By His Rules

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