Blade and the Color Red

Blade and the Color Red

“Ryan, I need it. Please.”

Ryan wrapped his arm around Blade’s shoulder and with his other hand ruffled Blade’s hair. “Mr. Zath, this is not the time and place.”

“God, I’m so sick of being Mr. Zath. I want to be boy. I’m dying here.”

“Hardly.” Ryan smiled and kissed Blade’s forehead. “The windows are open; we can’t do it here.”

Blade looked at the students lounging on the grass under the white blossoms of the dogwoods. Sound would carry. Ryan was right, not that Blade wanted to admit it. In the dead of winter with the windows sealed and music playing too loud, they could hide a bit of kink. In the spring, Blade’s desperation rose, and they could hide nothing. They could hardly have vanilla sex without the little peeps knowing; a good beating was impossible.

“Are you scheming? I know that look on you, boy.”

“Me,” Blade said with false innocence. “I never scheme or plot.”

“Right.” Ryan laughed. “You’re worse than a whole pack of seniors with spring fever. I will not be coerced into something. Remember who is the dominant in this family.”

“Yes, Ryan.” Blade batted his eyelids, knowing the effect that had on Ryan.

“Little devil. I should put you on kitchen cleanup.”

“I’ll leave you to explain it to the little darlings. Mr. Zath is in trouble with his husband. That will go over well.”

“I make out the Saturday detention roster. Should I pencil your name as proctor, Mr. Zath?”

“You wouldn’t dare, Mr. Fisher.”

“Don’t bet on it.”

****

“Silence, boys. I’m aware it’s spring, and I would like to be running after butterflies and splashing through creeks as much as you, but alas the school calendar suggests a month remains.” Blade tried to look stern at the young man sitting in front of him, the young man who had just hit him with a paper airplane. He remembered those days, and he was more than a little sympathetic to the owner of those bright blue eyes and a smattering of freckles on cheeks desperate for the feel of the sun. “This is not aviation or engineering class. Flying missiles will have to wait for a different subject.”

Several of the boys laughed. They looked out the window and squirmed in their seats as boys were want to do in the thrall of spring fever. Hadn’t Blade heard those words enough, not only from teachers, but from dearest Milton? He could recite them in his sleep and still hear them in his head. The grass and the sun were far more exciting than history which was about the long dead as far as they were concerned. He could understand the allure, but he was the teacher now. He was supposed to motivate, not send them to scamper through the fields.

“See me after class, Gideon.” Blade folded the plane and placed it on his desk.

“Are you going to write me up?” The boy’s soft eyes were pleading, even though his voice had adopted a casualness to suggest a man who had seen everything. He could be the picture of innocence when he wanted to be, and Blade was sure he was not as tough as he pretended with his friends. The boy was manipulative, but there was a softness hidden under his antics, a softness he hid desperately from his classmates.

“After class. Let’s return to the causes of the First World War.”

The bell rang and students tumbled from the classroom in a stampede that would have rivaled cattle escaping the slaughter house. They charged in a clatter of scraped chairs and excited chatter. Gideon shoved his books in his backpack in slow motion, his eyes everywhere but on the teacher sorting his papers on his desk.

“You’re going to write me up?” The false casualness was gone; Gideon was in full pleading mode.

“Second time this week. Saturday detention it is.”

“Mr. Zath--”

“No,” Blade interrupted Gideon’s plea. “You chose to throw the airplane. You pay the penalty. It’s very simple. You’re dismissed.”

“Please.” Two fat tears dripped down Gideon’s cheek.

“No, you’ve had Saturday detention before. It’s not that awful. You’ll get all your homework finished and can have a free weekend.”

“Mr. Fisher...Can I have it next week? Please.”

“Do you have a problem with Mr. Fisher?” Blade sat on the end of the desk, a habit he’d picked up from both Ryan and Milton. It was supposed to be less intimidating than behind the desk in a chair, not that he could fathom how they found him intimidating, but scuttlebutt was that Mr. Zath was a hard ass and don’t cross him. “He’s dean of discipline. I imagine that’s not much fun.”

“He’s your husband,” Gideon said with a wry expression. “You’ll rat anything I say to him.”

“You’re in his class?”

“Yeah,” Gideon said, the false disinterest back in his voice.

“Is it a massacre?”

Gideon glanced up before focusing on the floor again.  

“How bad?” Blade pressed.

“I’m passing,” Gideon mumbled.

“Ask him to help you. He won’t bite your head off; he only looks that way sometimes.”

“He bawled me out last time.”

Blade smiled gently. “He’s scary when he’s in lecture mode and the side of the angels is on his shoulder. You haven’t been doing the reading?”

“It’s boring. I hate to read. I don’t care about those stupid books. People have cars now and don’t die of consumption.”

“Saturday morning will give you plenty of time to read. Maybe you’ll catch up.”

“In your dreams,” Gideon said under his breath. “May I go?”

“Yes.”

***

“He let you off?”

Gideon dropped his tray on the cafeteria table and straddled the chair. “No, the asshole gave me detention with his fairy husband. Saturday morning slaving over the books.”

“Bastard,” Drake, Gideon’s roommate and closest friend said with a smile. “Better you than me. I’ll be sleeping in.”

“Don’t rub it in. I can’t believe he gave it to me for a paper airplane. It wasn’t like I blew up the chemistry lab.”

“That was an accident.”

“You might have convinced these idiots of that, but I know the way your mind works.” Gideon stabbed the mystery meat and bit off a large chunk.

Drake grinned and brushed his scattered hair from his forehead. “I don’t mess with Fisher and Zath. You’re the idiot to take them on. They scare me straight.”

Gideon jerked off another tough piece of meat with his teeth. 

“Silverware, gentlemen, please.” Ryan sat on a chair that was instantly dwarfed by his balk. “I think I’ll join you.”

“Idiot,” Drake hissed and reached for his knife.

“Do we have a problem?” Ryan asked in his most genial voice. He’d overheard the conversation, and he’d already received the Saturday detention notice, but he felt no need to share that information.

“No, sir,” Drake said promptly. 

Gideon only looked at his meat before pushing it away. “I’m not hungry.” He moved to stand up.

“Keep me company,” Ryan said easily, “and your friend will kill you if you abandon him with me. I’m the devil with the infuriating smile or worse.”

****

“Detention go OK?” Blade looked up from the papers he was grading. He hadn’t bothered to dress. His boxers and faded T-shirt were fine for a Saturday morning. Even in the early afternoon, most of the boys were barely stumbling out of bed, especially as the day had broken with clouds and a cold drizzle. Spring had been chased away by New England winter once again.

“I tried with young Gideon, but he’s taking the difficult approach like someone else I might know.”

“I’ve been good,” Blade said and launched himself at Ryan. “My skin’s lily white, and I’ve been the perfect boy.” 

“The whip in the refrigerator by the juice and the crop on the bathroom sink were kinda obvious, don’t you think?”

“You’re absent minded. I was just helping you remember. The memory goes in old age.”

“Old age! I’m three years older than you.”

Blade snorted. “You’re old and weak and you forget to whip your boy. Early Alzheimer’s for sure.”

“Boy.” Ryan palmed Blade’s neck in a grip that was far from comfortable, the fingers threatening Blade’s airway in ways that were both frightening and appealing. “Does someone need a reminder of their status in this household?”

“I’m good. I’m the consort of an old man. I know my status.”

“Up.” Ryan fisted Blade’s hair and jerked him to his feet. Everyday clothes stayed in the closet, but Ryan covered Blade in a heavy oilskin coat that hung off his shoulders and covered his knees before shoving his feet into boots without the benefit of socks. He grabbed a backpack from under the kitchen sink and pushed Blade into the hall, his arm wrapped around his husband’s waist in a pretense of normalcy.

The morning promise of drizzle had turned into a pelting rain. Rain slapped at Blade’s face and splashed over his boots as they hurried to an academic building rarely used. The stone turrets of the original hall swirled in the mist and the keys clanged like keys to the famous Newgate Prison. Ryan’s hand was back on Blade’s neck, harsh and uncompromising. He pushed Blade down a deserted corridor decorated with dust and yellowing posters. The stairs were gray and cracked and the basement was lit with bulbs hanging on bare wires.

“No wonder they don’t show this building to parents,” Blade quipped. 

“Quiet.” Ryan shook Blade, rattling Blade’s teeth and making Blade’s head spin.

The furnace was clanking with the sudden cold snap. Sparse light came in through the high, barred windows caked with dirt of a near century of misuse and infrequent washings. Water for the boiler gurgled through the pipes. 

“Strip. Leave the boots on. Hands on the wall.

Raincoat, shirt, and boxers fell to the floor. Blade leaned against the wall, his hands slipping on the moist and grime encrusted concrete. He braced himself, a shiver racking his body as he waited.

The hand fell softly, a caress down his spine, warm and comforting. The lips were hot on Blade’s bare shoulder. A finger traced a familiar pattern of whip strokes, long lines from shoulders to knees. Ryan’s lips kissed down the pattern, ticklish and irritating for a boy desperate to feel the bite of the whip. Blade wiggled and looked over his shoulder.

“Be still, boy.”

“Get on with it. You’ve admired my whiteness enough.”

“Your whiteness?” Ryan echoed the words.

Blade heard the mistake in the words. He was Ryan’s. This was Ryan’s choice. He was the submissive, but his flesh itched and his mind whirled. He needed a beating. He needed the sting of the lash against his flesh. He needed to be the boy, not Mr. Zath. He needed to fly.

“Whose choice is this?” Ryan’s fingers traced the defined shoulder muscles; his arm circled the slim waist.

“Yours Ryan. It’s your choice.”

“I can stroke my lovely boy as easily as I can beat him. What shall I do?”

“Do as you wish. It is your choice.”  Blade bowed his head and submitted to the caress. It was Ryan’s choice. He took what Ryan gave.

Blade lurched forward as Ryan’s hand slammed against the unblemished flesh. There was no warm up, only a drenching rain of hard blows. Blade couldn’t count. They were too fast. They were making him gasp and struggle to keep upright on the broken floor. He heard the crunch of his boots on the worn concrete as he fought for his balance.

“This is my choice--a well-beaten boy.”

Wood slammed against Blade’s ass. The scream echoed around the basement, still reverberating as the next blow fell. These were slower than the hand spanks, but still too fast to catch his breath or maintain any composure. Blade was crying, broken and hoarse sobs. He leaned on his hands and prayed for strength.

The crop was sheer fire, line after line of raw brutality. Blade’s screams had died to harsh gurgles between gasping breaths. He fought to stay upright. Sweat dripped down his face and stung his eyes. There was nothing but the pain he took for his master. His body was Ryan’s to paint the colors he chose. He was nothing but Ryan’s. He was Ryan’s boy. He welcomed Ryan’s gift of pain; he embraced the pain.

The hands and lips were painful on his super sensitized skin. The lube was perfunctory, and Blade hardly felt it in the heat. Ryan was inside in one conquering stroke, his body consuming his boy.

“Come with me, my beautiful one.”

****

Ryan must have carried him back. He didn’t remember much. He was face down on the bed, cool towels on his back. Blade could hear voices somewhere. They sounded far away.

“He’s come down with something. He’s in bed for the weekend.” Ryan was chasing off a student. 

Come down with something, Blade smiled. He’d come down with something all right--a severe need to be Ryan’s boy. He muffled the groan as he shifted toward the glass of juice and waited for his king to return. Ryan’s boy, not Mr. Zath, not Blade, Ryan’s and always Ryan’s or at least until the beating wore off.