By His Rules (27 page)

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.

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 satisfied 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.

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