By His Rules

by J. A. Rock

  * * * *

  When Hera let him out in the parking lot behind the

  bar the next morning, Aiden thought seriously about

  getting into his car and driving away—out of town, out

  of state, heck, maybe even to Canada. He could start

  somewhere new, somewhere no one would know what a

  fuckup he was.

  Instead he drove to Keaton’s.

  Keaton wasn’t home from his morning class yet, so

  Aiden parked across the street and waited in his car,

  chewing his nails and trying to will his growling stomach

  silent. He studied the house. Its exterior was clean, tidy,

  relaxed. Like Keaton.

  Aiden tensed as Keaton’s Solara turned into the

  driveway. He waited until Keaton was in the garage

  before making his way slowly up the drive.

  Keaton flashed him a grin. “I thought you’d bailed

  on me. Was the guest room that disappointing?”

  Aiden blushed. “I lost the garage code. I didn’t

  want to wake you up, so I slept at Hera’s.”

  He felt Keaton studying him, taking in his

  disheveled appearance. He knew he stank of alcohol,

  smoke, and sweat, and wished he’d showered at Hera’s.

  “You can always wake me. I’m a light sleeper

  anyway.”

  “Yeah, me too.” Aiden swallowed.

  Keaton held out a hand. “Come on in.”

  It felt natural to take Keaton’s hand; Aiden did it

  without even realizing. But the electric jolt that shot

  through him when he did made him pull away. Keaton

  let him go, not seeming to notice or mind. Aiden

  followed Keaton inside.

  “Hungry?

  I’m

  gonna

  make

  a

  couple

  of

  sandwiches.”

  Aiden didn’t feel like eating, but guilt over last

  night made him say, “Sure.”

  They ate in silence. Keaton didn’t press Aiden for

  details about where he’d been and why, just talked about

  his morning class. The sandwich was good, and it helped

  Aiden’s headache. But almost immediately after he’d

  finished, he felt sick. He excused himself to the bathroom

  and threw up.

  He showered, which made him feel a little better.

  He was exhausted and decided to take a nap. He lay

  down on the huge, soft guest bed and pulled the covers

  up to his chin. The comforter smelled freshly laundered,

  and the pillows were plump and downy. He was asleep

  in minutes.

  He dreamed he heard footsteps pounding up the

  stairs. The door flew open, and Scott stormed into the

  room. He grabbed Aiden’s hair, trying to drag him out of

  the bed. Aiden fought and shouted, kicking off the

  covers. Scott raised his other hand to strike Aiden.

  Suddenly Scott disappeared.

  There was a weight on the bed beside Aiden. The

  covers were once more drawn up to his chin. He tried to

  open his eyes to see if Scott was still there. A hand

  smoothed his hair. Aiden whimpered and went still

  under the touch. He couldn’t tell if he was asleep or

  awake.

  When he woke, it was late afternoon. He went

  downstairs. No sign of Keaton at first, but then Aiden

  heard him clear his throat in the den. Aiden wandered

  the house, restless and anxious. He wished he could

  make himself settle down and read or watch TV. He

  walked around the house, looking at the paintings on the

  walls. Some were Keaton’s; others were by artists Aiden

  didn’t know.

  By dinnertime, Aiden was stressed and irritable.

  “I’m going to the store to get some stuff for dinner,”

  Keaton said. “You’re welcome to come.”

  “No, thanks,” Aiden muttered.

  Keaton left, and Aiden considered hitting the bars

  again, but he didn’t have the energy. How was it

  possible to be exhausted and restless at the same time?

  He suddenly resented Keaton for leaving—and for

  refusing to have sex with him. Sex would definitely calm

  Aiden down, distract him from the mess in his mind.

  He was too hot. He took off his sweatshirt and

  threw it on the couch, pleased with how it detracted from

  the room’s tidiness. He lay on the couch and turned on

  the TV, and watched two episodes of some stupid

  sitcom. When Keaton came home, Aiden didn’t return

  his greeting.

  “Anything good on?” Keaton asked, entering the

  living room.

  “No,” Aiden said. “A bunch of shit.” He tossed the

  remote as hard as he dared. It lodged between the

  cushion and the arm on the other end of the couch.

  “Something bothering you?” Keaton asked.

  “Nope.”

  “Nothing you want to discuss?”

  “I just want some fucking time alone, if that’s all

  right.” He held his breath, waiting to see how Keaton

  would react.

  Keaton just nodded. “Sure.” He left the room and

  busied himself in the kitchen.

  Aiden seethed his way through another episode of

  the sitcom. A movie came on that he used to like, but

  tonight found irredeemably boring. He thought about

  Keaton in the next room—Keaton’s eyes, Keaton’s hands,

  Keaton’s ass… He wondered what that ass looked like

  bare. He wondered what Keaton’s cock looked like.

  Thick? Long? Cut? He rolled over, ran a hand over the

  front of his pants. Decided that, even if he hated Keaton,

  it was bad manners as a guest to jack off on his host’s

  couch.

  He slid off the couch and went into the kitchen,

  where Keaton was putting groceries away. “Need help?”

  he muttered.

  Keaton glanced at him. “I’m almost done.”

  “What are your plans for tonight?”

  “I was going to shut myself in the studio for a

  couple of hours. You?”

  Aiden shrugged. “I might go out again.”

  Keaton nodded.

  “You don’t go out much?” Aiden asked.

  “Once in a while,” Keaton said. “I’m kind of a

  homebody.”

  “I’d never seen you at Obey before that one night.”

  “I’ve only been a couple of times. It’s not really my

  scene.”

  “What is your scene?”

  Keaton seemed unfazed by Aiden’s prying. “Hard

  to explain. Not clubs.”

  “But you are a top?”

  “Yes. I’m just not into chains and leather and toys.”

  “So what are you into?”

  “Submission,” Keaton said simply.

  Aiden didn’t understand this man. All at once, it

  seemed that every nerve in him was alive and whipping

  back and forth; he didn’t want to sit or stand or lie down.

  He didn’t particularly want to exist. “Scott was into that

  too.”

  “I don’t think Scott’s and my definitions of

  submission are the same.”

  “He said I had to stop thinking about what I want

  and do what he wants, no matter what.”

  Keaton put a couple of boxes of pasta into the

  cupboard. “I don�
��t think what a sub wants and what a

  dom wants have to be—or should be—mutually

  exclusive.”

  “If a sub didn’t cooperate with you, what would

  you do?”

  “I’d try to find out the reason for the sub’s

  resistance. I make it clear at the beginning of a

  relationship what my expectations are, and what the

  consequences are for not meeting those expectations.

  Sometimes a sub will accept the consequences in the

  abstract, as part of a discussion, but when he actually

  finds himself facing them, he gets anxious and fights.”

  “And that’s when the fun begins,” Aiden said

  softly, almost to himself.

  “What do you mean?” Keaton sounded curious.

  Aiden swallowed. “Do you think it’s hot, when they

  fight you? When they’re scared?”

  “No,” Keaton said quietly. “That might be fun in

  play, as long as both parties are into the fantasy. But I

  don’t really play games.”

  “Neither did Scott.”

  Keaton studied him for a long moment. “No. I

  guess he didn’t.” Keaton got himself a glass of water and

  handed Aiden one too, even though Aiden hadn’t asked.

  Keaton drank, then set the glass down and said, “I

  believe in a mutually fulfilling D/s partnership. I don’t

  believe a dominant partner has the right to harm or

  frighten a sub. Submission is about trust.”

  Aiden’s throat suddenly felt tight. “I think I’m

  gonna go for a walk.”

  “Want some company?”

  Aiden shook his head.

  “Remember the garage code?”

  Aiden managed a small smile. “Yeah.”

  Aiden left the house and started walking, not caring

  where he went. The sky was dark, the moon clouded

  over, and Aiden ignored the lit windows of the houses

  he passed, the families watching TV, eating a late dinner,

  or trying to get the kids to bed. A dog barked at him

  from a fenced yard. He felt completely alone, like he

  could disappear and it wouldn’t change a thing about

  the universe. Keaton would probably be glad. He’s probably

  regretting that he ever asked me to stay with him.

  Submission is about trust.

  Yeah, but it’s also about doing what someone else wants.

  And I’m not into that anymore. From now on, I’ll do whatever

  the hell I want.

  He kicked a stone down a drain and tried not to

  think about Keaton’s smile, Keaton’s hand in his.

  * * * *

  Keaton had a hard time concentrating on his work.

  He knew it wasn’t really his place to worry about Aiden.

  Aiden was an adult, perfectly capable of making his own

  decisions.

  Except that Keaton had known more than a few

  adults who had trouble making their own decisions, who

  longed for guidance and security. Boundaries. Aiden,

  obviously an intelligent young man, was lost right now.

  Scott Runge had harmed Aiden physically and

  psychologically, and it would be a while before Aiden

  felt safe again. In the meantime, the boy was letting his

  health—and his attitude—go to hell.

  Keaton had yet to see Aiden eat anything that could

  Keaton had yet to see Aiden eat anything that could

  be called a meal, and he was fairly certain Aiden had

  thrown up what little of his lunch he’d eaten. When

  Keaton had sat on the bed beside Aiden this afternoon,

  trying to ease the boy through his nightmare, he’d been

  struck by how small Aiden looked in the large bed, the

  covers kicked askew—painfully thin, huddled in the

  center of the bed in a T-shirt and underwear, his ribs

  jutting as he drew quick, shallow breaths.

  If somebody didn’t look out for the kid, he could

  end up in real danger.

  Keaton toyed with the idea he’d been trying to keep

  at bay. On one hand, it seemed that the last thing Aiden

  needed was another D/s relationship with someone he

  didn’t know well, didn’t trust. But the type of

  relationship Keaton had in mind would be very different

  from what Aiden had had with Scott. Keaton had no

  intention of taking advantage of the boy, of harming or

  frightening him.

  It’s not a good idea, Keaton warned himself. He

  barely knew Aiden, after all. But there was something

  about him—underneath Aiden’s skittishness, his

  defensive sullenness, was a beautiful, intelligent,

  talented young man. Keaton longed to get to know him

  better.

  He heard the front door open. Aiden had barely

  been gone ten minutes. Keaton forced himself not to go

  downstairs, to let Aiden have time to himself. Even

  though I don’t think that’s what he really wants. Aiden

  needed to know that what he asked for would be

  respected—he’d said he wanted alone time. He had a

  right to privacy, without Keaton watching and worrying

  over him.

  The TV went on, the volume far too loud. Keaton

  smiled, recognizing he was being baited. Yes, it was

  possible that Aiden Cole would benefit from some

  discipline. But Keaton had no intention of rushing things

  or pressuring the boy. He painted for another half hour,

  turning up his music to counter the TV’s volume, which

  decreased when it drew no reaction from Keaton. When

  he finally went downstairs, Aiden lay on the couch,

  staring at the ceiling. The TV had been muted.

  “I have an idea,” Keaton said.

  “What?” Aiden muttered.

  “I’m a member of an all-night gym in Frankfort.

  What do you say we head over there for a little while?”

  Aiden sat up. “Really?”

  Keaton almost laughed at the boy’s wide-eyed

  eagerness. “Really.”

  “I’d like that. A lot.”

  “Then that’s what we’ll do. There are a couple of

  rules though.” He watched Aiden carefully to see how he

  reacted to this statement. Aiden sat up straighter, looked

  directly at Keaton, and waited. “The first is that the

  workout lasts no more than an hour.” Keaton assumed

  anyone with Aiden’s eating issues was a candidate for

  exercise addiction as well. “The second is that, when

  we’re done, I buy you a protein shake from the smoothie

  bar, and you drink the whole thing.”

  Aiden looked uncertain and a little disgusted, but

  finally he nodded. “All right. I’ll pay for it, though.”

  Keaton shook his head. “My treat.”

  “But—”

  “No,” Keaton said firmly. He noted how quickly

  Aiden stilled. The boy’s muscles relaxed visibly, as

  though Keaton’s “no” had unburdened him somehow.

  “Okay,” Aiden said, still looking at Keaton. Aiden

  wasn’t intimidated, wasn’t frightened. He accepted

  Keaton’s rules.

  The drive to Frankfort took about twenty minutes.

  Keaton loved this gym for the drive as well as its

  insomniac-friendly hours. At two or three a.m., when his

  mind was wild and his body singing with energy, the


  dark, winding road to Frankfort was a comfort and an

  adventure. He loved the town of Frankfort at night—the

  historic brick buildings dark and vacant, the glow of

  streetlamps on Main Street…

  Tonight he enjoyed the drive even more than usual,

  because Aiden was finally talking. The idea of working

  out seemed to have cheered him immensely, and he

  chatted happily with Keaton, cracking jokes and telling

  stories. At the gym, Keaton left Aiden in the weight room

  while he made use of the indoor track and lap pool. After

  an hour, he returned to the weight room to find Aiden

  diligently bench pressing what looked to Keaton like far

  too much weight for such a slight body.

  “Let’s hit the showers, kid,” Keaton said.

  “Just a few more.” Aiden strained to lift the bar.

  “Uh-uh.” Keaton took the bar from him and set it

  back on the frame. “And what do you think you’re doing

  benching without a spotter?”

  “He’s spotting me.” Aiden nodded at a good-

  looking, dark-haired man on the rowing machine, who

  was watching Aiden hungrily. “He’s been spotting me all

  night.”

  “Very funny. That’s dangerous and foolish. Come

  on.”

  Aiden followed Keaton to the locker room. Keaton

  stripped down to his underwear, keeping his back to

  Aiden. Watching Aiden at the bench press had produced

  uncomfortable evidence of his interest in the younger

  man. He wrapped a towel around his waist. Aiden, too,

  seemed shy. He removed his shirt, and Keaton tried not

  to hiss at the few pink welts and yellow bruises that

  hadn’t faded completely from his back and torso. Aiden

  slipped quickly into a shower stall and, a few seconds

  later, reached around the curtain to hang his pants and

  underwear on a hook.

  Keaton showered, hating Scott Runge with a fury

  that made his head hurt. He closed his eyes, trying not to

  think about Aiden, naked, soaped up, just one stall over.

  He wished he could slip inside that stall with Aiden and

  rub soap into the boy’s pale skin, being careful not to

  press too hard on his bruises.

  Cut it out, Hughes. He just came out of an abusive

  relationship. He tried to offer you sex in exchange for a place to

  stay. He doesn’t know what he wants right now.

  Showered and dressed, they headed for the

  smoothie bar. Aiden looked increasingly apprehensive

  as they approached. “I’m really not hungry,” Aiden said.

  “You didn’t eat dinner. You barely ate lunch. You