Pet Rescue

(Pet Rescue takes place six months after the end of Pet Sitting.)

A classroom where I can’t slap an ass still rattles me.

“What a sorry lot you are. No one completed my assignment.”

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I ignore the chorus of “it was too hard,” and “I didn’t understand what you wanted” and glare at my remedial composition class. Their sullen gazes slide away from me. They’re good kids, just crushed to be spending their first college semester in “developmental English.” About as crushed as my hopes for a quiet life in my cabin. I thought I’d walk away from academia after defending my dissertation in June, but here I am teaching as an adjunct to make ends meet. Damn, I hate classroom teaching. “Okay guys, you don’t want to be in my class, but we all need to survive until December.”

I receive a round of sulky nods.

“So, we can all grind along hating each other, or we can strike a deal: let me train you to be

acceptable college writers.”

This time it’s snickers, and a muttered “Some deal.”

“If you do as you’re told, you’ll kick butt in your first-year classes and you can have a nice big

fuck-you moment when you get out of remedial English.”

Silence. Was it the content of my speech or that ‘fuck you’ line that got their attention? Or have I

finally blended Dom and teacher appropriately?

“But how, Dr. Fell?” pipes up one kid after a bit. “We all flunked the placement test.”

“Why?”

There’s squirming, and still no eye contact.

“Twenty minutes non-stop writing about why you flunked. No excuses. Write!”

I start writing. Ostensibly as a role model, but I have thoughts to get down.

I leaf through their writing on the bus. They think they’re being punished with this class. They’re

shocked to find the low standards they’d been barely held to in high school were not good enough. Some didn’t even want to be in college, and others sadly say they’re dumb even though they’ve made it this far. They’re all frustrated and angry. And so am I by the time I’ve finished reading their work. Oh shit. I’ve started to care about the little fucks. Such a sucker for a hurt boy, and here I am with a room full of them. All looking for a coach or daddy to hold them accountable and to make them buckle down. I put the papers back in my bag. They were misspelled, ungrammatical, disorganized, messy, and lacking in style. But they had all tried. Good enough for now. And as those boys scribbled, I’d

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made a contract with myself -- I’d promised myself I’d start living again as soon as I got my

PhD, but here I am still poking along alone.

“And let’s be honest, John: feeling sorry for yourself,” Ben says. I’ve stopped by for dinner

before I head out to my cabin.

“Only you could survive saying that. And you’re lucky twink is out of earshot because--”

“Oh stop, I’d never criticize you in front of the boy. But this teaching gig is good for you. It gets

you in to town more than once a month. While you’re here, I insist we go out tonight.”

I frown. Dinner out instead of twink’s efforts appeals, but I haven’t had my first paycheck yet.

“Oh come on, John. Consider it my down payment on Charlie’s next cabin visit. It won’t be

long. He’s getting uppity now he’s enrolled in tax prep school.”

“Fuck, are you going to let twink do your taxes?”

“No! Mine stay with my accountant. He’ll be fine as a temp doing basic returns at one of

Gregorio’s franchise tax-prep stores. Gregorio pulled some strings on the background check, and if Greg gives me a good report on him, Charlie can spend his earnings on some community college classes. Tax school is his early Christmas present.” “But he’s getting uppity?” “Over-excited. He’s not misbehaving, but he’s on the edge. His taste of freedom’s going to his

head -- he’ll need a status reminder soon.”

“I’ll be glad to provide it. So who’s Gregorio?”

“Ah! See, if you’d come to town more you’d know him. Me and a few other Doms have a dinner

circuit. We let the boys off the leash to play for a night -- except for the host’s boy -- and we

have a relaxed off-duty evening.”

“Off the leash?”

“Lighten up, John. I know you’re never off duty, but the boys go to the movies, have pizza, and

then get a cab to the host’s house. No drinking, no clubbing, and a strict curfew -- a nice

wholesome night off.”

“And they keep the rules?”

“Yes. It’s their reward -- losing it is a big deal. And it’s an important step for us for Charlie to

go. I won’t let him start college without being sure he can handle temptation.”

I shrug. “Hey, your boy, your rules.”

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“You need a boy, John.” “I know. I’ll look seriously. No more hiding out in the cabin, but it’s a royal pain getting in and out to town. That rural bus route sucks.” “I’m an idiot. I should have given you this as soon as you got here. John -- your father’s lawyer still thinks I’m your attorney. Your mom had an insurance policy with you as the beneficiary. We must have scared the crap out of your dad last time because they sent the check right over.” How did mom manage that? The premiums must have been scraped from her pin money. Dad was always a jerk about women’s work. She never had an outside job. Still, she was as stubborn as I am. And she never let dad stop her from loving me. I open the envelope. Not life-changing money for most people, but if I’d had it a month ago, I could have put off teaching. Now I’ve signed an adjunct contract and can’t walk away. Perhaps I should save it. Or just repair the cabin all at once with it. “For God’s sake, get a car.” I smile for the first time in weeks. I know what I’m buying. That used Hog has to still be for sale. I’ve been beating myself up as a dreamer for writing the number down. Ben raises his eyebrows, but drives me over to see it. Twink chatters in the backseat the whole way. I circle the bike. I want it so much that I suspect my motives. Do I want to just look big and bad on a Harley? I’ve always sneered at leather posers. But, fuck, it’s a Harley. And less than ten years old. I catch myself rationalizing: winter isn’t so bad around here. Cold, but no real snow. It’s what makes the cabin feasible. And enough cash left over to get some fine, non-flashy, leathers and good insurance. And probably gas through the end of the year. Cheaper to run than a car. I frown at twink, who is sitting astride the parked bike and babbling. “Don’t think you’re riding it, boy. Not even in the hole seat.” Twink giggles. “Ben, get one! I can be your bitch on the back, and we can all-- ” “Quiet!” Ben really can be firm. Twink calms down, and climbs off the bike. I turn to negotiate with the bike’s current owner who’d mercifully been in his garage finding accessories during twink’s chatter. Somehow, while twink had distracted me, I’d decided I was buying it. This is the most money I’ve ever had in my life. And it’s going on one extravagant purchase. I feel a knot in my belly. What am I doing?

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Ben punches me on the arm. “Good to see you living, buddy.” Right, living. That’s what I’m doing. I’d promised to do that. I leave a down payment, and we head over to Ben’s favorite restaurant. Twink is wide-eyed -- he hasn’t been around alcohol for nearly a year. I exchange glances with Ben. “He’s fine. I just keep him a hundred percent drug-free on principle these days. No candy or soda. Coffee as a weekend treat.”

“Miss it more than the heroin,” twink says mournfully.

“Never mind, baby. You’ve been good enough. Pick an entrée for yourself.”

While twink pores over the menu, Ben discusses his dinner group, and I agree to stay this

weekend to meet them and take delivery of my Hog.

“A 2000 Fat Boy,” I say. Twink looks at me, surprised, and I realize my tone is one people

usually reserve for pictures of the naked French rugby team.

“Yeah,” Ben says. “It’s a nice bike, John. Now, about Charlie. I think he’ll need a weekend with

you as soon as he graduates from tax school. Just to remind him of his place before his temp job

starts.”

“You’re booked. Sweat equity from twink will do the trick.”

“And dinner is my treat through the end of the year.”

“Ben, you’re meant to bargain me down, not offer more. Some legal affairs VP you are.”

“John -- I’m your friend; I like your company. Please -- come and spend a few weekends in

town. The guys might be interested in your pet-sitting services. Does that make being a guest

easier to swallow?”

“Dr. Fell -- you’re so handsome when you smile.”

“Quiet boy,” Ben and I say in unison. Twink just giggles.

“You’re right, Ben. He’s getting cheeky. I’m starting a list, twink.”

“Yes sir. I know you are, sir.”

***

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My bike is everything I hoped, and I take back-road trips on my rides home. I bought a heavy leather jacket, used since I’m freaked at how much cash I just spent. Besides, new leather would look flashy. I was tempted by biker pants, too, but settled on heavy black jeans for now. When the weather gets colder I’ll reconsider. Twink gets even sillier than usual when he sees me in leather. Ben had to send him to their room the first time I showed up on the bike. I can leave my jacket and helmet in the adjunct office, and arrive to teach in a tie and coat -- even if they are paired with jeans. I still look respectable by English professor standards. My students have noticed the bike and they pay more attention in class. When I leave there’s often a few kids admiring my bike. They scatter as I approach -- good, because I can only bullshit about its specs. I may be a good carpenter, but engines are not my forte -- that was Rob’s area. One kid gets bold and stays by the bike one day. He’s giving it a worshipful look. “Did you need something, Dave?” He scuffs his Chucks for a second. Then he blurts out one long sentence that combines his confusion with the assignment, the fact my bike needs tuning, and that his dad says he should enroll in the Reserves. I try not to smile. I distinguish Dave from the rest of the class with the notation “comma splicer” in my grade book and he’s just strung a good three sentences together aloud as he does on the page. No wonder the standard “read aloud” advice doesn’t help him. I sigh. He’s a nice kid. Diligent. Frustrated with college. His dad’s advice might be sound, but from Dave’s expression I’m guessing it’s not making him happy. I test that idea. “Military might do you good.” “Don’t ask,” says Dave ruefully. I’m not sure if he means he’s gay, but he’s carrying on, “I didn’t want to join up -- that was the choice dad gave me -- army or college-- so I told the recruiter I was gay -- Dad still rants about his boy getting rejected -- now he’s pushing me to join the air force reserves -- he thinks I can get a scholarship and learn engines there.” He shakes his head sadly. “My dad, he doesn’t get it, I’m too dumb.” “You’re not dumb; you’re just badly trained so far. Some discipline is all you need.” Fuck, John, careful. That was dangerously close to not being a teacher’s response. I suppress a sigh. He seems not to have noticed the double meaning in my reply. “Listen Dave -- your adviser won’t tell you this, but your best program is over at the community college. They have a mechanics program.” The kid gives me a hurt look. “You do think I’m too dumb for college.” “Did you listen to a word I said?”

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Dave scowls, and I want to throw him over the back of the Harley and spank him. He gives his head a sulky toss and his dark bangs flop. Holy crap, I want to top my student. He’s dejected and lovely and I know how to train him and set him on a fulfilling path. Damn, damn, damn. I can see this kid dropping out convinced of his stupidity in a year or so. I repeat that trade school is a fine choice, and that I went to vocational high school. He’s shrugging, but he seems to hear my suggestion to stick out the first year program and then transfer to the mechanics program. He mumbles the name of a good Harley garage as a parting, and slouches off across the parking lot. Christ, when did I get so inept? I ride over to Ben’s, rebuff twink’s usual puppy-dog hug, and settle down to share my worries with Ben. Ben, in his usual lawyer manner, plays devil’s advocate for a bit and asks if I am just telling the boy to go to trade school so he won’t be my student anymore. “And is he gay, John? Or was it just his excuse?” I shake my head. “God, Ben, until today I hadn’t given him a second thought. Now I’m not sure if I want him out of my hair or out of my classroom.” Or in my bed, adds a sly voice in my head. Twink giggles. “Imagine Dr. Fell being your teacher!” “You need to imagine that, boy?” asks Ben. Twink is more than usually excited. Tonight is boys’ night out and he’ll have movie and pizza with the boys while Ben and I have dinner at Gregorio’s. Ben and I both get a little buzzed as twink has proudly regained his driver’s license and is Ben’s evening driver. Good food, excellent wine, and a great cigar. It’s positively sybaritic. The guys are okay, too. A little soft and privileged, but it’s good to be around others who know the deal. If I had a boy, I’d be glad to hang with them more, but Ben scoffs at the idea that being alone disqualifies me from visiting. Gregorio’s boy is sweet and shy. He serves a roomful of us calmly, and respectfully. After he’s served coffee, Gregorio dismisses him for evening. I hide my surprise when I hear a dishwasher start in the kitchen, and then a television on low. I didn’t expect him to be so spoiled. I tease Ben about it a little on the way home, partly to distract myself from twink’s driving. He’s so focused on being safe that it’s scary. Ben laughs. “I don’t think it occurs to Gregorio that appliances are spoiling his boy.” “But television in the kitchen,” I say with full-blown Puritan dismay. “John, you think television anywhere is wrong.”

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I grunt. Ben’s right. I do have a bit of a Luddite streak in me. I like my laptop and I’m slowly shifting to drafting on it instead of transcribing handwritten work. Ben twists my arm into spending the next day with them, and then encourages me to go to the leather bar before I go back to the cabin. “John, just for a quick drink. You promised you’d start looking again. And since your students are off limits-- ” I growl at him, and twink finds something urgent to do in the kitchen. But I do go to Dilly’s. When I reach for my wallet, I find twink has slipped a pack of condoms in my jacket. He’s a sweet little shit. Before I even finish my scotch, some pushy bottom approaches me. Frankly, any boy who’d be that forward is not going to get anywhere with me. I kick myself mentally. There’s a productive approach, John. You are meant to at least try to find someone new. I look around. There’s a cute kid playing pool. He gives me a shy look from underneath a spectacular set of eyelashes. He makes sure his next shot shows me his ass. I catch his gaze just long enough, and leave. I dawdle checking my Harley, and sure enough the kid is there as I swing into the saddle. “Need a ride home?” He climbs on without a word, and taps left or right to guide me and we end up at his apartment with no trouble. It’s a scruffy little studio. I frown at the mess, but I’m just here for some fun, not to train him. He stands in position in front of me, and bows his head. He’s dark-haired like Rob, but not pale. He’s got a Mediterranean look. I flip his shirt collar with my forefinger. “No fancy stripping. Just get naked.” He undresses without hesitation, and folds his clothes neatly. I’m surprised; given the state of his room, I thought he’d toss them aside. Perhaps he only has discipline while in scene. I must be out of practice with this desire thing: I’m looking at how he’s folded his clothes, not at him. I give him an appraising toe-to-head sweep of my gaze. Damn, okay, the desire thing is still here. He’s beautiful. Golden skin -- not a tan, it’s his natural shade -- toned but not pumped body. Flat nipples, round ass, and, ah, he’s uncut. And a nice bruise on his ass to show he knows what he’s getting into. It looks about a week old to me. I point, and raise my eyebrow. He just grins. I consider how to place a matching bruise on his other cheek to pay for his sass. I can tell he wants to shuffle, but I leave him standing naked while I stroll into the kitchen for a glass of water. Damn, his place is disgusting. I’ll have my work cut out here. Wait. Wait. He’s a quickie.

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I look him up and down again. It’s been a while since I just played. “Safe word?” “Banana, sir.” I sigh. Okay, so you don’t want a word that’ll normally come up or that is too hard to remember. But, banana? I guess I do take life too seriously, but frivolous words for a scene annoy me. Oh well, he’s not my boy. I repeat it back to show I heard him, and then point to the ground. He kneels and then carries on down to rest on his elbows with his ass in the air. He likes the leather daddy stuff I guess because he’s licking my boots. But I didn’t tell him to do it so I step back, and snarl. “You don’t act without instructions, boy.” He shivers, and I see him settle into more into the role. I spend a happy half hour putting him through his paces, but I don’t touch him. He moves through positions, waits while I circle him, keeps his eyes down. He certainly knows the forms. And he doesn’t get impatient. Promising. He does give a tiny sigh when I undo my belt. And another one when I just double the belt in my hands and don’t remove any clothes. I crack the belt against itself. A cheap trick, but it makes a great snap and the boy jumps. I hold the buckle end and let the leather unfurl. He has a welcoming light in his eyes, and he raises his ass high, ready for his beating. I’m in a meat and potatoes mood -- I’ve been without for so long that delicacies would be wasted until I’ve taken the edge off -- so I don’t mess around with anything fancy. I’m still in control, but I lay into his butt with the belt, and feel my worries melt for a little as I swing the leather and watch a grateful boy receive my blows. He kneels up when I’m done and waits as I get another glass of water. His face is flushed and wet with tears. His ass is rosy, and his cock is wet with pre-come. Such a sweet symmetry. I offer him a sip from my glass and he drinks as I hold it for him. “Thank you sir.” Damn, he’s lovely. So mild and accepting. Those wet dark eyelashes are dangerous. I stroke his cheek, and then lift his chin so I can see him better. He’s only twenty-five or so. He has an old hickey on his neck. Between that and the bruise I’m very glad twink slipped me the condoms. It’s been too long since safe sex was on my radar, and this boy is clearly no innocent.

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Good. I don’t want some newbie thinking this means anything. I pat his cheek -- just tenderly enough for it not to be a slap, but it’s close. I wish my bike jeans were less heavy. They’re not particularly tight, but the denim is holding my cock down painfully. The boy hasn’t earned me yet, though, so I ignore my hard-on -- after giving it an adjust at the boy’s eye level. He’s knelt enough so I signal him up. He wobbles for a second as he stands, but then stands at ease. I feel at a loss for what to do. He’s not being trained, not being punished. This is meant to be for our pleasure. It’s an uncomfortable feeling. I’m not stupid. I recognize my discomfort, but I’m still off-kilter about what the hell you do with a boy you’ve neither borrowed nor own. The boy has a rocking chair; I pull it away from the wall, sit down, and stretch my legs out. If I can’t think of my next move, then surely that’s his job? He’s here to serve. “Do something to please me, boy.” He slowly undresses, massages, and teases me. He uses the chair’s motion well to help me relax and to enhance his massage. I’m still in my jeans, and he’s astride my hips and pushing with his toes to keep us moving. He’s working on my pecs with firm fingers, and looks at me for permission to touch my nipples. I nod and then gasp as his tweak is followed by his mouth on me. Holy crap. No one’s paid attention to me for a long time. Apart from twink’s punishments, my sex life since Rob has been quick blow jobs. I refuse to shoot in my jeans. I push him off my chest, and order him to remove my jeans. I’m shocked at how hoarse my voice is. He stays kneeling between my knees after he’s finished undressing me, and kisses his way up my leg, licking a little, and tickling behind my knee with his tongue before he heads for my thighs. I lie back in the rocker and let him lick my balls and thighs. He seems content to do that for a bit, and I focus on staying away from the brink. At last I think I can handle his mouth without shooting instantly, and I tug his hair to move his mouth to my cock. Jesus, he’s good. Not as good as Rob or even twink, but they’re both expert and attuned to me. I give in to the pleasure. I’m pretty sure if I get off now, I’ll be good to go again later. The boy is whimpering -- I’ve set the rocker into motion and it’s driving me into his throat a little more than he can handle, but he’s making no attempt to back away. He’s laced his fingers together behind his head to control his hands. I like that and give a final thrust. He coughs, and as my vision returns I see some tears sliding from under those lashes. He’s still sucking and licking, and it passes over to tickle. I shove him aside -- gently enough -- and stand up. His own prick is straining at me, and he’s still got his hands behind his head.

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I shake my head at his silent “sir” and go to the bathroom.

He’s where I left him when I get back, and his cock is oozing a strand of pre-come. Poor boy.

I walk over to his bed and beckon. He crawls over with indecent haste.

I point at the bed. “Do you have clean sheets?

He nods.

“Then make your bed up fresh, damn it.”

He blushes. I am being a bit harsh. The linen is clean, but he clearly never makes the bed

between sheet changes. Besides, if he got that bruise and hickey here, then I do want fresh sheets. He looks rebellious for the first time, but performs the task well enough. I nod and his sulk eases. I’m getting chilly so I get into bed. “You look like a flexible boy. Give me a floor show. Get your lips round your cock head -- then you can come tonight.” He’s cold, too, but he sets about his display. He figures out the modified shoulder stand he needs pretty quickly, and then works hard to get himself to position. It’s damn cute watching him squirm and strain, and downright arousing watching his cock bob ever closer to his lips. He has a micro-bounce going to get there. His golden abs work desperately, and his ass is temptingly cracked open. A drop of his own pre-come comes free and lands on his lips. He groans. “Lick it off, boy.”

He obeys, and flicks his tongue out and manages to touch his own cock head.

“Very good -- just another inch.”

I’m curious to see if he can do it. I think his cock needs to be half an inch longer for it to work,

but he’s very close and very determined. With a final grunt and rock, his lips do indeed brush his

head.

“Good enough -- get over here.”

He falls sideways in his haste and scrambles into bed next to me. Shit, he’s cold.

I lube him, then leave him empty while I torment him with rough massages, pinches and slaps,

nipple tweaks, and finally intense work on his balls. His cock stays rigid the whole time, and

slaps against his belly as he bucks to evade my hands and mouth. I jam my thumb into his hole

and his back arches. He stays still, impaled, for a long moment, and then rides my thumb. He’s

on that delicious knife edge between begging for more and begging for the end. I caress his cock

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for a second and roll his foreskin back and forth. I’ve not been with anyone uncut since Pol ten

years ago.

“Sir, I’ll come -- ”

I stop, but keep his foreskin pulled forward and pinched together over his slit.

“How do you want to come, boy? From my hand right now? Or from my cock in your ass? Or

shall I have you beat off? Understand -- I’m only curious, not asking for instructions.”

He wriggles and mutters “not fair” under his breath as he no doubt suspects I’ll choose something other than his choice. But I enjoy his dilemma. I know he’s puzzling out which answer will get him what he wants. He lies perfectly still, just breathing hard. “Your hand right now,” he gasps.

He might have picked truth as the best option -- he’s certainly close to the edge -- but I’ve

already decided I want him hard and dripping while I fuck him. I’m sure he’ll come from that,

but, if not, then I’ll give him a hand job. If he behaves.

As soon as I let go of his prick he groans “oh no,” and starts riding my thumb again.

I slap his thigh. “My choice, boy. Roll over. Keep my thumb in you.”

He whimpers as he moves to hands and knees, and I do cooperate with changing positions. I let

him settle for a second and then draw out my thumb and replace it with two fingers. He shudders, and then tries to move. “No, stay still.”

I finger-fuck him roughly and watch his balls swing and his prick bounce and drool. Every time I

see him get close, I ease off and say, “From my cock, boy.”

“Yes sir. Your cock.”

“I’ll thrash your ass if you come any other way.”

He bucks, and I laugh. Clearly, he’s not one to see that as a disincentive.

I toss him a condom packet. Why should I wrestle with the damn thing when I have a boy at my

disposal? I enjoy watching him try to open it without losing his position and while writhing on

my fingers.

“Pass it back.”

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He fumbles, but I have it. To reward him, I leave my fingers flexing and working in his ass until

the very last moment. He’s empty for just a second before my cock is sliding in.

He stays very still, and whimpers.

“Too close, boy?”

“Yes, sir.”

I wait a little, and then start my fuck. He’s back under control, and works with me. He’s a good

fuck -- energetic, but not frantic, and responsive without taking control. Not as tight as I’d like,

but experience has a price.

We’re sweaty by the time my breathing grows ragged and my thighs tighten. I consider giving the boy permission to shoot or to touch himself, but he’s been a good lay so I reach round and jerk him off as I finish. I let him have a few minutes of lying in bed before I say “get the covers, boy.” He snuggles back under with me.

“Excuse me,” I said in my coldest tone. “You do not sleep in my bed.”

I hear a muffled “my place” from under the comforter. I shove him out of bed and he lands on

the floor with a whomp.

“Any bed I’m in is my bed. And boys don’t sleep in my bed.”

There’s a long moment of mute rage from the floor, then he says, “Sorry, sir. But it is cold.”

“Do you have a spare blanket?”

“No sir, they’re all on the bed.”

“Then get your dirty linens. You can use them since you thought they were good enough to offer

me.”

He doesn’t fuss -- I thought he’d balk -- so I tell him he can sleep on the end of the bed so long

as he stays outside the covers and doesn’t annoy me. I do like the warm weight of a boy at my

feet, but I like a curled-up boy on the floor just as much.

He settles down in his little cocoon of sheets with a contented murmur. I sleep well. It’s the first

night in a while that I’ve slept deeply enough to need to be awakened.

The boy has coffee for me. I’m pleased, but that evaporates as he’s a different boy today. Chatty.

Out of role. Asking me my name. Wondering if I’d like to go to brunch. Or a movie. Or to watch

football this afternoon.

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“Hush, boy. No babbling.”

He sits down opposite me at the breakfast bar.

“John,” he says, stressing my name. “I like you. I want to spend the day with you. See you again.

But I only play on Saturday nights.”

I drink some coffee. Although I spent all last night reminding myself he was just some fun, his

seeing this as play cuts deep. I could like him a lot. But if he just wants scenes? I know myself

too well. Even if I agreed to be a Saturday night top, I couldn’t do it. I’d be driven crazy by his

messy home -- unable to clean it myself or discipline him into doing it. I’m not able to do an

equal relationship.

I don’t want one. I want a boy in my cabin.

I smile at him, and his face shows he knows right away that I’m turning him down. I haven’t

even asked his name.

“Sorry, kid. I like you, too, but I don’t play.”

“Then what was last night?”

I shrug. I don’t say “a mistake”, but it certainly was a misstep. “A test drive. We like each other,

but we’re not a match. Neither of us is what the other is looking for. No harm, no foul. Okay,

kid?”

It’s his turn to be quiet and drink some coffee. Finally, he nods. “Okay. I’ll buy you a beer if I

see you at Dilly’s.”

I’m relieved. “That would be nice.”

He sticks out his hand. I shake it, and get my own jacket.

I take the long way home.

***

I throw myself into winterizing the cabin: chop lots of wood, finish up roof repairs, install storm windows, and seal gaps in the wooden walls. I please Ben by regularly attending the group dinners, even if I avoid the bar. I win the Doms’ poker night and get a blowjob from the host’s boy. Luke, I think. I find a bike maintenance class at the community college. Dave continues to ask timid questions after class. I refer him to the textbook and the writing center, but I get angry and angrier at his high school. Well, at all the students’ high schools.

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They’re totally confused about the basics. One student in the back row burst into tears today when I said “sentence diagram,” and Big Bill (‘can’t combine sentences’ is my note for him) hugs the kid. Casey (‘subject-verb agreement’) has been silent all quarter, and I belatedly realize Casey is female. A scruffy girl hiding under a ball cap. Whether because she’s keeping a low profile in a class of guys, or if she’s content that way, I can’t say, but she seemed to welcome Big Bill’s comfort. She stopped crying when I said: “I’d like you to forget sentence diagrams, please. It’s confusing you. We will work on your grammar, but no drills and worksheets.” Casey gives a snuffle, and Big Bill smiles at me. Oh fuck, I’m Mr. Chips. Back home, I remind myself I’m only temporary faculty, so I put my copy of the Pedagogy of the Oppressed back into the storage closet, and focus instead on lesson plans that will explain sentence structure and paragraphs without terrifying my grammar-phobic class. To encourage them, I sit and write when they work on their lame “A Recent Challenge” assignment required for their exit portfolio. I pretend to be having trouble scratching out ideas, but, as usual I’m composing in my head and transcribing finished thoughts. I try to write something nice and neutral about learning motorcycle maintenance, but my thoughts drift to my night with the kid. I’m still not sure why I feel so let down by that night. I’m abrupt to Dave next time he tries to chat. Ben claims I’m in denial about Dave’s flirting. Just to show him I can get back on the damn horse, I go to Dilly’s again. I drink the promised beer with the kid, and we chat for a few minutes, but after he goes to his friend, the bar is too depressing. I don’t like all those eyes appraising me. I’m still not ready for the scene, however much Ben and twink might encourage me to find my own boy. I’ve only been there thirty minutes, but I leave. I step into the dark alley behind the leather bar where I’d parked my Fat Boy. My Harley looks fine. But it sounds strange. A muffled “guh, guh” is coming from behind it. I step closer and see a huddled figure. A pale arm curled around a dark head. I have a moment of Rob wash over me. He’d been fatally beaten in an alley like this one. But this isn’t my concern. “Get up.” The boy hesitates, and then stands, head bowed. “What are you doing out here?’ Silence. “Answer me, boy.” “Hiding, sir.”

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“From?”

“My, um, no one, sir.”

“From your owner?”

“Yes.”

“What have you done?”

“Nothing! I mean, sir, said -- oh, sir, don’t make me go back in yet. Please. Don’t. Let me stay

here. I won’t run. I just need some time. Please.”

“Come here. Let me see you.”

I muffle a groan as the boy moves into the light. His black eye is lovely, but I’ve never approved

of hitting a boy in the face. It shows a lack of control. Somehow I don’t think that punch was part

of a negotiated scene. “Do you need some help, kid?”

The boy shakes his head. “No. Please no. Just leave me here. I have to go back in. Sir will kill

me if -- ”

Messing with another man’s property is a no-go. As much as I disapprove, I’ll let the boy be

disciplined in his master’s own way. Especially when the boy says he is okay.

Despite the evidence of my eyes.

Fuck. As I step closer to my bike I can’t avoid seeing more of the boy’s injuries.

“Damn, boy. What’s happened here?”

“Nothing. Please, sir.”

“Lift your face.”

He obeys, and despite myself, I suck my breath in. I grab the boy’s wrist.

“Answer me honestly, boy: do you want to go back in?”

He’s silent.

I point to my bike. “Get on. I’ll decide how to return you safely once you’re cleaned up.”

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The boy is trembling. It’s not bitter cold yet, but the kid is only in jeans and a collar. “On!” The kid swings his leg over and grabs on to me as if his life depends on it. The satisfying rumble of the Hog bounces off the alley walls and up through my ass and spine. I consider heading to Ben’s, but I need to work through this alone. The boy is pressing my Rob buttons -- he’s pale, dark, obedient, and bruised. And I’ve found him in a similar situation to how Rob was taken from me. The boy’s arms are wrapped around me more tightly than necessary even for a cherry bike passenger. I swear into my helmet all the way home. The kid is freaked when I stop at the cabin. There had been one or two stop lights where I think he’d considered getting off, but he’s still here. Out in the dark country. Alone with a stranger. Christ, what must he be running from to make this a smart move? Or is this another in a string of dumb moves this boy has made? He’s really shivering now. I’d tried to keep the speed down, but his naked arms and back were exposed to the wind. I could have given him my jacket, but that would set a bad precedent. Precedent? Oh fuck. What am I thinking? There’s nothing past cleaning him up, and dropping him off in town tomorrow at a shelter. He falls off when I dismount, but he trails along inside like the beaten puppy he is. He hangs up my jacket and then asks if he should make tea since it’s late for coffee. He’s been trained, and wants to please. What can he have done to be so punished? Punished? I think there’s a better word, but I won’t say it aloud until I’m sure. I let the boy start the tea kettle then I have him sit for my inspection. He’s obedient, but obviously uncomfortable that he’s sitting while I stand. “Chin up.” He hesitates, but looks at the ceiling when I tap his chin. I get a good look at what changed my mind in the alley. It’s not the black eye. Or the welts on his back. Or his pierced nipples and navel. That’s all okay if he’s consented to the relationship. It’s his collar. That should be what makes all those other things right and safe and marks of pride. But it’s shameful. Fucking shameful.

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There a hot ball of lead in my belly as I lightly touch the chafing and sores showing from under

the leather.

He whimpers and I stroke his arm.

“Good boy. I just need to look and see what needs to be done. You’re all right.”

I should have known better. Tender words have unleashed the tears and he’s sobbing and

choking. He still tries to get up when the tea kettle whistles.

“Stay!” He looks crushed so I soften it a little. “You’re hurt, boy, and you’ll just burn yourself if

you pour water with those tears.”

He twitches as I make tea. Usually I’d see that as a sign of good training.

If it weren’t for his neck.

He’s settling a little -- he sips his hot sweet tea when told to and stays sitting as I pour the rest of

the hot water into a bowl. He waits while I get some antiseptic from the bathroom, but squeals

when I get tool box out from under the sink.

I pause and watch his face. I open the tool box and he drops his tea.

He’s instantly on the floor pleading and begging. He’s terrified, but he’s frantically trying to mop

the tea up and pick up the broken china.

“Stop.” I say it quietly, but he freezes. “It’s okay boy. Stand up and move aside. You can clean

the floor later.”

“Later,” he whispers. It seems to reassure him, and he controls himself.

As he stands, I snag my small bolt cutters and slide them into my butt pocket. He doesn’t see me

do it.

I guide him back to the chair, and tell him to bow his head.

The curve of his neck, defenseless nape, and curls of dark hair over a collar make me long for

Rob. But I’ve a different hurt boy to help. He can’t see me with his head down, so I ease the bolt

cutters out.

“Stay still.”

I place one hand on his shoulder while I find the padlock on his collar and cut it off.

He gives a cry of alarm as his collar comes free. “He’ll kill me!”

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“No, he won’t.” “He will. Oh, sir, he will. He said my collar stays on until I die. ” “That doesn’t mean you die if it comes off.” He lifts his head and makes eye contact for the first time. “Yes it does, sir.” His sudden assurance as he contradicts me makes the hot lead roil. I don’t rebuke him for talking back because I believe him and because I need to know his situation. “Head back down, boy. I need to wash your neck.” He gives me a last sad, reproachful look -- I’ve killed him, his eyes say -- but he resumes his position. He whimpers some as I clean the sores. He has a band of deep chafing, new blisters, and some infected cuts. There’s a ring of scar tissue developing and some ingrown hairs where a few whiskers were caught under the collar. When the injuries are clean and covered with ointment, I consider what to do next. Air will do it good, but he’s going to stick to pillows and his curls are going to get into it. It seems odd after cutting off his collar, but I balk at cutting another man’s pet’s hair. I find a roll of gauze in my first aid kit and wind it a few times around his neck. It looks like an ethereal collar. The boy touches it, and seems calmer to have something at all there. He’s still ashen and sure he’s dead. “Boy -- if you’re dead already you’ve nothing to lose, so do as I tell you.” He smiles. It’s lovely. He’s so fragile and hurt. And his smile is so sweet. “Sir, I still need to finish my owner’s orders. I need to do my duty and die honorably. He said --” “Stop! Just stop, boy. You’re getting melodramatic here. Take this pill. No talk of death and duty until the morning.” I’ll be damned if I let another good boy lose his life. Fuck if there’s anything beautiful about dying for obedience. And after I’ve seen his neck, that boy’s owner doesn’t deserve such an honor. Sometimes Rob would whisper to me that if I died, he’d follow. I’d never say yes, I’d never endorse it, but the thought of Rob curled at my dead feet, like a loyal pagan vassal, coming with me for eternity never failed to move me. I made him promise to find a new owner if I died first, but, damn, we both loved that idea of us together. His forever collar was going to be a pagan torc. I still had his pencil-sketched design. If I could have got him to pass his GED, he’d have made a fine graphics student.

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And this boy? Saying he’d go back to someone I really wouldn’t trust with a dog? Fuck, no. The boy has popped the pill without asking what it is. I note he’s perhaps too obedient about such things. He cleans up the spilled tea and cup and washes our tea cups. “Jeans off, boy. Let me see the rest of you.” His pill is one of mom’s sleeping pills. I’d grabbed all her pills after she died. For some dumb reason I didn’t want even my dad overdosing. The boy blinks. He’s woozy already and is pretty susceptible to the drug. He’s probably exhausted. I look at his ribs. And hungry, too, I bet. Well, I’ll feed him in the morning after he’s slept. “Jeans,” I repeat. I have to help him. He’s swaying already. I’m ready for more injuries, but he’s only got a bruised ass, and some welts on his thighs. I note his guiche and Prince Albert are healthy. I steer him to the bedroom and pause. That damn precedence issue again. He needs a bed. I only have one. And boys don’t sleep with me. As if I’m going to sleep. Rob’s in my head. I tuck the boy in. He’s hardly conscious and just nods when I tell him I’ll be in the living room. I’m sure he’ll be mortified in the morning. I grab a stack of grading, but it’s just a pretense. I still have it all unmarked at sunrise. I’ve sat on the couch all night remembering Rob. It’s time to start letting him go. I keep promising to start living again, but it’s not happening. I compare every boy to Rob. Now, here’s his counterpart and my scabs have been ripped off. Damn it, as they re-heal this time, I will live. I’ll get this kid cleaned up and stashed somewhere safe, I’ll keep having dinner with Ben’s friends, and I’ll look for my own boy. And, I’ll reject next semester’s teaching contract. I need to protect myself from the soul-destroying work and vulnerable students. I stretch and go to make coffee. The boy’s still asleep. There’s no way out of the bedroom except through the living space so I know he didn’t bolt. Mom and her sister used to share the room that the boy is in and Jack and I had a sleeping porch with bunks. I’ve insulated it and changed it into a utility room with a freezer and a washer-dryer. If I’m going to live here I need them -- no Laundromats or daily shopping for dinner this far out. And I do need my fresh linens. The old bunks make good storage shelves. The other tiny bedroom is my study and has my small library. Ben paid for one of twink’s visits by getting a phone line strung out here and paying for DSL. The living area is open -- kitchen at one end and a sofa and fireplace at the other. I’ve spruced up the bathroom to include a shower.

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I hear a whimper; he’s still asleep, but starting to move to wakefulness. I consider making breakfast, but decide the boy might do better with a morning chore. Besides, I’ve made coffee. I take a shower, and when I come out, towel around my hips, the boy is out of bed. He’s kneeling naked in the bedroom doorway, waiting. “Remember last night?” I ask to be sure he’s oriented. “Yes, sir. You helped me in the alley. We rode your bike out here. You took my collar.” He

seems physically fine and aware.

“Up, boy. You have breakfast to make. We can talk as you work.”

His shivering eases. I wonder what he was expecting.

I watch him as he cooks. My kitchen is logically laid out and he reaches smoothly for a skillet

and spatula. Eggs, bacon, toast. Plain, good stuff. I offer him some coffee, and he takes it without

arguing. He’s resigned to my authority.

He serves me a plate at the table. I can see the skillet is empty.

“You may make yourself a serving while I eat.”

He’s startled, but doesn’t argue.

His food is good. It’s pleasant not to have cooked for myself. I finish just as his serving is ready

so I hand him my used plate for him to use. It’s an old habit -- one Rob and I had as a joke

between us.

His face brightens. I sigh. What must he be used to if my used plate is a treat?

I can tell he’s longing to scarf it down, but he waits for permission. “Slowly,” I say, and he does

his best not to bolt it down. He pours me more coffee and starts cleaning up.

Damn, I’ve missed these domestic moments. Twink tries on his visits, but he’s still learning to

cook and serve well. It’s work to be served by him. This boy -- I shake my head. I can’t go there. He belongs to another man. And he needs help. I beckon him over once he finishes the dishes.

He stands before me, head bowed, naked except for his bandage and a plain work apron. I’m still

in my towel.

I unbandage his neck. He’s going to have scars.

“I think your owner took permanent collar a little too literally, boy.”

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He says nothing, and, while I admire his refusal to say anything against his owner, he has to start

explaining.

He’s not disobedient, but it takes some work to extract from him that his name is Jamie, his

owner has the right to kill him, and he’s scared to go back. I’d already figured out everything

except his name, but it was important to hear him say it.

“I don’t suppose you’ll tell me your owner’s name?”

He smiles faintly as he shakes his head.

“What happens now, boy? Do you have anywhere to go?”

“No sir. I’m not from here. Sir bought me in -- ” He stops as if even that’s too much.

He’s tried, so I send him to shower while I dress.

Being bought sounded too real coming from him. I owned Rob body and soul. But I didn’t buy

him. It mattered that Rob’s last real free choice was his ‘yes’ to me.

I shake off the thought, and call Ben.

Jamie and I are sitting on the front porch as Ben’s beamer noses its way up the drive. We haven’t

spoken since I re-dressed his neck. Jamie shivers when he sees a car. I suspect visitors to his master’s house are no fun. Twink scrambles out with his usual cheery “Hi, Dr. Fell, sir!” that Ben and I just can’t train him out of. He’s so puppy-pleased to see me. He proudly offers me his latest casserole attempt for my freezer. At least he can’t try to hug me with his hands full. Jamie relaxes just a hair to see another boy bounding around contentedly. Twink beams at Jamie. “Are you Dr. Fell’s new boy? You’re lucky! I wish -- ”

“Charlie!” snaps Ben. “What did I tell you?”

“Umm, ‘when we get here shut the fuck up and start lunch’?”

“Well?”

Twink just barrels on into the kitchen.

“Jamie, get me and Mr. Erikson iced tea. Introduce yourself to Charlie, but no chat. Come right

back.”

Ben sits down on the porch swing. “So? Found a stray?”

“It’s not a bad description. No name on his collar.”

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“Is he looking for a new owner?”

“He should be. He says he’s dead if he goes back.”

“Because?”

I shrug. “Partly because I took his collar off, but he said ‘sir will kill me’ when I first found him.

So who knows?”

“I know,” Jamie said as he hands Ben his tea.

Damn, I’d forgotten how quiet a well-trained boy is. Twink, however hard he tries, still clatters

around.

“Carry on,” I prompt.

“Last night, I thought he was going to kill me. When he got me home I -- ” Jamie stops. He’s lost

his temporary calm.

I point to the porch floor by my feet and he gratefully sinks down.

“I was due a thrashing. And he was furious. He -- uh --”

Ben rescues him. “I don’t think a safe word would be involved, huh, kid?”

I hear Jamie’s laugh for the first time. It’s shy and rusty, but he gives Ben a tiny smile. “Not

hardly, sir. He has a temper.”

I consider what level of thrashing and temper would make an experienced sub sincerely fear for

his life. And an obedient boy hide in an alley and accept a ride to the country with a stranger.

“And if you go back?” asks Ben.

“I am dead. He said my collar was my life. If he uncollared me it was because he was done with

me and that my life was over.”

I hear Twink gasp from inside the screen door. He’s not really eavesdropping. He’s setting the

table, and the place is so small he can see and hear us. I look over my shoulder at him, and smile.

“See how lenient I really am, twink?”

“Yes, Dr. Fell sir,” twink says, properly subdued for the first time in ages. He’s gazing at Jamie

with huge eyes.

“And if your collar were removed? Or you took it off?” Ben asks. His legal mind is ticking over.

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Jamie looks blank. “I don’t think he thought of those possibilities.” “Well, Jamie couldn’t remove it.” I toss Ben the clipped-off padlock. The keyhole had been filled with solder. Twink breaks the awkward silence, by announcing lunch. He’s set the table for two and made a passable lunch. His training is holding. Jamie serves me while twink attends Ben. He’s not my boy. I’ve no right to feel pleased with him. While they clean the kitchen together and have boys’ servings, Ben and I stroll around my property. We avoid discussing Jamie. I point to the roughly cleared plot for the veggie garden that I’ll plow in spring, and Ben suggests twink can pick through it for rocks next time he screws up. I got the land title too late for anything beyond herbs and tomatoes this year. I’m worried about the winter. Without stored produce, I may be reduced to twink’s casseroles. As we settle on the porch, twink brings us a drink. He’s looking sadder than I’ve ever seen him -and I’ve seen him weeping from pain, loneliness, and rage. He gives Ben a major pet-store puppy look. “Something to tell me, boy?” he asks while Jamie is out of earshot.

“Just, oh my God, sirs, don’t send him back. Don’t.”

Twink won’t say more. He and Jamie must have shared sub secrets as they worked. I don’t mind

boys talking to each other so long as they don’t conspire or get smart-mouthed. Rob had a couple of sub friends he’d giggle with, blow off some steam about their owners, and more often than not he’d come back with a new recipe or mouth trick. “No promises,” I say sternly despite my melting memory of Rob. “But I’ll do what I can.”

Twink gives Ben another look.

“He’s Dr. Fell’s pet rescue, Charlie. It’s no good looking at me.”

“What if your friends know his owner? What if they search for him?”

Twink has a good point. It’s a small D/s world in our city. It’s likely one of Ben’s dinner circle

has a friend who has a friend who’s looking for a lost boy.

“Then,” I say, “we’ll know who we’re dealing with, won’t we?”

Twink shivers at my grim tone.

Ben ruffles his hair. “Trust us, boy. We won’t let Jamie die, but we have to figure a way out of

this mess. And we have to respect his owner.”

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Twink looks mutinous. “Thank you,” Jamie says. He’s arrived again without us knowing. He gives us a measured look, and kneels down next to me as if it’s his designated place. “Thank you,” he repeats. “I need someone to help who understand both sides. I was picked up once by the police when I was hurt. The social worker, umm...” He trails off. He tries again. “And the shelter...” “Did you try to leave him?” Ben asks bluntly. Jamie shakes his head. “No. These were times when -- well, once his neighbors called the cops. We were both arrested, but I got sent to the ER. He checked me out after he made bail. And another time, well, he was drunk. He kicked me out of the car and told me to walk home. It was so far, and so cold. I got picked up by the police for being a vagrant -- I was kinda scruffy. They were okay and took me to the homeless shelter, not jail. I thought about staying, but I called sir instead in the morning.” I consider what’s between the lines in that account. “Do you want to leave him?” Ben asks. Jamie’s fighting tears as he says: “That’s not my choice, sir.” “We know, boy,” I say. “But if it were?” Jamie hangs his head and says nothing. “Sirs!” bursts out twink. “Don’t make me have you wait in the car,” says Ben. Twink goes red with suppressed emotion, but shoves his face against Ben’s knees and works through his rage. It’s a lovely sight seeing him learn to submit in new ways. We’re all quiet for a bit. It’s a beautiful fall day, and sitting on the porch with Ben’s company and boys at our feet feels very right. Jamie seems to be less freaked -- having two sirs looking out for him seems to be enough right now and he has the experienced sub’s trick of taking his safety and pleasures when he can. I’m hyperaware though that a seemingly small thing -- such as a tool box -- can reduce him to a cringing heap. Ben and I chat about other things to preserve the mood. I agree to come to another group dinner even though I feel a little out of place with them, and I’m in no position to repay their hospitality. They’re well-off professionals -- another lawyer, a doctor, an ophthalmologist, Gregorio the accountant, a dentist, and an architect -- and while I have temporary faculty status, I’m broke. And I’m also more serious about the D/s deal. They all have full-time boys, but, damn, some of them are pampered. One boy is having his degree paid for, some have their own cars, and one has maid service. Jesus.

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“That’s why they need you, John,” teases Ben. “I feel like the help. The dog trainer or stable guy.” “More fool them if they see it that way. You need to get over it. They trade services all the time. Training a boy will be no different than when Tony got Pete a contractor discount. Or when Miles filled Charlie’s tooth after hours before his insurance kicked in.” I grunt. “Sir,” twink says, somewhat muffled as his face is still against Ben’s thighs. “You’re a professional sir, sir.” I suddenly feel richer than Ben’s friends. I have a paid-for cabin and a paid-for bike. Hardly any income but no debts either, and no boy who thinks going to the spa is part of his duties. I can’t get past the architect’s boy -- Lord help him if he’s ever in my charge. I guess I can handle being a twink-whisperer. Jamie relaxes more seeing twink interact with us, and hearing that we know other owners. I suspect his master isolates him. Maybe there won’t be a friend of a friend asking about a runaway. I send Jamie in for more iced tea, and ask Ben to check the owner grapevine for rumors of either missing boys or extreme owners. Ben nods, but asks: “What about you, John? This may benefit Jamie, but is this wise?” “I have to work through Rob more, it seems. I want to move on, but the bar last night, and the boy I took home a few weeks ago -- well, it’s not working. Jamie might help.” Ben nods, but twink lifts his head up. I have a sudden memory of him weeping on a cushion as he fought his own past. He whispers quickly to Ben, and comes over to me. He touches my chest. “Here, sir? Will you be all right here?” I put my hand over his. We both feel my heart beat. “I’ll have to find out, boy.” Twink and I stay like that for a second, and then I pat his ass to release and thank him. Jamie is watching solemnly from the doorway with his teas. I send the boys to play Snap -- they need some frivolity -- and Ben and I are comfortable on the porch. Ben and twink stay until early evening. Jamie watches them drive off, then asks if he should heat up twink’s casserole. I shudder. “No, boy. Put it in the freezer. That really is emergency food.”

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Jamie nods and then offers me menu choices based on what he’s seen in the kitchen. He makes me a fine, simple meal and then I get my grading done in the evening while Jamie putters on little chores. It’s nice having his quiet company. Twink’s right. My heart is in danger. I check his neck before bed, and decide on one more night bandaged. He’s well enough physically for the couch, and I’m not sharing my bed, but those whimpers as he slept last night worried me. I’m certainly not spending another night on the couch -- even if Jamie would handle a bed while a sir camped out. It was only the pill last night that let that work. I get a quilt from my mom’s old steamer trunk, and Jamie makes a little nest on the floor at the foot of my bed. He

curls into my spare pillow and looks cozy.

“Good night, boy.”

“Good night, sir.”

I hear little snuffle snores almost instantly. I suspect this is the first pain-free day he’s had in a

long time. I lie awake remembering Rob, but I do sleep eventually. I must do, or I couldn’t be awakened by the boy screaming in his sleep. He’s clawing at his neck. I shake him awake and he clings to me sobbing. He won’t say what is wrong, but I touch his neck and wait. “Choking, sir,” he mutters after a bit. And that’s all I get.

I wait until he’s no longer shaking, and then try to pull away. He clings on.

“Don’t be silly. Back to sleep. I’m going back to bed.”

“Please stay,” he whispers.

I’m not sure what he means. He can’t possibly mean for me to sleep on the floor with him. Then

I feel his hand on my prick. I jerk back.

“No! That’s not the deal. You go to sleep now.”

I get back into bed and tough out hearing his sniffles until they turn back to sleepy grunts.

I don’t go back to sleep.

Breakfast is silent. He whispers an apology for touching me as he clears the table, and I nod.

“It’s okay, boy. I’m not angry. But I can’t get involved with you that way.”

“I wanted to please you.”

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“Under other conditions it would please me very much. But what will you say if your owner asks you if you screwed around?” He blanches. “I want you to be safe, boy. We may need to talk to your owner. You may need to face him and be honest. Ben and I will work on negotiating for you.” “He’ll just kill me,” Jamie says flatly. “And I do have to go back, don’t I? I may as well just go now.” “You don’t have to go back. But you and he both need to end the deal appropriately. Otherwise he’s always going to have a claim on you, isn’t he? You’ll always be terrified even if Ben and I give you a bus ticket across the country.” Jamie nods. “Yeah. And I can’t just walk away, sir. It is a matter of honor. I have a duty. Please don’t say it’s melodrama again.” “It’s not -- I agree with you. It was only the mood at the time that was a bit soap opera. I take honor and obligations very seriously, boy. But I don’t think death is on the table here. We should be able to work this out.” He looks doubtful. “Ben’s a lawyer. He has some friends with pull in this town. And I won’t let you go back unless we’re all sure it’s safe.” Jamie just nods, and starts doing the dishes. Sunday is peaceful. I read and putter in the yard. In the evening I check my lesson plans, and wonder what to do with Jamie tomorrow. I’m not sure about leaving him alone, nor can I take him to school. I call Ben and arrange for Jamie to spend the day with twink. Twink thinks it’s the height of humor that he gets to be the pet sitter. *** We fall into a routine. On my teaching days, Jamie rides into town on the back of my Hog and spends the day with twink. On other days, he serves me at home. He sleeps on the floor, and wakes up screaming around four. I’ve shifted my grading time until the dawn hours. After I soothe him back to sleep, I handle my own memories by doing school work. His neck has healed, but he has an angry red ring still there. It may fade to a silver band in time, but it’s a permanent collar all right. Ben has tracked down a few suspects, and Pete, the criminal lawyer group member, pulls strings to get records checked. Jamie seems calm enough, but I worry that he’s retreating. He’s never chattered like twink, but now he barely speaks even when

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spoken to. Sometimes I wish I’d let him blow me. Rejecting him changed things, and he’s the one who has stopped the bond growing since then. If he were free? If things were different? And, to be brutally honest, if he were less damaged? Oh, he’d be mine. But it can’t be. Even if we free him, it can’t be. I doubt I’ll ever be able to beat him after seeing him whimpering in the alley and crying on the kitchen floor. He’s too hurt. Too fragile. Too much like my love’s last days. I’ll never be able to look at him and not see Rob. *** I get back to Ben’s after teaching, and am surprised that Ben’s car is already there. He’s seldom home before seven. Twink’s kneeling, naked, weeping with Ben’s discarded riding crop next to him. I’d assume it’s just a scene, except I recognize the emotional misery in twink’s cries, and they don’t play in front of Jamie. I follow the sound of Ben’s angry lawyer tones -- and sure enough he’s pacing in his study, jacket off, shirt sleeves up, and white around the mouth with rage. He’s yelling at my department secretary. He sees me and says “never mind” and bangs the phone down. “Silly bitch wouldn’t agree to get you from the classroom for an emergency. Said she knows you’ve got no family members called Jamie or Ben. Didn’t even tell me you’d left for the day.” He takes a deep breath. “But you’re here. Fuck, John. Jamie’s gone.” I sit down hard. “How?” “I got the definite news about who his owner is, but no address yet, and yeah, he’s looking for Jamie. I called Charlie to give you the message, and Charlie told Jamie we’d found him.” “Shit. What did Jamie do?” “Charlie says he just walked out of the door. Didn’t say a word. Didn’t he trust us to protect him? He didn’t have to run.” “He hasn’t run.” I slam my fist down so hard I feel a bone crack. “He’s gone back.” I give Ben a sour look, and I walk out, ignoring twink. I search the neighborhood for hours trying to find him. He can’t have walked far, but there’s no Jamie. It’s after dark, and I’ll fall off my bike soon from the pain in my hand, so I go back to Ben’s and apologize. “No need, John. I -- hell, we -- feel crappy about not keeping him here.” “He wasn’t a prisoner. He was free to go.” “Charlie’s not going to sit down for a month for just blurting that message out.” I don’t argue, but I know twink is as distressed as we.

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“So who is Jamie’s owner?”

Ben tells me and the name means nothing to me. But I’m never going to forget it.

Ben hands me the folder his friend prepared. The guy’s not known in any local D/s circles. I hate

that. And he’s got a list of domestic violence complaints. None prosecuted because they were all

male on male.

“He’s not at the last listed address any more. But I’ve called to make this records search a

priority.”

I take the scotch Ben’s offering. He holds up the bottle and says “My emergency stash. I keep it

in the trunk of the car.”

Twink comes in with a coffee pot. After he serves, he falls to his knees and puts his head on my

feet. He’s still naked and has a second, even newer set of welts down the back of his thighs. I let

him stay prostrate while I drink my coffee.

“Stay the night,” Ben says. “We’ll figure it in the morning.”

“If he’s alive.”

“He’ll be alive. This guy is a sick coward. He’ll be enjoying having Jamie back. He won’t kill

him.”

A whimper from twink echoes my thoughts: Jamie might rather be dead.

Nothing looks better in the morning, and my hand has swollen. Ben drives me to the ER and

leaves me there while he goes to visit Pete. He knows I hate ERs and won’t want a witness to my fight for control. He gets back just after my hand has been x-rayed and taped. He’s hired a PI and Pete’s alerted every cop and social worker he knows to look out for Jamie. “He won’t be allowed outside,” I growl. “Take your pain pill, Dr. Fell,” says the nurse, and, good for her, she’s impervious to my snarl. *** The next weeks are hell. There’s no sign of Jamie. None of the leads pan out. To add insult to injury, I can’t ride my Hog, and I’m back on the damn bus. Ben wants me to stay with them, but

I can’t look at twink. I can’t be fair to him.

My students revert to hating me. I teach them, and grade their papers, and that’s it. I want to care,

but I just can’t. I’m back to doing my duty. Dave has moved to the back row and won’t look at me.

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Ben yells at me, and I drag my ass to the next few group dinners. It helps. Their boys may be spoiled, but they do understand. They’ve all got feelers out for me. I have nightmares about Jamie dead in an alley. And I wake up guilty that it’s not Rob I dreamed about. I go to the leather bar where I found him every evening. I get known as a Dilly’s regular, but I never take anyone home. I just listen for rumors. The boy from earlier in the fall promises to listen out. I get friendly enough with some other tops. Face it, Ben’s buddies are posh. These guys are street. I get so tired of rich Doms sometimes. And then, after a month, a miracle. There’s a scared small whisper in my voice mail when I check it between classes. “Dr. Fell? Sir? I’m at Sacred Heart. I’ll be safe here until you can come. I said you’re my brother.” I peel out of the faculty lot on my Hog -- I’ve been back on it just a few days. I’ve enough sense to call the school while I wait for the ER doctor. I cancel the rest of my day’s classes. They’re pissed, but I don’t care. The wait is long enough that I call Ben, too, and he says he’s on his way. Jamie’s doctor looks like he wants to hit me. I notice a security guard trailing us, but Jamie’s cry of “Oh! You came!” convinces them I’m safe even before Jamie throws his arms around me and weeps. His monitor is beeping wildly as he hugs me and sobs. A nurse eases Jamie from me and lays him back down. My choice curse words about Jamie’s owner seal the deal for the doctor. Jamie has a cracked cheekbone as well as two broken ribs, and stitches in his ass where he’s been torn. His neck is sore again, but there’s no collar on him. The doctor draws me aside. “Look man, I know you’re not his brother, but he’s okay with you, right?” I still can’t talk without swearing, so I just nod. “I’m not ready to release him yet -- a few more hours so I can be sure he’s stable.” “My lawyer will be here soon,” I manage to say. “He’ll need some information about how Jamie was admitted.” The doctor nods, and adds that I can stay with Jamie. I’m hot and cold. I let Jamie hold my hand, but I think I’m going to pass out. Jamie says nothing, just squeezes, and we sit there silently, me fighting for consciousness, and Jamie fighting not to cry.

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It’s a relief to hear Ben’s voice because I think I’m going to faint. He takes one look and says, “Shit John, get some air. I’ll stay with Jamie.” I make it to the parking lot, hang my head between my knees, and hope the cool air will help.

Hospitals and beaten boys. Hospitals and lying about relatives. My brain is going to explode. I

thought I’d processed so much. I thought I’d conquered the ER issues when I had my hand taped

without freaking.

But I’m wrong. Really wrong.

I wake up in the ER myself. Ben’s hovering. I’m sure in a few weeks he’ll tease me, but right

now there’s no hint of humor in his face.

He says one word, “Rob?” And I nod.

“Go back to Jamie,” I whisper. “Let me be pathetic in private for a bit.”

The heart monitor is beeping evenly, but I obey the nurse and lie still. After all, I just keeled over

in the parking lot from the sheer force of remembering my boy’s last days.

Ben nods and leaves.

He’s my only friend who knows that Rob didn’t just get gay-bashed in an alley. He lived for

several days. I was told he was in a coma, and was blocked by his family from seeing him. I tried to take the high road. I’d let his asshole family deal with the bureaucracy. When he woke up, I’d reclaim him. If he died, then what was the point in increasing all our pain with arguing? And, of course, he died.

And then, meaning to be kind, the hospital chaplain let me know Rob had called my name every

time he’d awoken. He’d been in and out of consciousness. Not in a coma at all. Slowly dying and

calling for me. For days.

Those are my nightmares. Rob in an alley, yes. But those are the kind dreams. The night terrors

are Rob in a hospital bed. Tubes in him. Kidneys and spleen destroyed. Lung punctured. Using

his remaining breath and alertness to call for me.

And those motherfuckers -- his family -- they stole our goodbye. They let my boy die alone.

Shit, my blood pressure alarm is screaming at me, and the nurse is running over.

And now the doctor who saw me earlier --

Crap. I hate this. How can I be so weak?

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I shut my eyes again.

When I wake up twink, of all people, is sitting next to me.

“Hi, Dr. Fell, sir!”

At least he’s bubbling quietly. He takes advantage of the fact that the hand nearest him has an IV

in it, and he leans over and kisses my face.

I growl.

“Ben’s with Jamie, sir. You can both go home this evening. Did you know you have a blood

pressure problem?”

He looks so innocent I can hardly bear it. “No,” I snap. “Of course, usually my life is so fucking calm.” He giggles. “Sorry sir. I’ll try to behave.” He wipes the smile from his face. “I am sorry about telling Jamie, you know.”

I let him take my hand. “I know you are, boy. But just wait until you’re staying at the cabin.”

Twink squeezes. “Oh, a good beating will clear the air between us.”

“Cheeky brat,” I mumble and I drift off again.

A few hours later, Jamie and I are side by side in wheel chairs as we’re discharged. Twink finds

it unbearably funny and even Ben is trying not to smirk.

I hate leaving my Harley behind, but I really can’t ride it. The doctor says that’s more the drugs

than my newly diagnosed blood pressure issues. I have a sheaf of follow-up instructions.

“Don’t make him mad,” says Ben to twink and Jamie.

“I have low blood pressure,” I protest. “Not high.”

I have some terrible days at Ben’s place. Twink is pampering me and exploiting my weakened

state unmercifully. He bosses me as much as he dares and plies me with endless bowls of soup. I refuse to stay in bed on Ben’s first day back at work and twink nearly cries when I get up and march into Jamie’s room. He flaps his hands, and says, “But sir, Ben told me to -- ”

I nearly take pity, but I glare at him. “Twink, make me a sandwich and get Jamie some Jell-O.”

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He hesitates. “Twink! Sandwich -- the cold roast beef from last night with some horseradish. You bring me any damn invalid food and I’ll spank your ass in front of Jamie.” Twink flounces out, and Jamie manages a small laugh. We’ve hardly seen each other since our ride home. I sit on the edge of his bed. We say nothing, but Jamie inches his hand into mine. Next day, I haul my ass in to teach. My students are, annoyingly, pleased to see me. Despite my foul temper the last month, apparently they care about me. Although that could be because the sub used drills and worksheets all last week. When I show my ER paperwork to the department, there’s not much they can do. The chair blusters for a bit about responsibility, but I stare him down. After the last time I yelled in the office -- when I confronted the homophobic front desk bitch about not helping Ben when he called about Jamie -- they know not to push my buttons. There’s at least a week of calm. It looks as if I’ll make to the end of semester and then Jamie and I will move out to the cabin once grades are turned in. He’s puttering around the house, and teaching twink some easy recipes. Then Ben pulls me aside into his study after dinner. He shows me the police report Jamie made when he arrived at the ER. He’d named his owner and stated he’d climbed out of a window after his owner passed out drunk having just beaten him. Ben takes a breath and shows me the last page: the charges were dropped by Jamie yesterday while Ben and I were at work. “Charlie says he didn’t know. I believe him.” “He didn’t notice Jamie going out?” Ben groans. “Yeah, he did. Jamie promised he wasn’t going to his owner and was coming back. He told Charlie where he’d been when he got back. Charlie said he didn’t want to upset you. I’ve beaten him already.” “Jesus Christ! I’m not going to have a stroke.” “Dude, I know. Charlie’s scared for you though. And he’s so worried about how he fucked up before.” I’ve crumpled the paperwork in my bad hand. I smooth it out. “Tell Charlie it’s okay. Jamie, on the other hand, has some explaining to do.” “But not yet,” says Ben. “If he’s well enough to travel downtown alone -- ”

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“He’s not your boy to discipline,” interrupts Ben. His tone is blunt and I meet his gaze in surprise. “He’s not,” repeats Ben. “He may be coming to recover with you, but he’s not your boy, is he?” The ghost of Rob is far too strong and far too recently revived. I still can’t look at Jamie and see him alone. “I’ll help him heal as a client, but not as my boy.” Ben seems reassured. He doesn’t notice that I’ve kept the paperwork.

The next day isn’t a teaching day, and Ben’s at work. I refuse to answer twink about where I’m

going that afternoon.

“It’s none of your fucking business, boy.”

Twink crumples under pressure, but I suspect he’s going to call Ben as soon as I leave. If only

he’d done that when Jamie went out.

Jamie is in the kitchen. I’ve said nothing to him about dropping the charges, but he knows Ben

told me, and he knows he’s in disgrace. I’ve been thinking about Jamie’s dilemma, and

remembering the word abuse has a lot more surrounding it than just his broken face.

I beckon him to me. I’m careful of his healing ribs, but I pull him close and kiss his mouth long,

hard, and deep. He may not ever be my boy, but I love him.

He looks at me, breathless, when I stop the kiss. I think he knows what I have planned, but he

says nothing.

“Sir,” says twink plaintively as I pull on my biker jacket, but I ignore him.

I enjoy the ride over to the address Jamie escaped from.

I kick in the door.

Shit, he’s a skinny little dick. He squeals when I punch him. Jamie’s owner is a pussy. How

could Jamie have honored this bastard? How could his sense of duty have let him take a

punishment from this unworthy piece of shit cowering in front of me?

I’ve not lost my temper in years. I may be a disciplinarian and hard on my trainees, but I’ve

never truly lost it with them.

Today I lose it.

Today I revel in losing it.

Rob’s sweet face and Jamie’s scarred neck float in my vision and I kick and punch -- two things

I never do to boys -- and then drag the piece of shit to the bathroom to put him where he belongs.

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Swirlies are so undignified. And so mind-fuckingly terrifying when delivered by someone with reason to kill you. And extra awful in blue water. Jamie’s owner is coughing and begging when I feel a hand on my shoulder. “Step away, sir.” It’s okay being arrested, except they think I’m the person who’s incurred all those domestic disturbance complaints. They do check my ID and I explain, as I’m hustled to the car, that he’s the asshole, and I’m taking some revenge. “Miranda, sir” says the young cop desperately. “Miranda! We read you -- ” I know she’s been dispatched on the domestic call to handle the expected female victim, but she’s doing her best to stop me incriminating myself. I do us both a favor and shut up. I focus instead on how it feels to wear handcuffs again. It’s been a long time. Ben is there to bail me out first thing in the morning. Despite his glares, I was glad to be out of the holding cell. It was disgusting. I guess I’d expected a night court. Ben alternates between rebuking me and asking for juicy details the whole way home. He points out that I’m lucky I did this on a weekday or I could have been in jail all weekend. Twink and Jamie hurl themselves at me when I get in the door, and then both begin babbling. Twink I expect it from, but Jamie’s talking a mile a minute, too. I shake my head and motion them away. “Quiet, boys!” says Ben in his deepest voice. “Get me and Dr. Fell a drink from the emergency stash, and then sit down quietly. We’ll tell you then.” He tosses twink his car keys so he can get the Johnnie Walker Blue Label from the trunk of Ben’s Beamer. Jamie sits down at my feet and wraps his arms round my ankles. He holds on tight. I can hear him whispering: ‘sir, sir, sir’ like the surf. It tears my heart. I know he wants me. But we can’t. We can’t be together. Twink and Jamie groan when Ben says I have to go back to be arraigned. “A medal!” claims twink. “Sir should have a medal.” “Quiet, boy. There’s nothing heroic about doing the right thing. It’s what you do. It’s duty. Right, Jamie?” I ruffle his hair as he blushes and nods. I take his hand and help him up from his floor position. “Bedtime, boy.” I let Jamie into bed with me. It’s overwhelming to have a boy just lie in my arms. It’s been six years since I shared a bed like this.

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“Jamie, just sleep next to me tonight. We’ll talk in the morning about what’ll happen next. And

about duty and where it stops.”

I can feel his hard-on poking against my thigh, but he’s a good kid and makes no moves. He

sleeps the night through. No four a.m. screaming, despite his recent traumas. I still don’t sleep.

Having a boy next to me is hard. Very hard.

Ben glares at all three of us in the morning and asks if he can go to work without emergency

calls.

I’m trying to lift Jamie’s mood so I answer, “Yes, sir.”

Twink and Jamie do giggle, but it’s dutiful.

Twink begins his morning routine of chores, and Jamie starts to help, but I beckon him back.

“Time to talk, boy. Make us a pot of coffee, and bring it to Ben’s study. We can shut the door

and not distract twink.”

“Sir!” twink protests. “I wasn’t listening.”

I raise my eyebrow until twink realizes that he just busted himself. I’m not really mad, but I do

want privacy for Jamie more than myself.

Jamie arrives with a coffee tray, and starts to serve. He’s taken aback when I frown.

“I said ‘us’ boy -- why is there only one cup?”

Crud. I should have realized ‘us’ is a weighted word right now. Jamie is crying and apologizing

and crawling to me. His face is in my lap, and he’s sobbing.

“Sir, sir, please.”

I stroke his hair for a little until I think his tears are becoming self-reinforcing. “Get another cup,

Jamie.”

He’s a good boy. A direct command cuts through and he obeys. He’s jumpy when I have him sit next to me on Ben’s leather couch. I wait until we’ve both drunk a first cup. “Jamie, we need an hour out of role. I know that won’t be easy for you, but we need some conversation that I can ethically consider as your free consent.”

He gives me his doe-eyes, and whispers “yes sir.”

“I’d better be ‘Dr. Fell’ for the next hour, Jaime. I know you won’t manage ‘John’.”

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“Yes, Dr. Fell.”

Bloody hell, this is going to be uphill work. I’m never going to get him to say what he wants or

needs, and, while figuring it out is my job, I do need him to say it. We may be out of role, but

he’s still a hurt, scared boy, and he needs to talk. This isn’t going to be pretty, but I’m going to

have to get him telling me what happened so I can build him up again.

He’s not being disobedient, but he’s back to his reticent self, and it takes some probing to get

anything out of him. I have to extend the hour. Since he won’t talk, I have to push harder. I trace

the new sore on his neck.

“Did the hospital remove a new collar?”

“No sir, uh, Dr. Fell. I didn’t deserve one. He had a choke chain.”

I clench my hand so hard the healed bone complains.

“What else, Jamie. I need to know so I can help you.”

Jamie’s mouth works soundlessly. Then he manages: “let me show you.”

I’m not sure what he means, but I nod.

He stands and undresses.

“Too hard to just say, sir, but I can answer.”

He smiles through his tears, and stands naked in front of me. He’s still skinny and battered. His

guiche is gone, and fresh scar tissue is there. I touch it tenderly, and he hangs his head.

“It’s how I escaped,” he whispered. “He chained me by it after he broke my face, but, oh sir, I wanted to live. Now I’ve seen proper owners, I get it. I know I was abused. I did my duty. Charlie’s a better boy than me, sir, he doesn’t submit to unworthy --” He’s gulping big wet sobs again.

“You’re a wonderful boy, just in way too deep with a dishonorable abusive shit. Hush...”

I pull him onto my lap and rock him. I keep exploring his body for scars. Now that he’s

crumbled and started talking, I trace the scars on his wrists.

“They’re old, Dr. Fell.”

“And?”

“I did them. Not him.”

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“Were you killing yourself to honor an owner?”

“No, sir, Dr. Fell. It’s how I got owned in the first place.”

I have to bully him a little to get him to explain. They’re serious attempt scars -- not across the

wrists, but following the veins, and on both wrists.

“I ran away from home when I came out, then my boyfriend dumped me. Marcus found me. He

saved me from bleeding out, but he said I belonged to him. He was okay. He got me better. Fed,

cleaned me, trained me. I loved him. I thought I was his, but he was just prepping me for sale.”

“To your owner?”

“No sir, this was years ago.”

I cradle my left hand. I’ve noticed this new habit when I’m stressed, and, while it’s a good

reminder not to break it again, I don’t want to develop any tells.

“Jamie, years? Really?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Don’t make me drag it out of you.”

“I was seventeen, sir. Old enough.”

I let my silence speak for me, until I can say: “And now you are?”

“Twenty-three sir. I was a year with Marcus. Two with the one he sold me to. Then shorter and

shorter, until sir.”

I hold him tighter. It’s me who needs to calm down, but I pat him, kiss his forehead, and say,

“Okay, Jamie, get dressed again, and we’ll figure out what’s next.”

We sketch out some ideas to run by Ben when he gets back, but in essence Jamie will come to

the cabin and be my houseboy while he heals. He doesn’t need training, and lord knows, he’s

been punished enough. What he needs is a restored sense of safety. A calm protector. Someone

to be in loco domini. Jamie’s face falls when I specify no sex and no physical punishment. “No, Jamie. I’ll be your guardian, not your owner.” He puts his hand on my thigh, and whispers: “Please. Dr. Fell. Sir. Please.” “No! Jamie, don’t. You can’t be my boy, and letting us get involved physically will make that harder.”

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He’s weeping, and his pain tells me I’m right. It makes my decisions too hard. I’ll never be able to discipline him if I own him. “Shush, boy. Come on now. No means no, remember? For me as well as for you.” He giggles just a little. Neither of us is convinced, but it’s good enough for now. “Now, do us all a favor and start lunch before twink destroys that hamburger.” “Yes, sir.” He looks much happier to be back to me being Sir and him doing a chore. Twink is still finishing his furniture polishing and gives me an anxious look. “What’s the matter, twink?” “Nothing, sir. Just worried about Jamie.” That may be so, but twink is getting jumpier the more Jamie and I recover. In the ER, twink was sanguine about the reconciliation properties of a beating from me, but now he’s scared. As he should be. I make a note to discuss having Ben and twink come to the cabin for the first weekend back. Then twink can scream the place down as we make amends with each other. Jamie has never seen me in action. I muse on that. It might backfire, but I think it’ll do him good to see me beat twink. He’ll know what I can do when needed and contrast it with what I am not doing to him. I hope it’ll bolster him. Twink gets his textbooks out. “Study hour, sir. Should I make tea for you first?” “No, Jamie can bring us both some.” Twink and I both work on school projects while Jamie makes lunch and serves us tea. It’s calm for a little bit. Twink’s struggling with understanding some reading, and I tutor him through it. It’s more how badly his accounting book is written than his skills, but I’m not telling him that. He’s got the concepts by lunch time, but is in a frustrated mood. He’s uncharitable and snippy to Jamie while they clean up together. Being territorial about a kitchen isn’t like him even if he is stressed out. I decide to let Ben deal with him. I have too much work to do to handle it now. It’s the end of the semester, and my grading hasn’t been helped by ER visits and being arrested. With two boys to run the house, their work is done early, so I send them to the kitchen for cooking lessons and freezer filling. I’m grading Dave’s paper -- only a few comma splices now - when I hear tense mutters. I ignore it while I finish writing comments and giving Dave a C+. I stroll to the kitchen on the pretext of wanting tea.

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Twink knows it’s a pretext, too. His face crumples when I appear in the doorway even though there’s no evidence of wrongdoing. Jamie’s face is always pale and tense, and twink always looks confused when he’s cooking. “Well?” Jamie stirs a pot and keeps his gaze on the range. Twink holds out for a second, and then bursts into tears. “Dr. Fell! Sir. I can’t wait until we’re at your place. I need you to beat me today. Please.” Poor boy. I beckon him over, and he scurries over far faster than an about-to-be-punished boy should. I put a finger under his chin and lift his face. “This evening, boy. I want to Ben to be home to watch over Jamie. Then you and I will put things right.” Twink gives me a dawn-smile, and goes back to cooking with a glow. I shake my head, but I’m pleased. The boy is getting there. Ben and I decide twink and Jamie need to go out with the other boys tomorrow night while we skip the Doms’ dinner and brainstorm together. Tonight, Ben will look after Jamie while twink is beaten. Ben’s very pleased to hear twink asked for the punishment to be moved up, but he asks for clarification. “Is he just trying to get it over?” “Fuck, if I could teach him that procrastination doesn’t pay I’d be delighted. No, Ben, he really wants for us to be right together again. He wants to expiate and know I’ve absolved him.” Ben beams to hear that twink is functioning at a higher level than mere appeasement. They’re both at peace with what is about to happen. Twink is dismissed after he’s served our dinner, and Jamie takes over coffee service. “John,” says Ben, “keep him the night, why don’t you? You deserve some R and R and Jamie will be okay with me, won’t you boy?” Jamie nods, and I see him give Ben a cheeky look. Jamie may be longing to be mine, but he’s not above a quickie with Ben. Perhaps it’ll help him to have the edge taken off, and some sex with someone other than his old owner. Hell, some consensual sex at all. I can’t begrudge Ben some non-twink action. Twink is wrapped in a robe, damp-haired from a shower, waiting on the end of my bed when I come into the room.

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I ruffle his hair. “Hey, Charlie.” “Sir,” he says, sweet as can be and rubs his head again my palm. “Not in anger, boy, you know that right?” “Yes, sir,” he says and shrugs off his robe. “We’re in town,” I say. He opens the nightstand drawer and offers me a choice of gags. “Tie me too please, sir,” he says. “I won’t be able to stay still for what we need.” “Good boy.” I tie his wrists to the hooks in the wall -- Ben isn’t as soft as he seems -- and gag him. Although it’s Ben’s home, I still check the height to be sure twink isn’t being over-stretched. I pick through Ben’s collection of crops and whips, but I finally settle on my own doubled-over belt. Twink spins and writhes under my blows. He ends up with his back to the wall. I swat his thighs until he rolls back again and presents his ass like a good boy. He’s going to look so pretty tomorrow. I stroke twink’s tender ass for a moment, and I envy Ben the enjoyment of the bruises. Twink is up on his toes as I place blows down his ass and over his thighs. I pause again and appreciate twink’s gulping breaths and exhausted dangle. I put my hand behind his knee and stroke a finger up between his thighs. There’s a soft acquiescent murmur from behind his gag. He’s been beaten enough. But he hasn’t squirmed and begged enough. All the tension returns to twink’s spine when I pry apart his ass cheeks. He’s wriggling already, and then jerking when I kneel down behind him. I hear a squeal from behind the gag already. His beating has already got me stiff, and his little panic right now has me almost unbearably hard. I slap his ass once sharply and say “quiet boy” all the while knowing that’s going to be an impossible task for him. I kiss each cheek and watch him buck in anticipation. I put a hand on each of his hips and touch his hole with my tongue. Twink moans as I circle his pucker. He’s clean from his shower, and I know he prepped his ass as a matter of routine. He’s tart from fear, but delicious. He stays very still when the point of my tongue enters his ass. I give a tiny twist and he keens. His balls tighten -- I’ve cupped them to check his reaction -- and his unattended prick twitches. I settle into a thrusting probe; twink shakes and his knees buckle. He’s suspended by his wrists and his ass is riding my tongue. He tries to escape but his leg muscles betray him. I knead his bruised ass with one hand, cradle his balls with the other, and fuck his tormented sphincter with my tongue.

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When he’s close to coming, I stop to lick and suck his balls. He tries to close his legs, but I’m in the way. His prick has smeared pre-come on the wall; an arc of desire shows where he’s struggled. “Need to be fucked, boy?” He does everything he can to say yes: he squirms, moans, and pumps his ass. When I move away, he screams behind his gag louder than when I thrashed him. “Hush, boy. I’m only getting the lube.” I also check twink’s arms and wrists. If the fuck lasts as long as I hope, he’ll be at his limits. I unhook him, slap his ass, and say: “Hands and knees boy. Let me see you crawl for this.” Twink’s not my type, but he looks fine crawling to me with bound wrists, gagged, and weeping. His ass is gold and red from his tan and my beating. His prick bounces as he hurries to me. Twink rubs his face against my boots. He has a good dose of leather slut. I give twink permission to undress me. He keeps to his training: even with bound hands and a raging hard-on, he folds my clothes. He pats his gag pitifully when he’s done. “Thirsty, boy?” He shakes his head. “Then it stays on.” He touches his gag, then my prick, and bats his eyelashes. “No! Don’t make me tell you things twice, twink. You know it pisses me off. Now stand up.” Twink’s so bad at “contrite boy” that I nearly laugh, but my brain is rapidly losing out to my prick. I bend twink over the end of the bed and kick his ankles apart. Twink sticks his rump up. For all his many faults, twink’s a good fuck. He knows he doesn’t come until I do, but he doesn’t short-change me. I’m too horny to do much except pound him -- no messing around. He squeaks behind his gag and grinds his dick into the comforter. I haul him up, but he increases the pumping of his ass so his dick still manages to hit the covers. I flip him round onto his back, bend his knees to his ears, and thrust hard. He yells behind his gag at the increased depth and then rocks faster and faster. “Slut,” I say and fondle his cock head to add to his torment. We’re down to business now, and we hammer at each other until twink is weeping and my balls are going to explode. They tighten and lift, and just before I let loose, I dip my head, lick twink’s prick once, and watch his cock jerk and shoot as I come deep inside him.

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Since twink is bound and gagged, I let him lie in my arms for a few minutes. When he’s held still

and quiet, I almost like the boy. He tries to snuggle, and I smack his butt again.

“Stop that, boy. We can lie here and talk if you’re going to be good.”

He nods, and I ungag him.

“Better now, boy?”

Twink nods. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. I am sorry about telling Jamie.”

“I know, boy. That’s the past now. But what was going on this afternoon?”

Twink sighs. I badger him until he admits it’s not fair Jamie isn’t in trouble for dropping the

charges. He says Jamie should have trusted me to protect him.

“Do you think Jamie deserves a punishment, Charlie? Really?”

“No, sir. But it’s not fair. You’d have whipped me.”

“Probably. But you’re not him, twink. Wise up; Jamie was abused. And abused people do weird

shit like going back to their abusers and letting them off the hook. It’s enough that he ran and

that he sees the situation more clearly now.”

Twink squirms. “I know sir, but-- ”

“What? Tell me, boy.”

Twink hides his face against me, but I cup his chin so he has to look me in the face.

“I’m awful, sir, but I’m jealous of him. You love him. And I hate that. Because you won’t have

him. So it’s the worst of everything: you love him and there’s no boy for you. I hate him

sometimes.”

“Charlie, how can you be jealous of someone for being the object of my attentions?”

“I hate seeing you hurt, sir. And I hate seeing you like someone more than you like me. And I

don’t want Jamie to go. I’ll be lonely without him.”

“Make up your mind.”

Twink sighs. “I want Jamie to be my friend, but he’s in love with you and you’re going to send

him away. It sucks.”

“Well, you’re right about that. It does suck. But pull yourself together. You have tax school and

a job soon. And then college.”

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“Seasonal work and part-time school,” he mutters. “Sir, I’m scared of what happens when I’m

bored.”

He has a point, but I tell him to make himself a bed on the floor.

“Good night, boy. Trust me and Ben, okay?”

“Yes, sir.”

Easy to say, but what the hell are we going to do? I turn the problem over and over in my mind.

Then I fret about my court date next week. And about end of semester grading. Bloody hell.

*** In the morning, I’m exhausted. Twink moves cautiously -- in hindsight I’m glad Jamie didn’t witness the beating -- but proudly shows Ben and Jamie his nascent bruises. Jamie gives me a respectful look, but doesn’t seem worried. He’s almost flirty with Ben after their night together. Twink, for all his sulky jealous fit last night, doesn’t seem to care, and I shake my head at his

strange ways. Ben looks marvelously relaxed. He grins at me.

“John, you didn’t tell me what this boy can do!”

“Oh?” I raise my eyebrows, and Jamie giggles.

“Sir’s teasing, sir, he means I have massage training.”

“Really? Certified?”

“Sort of, sir. Marcus had me trained in lots of things so I’d have more value. Massage, pedicures,

cooking, but he didn’t want me to get the paper qualifications.”

I growl a little at that. Bastard. Jamie just smiles sweetly.

“He’s very good at it,” says Ben. “Professional grade even if he hasn’t got the license.”

“Do you like doing it, boy?”

“Yeah, I thought Marcus would let me get the medical massage certificate. That was before I

realized what he was doing. I was so dumb.”

He says that so flat that the pain behind it screams. Twink pats Jamie, and says, “Not dumb,

baby. Seventeen, homeless, and trusting.”

I give twink and Jamie a sharp look. Now I know what they whisper about in the kitchen.

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Ben sighs. “Jamie, we want to get you well, and I agree with John’s plan for you to rehab with him, but were you even old enough when you became a sub to know what you were doing? Are you locked into a choice you shouldn’t have made?” “Maybe, sir, but it’s who I am now. If I can’t be Dr. Fell’s,” he stumbles for a moment, “then another sir would be good. I’ve never lived alone, and I’m not sure how to get a job, or --” “Hush,” says twink preempting me and Ben. “You have the best two sirs in town looking after you. You’ll be fine. Come and show me how to make the Danish pastries for later.” He tugs Jamie away and Ben just shakes his head after them. “You’re quiet, John.” “Is that so unusual?” I snap before I think. “Shit, sorry Ben. I’m tired. I want to kill Marcus. And if Jamie can’t be mine, we should really send him away -- being a group boy won’t change the dilemma. And the court case is next week. I might be in jail and no use to him. I’m fucked -since I am guilty.” “About that, I’ve taken today off. We need to get you a suit, and you have a meeting with Pete this afternoon.” “I can’t afford either of those things. Teaching clothes and a court-appointed are the best I can do.” “Don’t be an ass, John. The suit can be Charlie’s boarding fees deposit for the year, and Pete’s doing it pro bono. You can train his boy too if that helps.” I brood about the offer for a good hour, before I say “Okay then,” rather ungraciously. We leave twink and Jamie at home -- earnestly folding pastry and twisting dough -- and Ben gets a ride on my bike. Two Doms clothes shopping isn’t pretty. Ben yells at me when I say Men’s Wearhouse is good enough, and I yell right back when he lobbies for his own tailor. “John, you said you were putting off getting a suit until you could get a good one. So we’re not going to the bloody off-the-rack places.” “Until I could afford a good one. I still can’t.” Ben snorts. “You think it’s a good trait that you won’t settle for less. But you punish yourself too hard. You don’t have to deprive yourself of everything while you wait. You lived in sweats and jeans for years, slept on couches, were virtually celibate --” “Anyone else, you prick, and I’d--” My fist is curled at Ben, but he calmly waits while I get a grip.

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Instead of fighting, we go to a steakhouse. After food and alcohol, I concede that the tailor is acceptable since it means avoiding the mall, but not one of Ben’s thousand-dollar suits. Before I know it, Ben’s tailor is asking on which side I dress and is measuring me all over. Ben’s selecting fabric and I, in time-honored 'groom in a bridal shop' manner, just fucking give up. Ben tries asking which ties I like and I snarl. I regret tuning out later as Ben has ordered handmade shirts. I have a sneaking suspicion that I’m going to be pet-sitting twink gratis for life. “You have to have shoes, too.” “Fuck off,” I say, but trail after him and watch more money being spent on shoes than I spent on groceries in the whole semester. By the time we get to Pete’s office, I’m in full sympathy with how twink feels on a rebellious day. Having no control absolutely sucks. I feel twelve. Pete’s already familiar with my case, and we talk strategy for a bit. It’s just an arraignment. He stresses that if I do as he says, he can cut a deal that the judge and DA will sign off on, and I’ll avoid a trial. He wants Jamie available, and he warns me Jamie’s old owner could be there. “John, keep your Dom side out of this. There’s no need to say anything about your preferences. Finding him behind Dilly’s is okay -- but keep the testimony to rescuing Jamie from an abuser. We’ll play up the faculty position. You look respectable on paper and the other guy is clearly a whack-job. I can get you a fine and probation. Just don’t try to top the judge.” Ben smothers a laugh, but I just glare. I have no sense of humor left today. I feel like shit. “Coming to dinner tonight?” asks Pete. “Nah, staying in with Ben. We’ll send the boys off as usual.” Pete doesn’t argue, but I see him exchange looks with Ben. Damn, I’m getting paranoid now. Having money spent on me makes me feel possessed. But they did trade looks. Back home, Jamie serves us tea and pastries while Ben gives twink his evening instructions. I could swear he whispers some. I manage to compliment the boys on the pastries, but I’m in a sour mood by the time they leave. Ben’s retrieved the emergency stash from the trunk before twink sedately sets off down the drive. He’s brimming with pride. His baking turned out well, and tonight he’s allowed to be boys’ chauffeur. They can spend the taxi money on desserts. “He’s going to get pulled over for driving too slow, you know that, right?” “I know. He saw what it cost to add him onto my insurance and reinstate his license.” I always have my own kind of sympathy for twink, but never more so than today. Does Ben know what he does when he just pays for stuff?

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Well, money buys some damn fine scotch and cigars, and I get over my huff after a few drinks. Ben knows how to ride out my moods. We get pleasantly buzzed and reminisce about college. As usual, I accuse Ben of selling out by going to law school. “Yeah,” he snorts. “I could have been complaining about undergrads in the adjunct lounge right next to you. Face it, no one gives a flying fuck about the Enlightenment.” I grunt. My academic career hasn’t gone exactly as planned. But I don’t care. What’s a career without a boy to provide for? Rob was the force behind my ambition whether he knew it or not. Shit. I failed him. “You didn’t,” mutters Ben. Fuck, I must have said that aloud. “He was alone, dude. I let him die alone.” “Cut yourself a break man -- you were what, twenty-two?” “No, twenty-three.” “Big difference. You were strong, but you weren’t the man you are today. It’s not fair to keep judging yourself by today’s measures. Even six years ago hospitals were harder to deal with, and you took the high road.” I thought I’d be selfish to cause Rob’s family more pain. Rob did love them, and if he couldn’t hear me, then goodbye was just for me. Just symbolic. So I stayed down in the hospital lobby. Day after day. His family didn’t even tell me when he died. I hated that chaplain for telling me Rob was dead. And for telling me Rob’s family lied. But he did give me two crumpled pieces of paper; Rob’s family had trashed most of the contents of Rob’s wallet. So I can’t hate the chaplain too much because I have two drawings by Rob. He thought they were secrets, but I always knew about them. A sketch of me, and the design for his forever torc. I’ve drifted. Ben’s still talking. He’s on to his own guilt. He thinks he should have been at the hospital and throwing his law degree around. “Come on dude, you hadn’t even sat the bar exam, and it was a different state.” “But still,” he says. And then grins at me. “John -- if you can see through my shit, why can’t you see through your own?” “Fuck off.” We have another drink. And realize we are smashed when Ben can’t remember how to order pizza without twink’s help. We stagger into the kitchen and eat all the pastries to take the edge off the buzz. Then agree for our own dignity we’d better be in bed asleep before the boys get home.

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Twink and Jamie tiptoe around the next day. We do have hangovers, but the little dicks are exaggerating. They think it’s funny, damn them. *** My week is a nightmare. I get the suit fitted, do a mountain of grading to be sure the end of semester is covered, worry like hell about Jamie facing his old owner, and sweat the idea of jail time. Even being under Ben’s benign control for shopping has reminded me how much trouble I have submitting to authority. Jail is going to be hell. I’m actually glad when the day arrives so that I can stop stressing. Pete’s cheerful -- he knows this judge. I can hear twink sitting behind me in the main area with Ben and Jamie. Ben seems unconcerned, but twink is pale, and Jamie threw up this morning, after sobbing all night. I plead nolo contendere as Pete instructed. The judge seems to favor Pete’s description of me as a responsible man angered by abuse. I manage not to go all “uber Dom” as Pete put it, but I get slapped down for interjecting that Jamie’s owner had boasted of killing him. Jamie is looking around the room so frantically that the judge rebukes him for his disruptive behavior. “Is he here?” whispers Jamie. He looks so fragile in the open-collared shirt Pete had him wear so his scars were visible. The judge beckons the DA over, and confers. “No, young man. Your alleged abuser is not in court. Why not, Mr. Van Heusen?” A minor fuss follows. Pete looks smug, and when I risk a look over my shoulder, Ben is nonchalant. The judge finishes talking to a clerk; Jamie’s owner has dropped the charges. It’s only the police case I have to worry about. It’s all done and the judge is figuring out how hard to be on me. I’m trying not to fuck up whatever it is Ben and Pete are up to, but I’m feeling pretty damn jerked around. I look as contrite as I can while I get a lecture about vigilantism. The judge admires my desire to protect someone in need, but-I listen dutifully and nod. The man is right. I shouldn’t have tried to kill Jamie’s owner. I blink: I’ve been sentenced while I focused on looking respectable. And people are looking at me for an answer. Shit. Pete jumps up. “He’ll take the fine and community service, your honor.” “I will not,” I snap. “Be quiet, Dr. Fell” say the judge and Pete together.

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I’m feeling shaky. Damn blood pressure. The judge is rebuking twink whose relieved burst of “Dr. Fell has to pick litter in an orange jumpsuit” was heard by the whole room. “Pete,” I hiss. “I have to take the jail time. I can’t pay that fine.” “Shut up,” says Pete through clenched teeth. “So, while the orange jumpsuit idea is attractive,” the judge actually smiles in twink’s direction - he must be doing his best blond puppy look -- “I feel Dr. Fell should use his skills. Do your rescuing in more socially sanctioned way, please, Dr. Fell. Bench probation and two-hundred hours of community service to be completed within a year. You’ll be sent a list of shelters and other groups in need of tutors. You have a month to pay the fine.” Pete pops up again like a damn jack-in-the-box. “The fine will be paid today.” The judge looks at my suit and then at my high-priced lawyer. “Apparently adjunct professors are doing well these days.” Before I can screw up, we’re dismissed. I am going to kill Pete and Ben. Slowly. And I’ll let Jamie help. He’s still shaking. Twink is stroking his arm consolingly even while Ben scolds him for disrupting court. “Come here, Jamie.” He’s in my arms although we’re still on the courthouse steps. “It’s okay boy. He’s not here, and you did very well. I’m pleased with you.” I stress the you and glower at Pete and Ben, who just grin. I wait until I get Ben alone to tear him a new one. He pours drinks -- the emergency stash is hardly ever in the car anymore -- while I holler at him. Finally I sit down and take the drink. “So I wasn’t imagining a conspiracy?” “No. Look dude, we needed you and Jamie to really not know. I’m sorry he had to think he might see his owner, but he had to look scared. And we wanted to make sure nothing could blow back on you if it went wrong.” “What did you do?” “It’s still best you don’t know, but let’s say criminal lawyers know some intimidating people. Jamie’s owner felt the need to drop the charges and move out of state.” “And what were you and twink up to?” “Jamie spent the evening with the Doms when twink was boys’ chauffeur so they could evaluate him and figure out help for him without you getting all proud about it. And they can say he was seen without undue influence.”

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I scowl, but Ben has a point, and it was me who made a point of telling Jamie I needed ethical consent from him. Ben hands me an envelope. His friends have all chipped in to help Jamie out. There’s enough for him to live on for a year. Rich Doms have their uses, I guess, and I can’t let my pride interfere with Jamie’s needs. It feels foul being on the receiving end, though. “How the hell am I ever going to repay the group for the fine? There’s not enough pet sitting in the whole city for me to work that off.” Ben shrugs. “Dude, you have plenty of services. I think the guys have some ideas.” I groan. That’s what I’m afraid of. I’m fucking owned by the group. Bastards. I’m going to have to take another teaching contract to ever get out from under. Ben sensibly leaves me alone. I hate to be a churl, but I’m angry with them. I was freaked by the idea of jail, but I was ready to serve my time. I’m glad I’m not going, but crud, I’m in a different prison now. One where I have to be grateful. And accept charity. And be polite. And defer to my betters. Fuck. I’m nursing my left hand again. I grab my jacket and stamp off to my Harley. I ride out to my cabin so I can spend the afternoon sulking and being juvenile. I chop wood. It needed doing, but it makes my hand ache. I check the cabin over; I hope I’m right about it being winter livable now it’s not just me. I stick my head in the freezer and look at my supplies. We will need twink’s casseroles after all. I can’t brood. I have a boy to look after. I offer Ben the best apology I can manage which consists of me muttering, “I guess you all meant well” and accepting his offer of his old futon for Jamie’s cabin bed. I should have known better -- the futon turns into a heap of “old stuff from storage that I don’t need” but I accept it all. Jamie needs his own secure space, and I have nothing to offer except my virtually bare study. I repeat: it’s for Jamie, not me. We call Brin to borrow his boy’s pickup truck and get all the stuff to the cabin, and Jamie spends a happy hour making a little den in my study. Twink putters valiantly in the kitchen, and Ben and I take a walk. I get another lecture from Ben about accepting help from the group. And I suck it up. It’s a good thing I got over my pride; I go to work the next day for some end of semester admin and find I’ve lost my job. The chair says something snippy about professors getting arrested. Fuck, just when I was ready to buckle down and teach more to support Jamie. Since I’m a mere adjunct I have no real rights, so I shrug, hand in my final bits of paper work to the front desk bitch, toss my adjunct office keys on her desk, and leave. Secretly, I’m relieved. Teaching Casey, Paul, Big Bill, and Dave reminds me too much of my own undergrad years. I’d really rather not remember them except for my senior year when I met Rob. But it doesn’t solve the dilemma of how Jamie and I will eat come January. Or how I’ll pay

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back that damn fine. I’m determined to get out from under the Doms. Jamie has valiantly protested that the money the Doms raised for him should go on rent to me and groceries, but I’ve bullied him into buying a three-month CD with it. He sulked, and I felt bad rejecting his attempts to contribute, but it’s for his future security, not my living expenses. *** By the time we get down to eating twink’s casseroles, I regret my stand. We have the basics: shelter, bad food, and each other’s increasingly antsy company. Friday nights in town become our lifeline. We both eat like pigs on those nights and enjoy the company. We’re warm enough with the fire, and spend the colder nights in front of the fire under all the quilts. I let Jamie sleep by my feet on those nights, otherwise he’s on his futon and I’m in my room. He’s scrupulous

about never touching me, but I see his gaze rest on me when he thinks I’m reading.

Not being able to love each other is killing us.

Ben offers me a loan. He’s noticed I’ve lost weight, and Jamie whispered to twink that I won’t

use his money. I want to break my vow and thrash his ass for that.

“Get off your fucking dignity, John,” hisses Ben when he finds Jamie and twink sniffling in his

kitchen after I’d bawled both boys out for tattling.

“Money doesn’t solve everything.”

“It pays ER bills, you stupid prick.”

“I pay my own bills.”

“Barely. It won’t do Jamie any good if the collection agencies come after you for your medical

bills. Let us pay Jamie’s off at least.”

I snarl something about looking after my own boy.

“He’s not your boy. You’re in loco domini while the group finds him a home.”

I clench my bad hand, and then force myself to uncurl it.

“Come on, man. Let us assume the debt, then I’ll sic Pete on Jamie’s owner to collect it.”

That gets a reluctant smile from me, and I nod.

Ben pushes his luck. “Jamie said you had to scrimp for your meds. Dude, you are getting them,

right?”

“Fuck off.”

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I’m insulted. I would never not take my medications. I’m proud, but not dumb macho. I have too much at stake: my cabin, bike, lifestyle. So when I learn next week that Ben has acted as my attorney again and called the hospital billing department and arranged a payment plan for my two visits, I suck it up. I’m pissed since he gave them proof of low income so I get a reduced bill, but now my savings will be enough for me and Jamie to make it to spring, and I can back-burner my contingency plan: the plasma banks and food pantries. Besides, the plasma place would bounce me for low blood pressure, and I’m certainly not letting Jamie sell his plasma. Come February though, it’s clear that a garden will be a necessity, not a hobby. We’ve had a lean time of it. Jamie has not complained -- except for squealing to twink about the bills, and looking nauseated when I snare and skin rabbits. He’s a good boy, and I hate not being able to provide for him. When the weather breaks, there’ll be casual construction work available. I’ll see what the need for rough carpenters is at Labor World. But I have to face it: I can’t afford a boy. I make one of the hardest phone calls of my life: I swallow my pride and ask Ben how the search for a new owner is going. Keeping Jamie was based on my having a teaching income. And I can’t train boys at the cabin while Jamie’s healing. The constant fight to not love him more is shredding my soul. Soon it’ll make me harsh to the boy. We barely talk to each other to avoid the wrong words. He serves beautifully, but he needs more. He deserves a lover and a master. He needs to leave me. Ben’s quiet on the phone. I can tell he’s smothering a kind word. The he says, “Dude, we have a short list for him. Do you want to pick the finalists?” My guts knot as I accept the responsibility. Jamie was allowed to give the Doms a list of preferences and was also coaxed into sharing what freaked him, but he hasn’t seen any candidates. Twink’s been his proxy at Dom meetings. Ben sends a courier over with a folder of Dom dossiers. All would be fine owners. They’re all older, and want to help a hurt boy. All will provide Jamie with medical massage school and healthcare. When he starts a massage job, his earning will go to a savings account. They’ve agreed to drop-by visits from the group, regular progress reports, and yearly re-contracting supervised by the group for the first years. Jamie will be allowed to e-mail the boys and Ben, but not me. I ask Jamie if he wants to see his choices, and he shakes his head. “No, sir. If I have to leave you, then I’d like to be going to your choice.” That didn’t make the selection any easier. I shuffle the folders all evening, and decide to sleep on it.

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It’s another bitter night. We are bundled in front of the fire instead of going to our unheated rooms. I’m going to have to figure out more heating before next winter. Jamie’s asleep. He looks safe and trusting. As lean as the winter has been, and as hard not being involved has been, he’s flourished under the lack of abuse. He’s a resilient boy, and as soon as he believed that his owner was gone, he set about healing with all the energy of youth. He still cries in his sleep, but there’s no more four a.m. screaming. He still reminds me of Rob, and I wonder which owner my boy would have wanted if I’d been the one gone. I stop trying to be a Dom choosing an owner, and I mentally review the folders as if I were Rob. He always had a clear head about other owners, and he always, respectfully, let me know what he needed. The choices rank themselves with ease as soon as I let go being a top, and look from the other direction. I shudder. It’s like being an undergrad with Pol again. I shake off the memory, and rearrange the quilts so Jamie and I share one big heap even though he’s still at my feet. It’s nice feeling a sleeping boy’s skin against mine. In the morning I call Ben and tell him I’ve chosen. “But make it soon, Ben.” “This Friday. Bring Jamie to the Doms’ meeting, and we’ll deliver him this weekend.” Two days away. I startle myself with a moan. Ben ignores it. It’s inevitable. There’s a plan in place for our goodbye already. That afternoon, I offer Jamie the selected folder. He shakes his head. “I’ll be his when I meet him. Until then--” He gives me such a look of longing that I leave the cabin for a run through the woods. All my adult life has been around campuses, and now I’ve neither weights nor pool. I’ve jogged as best I could all winter. The woods, creek banks, and cabin dirt track are familiar by now. I do an extra circuit. My legs are shaking from cold and exhaustion when I get back. I shower in silence, and once dressed, I call Ben. “Come and get him now. He can stay with you and twink until Friday.” Ben doesn’t argue although I hear twink fussing in the background. Jamie smothers a whimper when I hand him a paper grocery bag and tell him to gather his possessions. Poor boy. He only has enough to just fill it, and it’s nothing but the two changes of clothes twink passed on to him. I wish I’d been able to provide more for him. Jamie is weeping, head hanging, bag at his feet when Ben comes in. He hands me a bottle of scotch, picks up Jamie’s bag, and holds out his hand to the boy. “Come on, boy, you have a home waiting.”

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Jamie gives a cry, and throws himself into my arms.

“Sir, he won’t be you.”

I hold him tight for a long moment, whisper in his ear, “Boy, you can’t be him.”

I send my boy to Ben, and can’t look as they drive away.

To be continued in Lost and Found 2, Exotic Pets, coming soon to Torquere Press.

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Lost and Found 1: Pet Rescue Copyright © 2008 by Syd McGinley ISBN: 978-1-60370-359-8, 1-60370-359-4 All rights reserved. No part of this eBook may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address Torquere Press, Inc., PO Box 2545, Round Rock, TX 78680 Printed in the United States of America. Torquere Press, Inc.: Single Shot electronic edition / April 2008 Torquere Press eBooks are published by Torquere Press, Inc., PO Box 2545, Round Rock, TX 78680

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