I know April isn't December. This was written during the Christmas season, and I did publish it on my list, but I held it back here as it had a spoiler for Mike's Saga. Mike has the six earrings in this piece.
A Christmas Visit
“We should buy a tree tonight. It’s almost Christmas, and the place looks downright morbid.”
“You can; I’m reading.”
Grouch came over and shut my book. Grouch’s real name is Garrett, but grouch suits him just fine. He’s been impossible since we had to move East. He blames me for the sour mood of course, said with an appropriate eye roll from dearest me. I just want to be left alone with my book. He can wander around a damp gas station and look for a tree carted from who knows where.
“It’ll be fun. You need to get outside.”
Does the middle of the city qualify as outside? Fun. What else is on Garrett’s list of fun things--moving across the country, getting your wisdom teeth extracted, entertaining Garrett’s boss and his plastic wife?
“Drake hiding in the apartment isn’t the solution.”
Garrett grabbed my hand and pulled me into his lap. Granted Garrett has a nice lap, but I was in no mood for a cuddle. Garrett would call my mood a sulk, a four frowns out of five. Garrett had been making noise for several weeks that my sulks had lasted long enough. I had a right to my sulks; it wasn’t like I was disturbing him, Mr. Bigwig in the company now. He was the one who wanted to live here. He was the one who went to work in a suit every morning and left me at home.
“You love Christmas.” Garrett nuzzled my neck and kissed my hair. We can still have a tree and cookies and fun parties.”
Having a tree had involved going out and cutting one. Our rambling Victorian had taken a huge tree. We’d needed real ladders to decorate the beast.
“In here,” I muttered. “In the two millimeters between the kitchen table and the living room couch?! A tree will be just one more thing to fall over. We can skip the tree this year. We can skip Christmas for all I care. I want to go home.”
I know childish, stupid, petulant. I’m sure a thesaurus can come up with great words for my little rant. Garrett was none too impressed. He grabbed my chin and stared at me with his liquid green eyes that turned a boiling forest color when pissed. The gist of the conversation was that we talked in all through before we moved, since we moved and every other possible time in between, and he wasn’t having the same fight every night.
I lost my lovely perch on his lap and was upended in a most undignified fashion with my bare butt mooning for his hand. Spanking and tears, they always make the season bright. At least we didn’t have to get the stupid tree. Garrett cuddled me and coaxed me through a dinner of grilled cheese and tomato soup before putting me to bed for an early night.
Garrett had already left when I woke up the next morning. There was a note in his sloping scrawl that he had a breakfast meeting and that he’d left cereal and fruit for me and a long list of stupid chores to do. Chores were expected after a spanking, not that I liked doing them. Back home they hadn’t been all that bad. We had a wood stove, and I enjoyed chopping wood. There was something satisfying about an axe slicing through a pile of logs, or I could do battle with the interminable invasion of weeds in our garden. The two potted plants that needed watering didn’t count as a garden, but most of all I had friends at home who got this: Joe with his quick laugh and blond dreadlocks and Lloyd with the crew cut and a pout that should be priceless. Their partners counted as friends also, even though that friendship sometimes came with a bark and a swat. I had nothing, nil, zilch here.
We’d tried a couple of clubs at the discreet recommendation of one of Garrett’s colleagues who eyed me with a predatory look and tried to call me boy until Garrett put an end to those shenanigans. I don’t have fetishes, I don’t dress in leather, and I sure as hell wasn’t letting someone touch me with a whip or a flogger for fun. I didn’t even like the word submissive, but Garrett had only smiled at that complaint and told me to get over it and that it was only a word after all. Yeah, it was a word that had all kinds of scary connotations that had nothing to do with me. It was a word that went with half naked people in leather or little boys looking for a daddy. Garrett spanked me occasionally. He didn’t tie me up and ram his fist up my ass.
The phone rang. I grabbed the offending instrument. “Yeah.”
“Is that how you always answer the phone when you’re at home alone?” I could see Garrett’s eyebrows rising, his eyes getting more stern.
“No, I was still in bed.”
“I see your mood is no sweeter than last night.”
“I’m cranky when I wake up.”
“It's ten; you should have been out of bed hours ago. Anyway I need you up. We’re going to mountains and snow.”
“We’re going home?” I shouted.
“No to Vermont. The company president handed me the envelope himself. I’m told—”
“I’m not going.” I could feel my blood boil. This was Christmas. I wasn’t getting dragged to some company retreat where no one could figure out what to do with the gay partner.
“Stop.” Garrett was beyond cajoling; I could hear the snap in his voice. “We’re going, and you’re going to have fun.”
Have fun on order. Right. I kept the contemptuous snort to myself. Garrett was in one of those moods, and it was best to keep my head down. Eastern city life wasn’t good for his disposition.
“We’re leaving tonight. Get us packed. Dress stuff as well as casual.” Garrett’s voice softened. “This does sound like fun. They have skiing, and skating, and sledding, and a great big Christmas trees from the picture. Try to be good about it. I’m tired of fighting; I know moving was hard for you.”
Garrett’s words throttled my little speech of protest in my throat. I made the proper noises of acquiescence and went in search of the suitcases. Vermont here we come, and I thought the expression was California or bust.
****
Car trips always made me sleepy. I’d passed out by the time we left the city limits and didn’t wake until Garrett was shaking me. Blearily I opened my eyes to near total blackness. I peered through the car windshield, past the snow already alighting on the glass to a faint flickering light.
The light moved closer, and a giant of a man opened the car door. He wore one of those fur hats I’d only seen on television correspondents exiled to Moscow in a snowstorm. Snow has crystalized on the black fur of his hat, his eyebrows, and his beard. He wore a red and black plaid jacket, and I was reminded of some crazy cartoon character. He only needed a shotgun or a giant axe and a thick accent to complete the picture.
"Was the drive bad?" The bearded man asked and held his hand out to me.
I ignored his hand. I'm more than capable of exiting the car on my own. The snow was falling hard, and I shivered as I left the warm cocoon of the car.
"The last thirty minutes were interesting," Garrett said. "Drake, put your coat on."
"We're just going inside," I smarted back, even as a wicked shiver shook my frame. I would have said more but beardie, doing a helpful lumberjack turned into bellboy impression, reached inside the car, grabbed my jacket, and forcefully put it on me.
"Boys," he said in a strange all knowing tone. The lantern still swinging from one hand and casting a faint glow into the swirling snow, he reached back into the car and grabbed my suitcase.
I fumbled on the seat for my game console, and the bag of chips I'd been snacking on before falling asleep.
"Leave it out here."
Oh, Lord, we'd landed at a health spa. Were they going to feed us salad and a concoction of home pressed juices? I tossed the chips back into the car; they were Garrett's favorite flavor anyway.
"The game console, not the chips."
Orders from a stranger. I didn't even know the bossy snow crank's name. Some lodge caretaker no doubt who'd missed the twentieth century let alone the twenty-first. I gave him my best glare, the look that Garrett says would have made Rin Tin Tin hide under the bed and tightened my fingers on my toy. "Why?" I asked in a tone, dripping with contempt and petulance. I was not a drone to follow senseless orders.
"Leave it in the car, please."
Polite, but no less an order. I stood my ground. This was my Alamo. If I capitulated now, I'd be kowtowing to this overgrown innkeeper for the rest of the week.
"Landon can never spot the easy ones," he muttered under his breath.
I didn't have time to contemplate his baffling mumbles because he grabbed my wrist and squeezed hard. I jerked in pain, and he snatched the game console from my suddenly slack fingers. "Asshole!" I muttered as he slid it inside his giant pocket.
"Fair enough, I'll give you that one, but my name is Milton or sir."
Sir? What planet did this guy live on?
Garrett’s head popped out of the car. “Do we have everything?” he asked brightly. He’d missed the entire epic battle, searching for a lost glove or something. Garrett was always doing that kind of thing. We’d go to an action movie, and he’d miss the best explosion in a sudden trip to the john.
I nodded. I wasn’t going to give a play by play of my altercation with the abominable innkeeper. Garrett tended to get a little cranky about those kind of things. Challenging authority was all well and good when we were talking about despotic regimes in far off countries that no one could find on the map. Here I was supposed to be a good, obedient citizen. Yelling at the meter maid over the unfair ticket was not the same as protesting police brutality. No, Garrett wouldn’t take kindly to the game console incident.
Oh, God, I hoped it wasn’t an incident. Incidents and escapades got me smacked. Altercations followed on the same dreaded list. Getting whacked in a hotel room had never made my top one hundred list of favorite things for a snowy evening. Snowy evenings were supposed to involve roasted chestnuts, not roasted ass.
Maybe the snow and the cold was working in my favor. Snow crank bundled us into the building with no detailed recounting of our little incident. Fuck, the place was fancy! The entry hall had one of those vaulted ceilings that are always badly replicated in the new fangled, faux mansions. Only here it looked right. This wasn’t faux mansion, but a real mansion. I almost hated to walk on the spotless marble floor with my snowy boots, and I’m not the house proud sort. Fortunately Sir the innkeeper noticed the dilemma of wet snow and shiny floors and pointed us to a coat closet bigger than most people’s bedrooms, bigger than most people’s houses in the less fortunate parts of the world.
In stocking feet and unburdened by coats and hats, we headed back into the palace proper. Our erstwhile host had stripped to jeans and a ragged college sweatshirt from some place I’d never heard of. He led us silently up a wide and grand staircase to a long corridor of rooms. He pushed the fourth door open; strangely he didn’t need a key. They must have good security here. The room was charming, as my mother would have said. It wasn’t overly large, not compared to the hallway and staircase, but it wasn’t a cookie-cutter resort room either. The bed was covered in a patchwork quilt with blankets folded and ready for use piled at the footboard. A Christmas tree with white lights stood in one corner.
“The ornaments on the tree are edible.” The bearded one must have noticed my eyes on the plastic wrapped balls with the bright and perfect bows. “I left a plate of sandwiches and fruit if you prefer something more solid than popcorn balls, gingerbread men, and candy canes.”
Cookies and cake were solid in my book. I couldn’t help but touch a popcorn ball. I’d never actually seen one in person; I’d only read about them in books.
“Breakfast is at eight,” our innkeeper continued, “and all guests are expected. We have a dress code at meals and in the public areas. This is especially important during the holidays as occasionally we have drift from the commercial areas of the facility. All the information you need is on the bedside table. Please ask if you have any questions. Good night.”
I glanced over to see two thick book and a sheaf of papers. Somehow our cheery guide had made the reading material not seem a mere suggestion, but something that was required. I wondered if there would be a quiz tomorrow. Prick, I thought, taking one of the popcorn balls from the tree. At least sugar wasn’t on the forbidden list.
****
I guess Garrett had taken the friendly, or not so friendly, innkeeper’s word about the miserable breakfast hour. He was shaking me awake when it was still dark outside. I moaned and tried to keep my eyes shut, but Garrett knew my ways. He propped me on my feet and pushed me toward the shower.
Damn morning people! Garrett was already dressed and bouncing around with bright and shiny eyes. He was wearing some crazy sweater with reindeer, something that should never have been allowed outside of holiday advertisements with towheaded children.
My man did the valet thing this morning, and my clothes were all laid out when I exited the shower. He’d put out my heavy long underwear, and my best ski sweater.
“Fresh powder. I know I’m not keeping you off the mountain despite the fact it’s well below zero.”
“Aren’t you coming?” Garrett wasn’t dressed for skiing. Not only was he wearing the horror of the sweater, but he was sporting khakis and leather shoes last seen on a preppy teenager.
“I have a conference call this morning.”
“Garrett,” I whined.
“Stop, Drake. There’s a herd of guys here. I’m sure you’ll find someone who’ll be happy to go with you.”
And it’s good to make friends, I heard silently in my head. Garrett kept setting me up with good-natured saps who were bribed to take me to the movies or out for coffee. The campaign had been an unmitigated disaster. I had friends in Oregon. I didn’t need stand-ins here.
I pulled my clothes on, far less than happy with Garrett’s abandonment to the telephone, but I held my head up, a brave martyr to a working man.
Breakfast was in the breakfast room. This place was so vast they probably had a luncheon room, a dining room, an alcove for supper, and a nook for tea. We were waved over to a big table by our friendly innkeeper. He did smile this morning, but his smile made my knees knock and inexplicably made we want to lower my eyes. The round of introductions was fast, furious, and incomprehensible. I nodded at the right times, but let Garrett do the socializing. Acting interested with boring strangers was one of his special skills. I studied my breakfast instead. The largesse of the place extended to the meals, or maybe everyone was going out for a group shoveling of walks and singing of Frosty the Snowman. I could barely manage coffee at this hour, and I was being served eggs, porridge, sausage, and a small mountain of toast.
I didn’t do eggs. Baby chicken embryos—yuck! Porridge was something best left to the three bears in fairy tale land. I tentatively munched on a piece of toast and tried to furtively study my table mates. I wasn’t interested in becoming best buds, but it didn’t mean I’d miss out on the chance for some covert surveillance.
Our host, the abominable innkeeper, looked just as big and just as frightening in the bright lights of the breakfast area as he had in the eerie glow of the lantern last night. He was dressed much like my Garrett in khakis and a sweater, but at least his sweater didn’t have cute animals cavorting across the front. He was devouring his plateful of eggs as if breakfasts of this magnitude were ordinary. He helped himself to a football field sized platter of sausage, taking a link and patty himself and dropping a link on the plate of the kid next to him. The kid smiled a killer smile and swallowed the sausage link in one bite. They seemed totally chummy, too chummy for father and son, but the boy had to be college age, and the innkeeper had gray spotting his beard, or he was going through some unusual kind of molt.
On the other side of the man who wanted to be called sir was a redheaded sprite with vivid green, green eyes. He was dutifully chowing through his bowl of oatmeal as if he dreamed of oatmeal and carrot sticks and a sprinkling of wheat germ with a side of nutritional yeast. He caught my eye and smiled.
Holy shit! The red-haired porridge eater had a collar around his neck. It was brown and well oiled and looked as if it were always decorating his neck. It didn’t look like it was part of a Halloween prank, and it didn’t look like a Goth fashion accessory. There were no black fingernails in sight.
Double shit, the innkeeper has spotted my staring and was looking at me with unfathomable dark eyes. “Sheldon is my collared slave. I will give him time later to discuss it with you, but breakfast is not such a place.”
The lord and master had spoken. Slave boy dropped his eyes to his food, and all the rest acted as if this were normal breakfast chatter. Normal breakfast chatter was begging your partner to get the milk or moaning over the weather. Normal breakfast chatter was not announcing that a member of your party was a slave. The Emancipation Proclamation was one hundred and fifty years ago, give or take a few years.
“Another unwilling victim,” a dark-haired man said. “Welcome to our zoo, better known as the Green Mountain Boys. You can Google it if you’ve never heard of us; just make sure you’ve had some calming tea first.”
“Mike,” the slave master growled.
“Well, he’s looking bug-eyed. Pupils dilated, breath coming in short pants, muscles tense—the prey sensing danger.”
“Boy.” The snarl rumbled through my body, and it wasn’t even directed at me. Mike dropped his eyes, his beautiful lush lashes spreading across his cheek in a gesture of subservience.
“Haven’t you been giving that boy enough attention?” a silver-haired man asked. Land, Landing, Landon—I couldn’t remember.
“I thought he was still recovering from the jewelry,” Milton said.
Or was it Master Milton? Or maybe Lord Milton? Or maybe these guys were freaks, and I should go home immediately?
Mike has six gold studs in his ear, starting in his lobe and working their way upward. His ear did look red now that I was studying it.
“Milton’s handiwork,” Mike said with a grin. “Scared the piss out of me, but it’s cool now.”
“Manners,” Milton said flatly. “Kitchen.”
“Bad boys have to eat in the kitchen with the scullery help. Bread and water only. Ta-ta.” Mike waved and grinned.
“That boy is sitting too comfortably,” Landon said.
“I can see that.” Milton nodded gravely and returned to his almost demolished breakfast.
I cranked my head around and made my eyes desperate and pleading as I looked at Garrett. Had he known we were vacationing in the Twilight Zone? He looked calm. He met my frantic glance with a gentle smile and offered me more juice. Juice? This was an emergency. I didn’t need juice. I needed the cavalry or at least a parachute.
Well, the cavalry was a failure, or maybe it was trained by Custer and was slaughtered by righteous natives. I didn't even get a parachute, and I wasn't resourceful enough to turn the linen tablecloth into my own rescue device. I briefly considered searching under the chair for a personal flotation device, but I could hardly swim away in the water pitcher. Instead I poked at my breakfast and desperately wished to be transported west of the Rocky Mountains.
Garrett sat and ate his breakfast with unruffled calm. I did see his eyes widen a millimeter at the slave comment, and he'd looked at Mike's jewelry with poorly masked horror. My man wasn't a jewelry type of guy. Gold chains made him look for the exit, and an array of holes in a delicate organ rated in the unspeakable horrors category. I wouldn't have sat down for a month if I'd come home with one hole and Mike had six, Milton, slave master, innkeeper and naysayer to electronic games, had put them there.
Garret didn't head for the exit, he didn't demand a cab, and he didn't break into a long winded conversation over how he must have mixed up the websites when making reservations. He ate breakfast and talked about the volatility of the stock market. He was going to see some volatility far closer than Wall Street if he didn't quickly realize we were goldfish in a shark tank.
"Drake," Landon said from across the table, "would you care to join me for a day of skiing?"
Not really would have been my first choice for an answer, but Garrett had moved his hand to my knee and squeezed hard. That was my signal to nod and claim skiing with this collection of weirdos was the greatest idea ever, better than the invention of the printing press or the magic of the modern sewage system. At least outwardly, Landon looked normal. He didn't have a multitude of holes in his skin, and he wasn't doubling as an extra of the canine species with a collar around his neck. I managed a nod. Ski gear was probably as good of protection as any from these freaks, and I could always wield my pole as the newest weapon in swordplay if anyone got too close.
Fresh powder can make you forget anything and everything. I was drawing frigid air into my desperate lungs and admiring our tracks through the trees. Landon could ski; I'd give him that. He was kicking my butt and more than twice my age.
"Ready?" Landon gestured down a steep and boulder strewn slope.
"Yep," I answered. I didn't have the breath for more than one word, and I wasn't about to tell this antique that my legs felt like jelly and that I really wished I'd eaten some of that mountain of toast.
The snow was deep and luxurious and fluffy; all the things I'd heard never happened to East Coast snow. Landon skied as if he were born on pieces of fiberglass and titanium. I'd been the best among my friend, but I was outclassed by half. I staggered down the slope, a poor imitation of Landon's precise turns.
"Lunch," Landon said as I stopped at the bottom, gasping desperately for every molecule of air.
One word had never sounded so good. Even the scrutiny of all those men in the dining room would be more survivable than another punishing run down the mountain. I had to rest. I had to have fuel. Mercifully, Landon opted for the public dining mountainside. We found a table between a family with more children than I wanted to count and two couples drinking hot cocoa. I could overhear their very ordinary conversations about PTA meetings and colleagues at work. No one was suggesting whips, chains, and God knows what else that might be fine or fun.
Someone showed up with food. I knew I hadn't ordered anything, and I didn't think Landon had ordered, but maybe I’d missed it when I was distracted by the blessed normalcy of the place. I bit into the thick turkey sandwich. I would have preferred no mayonnaise, but I was starving.
"He eats," Landon said from behind his sandwich.
"I don't like breakfast," I mumbled, feeling the heat in my cheeks.
"You don't like breakfast, or were we all too eccentric for you?"
Eccentric was a nice way of putting it. I would have said certifiably insane, but I've never been known for my tact. Eccentric is the old lady with a house overrun with plants and cats. Eccentric wasn’t a slave.
“Deep breath, sweetie,” Landon said with a smile that was way too knowing and made me want to either flee for parts unknown or explode in a fit of denial. I wasn’t a sweetie, and I sure as hell wasn’t all the other things he was insinuating. “Public explosions are in questionable taste,” Landon said calmly. “Eat your lunch, boy.”
Boy! I wasn’t a boy. Those children next to us were boys. Yes, I knew what kind of boy that Landon meant, and I’d rather be classified with the kids from grade school.
“Don’t bother to try the denial with me.” Landon said in a voice pitched to be audible only to my ears. “I know a submissive when I see one.”
I’d thought the bearded snow crank was bad enough last night. Now I had to deal with the silver-haired ski maniac who spoke ever so calmly about submissives. Sub, submission, submissive were not words to be taken calmly. They were words that demanded hysteria. Hysteria wasn’t really an option here. I was surrounded by normal folk; I wasn’t going to start shouting about submission.
“I am not a submissive,” I hissed with what I hoped was forceful calm.
Landon only smiled and took another bite of sandwich. He wiped his mouth and studied me with eyes that were sharp and steady. “Denial is never the best option. I think we’ll do some cross country skiing this afternoon. The trails are always beautiful after a fresh snow.” Landon took another bite of sandwich, the decision made.
I groaned silently. I wasn’t going to be up for much beyond a slow cruiser down the bunny hill, and this insane man wanted to run through the snow with long pieces of skinny wood strapped to his feet.
“Tired boys are good boys,” Landon said with a smile that made me shiver. “Eat. You’ll need it.”
****
I looked at the long flight of stairs. It might as well have been Everest or K2 or McKinley. I didn't have the energy to move, let alone climb steps. I was sprawled across a handily placed bench, still half dressed in my outerwear, with a collection of gloves, hat and goggles scattered around me.
"You looked whipped," a blond headed giant said to me. “Go on up to bed. There is still a few hours until dinner."
I would have gone to bed if I could have made my legs move. Did the hunk of muscle really not get it? He probably never got tired and dragged automobiles around with his teeth for entertainment.
"Come on. Up you go." The giant with a Hollywood bright smile pulled me to my feet. I collapsed back into a miserable and painful huddle. He looked down on me; his handsome brow furrowed for an instant. "Landon's idea of fun, I presume."
I nodded and managed some sort of groan that sounded more alien than human.
"Up."
Was the giant insane? Hadn't he recognized the impossibility earlier? Gumby legs weren't taking me up those stairs.
My very own giant swung me over his shoulder like some fairy tale hero, or maybe it should have been villain. Giants usually worked on the side of darkness. He powered me up the two flights of stairs and dropped me on my bed. I was too befuddled to question him about his intimate knowledge of my room. I rolled over on my side and buried my head in a pillow.
“Undress.” The blond, energetic moose clicked his fingers.
Was I supposed to respond to clicked fingers? Was it some kind of code at this crazy place?
Seeing my inaction, he unlaced my boots and pulled them off. Handling me like a rag doll, he pulled off my pants and layers of shirts and sweaters until I was left with only my boxers and thermal undershirt. He pulled a blanket over my limp body and kissed my forehead.
“I’ll send Garrett up,” he said over his shoulder as he pulled the door closed.
*****
I woke to fingers combing my hair and a gentle brush of lips against my own. Garrett’s green eyes were smiling down on me. I reached for him, not wanting to lose the beautiful image of my man kneeling on the bed bedside me.
“We need to get ready for dinner.”
“Hasn’t this place heard of room service?”
“Apparently not,” Garrett said with a laugh, “and I was told unequivocally not to be late for meals. Apparently meals also require a jacket and tie.”
“I haven’t worn a tie since my grandmother’s funeral. I didn’t pack a tie.”
“They already considered that possibility and have a selection of shirts, ties, and jackets for the unwashed rabble. Those without ties are definitely rabble in this joint," Garrett said with a grimace.
Garrett was the dude in the suit. He went off to work everyday looking like the big cheese, but he wasn't a stiff. He didn't drink gin and tonic, belong to overpriced country clubs, or preside over the roast beast with a silver carving knife and a tie. He did the normal dinner thing, ate pizza on the couch from a paper plate in his underwear.
"Sweetheart, don't fight me on this, please." Garrett looked at me with pleading green eyes. There was no way I could resist that look. I'd deal with our whacked out innkeeper and his minions of crazy friends. "It's only dinner, and these people are important business contacts."
And they also said sir and master and were committed to a level of insanity I didn't comprehend. Was the evening entertainment going to be the whipping of a naughty boy? Or maybe they taught bondage lessons with all the damn ties after dinner.
I let Garrett pull me from the bed and hassle me through a shower. Fuzzily I wondered if the whole point of all the skiing had been to turn me into a compliant worm. I didn't have the energy to complain as Garrett tied a conservative blue strip of silk around my neck and helped me into a borrowed blazer. I glanced at the mirror and recoiled in horror. I looked like one of those drone office workers, one of those minions I'd sworn never to be.
"Never! I can't do this." I tried to lunge at Garrett. Gumby legs were not good at lunging. Garrett caught me before I fell into an undignified heap.
"Stop with the dramatics. A suit and tie won't kill you." Garrett's hand skimmed across my butt in a further silent warning.
"I'm not this." I pointed at myself in the mirror.
"Beautiful, handsome, my partner in all things--which of those aren't you?"
"I'm not a dweeb in a tie," I shouted.
"Am I a dweeb when I go off to work? I wear a tie."
Why did Garrett have to be reasonable? He was so damn good at reasonable. How could I fight against reasonable and calm and collected?
"That's different," I said weakly.
"Only in the strange and swirling mists inside your head," Garrett said, tapping my forehead with his finger.
"I don't like ties."
"I know. You've made your point more than clear, and your protests are duly noted. I'll log them in the official protest book."
"We don't have an official protest book. How can you be so calm? These people are crazy."
"Wearing a tie isn't usually considered a clinical sign of insanity," Garrett said with that sarcastic calm that always made me want to hit him with the nearest large and heavy object.
"Not the tie, the other stuff," I shouted. "They call me boy. They think I'm into all that shit."
Garrett wrapped his arm around my neck and pulled me close. He nuzzled my neck in just the way that made me shut my eyes and sigh. He smelled heavenly of soap and aftershave and a hint of woodsmoke from a Yuletide blaze.
"I spank you. I think we're into all this shit, as you put it."
"I'm not a boy. I don't want to drop to my knees and slobber on your boots."
"I'd rather you not slobber on my boots either," Garrett said and kissed me firmly, interrupting any further rant. "I would have gotten a dog if I wanted my boots slimed."
"It's not just the boots; you know what I mean."
Garrett rubbed the back of my neck firmly and held me in that secure and possessive way I liked so well. "Yes, I know." His voice held a trace of weariness. This was an old argument that we'd given up rehashing. Garrett didn't have the proper revulsion to the words submissive and dominant. He didn't understand the chasm between us and those crazies who tied each other up and dropped hot wax on sensitive skin. Garrett just reassured me that he was a failure at knot tying and that candles reminded him of his crazy aunt.
"These guys like that stuff. One had a collar on. How much of this did you know?" I was starting to wind up; I was building my case like one of this TV lawyers. I'd get us to safety.
Garrett turned me around and lifted my chin, forcing our eyes to meet, forcing me to bask in his calm. "I knew mostly of their financial and business prowess, but I was not entirely unaware of their hobby. Unless one wears blinders, it is impossible not to have heard their name at least mentioned at a gamut of events from a spanking party to an all out leather bar."
"We don't go to leather bars."
"We've been to spanking parties."
And I'd hated it. People were getting spanked for no reason. It was some bizarre orgy of spanking. I got spanked to keep me sensible. I got spanked because I wanted boundaries, not because I had a spanking fetish.
Garrett must have seen rebellion brewing in my eyes because he dusted my ass with his hand, three good pops. "These men have a sterling reputation. We knew people back home. We're outsiders here. We both need friends, not just gossip on social media sites with guys we both miss badly. Don't prejudice yourself. Please."
I couldn't resist that. I leaned into his chest and welcomed the hug. I'd be good. No tasteless jokes and snide comments about human dogs and the wonders of personal freedom. I could be a good boy for a night.
****
There were even more people than breakfast. They must be breeding like rabbits or self-replicating in the heating ducts. I stared at all the faces. Everyone of them was into whatever craziness the Green Mountain Boys were promoting. They'd chosen to take their vacation with fellow lunatics; I'd been drafted.
The giant blond stood and pulled out the chair next to him. At least he had a nice smile, even though I'm sure escape from his grasp would be impossible. His chest and shoulders were bursting from his shirt, and I didn't want to imagine the muscles on his thighs. He'd probably put an action figure to shame.
"Ryan doesn't bite," a bouncing redhead said from his side. "He teaches impressionable young people; he controls his impulses. He only tortures them by making them read long and boring books written by dead supposed geniuses. He keeps his fun stuff, like his whips, locked away in a secure closet."
Whips and fun in the same sentence. There was something wrong with that sentence; there was something wrong with that thought. Whips were not fun.
Garrett noticed my distress and squeezed my knee in a way overrated gesture of love and protection. "I'm sure they're exaggerating, hazing us naive ones."
"Hazing has severe consequences," our jolly innkeeper said in a voice that made my stomach throw itself into wild gymnastics. I swear if I'd been the kneeling type I would have been solely tempted. The king had spoken. Here thee, here thee, royal proclamation dead ahead.
"Young man, one of the prime duties of the Green Mountain Boys is to prevent harm to inexperienced members of our community. We consider hazing a most serious offense," the man next to Landon said in a regal tone that rivaled our innkeeper's. They must take voice training as a hobby--how to sound like a pompous fool in ten easy lessons.
"Right." I hadn't meant to say that aloud, but it must have slipped out.
"Do you care to elaborate?" pompous one with the slight accent asked.
"No, I care to get the fuck out of here!"
"Drake," Garrett said, a soft reproof in his voice.
"Garrett, I'm not whatever the hell they think I am. You might sit here like a fucking frog on a lily pad out of some kind of misplaced politeness. I believe in fighting for my rights. I'm not the unwashed and impoverished proletariat to roll over and turn belly up at the first words of the super rich. I also don't think getting the crap beat out of me is a fun hobby. Touch me with a whip, and I'll call the police."
"Kitchen," the bearded one said.
Was he using kitchen as a verb? Was I supposed to go to the kitchen? I could probably wander for hours and not find the kitchen.
The blond giant stood up and held out his hand. "Come."
No, I wasn't taking his hand. No, I wasn't being led out of the room like some disobedient child. No, I had equal status to all the rest of them. Only I didn't. He swung me over his shoulder with frightening ease. I screamed; I kicked, and he swatted. Hard. Eye watering, breath stopping hard. His hand was huge. It covered both my precious and tender globes.
Garrett must have protested because I heard Milton's voice with its unwavering authority. "Ryan will not hurt your boy. He had experience with the wild and the distraught. He is also not you. As his lover, Drake's words will hurt you; they'll roll off Ryan."
I heard that. I know I wasn't supposed to hear that. I screamed. I beat on Ryan's back with my fists. I kicked him. His hand landed on my ass, scorching fire. He pinned my legs as I tried to kick his groin.
"What's your safeword, boy?"
What? We'd made it out of the dining room. I was sitting on a very slick and very shiny floor with this great beast wrapped around me, asking inane questions.
"What's your safeword, boy? You do know what a safeword is?"
Vaguely. I'd never had one. I didn't need one. I wasn't a submissive. I didn't play sex games.
"You don't have one." Ryan didn't elaborate, but his tone of disapproval was more than obvious.
"I don't need one. I don't play these games." I would have screamed, but my throat was hoarse from the shouting in the dining room, and for some inexplicable reason I'd started to cry.
Ryan turned me, so my face was buried in his huge chest. His giant hand rubbed my back, firm and steady. "You've had a lousy day. Landon grabs you this morning and skis you until standing is a distant memory, all the while hinting incomprehensibly about power exchanges. We make you put on a tie and start in on you before you've even had a salad. It gets better, kid."
"The snow was good."
"A sense of humor. Good boy."
"I'm not a boy."
"You are, sweetie." Ryan pushed me away from his chest and wiped his thumb down my damp cheek. "Garrett spanks you; you submit to him. You are a submissive. Affectionately, you are a boy."
I felt my cheeks heat wildly at Ryan's calm pronouncement. I got spanked; I didn't chat about it with strangers.
"Safeword," Ryan said, tapping me on the head to bring my attention back to him.
"I don't have one. How many times do I have to tell you I don't do this? Don't you understand English?"
"My English is more than adequate, but I have two linguist at my disposal if you feel translation services are necessary."
A closet comedian. Wonderful. Not only was Ryan overgrown by three sizes, but he thought he was funny.
"Drake." Ryan fingered my hair. For a big man, he had a gentle touch when he wasn't thumping on my ass. I might even like him if we weren't sitting on the kitchen floor having this unequal conversation. "Milton and I both talked to Garrett. We both know more about you than is entirely fair. Either you're a submissive, or I need to escort you to a safe friend or relative immediately."
I stared at Ryan, trying to put the words together. My brain couldn't process it. He couldn't think that. "Garret would never hurt me. I can't believe you accused him of that, you big overgrown asshole!" I spat. With a normal sized human I could've escaped, but giant caught my wrists and pinned me in place.
"I don't think it's abusive. I think you're in denial. You're both in denial, but your case is worse."
"You've known me for what--three hours--and you're the expert. I don't want your expertise. This isn't your business."
Ryan cradled my chin in his massive palm and made me look at him. He made me look at his blues eyes that were so warm and compassionate that I almost felt like an ass for fighting him. "In an ordinary relationship, I'd have no right to have this conversation; you are absolutely correct, but you aren't in an ordinary relationship. Garrett spanks you. Garrett punishes you. Garrett has control over your life. He is your dominant, and you are in a total power exchange, even though both of you have severely underestimated the depth of your power exchange. As your dominant he came to us. He asked us for help. It wasn't easy for him. He has more experience and knowledge than you, but he was entirely unaware of how close you two were flirting with master and slave and with absolutely no safeguards. You don't even know the vocabulary to discuss such a relationship, and you don't have a safeword."
"I'm not Garrett's slave," I roared or tried to roar.
Ryan looked singularly unimpressed. His voice was calm and his smile just as genuine as before my roaring. "I know you'd never use that term for yourself and that's fine. Master and slave tend to get lost in the more extreme erotic elements, and the term has been colored by that history. I understand your denial."
It wasn't denial. It was fact. How was I going to make this big, overgrown hunk of man meat understand that? Garrett occasionally spanked me. We were normal. I didn't run around naked in a chastity belt with a butt plug shoved up my ass.
"Garrett's afraid the relationship is failing." Ryan dropped that bombshell as if he were discussing the dinner menu.
Failing? It had been tough since we moved. I missed Oregon. I missed the coffee. I missed my friends. I even missed the rain. Garrett had his work. It was harder for me. I did free lance graphic design; customers weren't exactly falling off trees. My customers back home had been my friends also. We went out for coffee; we discussed the rain.
"You love Garrett."
I nodded dumbly.
"Whatever you might call the relationship it is consensual."
I nodded again, feeling fresh tears track down my face.
"Right." Ryan kissed my forehead and pulled me to my feet. He plunked me down on a counter, actually sitting on the counter with my feet swinging down. I hadn't sat like this since I was about six. "Dinner." He stuck his head in a vast, stainless steel refrigerator and started pulling out bags and packages. "Your safeword is red to stop, yellow to slow down. You can pick your own later. "Turkey, ham, or PB&J?"
Ryan was asking me about sandwich type! He'd just ever so casually put in words what I refused to see or admit. Hiding my head in the sand had always worked before. Garrett would fix it; he always fixed it. He made the decisions. He consulted me, but he made them. God, that was what Ryan had said. Total power exchange. Slavery. Garrett as my master.
"Slave?"
"Don't fret." Ryan ruffled my hair. "We're having turkey since you didn't answer. Tough luck if you don't like it. Questions require answers."
"You didn't give me time--"
"You have to move quick with me," Ryan said amicably and placed a giant sandwich surrounded by a cord of celery sticks and two sliced apples in front of me. "Milk or juice?"
"Juice." I hated milk. Juice wasn't my favorite either, but nothing else was on offer.
"Eat." Ryan ruffled my hair again, a gesture that usually made me whirl around or plant a sharp elbow, but it felt right from him: friendly, comforting, good slave boy. No, I wasn't going there. I was too hungry. I'd refuel and then argue again.
Ryan could eat. The man devoured his sandwich and an entire plate of extra carrot and celery sticks that would have fed a colony of rabbits for a week. I guess Ryan was a lot bigger than the average bunny. Ryan looked over at my still mostly full plate, not hiding the question on his handsome face.
I needed prodded to eat. Garrett knew and would bug me about it; otherwise I might have tried to live entirely on cold pizza and leftover Chinese takeout.
“Landon’s idea of skiing makes extreme marathoning look like a Sunday stroll in the park with toddlers. You need fuel.”
I looked down at my plate. I was hungry, but eating didn’t feel fun under the scrutiny of the blond giant. I poked a celery stick around the plate, feeling like a damn good replica of a cranky toddler at dinner.
Ryan groaned and half-grimaced. I thought those facial expressions were reserved for the likes of me. The tough guys were supposed to look at me with steely eyes and bark orders.
“Does Garrett feed you?”
“Garrett cooks.” I knew that wasn’t the question he was asking, and I could feel the flames of a red blush licking the corners of my cheeks. Garrett would wrap his arm around my shoulders, cut my food, and in the right mood even hold the fork.
“Thought so,” Ryan said way too knowingly with eyes that were faintly amused instead of shocked. “Blade loves it, not that it doesn’t usually end in a sex orgy with half the food still on the table, but everything with Blade ends in a sex orgy. We like it that way.”
Ryan should have blushed saying words like that. I was blushing. He was grinning like a manic, misplaced Godzilla. If he picked up my sandwich, I was going to scream.
“Eat, little one.” He tousled my hair in an absently affectionate gesture and started bussing the counter.
“I’m not little; you’re just overgrown.”
“That’s one way of looking at it.” His voice sounded amused, and he smiled at me.
“I’m not hungry.” I pushed the food away and folded my arms across my chest.
Ryan straddled the chair next to me. God, the man was huge up close. “Really not hungry or do you want to have a border skirmish about food? I’m a fully functioning dominant, equipped with programing for directing dinner, cutting sandwiches, and feeding recalcitrant and bratty little boys.”
I must have given him one of those deer in the head lights looks because he pulled me up into his lap and wrapped one of his massive arms around me. No one but Garrett had done this for months, and it fell strange to be squished up against a new guy’s chest. Ryan picked up my sandwich and placed it in my hand.
“Eat, little one,” he growled.
I could throw the sandwich. Somehow I thought those results would be unfavorable. I’d already felt his hand on my ass. It hadn’t been gentle or soft or soothing. His hand wasn’t going to be the understudy in a toilet paper commercial, not squeezable and soft. Retreat is sometimes the better part of valor. I ate the sandwich.
“Good boy. Let’s see what the others are up to.”
Great! I was going to be paraded back through the group of people who had witnessed my first debacle.
“No one will care,” the smiling Godzilla said and looped an arm around my shoulders. Escape was going to be impossible. At least he wasn’t planning on dangling me off the top of the Empire State Building like the real Godzilla.
The menfolk were in one of the numerous rooms that ordinary people would call a family room. They probably had fancier names here: parlor, or lounge, or living room, or billiard room. Well, there wasn’t a pool table, so it wasn’t the billiard room.
They were decorating a huge Christmas tree, and I mean huge. This was the kind or tree that required real ladders, not a step stool or the top of a nearby coffee table. Somehow I was pushed toward a box of about a million fiddly little ornaments that all looked entirely breakable. I wasn’t going to be responsible for breakage. I found a corner sofa, half out of view, and sat hugging my knees and wishing I was about anywhere else.
Garrett was tangled in a long strand of lights and either didn’t notice my detachment or was expressly forbidden from contacting me. This was probably some sort of crazed shock therapy for the both of us. An entirely normal looking guy, bow tie not included in the normal pronouncement, caught my eye and gave me a reassuring smile before abandoning a string of cranberries for a sudden interest in the box of fiddly little things.
“You can’t get out of decorating the tree. We’ll never get finished,” he said and hung the glass Santa. “Have you seen Ded Moroz?”
Was that some new rock band I’d never heard of? Doubtful. Mr. Bow Tie didn’t look like a rock band aficionado. In fact he look scarily normal in this bunch.
“Grandfather Frost,” a blond with soft curls helpfully translated. “I’m Luke and this is Tilden,” my helpful friend said, searching in the box for the mysterious Ded whatever. “Look here’s Snegurochka. She needs a prime spot on the tree.”
I’m not even going to try to repeat the strange and garbled cluster of consonants and vowels that had flown off Luke’s tongue. It was a doll in a blue coat, not a Christmas tradition with which I was familiar. To each his own. They could hang strange and unpronounceable blue dolls on their Christmas tree.
“Vot on Ded Moroz,” Tilden said with way too much excitement for any normal person.
Blue Santa. Maybe they had a special fondness for blue. Maybe they were just weird. At least I hadn’t seen Santa in bondage or Santa with a ball gag.
“Drake,” my man said, abandoning the string of lights and wrapping his arms around me.
It was about time. I’d been dragged off to the kitchen by some unknown gorilla and then left at the mercy of strangers with a fetish for blue Santa and friends. It was about time I saw a friendly face.
“Ryan said you had a sandwich.”
Great now they were discussing my eating habits. Not only had Ryan known more about my relationship with Garrett than I did, he’d appointed himself my personal nutrition reporter.
“Garrett?” I might have yelled under normal circumstances, but these weren’t normal. My brain swirled into a mush from the last six months, from Landon’s skiing adventure, from Ryan’s little chat, and I started to cry.
Amazingly they all acted as if this was normal. Garret sat on the sofa and pulled me against his chest, my favorite spot for stupid waterworks. His fingers stroked through my hair in time to the Christmas music that was coming from a very dated stereo. Tilden and Luke continued hanging the glass bobbles, making weird unpronounceable sounds every few minutes.Ryan was on the ladder, hanging stars and angels in the topmost branches. Our jolly innkeeper was sorting through a miniature village, arranging the pieces in a pattern only sensible to him.
I cried like a flipping idiot, and Garrett made soothing noises. Someone but a blanket over my legs. I shut my eyes and clung to Garrett.
****
I rolled over, my legs almost falling off the narrow sofa. I must have fallen asleep here. The room was quiet, only the very faint sound of a recorded voice crooning a Christmas carol. Garrett's hand stilled in my hair as he felt me move. I didn't look up; instead I studied the Christmas tree. Blue Santa and his very young bride occupied a prominent place. The tree glittered with lights and silver baubles. It was a beautiful tree, but it wasn't ours. It didn't have the cheap plastic apples we'd bought in desperation the first year when are tree had looked stark with our tiny collection of ornaments and now cherished in some bizarre nostalgic ritual. It didn't have the tree skirt that I'd inherited from my grandparents complete with a stain from a toppled tree.
"Pretty," Garrett murmured in my ear.
I turned to look at him. This was the man I loved, but this was also the man who had left me at the mercy of these strangers. What did he want with me? Was it really over?
Garrett looked down on me, his eyes unfathomable green pools. He brushed a lock of hair off my forehead and traced his finger down my cheek. "I love you."
Did he? I'd thought he had, but Ryan, but all this... It had been hard since we'd moved. Did Garrett want a new model? Maybe he wanted a shinier model with baubles and pre-trained kneeling.
"Drake," Garrett's voice started to break. "I didn't know what to do."
"So you leave me to the savages. Why didn't you tell me?"
"I tried." Garrett's lips fluttered against my forehead. "I can't talk to you anymore. You walk away, you cover you ears with headphones, and you goad me into spanking you. I feel like a torturer; I've spanked you ten times in the last two weeks."
I didn't know he kept count. It hadn't been that many times. Maybe he was counting the little swats he'd delivered when running out the door. I knew I'd been over his knee more than once, but ten times in the last two weeks, he must have left his math skills at the office.
"I love you Drake, I don't want to be spanking you all the time."
"So you bring me here where these guys get off on whipping the shit out of each other," I snarled. "Didn't you see the earrings and the collars? So where's the dungeon? Is chaining me to the wall and making me drink piss better than a little spanking?"
"Drake, stop. Listen, please."
I blew through his quiet words. I could get going when I was mad enough, and, well, I was mad. "You're worried about spanking me. They want to turn me into a slave. I'm not a fucking slave; I'm not a submissive. I just want things the way they were. They were perfect. I want to go home."
"It's not just a geographical location; home is a place in your mind. We can't go back. We can only go forward." Garrett roughly finger combed my hair. "Can we go forward?"
He was asking me! He was the decision maker; I was the follower. I liked it that way. Garrett was good at being in charge. He always knew when the library books were due and the last day to pay the credit card bill without odious late fees. I wasn't the one in charge, and he was looking at me with a sad, questioning look on his face.
"Fuck!" You're supposed to learn all the good stuff in kindergarten. Swearing was the good stuff, and I didn't learn it until later. "You bring me to this hostel of horrors, and you expect me to answer big questions at the snap of your fingers. You left me all day with these lunatics. You let that big moose spank me. You knew what was going to happen. You didn't tell me, you asshole. I'm done. I'm so fucking done."
"Silence, boy."
The words reverberated off the walls. If the Christmas tree could have grown legs and fled, it would have set a new world record. My mouth clicked shut involuntarily. Our fine innkeeper was filling the doorway. Everything about him spelled fury. He was in a robe hastily belted at the waist, but that did nothing to soften his image. I waited for his eyes to scorch my skin or flames to come from his nostrils.
"I will not tolerate abuse on our property."
Abuse! I was the one blond Godzilla had carried from the dining room. I was the one whose ass had been smacked. I was the one dropped into this nightmare unprepared. I hadn't chosen Christmas vacation at the bondage spa.
The innkeeper's voice softened a fraction. He knew he had us cowed into silence. "Garrett was only moderately more aware of the situation than you. His contact was intentionally elusive until we could evaluate you both together. Perhaps if you didn't fly into a rage at the slightest words that disagree with your perception of the world, you would have heard you lover's, your partner's, your dominant's desperation."
I started to interrupt that Garrett wasn't my dominant, but the growl was so fierce that I hushed in terror at the wild beast in front of me, Homo sapien dominor in his natural environment.
"You don't use the words, more your choice than his," the lord and great master said, "but without a doubt you are such a pair. I agree with Ryan and Landon that you are on the steep end of the submissive curve."
"I don't do this shit?"
"Did I give you permission to speak?" The great lord actually pulled off that phrase. I wisely stayed silent. He gave me a freezing look, suggesting my life form had dropped below termite on the evolutionary scale. "I thought not," he continued, moving to loom over me. "Drake, you want to be a sweet boy, but you try so hard to deny it." He bent down and kissed my forehead.
SCARY!! Snow Crank, Lord of the inn must have a split personality. One moment he was breathing fire, and the next moment he was doing the sweet granny routine and kissing my forehead. I wondered if he baked cookies also.
"Up. In bed, both of you. I'm far too old to have this conversation in the small hours of the morning." Our innkeeper could have taught a drill sergeant a thing or two. Even Garrett looked scared witless as he hustled and bustled us through tooth brushing, finding pajamas, and getting under the covers. "Good night. Stay put until someone comes for you in the morning." He shook a second blanket over our bed.
"I have a conference call in the morning," Garrett said tentatively. At least I wasn't the only one in complete awe of Milton, the mighty innkeeper.
"I'm aware of your schedule," the great master said in a tone that would've made royalty appear humble.
We both looked at each other. Garrett raised an eyebrow in silent amazement, and I almost laughed. The degree of bossiness was so astonishing that laughing was the only appropriate response at least until, Milton turned his baleful glare on me. I shut my eyes and pulled the quilt over both of us. Invisibility and denial, they were the safe strategies.
****
Our jolly innkeeper was as good as his word. At half past eight, he knocked once briskly on the door and barged into our room, bearing a tray of breakfast delights. "Up," he barked at Garrett before I'd even begun to find my bearings and open my eyes to the day. "You have a conference call in one hour. Business presentable and eat breakfast."
Garret didn't argue. He gave Milton a look that was most often reserved for dangerous wild animals and disappeared into the relative safety of the shower. I was left alone with the psycho innkeeper. I glanced at the doorway; I'd never be able to escape fast enough. I buried myself under the blankets; maybe I could pretend that I was still being carried away by the Sandman.
Milton sat down on the bed; his hand moved toward my stack of blankets. Escape was going to be impossible. He smiled at me, a small twist of his lips and lightening of his eyes that were infused with such kindness that I felt entirely guilty for my earlier behaviors and fears.
"You like stern and awful," Milton said gently, his voice a warm rumble. "It's scares you, but you need that thrill. Drake, you're a submissive. Don't deny your very essence."
"I'm not," I said, struggling to a sitting position. "I--"
"You don't do the window dressing of submission: the kneeling, the collars, the sirs with your hands clasped behind your back. You're convinced you don't like that part. I'm not sure if that is real or if you fear the public display of submissiveness. My boys tell the world that their place is at my feet. You may never do that with Drake, but it doesn't make the feelings any different."
"I--"
Milton held his finger over my lip. "No, I'm taking away your ability to protest. I will punish you if I hear any more protests that you are not a submissive."
"That's not fair. You can't tell me what to think. You can't make me be a submissive."
Milton landed an eye watering slap on my ass. He'd pulled me from my cocoon of blankets and landed the swat without hesitation. I'd never been swatted with such a perfection of efficiency.
"Should we play some more?" Milton asked in the same soft rumble.
Play? Play by having this busybody thump on my ass!? Play was something I did with a baseball or with a computer game. I didn't play with these gorillas beating my ass.
"Don't look at me all hurt and shocked," Milton said, skimming over my hair with a gentle hand. "I know absolutely that Garrett spanks you. Ryan spanked you last night, and you sat on his lap and ate your dinner."
"He didn't give me a choice." I hunched my shoulders to my ears and looked down at the blankets askew on the bed.
"Did you really feel that way, or is denial the easy way to sort these feelings in your brain? You have a safeword. Did you use it?"
I shook my head.
"Did you feel physically threatened?"
Ryan was enormous. He could have broken me in half, but he'd been checking his strength. He'd smiled and teased. He'd felt safely dangerous; I hadn't been afraid of him. Now Milton was a different story. Milton made me shiver. He made me want to hide, but he also made me want to poke at him like a boy poking at the snake under the rock with a stick.
"Did you feel physically threatened?" Milton repeated.
"No," I managed, not looking at Milton.
"Good." Milton kissed my forehead in that stupid patronizing gesture that somehow I liked. He laced his fingers in mine and pulled me from the bed. "Breakfast." He rapidly inventoried the items on the tray and grabbed the bread basket and a bottle of juice. I was towed from the room, still in my pajamas. The floor was cold on my feet as I hurried after Milton in a trot.
At least the floor was warm here, not like the rest of the place. We'd halted in a glass room full of plants and indoor waterfalls. I wasn't given time to study the surroundings because Milton dropped a cushion on the floor and pointed.
"Sit."
On the floor. No question. No look of regret that the very last chair in the house was broken.
"If you need an excuse, the floor is warm in this room. It will feel good."
Milton had noticed my mini rebellion. He'd just made it easier for me, but I was still standing, my eyes roving between Milton's fierce countenance and the cushion on the floor.
"I won't ask you to kneel," Milton said in a voice that was way too understanding and kind.
"You could ask all you want, but I'm not kneeling. It's not happening, dude."
"Intentional provocation isn't the smartest strategy," Milton said levelly. "I could have you on your knees licking my boots in five minutes if that was my desire. I could even make you like it. I won't because I respect you, and I understand and even fear the power I wield. Please sit."
"I sat. I would have done anything to get those eyes off me. He was right. I would've knelt if he'd snapped out the order that minute.
"Thank you," he said gravely. He placed the bread basket on the floor. "Pick one. Ten seconds."
Ten seconds. I failed. Milton snatched the bread out of reach. He held two choices in his hand, a muffin or a bagel.
"Simpler. Choose."
I looked at Milton face, neutral and impassive, and back to the breads. I failed again.
"You don't like choices. You rather have me choose. I could be cruel and give you nothing for failing to follow my order and make a choice, but I expected this failure, and I'm not that cruel. I can be cruel. I'm a sadist. I enjoy watching my boys suffer, but it's a suffering we both fully understand. You don't understand. I enjoy the controlled application of suffering; I don't enjoy mindless barbarity." Milton reached into the breads and handed me a thick slice of bread, dotted with nuts and cranberries. "Eat."
I ate the bread. I think it was good, but my mind was occupied by more than bread. I was on the floor, not kneeling, but still on the floor. I was at the feet of a dominant. Dominant--I didn't use that word. Dominants wore black, had beefy muscles, and carried handcuffs in their back pocket. Lord Snow Crank was in khakis with a heavy sweater. He didn't look dominant with his head down as he made notes on the margin of a sheet of paper.
Milton didn't ask; I hadn't even realized he'd noticed, but a second piece of bread arrived in my hand along with a bottle of juice. "Eat, boy." His fingers dug into my shoulder in a reassuring squeeze before disappearing.
I stared at the bread. My stomach rumbled, suggesting I should eat, but my mind rebelled. I was sitting on the floor like a mindless mug. This was ridiculous. Who was this man? No innkeeper had this sort of power over me. I rose to one knee, resolutely determined to get to my feet.
"Sit, boy."
It was an interesting phenomenon. My legs folded without direction from my brain; my butt hit the floor with a thud.
Milton's hand glided over my hair and rested heavily on my shoulder. "Silly boy, you don't want to get up. Relax and enjoy yourself."
Enjoy myself with that thug within striking distance! What was his definition of enjoyment? It didn't match mine; that was for damn sure. I stewed and brooded and shifted uncomfortably, and the great tyrant ignored my antics. I broke the bread into tiny crumbs and tossed the bits toward the door, imagining I was Hansel laying a path toward freedom in the deep, dark woods. Milton stood, gave me a look that would have frozen lava in motion, and swept up the crumbs. He opened a drawer, rummaged in its contents of trowels and seed packets, and pulled out a thin, whippy looking stick.
"This is a nursery cane. I find it most effective for teaching silly, naughty boys to be good boys."
My eyes bugged out of my skull like some zombie creature. I wasn't going to be hit by some stick. I had limits, and this most definitely was one of them.
"Your choice, Drake. Behave and I won't touch you with it."
I hyperventilated, staring at the stick resting ever so casually near Milton's hand. I couldn't take my eyes off that vicious little beast. I needed to get to my feet. I needed to demand that Garrett drive me home immediately. This wasn't fun; this wasn't even on the same planet as fun.
"Your safeword is red. Did your forget that your safeword is red?" Milton swept me into his lap. "Do you want to safeword?"
I choked in air; my chest felt impossibly tight.
"Your safeword is red. What is your safeword?"
"Red."
"What is your safeword?"
"Red," I repeated louder.
"Good boy. You've safeworded." Milton kissed the top of my head, his beard rough and strange against my body.
"But--"
"You safeworded; nothing is going to happen."
"But--"
"I coaxed the safeword from you. I don't hit frantic boys. What's the fun in that?" Milton kissed my hair again. "Nothing terrible is going to happen. I'm only going to talk."
I managed something resembling a nod and took a deep breath, my lungs screaming for oxygen.
"Why did you toss the bread crumbs if you didn't want me to escalate?" Milton asked directly in my ear.
"I wanted to get up."
"And you felt that tossed bread crumbs was a good way to communicate that desire?" I could hear the near laughter in Milton's voice. It did sound insane from another's lips in the bright light of morning.
"You told me I couldn't get up." I winced at the whine in my voice.
"Yes, I did. Were you in physical or emotional distress?"
"I felt like a fool."
"Do you think you're a fool?"
Oh, yeah. I'd been sitting at this bearded freak’s feet. I was a fool or insane or something I didn't want to name.
"Not answering because of fear of incriminating yourself?"
Way too clever. I managed a small nod and wished I was anywhere but here. Vacation at a work camp was suddenly sounding as if it would have been a five star holiday.
"Let yourself go. Imagine you're at one of those exotic holiday destinations where all the men lounge around the pool with well-oiled muscles and rippled abdomens."
"They don't hit you with sticks there."
"At some they do," Milton said with a gentle chuckle.
" I wouldn't go there."
"And miss all the fun." Milton tousled my hair. "You haven't lived until you've been hit by a stick a few times."
"It's an experience I'm happy to miss."
"Then why the breadcrumbs?" Milton asked, returning to his original questions. " I've worked with many boys. A submissive who isn't playing the game doesn't escalate by tossing breadcrumbs across the floor. He quietly gets up and walks out."
"You told me to stay."
"I told you to stay on the floor and eat the piece of bread I handed you. Is that a sane request if I'm not in the dominant role and you're not in the submissive role? I didn't ask you to shut the door against cold or help me carry dirty dishes to the kitchen. I asked you to sit on the floor and eat an unrequested item of food. That is a request of a dominant to a submissive. That was an assertion of my will for no practical or valid purpose."
"Garret doesn't do that. We don't do this."
"You do," Milton asserted, "only you disguise it to placate some misplaced sense of propriety."
I was saved from responding by the arrival of half of the the blue Santa Claus pair. Luke skidded to a stop in front of Milton and tried to reverse course.
"What's in your hand?" Milton asked.
"A book." A fierce blush colored Luke's cheeks, and he dropped his eyes to the floor.
Milton slid me off his lap and placed me in a chair in such a way that the command stay wasn't needed. I understood that I was supposed to remain frozen in place. In one step, Milton reached Luke and took the book from his hand. He glanced at the title and set it down on a bench.
"I'll keep that," Milton said, his eyes raking over Luke who was standing eyes cast to the ground with two fierce red spots on his checks. "What did Tilden and I say this morning?"
"No studying."
"Even for you that book is not pleasure reading."
"No, sir," Luke said, softly, biting his full lip and twisting his fingers together.
"Is this what you want?" Milton picked up the thin stick and traced down Luke's chest before raising his chin with a determined tap.
"No, sir."
"No, sir when you bring a forbidden book in a room where odds tell you that I will be found. A boy not wanting to be found out would have retreated to a quiet alcove on the third floor. Luke, limited intelligence is not one of your traits. Should I tell you what I think?"
"Yes, sir," Luke whispered.
"I think you worry and fret, needlessly mind you, and breaking a simple rule is going to get my eyes on you. Luke, we'll anchor you." Milton lowered the threatening stick and wrapped Luke in a crushing hug. "You have as much of a right to the attention as any of the more demonstrative boys." Milton unwrapped his arms and his voice changed to a harsh demand. "Present yourself for punishment. Hands against the wall."
Luke moved. His eyes glistened with unshed tears, and his fingers curled against the glass wall.
"Put your hand back, and I'll spank you first and send you to fetch the senior cane instead of this gentle nursery cane."
It wasn't gentle. The cane exploded through the air and landed on the presented rear with a whistling force. I flinched for the poor victim as he let out a sharp yip. Six of those devilish strokes were delivered with brutal efficiency. Luke was crying. I could hear his sniffles and see the desperate swallows of someone trying to hold back a torrent of tears.
"Six of the best--a fine traditional number." Milton tossed down the cane and dragged Luke into an all enveloping hug. They stood together, the much smaller Luke almost invisible in Milton's arms. I couldn't hear the words that Milton was whispering in Luke's ear, but they must have been a powerful antidote because I saw a glimpse of a radiant smile on Luke's face as he pulled away and wiped his eyes with his sleeve.
"Thank you for taking the time to correct me, sir," Luke said with a little bow.
"Brat," Milton growled. "Cheek after a caning. Someone is singularly unimpressed by the nursery cane."
"It's not cheek; it's proper contrition."
"I'm keeping the book. Stay here and try to explain to Drake why he shouldn't run as fast and as hard as his legs will take him to a far corner of the earth."
"Milton--"
"Shh." Milton's kiss was fierce. Luke's shoulders hit the wall, and his wrists were trapped in Milton's hand. Milton broke away, but held Luke pinned for a moment. "Mine. You don't worry and fret without my permission. It's that simple."
"Yes, sir." Luke raised his eyes to Milton and seemed to be drinking in his strength and determination. "Yes, sir," he repeated more forcefully.
"That a boy. Luke." Milton's voice was soft now. "You'll make us proud no matter the result of your dissertation, even though I'm absolutely confident that it is beautiful work."
"Thank you," Luke said with a shy blush.
"I speak the truth, boy. You are going to enjoy yourself this vacation even if I have to tattoo the enjoyment on your lovely pale skin. All work and no play makes Luke a dull boy."
Luke and I stared at each other. Without Milton, we’d been doing this quiet staring for five minutes. I knocked my foot against the chair, and Luke stroked the shiny leaf of some exotic plant.
“Bozhe moy!”
“What?”
“Nothing, it’s me being silly.” Luke jammed his hands in his pockets and looked away.
“Did that hurt?” The horrid stick was resting on the potting bench. I wanted to touch that fierce weapon, yet it made my heart pound to look at it.
“I’m wearing heavy pants, and it was the nursery cane. It stung a little.” Luke flushed and looked out the large expanse of glass. “God, it looks cold out there. That insane Landon wanted me to go skiing with him. I don’t have the energy.”
“I went with him yesterday.”
“And you’re standing?”
“Barely,” I said with a laugh. I liked Luke. He was normal, caning aside. He looked as if he felt as awkward as I did, thrown together in this crazy spa of horrors. “What were you reading?” I asked, trying to keep the conversation going.
“A literary analysis of Pushkin’s early work.”
“Exciting.”
Luke shrugged and gave me a very small smile. “If you want exciting you need Mike or Blade. I hide in the corner with the books, much safer that way.”
“It didn’t look safe.”
Luke traced his finger down the cold window. “Milton was right. I was asking for it.”
“Why?” I bit my tongue as the words came out. I had no right to ask prying question. “Sorry. Don’t answer it if you don’t want to.”
Luke gave me a bigger smile this time. “I was ordered to explain our insanity, and I’ve had my encounter of the week with Milton and dangerous implements. I don’t care to encounter him with something less friendly in his hand.”
“Lord and master of the house and all its minions.”
Luke shrugged. “I know the feeling. In certain moods, I keep well out of his way, but he is a gentle and fiercely protective man.”
“He whipped you with a stick.”
“Nursery cane. It was used with young children back before people realized beating their children wasn’t such a great idea.” Luke raked his fingers through his hair. “I can’t believe he left me to explain this. You need Blade or Landon or Sheldon. They can talk about this without turning the color of beets and becoming as articulate as an aardvark.”
“Articulate as an aardvark?”
“I told you I’m no good at this.”
“Luke, I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.” I joined Luke at the windows and looked out over the snow covered garden. “I’m no good at this either. I’m the ultimate wallflower.”
“Figures.” Luke wrapped the glass with his knuckles. “Milton doesn’t do shy and retiring. He’s always after me not to hide from people. He would make me explain this all to someone who is not going to jolly me along. We could spend the morning staring at each other, and then you could see a pissed off Milton.”
“That sounds fun,” I said dryly.
“Oh, it is. His eyes turn black, and he defines the word intensity. I stay well away from Milton on the rampage. The big boys and men can go first.”
“You’re funny.” I bumped Luke’s shoulder in one of those manly gestures of solidarity.
“Sheldon’s the one who can be funny. I’m just the chicken scholar who dips his toe in this craziness before running to safety.”
“You took six with the cane.”
Luke stared out the window, and I wondered if he was going to answer. Had I said the wrong thing?
“It’s not only about the implement,” Luke said slowly, gaining speed as he talked. “It’s about the relinquishment of control. I’m not Austin or Sheldon; I don’t give much up. I play a little at the edges while keeping one hand securely on the safety rope. Milton calls me his low maintenance boy, but I sometimes wish I needed a little more maintenance. Sometimes I wish it was a little easier to let that side of myself fly. I feel like an idiot asking for them to organize my lunch, just today please, because I’m totally having a meltdown, and I’d like Milton or Tilden to spoil me.”
“Did that help?” I couldn’t bring myself to say caning.
Luke nodded solemnly. “Yes, I have permission to unwind, and Milton is going to push until I do.” Luke rested his blue eyes on my face. “That feels good. I have permission to be a little boy. They’ll be all over me today, and I think I’m going to enjoy it. No more books written in pre-revolutionary Russian with way too many letters that smell of library basements. I’m going to go skiing and swimming and be a lazy bum and maybe get my tail dusted a few times. I’m on holiday.”
Luke was as insane as the rest. He had to be. I stared at his slight body, angelic face, and gentle curls. He looked safe and friendly and slightly shy, normal in short, and he’d just suggested that “getting his tail dusted” might be a good thing. I wasn’t going near that damn stick, heavy pants or not. I didn’t get spanked as part of my holiday celebrations.
“Did I say something wrong?” Luke asked, looking at my face that must have been contorted into a grimace.
“You want to be spanked.”
Luke gazed at me, his eyes appraising and full of an intelligence that I’m sure was stunning when it wasn’t focused on me. It made me feel as if he were reading me as easily as he probably read long and complicated books.
“Drake.” Luke gave me a small half smile and shifted to lean against the glass. “Where’s Landon when I need him? He’s good at this. I could teach you Russian. I’m good at that.” Luke took a deep breath, as if he was bracing himself for battle and plunged onward. “You’re a submissive. Part of your psyche is wanting to get spanked. It’s part of mine. Sometimes I like it better than others, but it’s wanted.” Luke looked up at the ceiling and absently rubbed the seat of his pants. “This is hard. I’m going to kill Milton.” Luke laughed. “Fat chance of that. He’d have me bare and over his knee before I made my first assault.”
I could understand the last part. I wouldn’t want an encounter with Milton, my vulnerable flesh bare and quivering as he landed powerful slaps. “How can you want to be spanked? I get spanked because I’m bad.”
“Where’s the calvary or the Golden Horde or anyone?” Luke raked his fingers through his hair again. “We’re submissives. We submit. Never define a word with a derivative of itself. I’m babbling. You’re going to have to ask one of the big boys, one of the boys who really gets this.”
“Luke, I...I don’t want to ask them.” The big boys, as Luke put it, scared me. I wasn’t in their gang, and more I didn’t want to be. The red haired dynamic duo exhausted me watching from a distance, and I wasn’t taking up kneeling as a hobby. I could find an agreeable religion if I wanted to practice kneeling. Pierced boy Mike I had avoided as if he had leprosy. Austin had smiled sweetly, but he was still the generation to believe in Santa and sugarplum fairies.
Luke swallowed hard. He finger combed his blond curls one more time before looking straight at me with intense blue eyes. “You’re spanked because you’re a submissive, not because you're bad. I knew having that book would bring a little fire and brimstone to my ass. I don’t need Milton controlling my work habits; I can do that myself. I need...I need the release of giving it to him. Chinggis Kahn.” Luke sprang from his slouched position and grabbed Ryan’s hand and pulled him into the room.
“It’s nice to be welcome.” Ryan bent and kissed Luke on the cheek and ran his hand down Luke’s back. “But why do I feel like I’m going to be ambushed any second.” Ryan wrapped an arm around Luke’s shoulders in easy and natural companionship. “So what is it? I’m sure I’m not being greeted with such vigor because you need a strong back to haul fifty kilogram sacks of flour.” Ryan turned toward me and pulled me into his affectionate huddle. “You surviving?”
Surviving, I liked that term. I was being recruited into some sort of insanity--I knew I was--but Ryan’s smile was infectious.
“Someone’s been playing.” Ryan picked up the nursery cane and tapped his own thigh before putting it safely in the drawer.
Luke flushed and looked down at his feet. “With Milton,” he muttered.
“Help?" Ryan asked casually while giving me a long look with his brilliant blue eyes.
Luke nodded and leaned into Ryan, hiding his face in the crook of Ryan’s arm. Ryan gently tousled the blond hair.
“Help at all for you?” Ryan asked, directing the question at me.
I was supposed to be helped by watching Luke getting pummeled with a stick--excuse me nursery cane. Help would be sitting safely in Garrett’s lap. Help would be vacationing with sane people even if they meandered around with blue hair or insisted on taking photographs of everything.
“Drake, this is not a novel concept for you. You can put away the shocked bystander look, not that you don’t do it well. You haven’t fled the room, you haven’t called the police, and maybe more pertinent I’ve spoken with Garrett. You’re his submissive.”
I stepped out of Ryan’s magic circle, a reality distortion field that insisted this was good and normal. I wasn't a submissive. Garrett could be a little toppy, but that wasn't the same at all. Garrett's demands were reasonable; he created boundaries because it made it easier for both of us to live together. He sometimes punished me because I wasn't good at staying inside his boundaries; we didn't play these arbitrary and perverted games.
"I'm not his submissive," I spat from the relative safety of the far corner of the room.
"Should I call the police and report spousal abuse?"
"What?"
"Garrett hits you. If it's not about submission, we have a problem," Ryan said levelly. "There are few absolutes in this world, but as far as I'm concerned violence against a fellow human, especially against someone you claim to love, is wrong outside of understood power games. I don't care if you are uncomfortable with the word submissive; you can call yourself the spaghetti partner and Garrett the Parmesan cheese partner. Submissive is nothing but a word, but I care enormously if you don't understand the power dynamic. Garrett's right to hit you comes only from that dynamic, and you have a right to withdrawal at any time. If you truly think he's hitting you for some other reason, not pretending because admitting to kink is unpalatable, you need out of the relationship."
Blunt. I hardly knew this big, blond moose, and he was presuming to give me advice on my relationship. Garrett and I loved each other; we weren't kinksters.
"Did I ask you for your opinion?" I snarled.
"No." Ryan smiled at me kindly as if I were a lost child.
"Fuck you and fuck your worthless advice." I ran from the room, feeling traitorous tears on my cheeks.
Garrett was on the phone. The man should just get a phone implant in his ear, and he'd be happy. I ran past him and plunged into the bathroom. I slammed the door, the crash echoing through the room. I splashed water on my face, but my tears refused to stem. They ran down my cheeks in cascades, Niagara Falls from my own eyes.
"Drake, baby." Garrett pulled me into his chest with reassuring and unhesitating strength. I curled into his fleece and drew long gulping breaths of his aftershave and our laundry detergent.
Sometime during the crying jag, Garrett maneuvered me onto the bed, and I recovered my senses, tucked against his long body, my head pillowed on his arm. He, always the picture of efficiency, wiped my face with a blue bandana, mopping the snot and grime from my cheeks.
"My poor boy." Garrett tightened his arm around my chest and kissed my hair. " Do you want to talk about it?"
No. I'd run out of the room and down the hall, crying like a fool, and Garrett wanted to chat about it. I wanted to forget it.
"What about your phone call?" That was a safe diversionary topic.
"I hung up on them."
"Garrett!" This was my man who would trek to work barefoot in a snowstorm.
"They can call back later; I turned my phone off."
"You love your work."
"I love you more." Garrett turned me to face him. He kissed down my face in gentle, chaste pecks. "How can I make it better? I don't like you sad. Do you want to move back home?"
"Your job?"
"I can find something else."
"You like it here."
"I liked Oregon also. I'm flexible. You're miserable." Garrett pushed the hair off my forehead and kissed my temple. His lips were rough and chapped against my skin. "I don't want to lose you."
"Me either." I wrapped my fingers in his shirt and clung to him like a drowning man gripping the gunwale of a rescue boat.
"Drake." Garrett kissed my forehead again.
If life were only a movie, we would either have had the greatest sex ever, or my fears and troubles would have spilled out of my lips effortlessly. Unfortunately this was real and not a movie. We sat like two gnomes, silent and useless.
Garrett finally broke the silence. He studied me with his deep green eyes, shimmering emerald pools in which I always lost myself. "Who made you upset?"
That was an easier question, not so open ended, a question I could answer and still remain safely hidden.
"Ryan."
"What did he say?"
Ugh. That question was harder. I snuggled against Garrett. "I don't want to talk about it."
"I want you to." The command that had drawn me to Garrett was back in his voice. He cupped my chin in his hand and drew our eyes back together. "I'm not giving you a choice. Tell me what you talked about."
"Milton caned Luke." It wasn't really an answer to the question, but it was something. Garret made some neutral noise that strongly suggested I should go on. "Ryan came in. He called me a submissive. He said I was only spanked because I'm a submissive. You're not a dom; I'm not a sub."
"I am a dominant," Garrett said, his eyes never breaking from mine. "I told you that long ago when you were begging to move in with me. Don't you remember?"
What I remembered about that conversation was Garrett saying yes. We were at a baseball game, watching our minor league team find creative ways to lose again. It was sprinkling and Garrett had tossed his coat over both our heads. The ground crew was pulling out the tarp, and Garrett had said the right answer. I hadn't cared about any of the other trivia.
"You don't wield a whip with your shirt off and your ass stuffed in leather pants. We don't have a dungeon with flickering torches and unspeakable horrors."
Garrett snorted. "Im hardly the candidate for barbarian dominant; I don't have the chest for it. We don't have a basement period, and the one in Oregon was always flooded." Garrett stroked my hair, his fingers gliding through it in long smooth motions. "We should have talked about this earlier. This is my fault."
"It's not," I said hotly. "You haven't done anything wrong. They're the crazy ones."
"I haven't done anything right either." I started to protest. "No, listen to me. I hit you. I enjoy seeing your beautiful ass turn pink and then red. I hit you because I thought you were a submissive. God, what have I done?"
"No." I never wanted to hear that anguish in Garrett's voice again. "I asked you to spank me. I need you to spank me. I'm an idiot if you don't. It was consensual."
"Are you a submissive?"
Garrett's gaze was so penetrating that I thought it was going to go right through my body like some sort of biological x-ray and come out the far side with all the answers neatly typed in proper report form. I swallowed, licked my lips, and tried to find my voice.
"Yes."
I heard the word echo around my brain and around the room. It bounced off the quilt and careened around the Christmas tree before coming back to my ears. I looked at Garrett. Was I supposed to lower my eyes? Was I supposed to say sir? Was I going to find a nursery cane or worse in our kitchen drawer?"
"Good boy. We have work to do."
"I'm not turning into one of them. I don't want to be hit with a stick."
"Shh. You're in no danger of finding a Green Mountain Boy in your bed. Their dominants scare me." Garrett drew me against him. His voice rumbled in my ear. "I've spanked you many times. It's scares me sometimes. I have to know it's what you want. I needed to know you understood that down deep you're a submissive."
"I like...I need...I'm not kinky. It's discipline."
"Drake." Garrett's voice was warm and exasperated. "I know you don't need me to tell you to do the laundry or to get up before noon. Those aren't reasons to hit you."
"You spank me."
"Semantics. I lift my hand to you and create physical pain. I need to know its about submission to me. We can play that it's about the laundry or the dirty dishes, but sometimes I need to drop into reality and know that it's about submission. Can you do that for me?"
"Yes," I whispered, not lifting my head from his chest.
Garrett lay silently as if he were absorbing that tiny one syllable word. He pushed me away and studied my face as if he were a doctor examining a patient with an exotic and unknown disease. "Good." He kissed my lips, deep and loving. "Let's begin the the twelve days of spanking."
He flipped me onto my stomach and bared my ass. His hand fell in gentle, warming swats. I groaned and gave myself to him. With my eyes shut and my ass cozily warm, I was the submissive. Don't tell anyone. It's my secret.
