submissives who make me worry. Austin was seventeen. I pleaded for him to stop asking.” Milton took another gulp of vodka. “I lost that fight.”

“He wants my affection,” John said, still looking out the window.

“I should hope so. You live together, and you aren’t roommates to make the budget. I’ve seen G&L’s legal bills.”

“Milton,” John said too sharply. He gripped the window sill, feeling the wood dig into his palm.

“I know,” Milton said simply. “With love comes leverage. Does a submissive stay because he loves his partner, not the beatings? Does Sheldon or Austin or any of them not safeword because they fear it might be the end? Does the very affection we feel for each other make this more dangerous? We take our partners into danger. All we can do is hope we made that clear. Your Rick wants the danger. He detonates you.”

“Too much,” John said grimly.

“Put a stop to it.”

If only it was as easy as those little words. John had thought he was making progress, but today he’d felt that he’d never found solid ground. Rick had bounced from submissive to defiant in a millisecond. 

“What have you tried?”

Bless Milton, he knew which question to ask. “Nothing that worked.”

“Haven’t I had those days.” Milton gave John a surprisingly boyish grin. “You up for some serious control?”

John shrugged. He wasn’t sure where Milton was going, but he was game to try.

“Don’t give him a choice to be awful.”

“How?”

“No choices at all, and everything safe with no creative uses. He eats sandwiches on paper plates. You hand him his clothes. You take him out for exercise and put him away for rest. No choice. No thought.”

“And if he doesn’t play?”

Milton ran his hand down his pants and stared up into the ceiling light for a moment. “It depends how serious you are. If I’m doing it as a hard reset of the relationship, I’ll walk away if my submissive won’t participate. I might negotiate, or I might just tell the boy to come find me when he’s ready.”

“Have you ever had to?”

“Walk away you mean?”

John nodded.

“Not with Sheldon. I’ve pushed it with Mike a few times, and he did leave once, not with something this planned. His defection was more of a culmination of disasters that sat very squarely on my shoulders.” Milton stared off into the distance, the cadence of his voice slowing as if he was pulling difficult memories from his mind and they were trying to stay hidden. “Mike needs to fight submission. I read it first as rejection of submission, and I stepped away. I didn’t ask the right questions. We now have an understanding. I’ll beat him into submission, but he must also yield to me when I ask. I need to know that he’s chosen to fight because he enjoys the fight. I won’t physically force a surrender without it.”

“He submits when you ask?”

“Not overly. It’s more specific than that. Mike likes to play rape, and a few words and bluster aren’t enough for him. He wants bruised and pinned down and he wants to be sore. Physically we’re a much closer match than you and Rick, but I could still hurt him. For him real surrender is sweet and gentle intercourse as the bottom. If he won’t give me the one, he doesn’t get the other. I want his mind before I beat his body.”

“Mike can be a prick.”

“Sheldon,” Milton growled.

“It’s true, and before you ask Risk is still sound asleep. He snores.”

“Wake you?” John asked.

“No.” Sheldon glanced at Milton. For a moment Sheldon’s eyes held something that John couldn’t quite identify: longing, adoration, worship.

“Come here.” Milton opened his arms, and Sheldon practically slid into Milton’s chest. “My boy.” John couldn’t hear the rest, and he doubted the words mattered anyway; they were nothing but a verbal reaffirmation of the arms that held so tightly and the pale cheek pressed into the dark sweatshirt.

“I can go,” John said, starting to rise to his feet.

“Stay.” Sheldon’s voice was clear and firm. “You need a submissive representative in this talk.”

Milton kissed the scattered red hair and finger combed it into an attempt of orderliness. “Tell us what you see in Rick.”

“You mean when I don’t want to kill him.” Sheldon flashed Milton a grin and blushed as Milton waved and admonishing finger at him. “He’s not always nice,” Sheldon said softly.

“What has he done?” John asked.

Sheldon burrowed deeper into Milton’s chest. “Nothing yet,” Sheldon said, directing his words at Milton. “He just feels like he’s sizing me up, as if he can’t decide if he should berate me for my choice of slavery, lecture me on emancipation, or  be jealous that I submit without World War III.”

“Probably all those,” John said. “He has strong opinions.” 

“Don’t let him go off like a maniac with a poisoned tongue. He’s successfully employed; he must be capable of restraint. Only he wants you to provide that restraint now. I should know. I did the tame lunatic act for a long time.” Sheldon wrapped his hand in Milton’s. “Fortunately he has a strong right arm.”

Tame lunatic--well, Rick was more of a wild lunatic. John couldn't see Sheldon delivering the calculated cruelty he'd seen from Rick. Sheldon might be a canned volcano, but like Milton he seemed to be encircled by some kind of halo. Rick, even at his best, was never going to be canonized. 

"I don't think Rick only brats,” Milton said. “It may be part of his current repertoire, but there is an undercurrent of masochism and steely sharpness that isn't usually found."

"He's insecure. I'm horrible when I feel insecure."

"Sheldon, you were never horrible." Milton kissed Sheldon's forehead with deep affection.

"You have selective memory, my master. I drove the car into the garage in a state of blind drunkenness. I buried Steve in a load of trouble. I've broken up more than a few dinner parties. I ran away. I..."

"Shh. Nothing was undeniably awful, and while I might not always have agreed with your reasoning, I did understand, and all that was long ago."

“Sometimes you’re too kind, Master.”

“Sheldon.” Milton caught Sheldon’s chin and forced their eyes to meet. “What are you trying to say? Direct this time.”

Sheldon folded his knees into an impossibly small huddle. He looked up at John and gave him a dazzling smile. Sheldon was a beautiful boy, infused with both an elf-like quality and a core that spoke of strength and self-reliance despite his title of a slave. This boy was no one’s doormat.”

“Sirs, you’re not submissives. It’s different for us.” Sheldon hesitated. He seemed to be visibly gathering his thoughts together, and if John knew him better he might be be able to read what was behind those lively green eyes. “Sometimes we want the impossible, and sometimes are wants are contradictory.”

“That’s not only submissives,” John said.

“Hear me out. Please, sir. We dread giving up our independence, but sometimes it’s what we want most of all. I know the impossibility of Milton fixing my life, but I want it anyway. I’m a Green Mountain Boy. I know all this is an illusion, a well rehearsed fantasy, but sometimes I want it to be real. Sometimes I need to be punished, and I know Master hates it. I don’t ask it of him often. Rick might need it too. Take charge of him. Make him obey.”

Make him obey. Sheldon had said it so casually. Rick wasn’t the washer at the Laundromat; John couldn’t put in his quarter and have Rick immediately enter the spin cycle or the damp dry. Rick didn’t obey. He was allergic to obedience. 

“Any suggestions on making him obey?” John asked, keeping his voice casual. Milton and Sheldon were comfortable talking about these things. John had been on the scene for years, but he rarely talked of the feelings; no one talked of the feelings. A few doms together and they could talk endlessly about technique: how to tie knots, where to buy canes, who had the best technique with the whip. Even with Arthur, who clearly understood this stuff, John hadn’t talked about it. Over a glass of cognac, Arthur might talk softy about loving and protecting his boy, but he didn’t dissect the hows and the whys. 

“No choice,” Sheldon said, looking up at Milton as if he expected Milton to expand on his words.

“Sheldon is suggesting a very short leash, and he’s suggesting real punishment for violating your limits. You’ll have to experiment. With Sheldon, I found he liked the short leash. I was just slow on the uptake and kept loosening the reins and being rewarded with another unique explosion.” Milton smiled fondly and squeezed his partner’s neck. “It took us years to put one and one together. It’s a damn good thing I teach history and not mathematics.”

Sheldon smiled back at Milton, a moment of silent communication. “It was very hard to ask. I needed more than everyone else, and…” Sheldon’s voice faltered. “I knew...I knew it would be hard for Milton.”

“Were you afraid I’d say no?” Milton’s voice was very soft and directed only at Sheldon. John suddenly felt like a voyeur. He should leave, but he was also fascinated.

Sheldon nodded slowly, his eyes resting on Milton. He suddenly looked smaller, and younger, and innocent with deep uncertainty in his green eyes.

“Sheldon. My love.” Milton’s hug was suffocating. All that was showing were a few stalks of Sheldon’s hair. “I love you, you idiot boy. You’re not just my play partner.”

“Breathing would be nice.” 

Milton loosened his grip and batted the back of Sheldon’s head with his hand. “Brat.”

“Slave. Here, there, and everywhere.”

“I know. Everywhere and always.”

“Thank you, Master.”

“John,” Milton said after several minutes of silence where Sheldon and Milton seemed to drink each other’s essence, “Sheldon is referencing his fear of asking me to go beyond the simple role play. Slavery, for non barbarians, is always role play, yet it permeates life in so many directions that the clear division is gone between fantasy and real life. I punish Sheldon, and for all practical purposes it’s real. I almost never do it now, but I have that power. Do I approve of it? Probably not. Gordon and Landon know I do it, as does Ryan. We never teach it. We hardly even breathe it, but it’s out there, and your boy might need it. You’ll have to decide if you can swallow the implications. I said yes, but I also ran to Gordon and Ryan and Landon and begged them to keep me on the straight and narrow.”

“It’s a dangerous concept.” Gordon was wrapped in a plaid bathrobe, his feet in fleece slippers. Without his glasses, his eyes looked fiercer and darker than usual. “John, your boy wants it. As Milton said, you’ll have to decide if your conscience will allow it. Now it’s almost midnight, and Milton has to leave at four in the morning for work.”

“Coffee,” Milton said with a tiny, guilty smile.

“Alcohol and salt followed by coffee.” Gordon gave Milton a look that would have sent most submissive’s under the bed. “Drink a glass of water. No coffee for a week. Get to bed.”

“Yes, sir.”

Gordon turned and stalked back toward his room. 

“I’m going to suffer in the morning.” Milton stood up and gathered the trash. “Can’t be helped, and I like coffee.”

“You let him?” John knew he shouldn’t ask, but maybe the vodka had loosened his tongue. Milton was a dominant, a formidable dominant, and he’d acquiesced with the ease of a submissive.

“My relationship with Gordon is decades old, and that is his way of saying he has my back. I can live with no coffee for a week. It’s our way. It’s not yours, but it’s ours.”

John nodded and extended his hand. “Thank you.”

Milton took the outstretched hand and pulled John into a hug. “Stop with the formality. Take care of yourself. Love your boy. I’m going to bed, or my students will complain more than usual. John, have fun.”

The end.