by J. A. Rock
we’re just—It’s temporary,” he finished lamely.
Keaton set the brush aside and ruffled Aiden’s hair
with his fingers. He seemed sad, distant. “I suppose so.”
“I know I’m not really anything to you. I just—I like
doing the discipline thing with you. You’re really good
at it.”
He was making things worse now. Even in the dim
light, he could see Keaton’s mouth set in a thin line. “I’m
sorry,” Aiden mumbled, moving out of Keaton’s lap.
“You’re not anything to me?” Keaton asked quietly.
“I don’t—You can’t—”
“Do you have any idea how much I care about
you?” Keaton demanded, voice suddenly rough with
emotion. “Any idea at all?”
Aiden’s eyes widened. “How much?” he asked.
Keaton flopped back on the pillows and rolled
away from Aiden. Aiden crawled closer and peered
hesitantly over the broad barrier of Keaton’s back. “How
much?” he asked again.
Keaton sighed. “So much that it hurts me to think
about it. But I didn’t want you to feel pressured. I didn’t
want you to feel obligated to stay. And now you say
you’re not anything to me? Maybe we’re not on the same
page at all, Aiden.”
“Are you pissed at me?”
“I’m hurt that you’d dismiss what we have that
way.”
“I’m not dismissing it!”
“That’s what it sounded like.” It was the closest to
anger Aiden had ever heard Keaton come. “If you have
something to say, you should just say it.”
“You can’t expect me to just be able to say exactly
how I feel!” Aiden’s temper rose. “I’m not perfect like
you.”
Keaton rolled over and stared at him. “What the
hell does that mean?”
“You want too damn much! You want to use your
stupid rules to turn me into something I’m not. Your
perfect little robot.”
“Our rules.”
“Whatever.”
Keaton turned back to the wall. “Go to sleep,
Aiden.”
“The hell I will.”
Keaton sighed again. “I’m really not in the mood
for this.”
“And what if I meant it?” Aiden demanded.
“Meant what?”
“What I said—that I love you.”
“Then I wish you’d say it again. But only if you
mean it.”
“What would you say?”
“Take a chance. Find out.”
“What if you tell me to get lost?”
Keaton rolled over and faced Aiden. “Have I ever
told you to get lost? I’ve had to virtually beg you to stay
here with me—twice. Say what you need to say, brat.
Don’t make me spank it out of you.”
“I love you,” Aiden said. It was easy, and as soon
as he said it, he felt light, content, completely relaxed.
“You sure?” Keaton asked.
“I’m positive.”
“Final answer?”
“Keaton! Say it back. I feel like a dork.”
Keaton rolled onto him, pinning him to the bed.
“Make me.”
Aiden struggled, giggling, while Keaton nibbled
his jaw.
“I love you, brat,” Keaton whispered. He kissed
Aiden, and Aiden let go under Keaton’s weight,
surrendered to the tongue plundering his mouth, the
hands pinning his wrists, the scratch of Keaton’s stubble
against his own smooth jaw. He gasped and arched when
Keaton ran the bristles of the hairbrush over his stomach,
his nipples, his throat. He let Keaton decide how to
touch him. This was submission, thought Aiden. Not
Scott forcing him to bear more and more pain without
crying. Not men at Obey ordering him to his knees to
suck them. This willing, necessary surrender to someone
who would never hurt him.
To someone he loved.
Chapter Nineteen
The first time Keaton had ever disciplined
someone, he’d been petrified. His disciplinee was a boy
named Carl, the younger brother of one of Keaton’s
friends. Carl had been new to BDSM and sure that he
wanted “real discipline”—not scenes, not games. Keaton
hadn’t told Carl it was his first time giving a spanking.
He’d tried to be what he thought a disciplinarian should
be: tough, authoritative, no-nonsense. He’d forced his
voice into a deeper register and tried to keep himself on
a higher plane than Carl, standing when Carl sat, sitting
when Carl knelt. After Keaton delivered one command in
a particularly harsh, over-the-top voice, Carl had
laughed nervously. “You sound like someone in a porno,”
he’d said.
Once Carl was actually over Keaton’s lap—his
pants and underwear around his thighs, his upturned
butt trembling and pale—Keaton tried to savor the
moment he’d been fantasizing about for years. But the
situation felt both disappointingly ordinary and
alarmingly strange. They were in Carl’s room, Keaton
alarmingly strange. They were in Carl’s room, Keaton
seated on Carl’s ancient, pilled bedspread. The smells
were familiar, as were the sounds of bedsprings creaking
and two nervous young men breathing, the movie
posters on the wall… The only unusual thing was that
Keaton had a half-naked young man over his lap,
waiting for Keaton to deliver what he’d promised he
could.
Keaton had tried to raise his arm so that he could
bring his hand down on Carl’s ass, but he was frozen.
Once the spanking began, when would it end? How
would he know how hard to hit? Or when Carl had had
enough? Should he lecture while he spanked? He saw
Carl’s muscles tense, as though he sensed something was
wrong. Keaton made himself place a hand on the small
of Carl’s back, to reassure himself as much as Carl. Then
he lifted his hand.
Things blurred after that. He remembered he got
tired faster than he’d thought he would. His palm was
sore, so he sent Carl to stand in a corner. He would have
liked to leave Carl there for a while, to give himself time
to recover, but it made him too anxious, having a silent
boy standing in the corner while Keaton sat on the bed
and tried to think of disciplinarianish things to say. So he
called Carl back to him and continued the punishment.
Carl was responsive, kicking and yelping, but Keaton
felt disconnected from Carl’s pain, eager to be done.
The worst part was that Keaton felt unable to access
the qualities that made him a good leader, someone
people wanted to obey. He’d always been a natural
authority figure, heading up group projects, student
council, and intramural sports teams… commanding
respect without ever demanding it. Now he felt false,
nervous, and a little desperate. He knew Carl could
sense that, and it made him feel all the worse.
In the end, it hadn’t been a terrible experience. Carl
had been sati
sfied with the punishment, and Keaton had
learned a lot. But it hadn’t been what Keaton expected.
Over the next few years, he’d found that was true of most
D/s relationships he attempted—they weren’t quite what
he expected. But as he grew more confident as a top and
as a partner, he learned to take these encounters for what
they were, to revel in their challenges as well as their
rewards.
Now he finally had the relationship he’d been
dreaming about—a domestic discipline partnership with
a man he loved fiercely. It too wasn’t quite what he’d
expected. A discipline relationship didn’t just play out
as a series of punishments and forgiveness—isolated
incidents occurring only when both partners were in
peak Dom/sub form. Aiden might demand Keaton’s
attention at noon or at two a.m., while Keaton was
working or on the phone or enjoying his morning coffee.
He might earn a punishment when Keaton didn’t have
the energy to administer one. It was hard, when Keaton
had his own work, his own life, to be present in Aiden’s
all the time. To always know the right thing to say or do.
For the most part, Keaton enjoyed these challenges
—needed them. And in reality, discipline was only a
small part of their relationship. Aiden’s brat side
manifested itself only on occasion; the rest of the time, he
worked hard to keep himself on track, to follow Keaton’s
rules. He was regaining more of his self-confidence each
day and surprised Keaton with his maturity, insight, and
dedication.
Keaton often found himself watching Aiden when
Aiden was unaware, so proud of and in love with his
boy that he thought he’d burst. But sometimes, in darker
moments, he wondered if he’d always have the strength
or the energy to provide Aiden with what he needed.
How long could two people sustain a relationship like
this? Would he still be pulling Aiden over his knee for
the occasional spanking when they were old and gray
and had hip replacements? The idea amused Keaton but
troubled him too.
Am I what you need? he wondered one day as he
watched Aiden read on the couch. The boy was sprawled
artlessly, completely relaxed. The sight made Keaton’s
heart swell as he thought about how far Aiden had come
from the anxious, angry, damaged young sub who’d
arrived here last month.
Aiden must have felt Keaton’s eyes on him. He
looked up from his play. “What?”
Keaton smiled. “Just admiring the view.”
“You look sad.”
“I’m fine.”
Aiden ran a hand over the front of his pants. “Want
me to make you happy?”
Keaton sat down on the couch. Kissed Aiden
deeply. “Save your energy for your audition. I have to
log a couple of hours of studio time.”
“Tease,” Aiden grumbled.
Keaton kissed him again. “It’ll keep.”
“I don’t know.” Aiden’s brow furrowed in mock
worry as he stroked his crotch. “What if it doesn’t?”
Keaton tackled him, burying the boy under his
weight, kissing and nipping his collarbone. Whether he
was what Aiden needed or not, Keaton wouldn’t sacrifice
what they shared for anything in the world. He took
down Aiden’s pants, sheathed his cock, and buried
himself in his lover, taking Aiden with slow, hard
strokes. Aiden kept his lips pressed against Keaton’s
shoulder, his soft cries blasting heat through Keaton’s
shirt. He came, his shout stifled by the fabric. Keaton
came a moment later, pushing even deeper into Aiden as
he emptied himself. He wrapped Aiden in his arms and
closed his eyes.
“What about your studio time?” Aiden teased.
Keaton gave him another light nip at the juncture
between neck and shoulder. “Quiet, brat.”
Aiden wriggled out from his arms.
“Where are you going?”
“Shh,” Aiden said. “Just relax.” He took a blanket
from the back of the couch and spread it over Keaton.
Then he went to the entertainment center and put on
Keaton’s favorite classical music CD—very softly. He
returned to the couch. “I’m going to make dinner,” he
whispered, leaning down to drop a kiss on Keaton’s
cheek. “When you wake up, it’ll be ready.”
“I’ll help,” Keaton murmured, eyes still closed.
“Uh-uh. You’re not the only one who knows how to
take care of people, Keaton Hughes. Just lie here. I’ll tell
you when you can get up.”
Keaton smiled into the pillow. “Yes, Sir.”
This was what Keaton sometimes let himself forget
—that there were two of them supporting this
relationship. That all the responsibility did not fall on
Keaton to keep things running smoothly. Even though
Keaton made the decisions and enforced the rules, he
and Aiden belonged to each other. It was a good feeling,
one Keaton thought tops often failed to acknowledge: he
belonged to somebody.
Chapter Twenty
Keaton was going to kill him.
Aiden had promised him before he left for
Cleveland that he would follow the rules, even once he
was out of Keaton’s sight. Three meals a day? Of course.
In bed by midnight? He’d be in bed by ten thirty, since
the audition was at eight a.m. He’d be respectful to
everyone he met, from homeless people to program
directors; he’d call Keaton if nerves overwhelmed him.
He’d be good.
The three-hour drive had been uneventful. He’d
checked in to his hotel, gotten a snack from the vending
machine—promising himself he’d get a real lunch soon
—and headed over to the campus to look around. He
met with one of the current grad students, who told him
about the program and answered a lot of his questions.
Even in bitter-cold December, the campus was
appealing. The rehearsal hall where most classes were
held was spacious and attractive. At two he interviewed
with the program directors, who were friendly and put
him immediately at ease. He got the sense that they liked
him too. After the interview, he caught a bus downtown
to look at the Cleveland Playhouse. Grad students in the
MFA program worked closely with the Playhouse and
occasionally got to appear in the prestigious regional
theater’s productions.
Everything was fine until five o’clock rolled around
and Aiden returned to the hotel. He hadn’t eaten lunch,
and he had no intention of eating dinner. He checked his
phone and saw he had a text from Keaton. It read, Break a
leg tomorrow. Love you! Aiden smiled.
He ran through his monologues a couple of times
but didn’t feel comfortable performing at full volume in
case people in the neighboring rooms could hear. He got
a bag of animal crackers from the vending machine and
went to the lobby to use the computer.
He had an e-mail
from Hera with a picture of a bull trying to shake off a
small dog that was attached by the jaws to one of its
horns. The caption read: “Sometimes you gotta take the
bull by the horns!” Good luck tomorrow, Hera had written.
I know you’ll do great.
He returned to his in-box and did a double take.
He had an e-mail from Scott.
He debated whether or not to open it. He could just
send it straight to the trash. But curiosity got the better of
him.
Hey Aiden, the message read. We ought to hang out
sometime & talk. Unless your boyfriend’s the jealous type—
don’t want to get that sexy ass of yours in trouble! Scott.
Aiden deleted the e-mail. What the hell was Scott
doing contacting him now? Hang out and talk? About
what? How Scott had beaten him and fucked him even
though Aiden safe worded? How Scott was a sadist and a
creep and Aiden never wanted to see him again?
Aiden returned to his room but couldn’t shake the
e-mail. What did Scott mean, “unless your boyfriend’s
the jealous type”? Was he implying Keaton wouldn’t let
him hang out with another top? Keaton wasn’t overly
possessive. Aiden could hang out with anyone he
wanted without getting in trouble.
It was only 5:53. Another four hours before he could
even think about going to bed. He tried watching TV but
couldn’t concentrate. He could go out for dinner, but he
really didn’t think his stomach could handle food,
nervous as he was about tomorrow. Maybe he could just
go out for a drink—a glass of wine? Probably not a good
idea on an empty stomach. A movie? A show? It was
Tuesday night—not a lot of shows on, probably. Besides
he didn’t want to watch truly talented actors the night
before he got up and made a fool of himself auditioning
for Case’s program.
He remembered Little Italy was close to the
campus, and caught a bus toward that area. He walked
around for as long as he could stand in the cold, enjoying
the smells, the Christmas decorations in the small shops.
He went into a bakery and bought a lemon bar, which he
ate most of, then got a coffee, which he knew was a bad
idea. He tried not to think about Scott or about how
much he missed Keaton. He tried not to think about the
fact that he and Keaton were probably operating on
borrowed time, or about how little this seemed to faze