listening to you moan about your future—or lack thereof.
He pictured Keaton in his studio—long, thin hands
kneading clay, brushing on glaze, stepping back to cast a
critical eye on what he’d created. Aiden thought he’d like
to watch Keaton work sometime.
Keaton had said he liked Aiden. Liked him as a
friend? Or as more?
“You need time to heal,”
Keaton had
told him last night. What was there to heal from? Aiden
thought bitterly. Scott had turned out to be too intense
for Aiden. Their last night together had spooked Aiden,
but it had been his own fault for coming home drunk, for
not being stronger, for not repeating his safe word.
I’m not fragile. I’m not broken. Keaton doesn’t need to
treat me like I am. He can fuck me, hurt me, punish me…
What would it be like, to be punished by Keaton?
Keaton didn’t seem very tough. But maybe Keaton was
holding back because he saw Aiden as delicate. The
more Aiden thought about it, the angrier he got—at
Keaton for holding back, and at himself for showing such
weakness around Keaton. No wonder Keaton thought he
was fragile—he’d spent last night weeping in the man’s
arms. He needed to be tougher, show Keaton he could
handle anything.
He needed to force Keaton to reveal his dom side.
The next couple of days were rough. Aiden was
moody and irritable, snapping at Keaton whenever
Keaton tried to make conversation. He couldn’t sleep
and threw up everything he ate—discreetly; he didn’t
want Keaton to catch him in such a vulnerable state
again.
He waited for Keaton to get fed up, snap, punish
him. It didn’t happen.
“I rented a couple of movies if you’re interested,”
Keaton said on Saturday night.
“I’m not,” Aiden said.
“Okay then. Do you mind giving me a hand with
dinner?”
“I’ve got some stuff to do. I’m not eating, anyway.”
“You sure? Homemade pizza. My specialty.”
Aiden wrinkled his nose. “Yuck.”
Keaton stood in the foyer, sorting through the day’s
mail. “One of my students is making a ceramic pizza for
her final project. It’s pretty cool looking.”
“Why do you teach at a community college?”
Keaton looked up. “What do you mean?”
“Are you not qualified to teach at a real school?”
Aiden asked nastily.
Keaton looked more surprised than offended. “I
guess I fail to see how community college isn’t a ‘real
school.’ Part of the reason is that the job was available—
it’s tough to find work in this economy. You’ve got to
take what you can get. Also, major universities tend to
breed a lot of departmental politics. I feel like I deal less
with the political side of academia at Florence.”
Aiden wasn’t sure how to respond in a way that
would provoke Keaton. He flopped back on the couch,
letting his legs sprawl open. “I fucked a college
professor once. Not one of my professors, I mean. But he
taught somewhere near here, and he was in town for the
weekend. He wanted me to pretend I was a student. Are
you into schoolboy scenes?”
“Can’t say I am.” Keaton tossed an envelope onto
the side table.
“Have you fucked a lot of guys?”
Keaton looked pointedly at Aiden. “That’s really
not your business.”
“Just asking.”
“I’m going to go start dinner. You’re welcome to
help.”
“Why should I help with something I’m not going
to be able to eat without getting sick?” Aiden
complained. “Then when I puke, I’ll have to worry about
you barging into the bathroom and watching me.”
“Settle down.” Keaton started toward the kitchen.
“Make me,” Aiden said.
Keaton stopped, turned.
Aiden’s heart pounded, but he pressed on.
“Fucking
make me
settle down.”
“Aiden,” Keaton said quietly.
“Keaton,” Aiden mocked.
“I’m not going to ‘make you’ settle down.”
“Why not? Because I ‘need time to heal’? Or
because you don’t know how to be a goddamn top?”
Keaton looked like he was trying to hide a smile,
which infuriated Aiden further. “Well, here’s the truth—
there’s nothing you could do that would make me
behave. I can take a lot of pain. You’d have to beat the
complete shit out of me to get me to do anything.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes,” Aiden snapped.
“Well, I’m certainly not going to do that.” Keaton
turned again to leave.
Aiden walked to the foyer table, grabbed the twigs
out of Keaton’s spiral vase, and hurled them at Keaton.
They landed on the floor between them.
Keaton paused.
Aiden waited, chin lifted defiantly. His heart
thrashed against his chest like a caged animal, and fear
snaked around his wrists and ankles, binding him where
he stood. But he continued to send out his silent plea to
Keaton:
Please stop me. I need you to stop me.
“All right,” Keaton said.
“All right what? You’re going to beat the shit out of
me? I’d like to see you try, you fucking asshole. If you
fucking touch me, I’ll—”
Keaton dragged a high-backed wooden chair that
sat against the living room wall over to a corner, looked
at Aiden, pointed to the chair, and said, “Sit down,
please.”
“Why should I?” Aiden asked, starting to panic.
Keaton took a step toward him, and Aiden jerked
back, bumping the table. Keaton’s vase wobbled. Keaton
held out a hand.
Aiden eyed the offered hand. Keaton didn’t grab
him. Didn’t shout or swear or strike. He just waited.
Cautiously Aiden put his hand in Keaton’s.
Keaton led him to the chair and sat him down. Then
he picked up the chair with Aiden in it and turned it to
face the corner. Aiden held his breath. Keaton’s lips were
almost against the back of his neck; the other man’s
warmth and sweet smell were so close that Aiden ached
to throw his arms around Keaton and just inhale for
hours.
Except now you’ve pissed him off. Now he’ll show you
what he’s really like as a top.
He had a wild urge to leap up from the chair and
run away. Keaton put a hand on his shoulder. “Just sit
here. Relax. I’m going to go make dinner.”
Aiden couldn’t speak. How long was Keaton going
to leave him here? Was he just supposed to sit in the
corner like some naughty kid? What would Keaton do to
him when he came back?
He watched Keaton leave the room, wishing
suddenly, desperately that he could take the last ten
minutes back. He wished he was in the kitchen chopping
vegetables, talking to Keaton about his day. He wished
he hadn’t been such an asshole. What if Keaton never
forgave him for the things he’d said?
“Shit,” he whispered, tears stinging his eyes. Was
Keaton going to do what Scott had done that night at
Obey—put Aiden in the corner and then yell at him, call
him names, point out everything that was wrong with
him? Aiden hated that. He hated it worse than Scott’s
beatings.
The idea of Keaton physically disciplining him
made Aiden nervous, but it would be a hell of a lot
better than this—this limbo, this waiting, this…
loneliness. Even Scott at his cruelest had at least engaged
with Aiden.
“Shit,” Aiden said louder, half hoping Keaton
would hear him and come into the room, even if it was
just to tell Aiden to shut up.
What right did Keaton have to leave him here?
What was to stop Aiden from getting up and walking out
of the room? Who was this cowering deadbeat sitting in a
chair in the corner of a stranger’s house? What had
happened to the Aiden who had graduated from State
last year, soaring high on dreams of the future?
To his utter humiliation, he began to cry—
for what,
the eight hundredth time this week
? He wiped his eyes
furiously, trying to turn the emotion into anger at
Keaton.
But he didn’t hate Keaton. Only himself.
* * * *
calming him. He didn’t want to admit how much Aiden’s
outburst had bothered him—not that the boy’s words
had offended him, exactly. It was just difficult to witness
someone in so much pain. Aiden’s tantrum had been
motivated by fear, self-doubt, mistrust, anger, and stress.
If Aiden were an ordinary brat, Keaton would have
settled things with a few sharp swats to the seat of the
boy’s pants. And for all he knew, that might have done
the job for Aiden. Aiden seemed to crave physical
reinforcement and reassurance. But Keaton couldn’t risk
spooking him any further. They still didn’t know each
other well, and Aiden needed to know he was safe here
—from abuse, from force.
Keaton hoped the corner time would chill Aiden
out, give him time to reflect in private while still offering
him the boundaries he needed to feel secure. He was
pleased with his handling of the situation until he heard
a thud from the living room. He rolled his eyes, hoping
things weren’t about to get out of control. He put the
pizza in the oven and went to check on his brat.
Aiden was still sitting in the chair, but he was
kicking the chair leg, hard, every few seconds. Keaton
walked to the corner and stood behind him. “Aiden?”
Aiden kicked the chair leg.
“Aiden, look at me please.”
Aiden didn’t move, so Keaton picked up the chair
and turned it so it faced the room. What he saw shocked
him. Aiden’s eyes were red and swollen, the pupils
dilated with fury. His cheeks were wet, his nose runny,
and he looked at Keaton with such loathing that Keaton
almost took a step back.
“Are you done with me?” Aiden demanded before
Keaton could speak. “Or is there more?”
“Tell me what’s wrong,” Keaton said, striving to
keep his voice calm.
“Nothing’s wrong. I just want to know if I can get
up.”
“As soon as you tell me what’s upset you.”
“What’s upset me?” Aiden shouted. “What
is
this
shit? You left me here. I didn’t know what to do!”
His face was red, and tendons strained in his neck.
Keaton wanted to put a hand on him but was afraid to
touch him.
“Is this your idea of punishment? Because it’s
fucking torture.”
Keaton shook his head. “Not punishment.
Discipline. I thought this would help you relax, and—”
“
Relax
?”
“I’d like you to help me understand why it was so
bad for you.”
“I don’t
get
it! I’m just supposed to sit here? And
then what? Are you going to call me shit?”
“Call you… ?” Keaton was confused.
“Call me names or whatever? Yell at me? Tell me
how stupid I am? How no one will ever want me?”
Aiden’s voice broke.
“Is that what he did?”
“Fuck you!” Aiden yelled. “You’re no different than
him. You get off on being in control. You think you’re
some kind of fucking god, and that I should just listen to
whatever you say, and you
don’t
—
know
—
anything
!”
Aiden kicked the chair leg again.
“Aiden, I’m listening,” Keaton said. “Please stop
kicking the chair.”
Aiden kicked the chair.
“Last warning.”
Aiden kicked as hard as he could. The chair leg
creaked in protest.
Keaton moved fast. He had Aiden out of the chair
and bent over his arm in seconds, and before the boy
could struggle or protest, delivered two firm swats to
Aiden’s jean-clad rump. Hard enough to be felt, but not
hard enough to hurt or to compound the pain of any
bruises or welts that hadn’t healed yet. Keaton
immediately pulled Aiden upright and settled the boy
back against his body, wrapping his arms firmly around
him. Aiden struggled for a moment, then went limp,
sobbing. Keaton held him while he cried himself out.
“You
spanked
me,” Aiden choked finally.
“Mm-hm,” Keaton said. He dropped a kiss on
Aiden’s hair.
“I hate you.” The statement was halfhearted, and
Aiden sounded completely relaxed.
“I know.”
They stood in silence for another moment, Keaton
refusing to let go, Aiden not trying to get away. “I don’t