Day 25 - December 25th

For those who belong to the update group, there are several additional stories by different authors.

Christmas Morning

It was cold, unbelievably cold. The snow had long ago soaked through his thin jacket, and he’d given up brushing it out of his hair. He jammed his hands deeper in his pockets. It had been hours since he could feel his fingers. He trudged along the side of the road, his sneakers slipping in the mixture of snow, sand, and salt. No cars travelled this road. He hadn’t seen one for at least the last hour, but of course on Christmas Eve most people were at home with family, enjoying roast turkey and heaps of mashed potatoes.

Wayne ducked his chin deeper into his collar. He could have been at home too if he hadn’t been stupid enough to open his mouth. Why had he thought his aunt wouldn’t tell his mom? Just because she gave to liberal causes didn’t mean she wasn’t a true south Texas girl at heart. Wayne guessed she thought it was fine when it was someone else’s family, but when it was her own, she’d been as determined to rescue her nephew from the clutches of the gay agenda as any bible thumping pastor.

It had been easy enough to get out of town. He’d cashed his last paycheck from the carwash at the convenience store and hopped a bus to the States. The border was uncomplicated, and at the Christmas season a quick explanation of traveling to see relatives in the north was ample to get a two week tourist visa. He watched from the bus window as the countryside had grown cold and snow covered. From the heated bus, the snow had been beautiful, but now it was cold, wet, and difficult going. Vermont had looked like a tiny state on the map. He hadn’t imagined trudging down endless stretches of rural highway. He’d run out of money in Burlington and had proceeded on foot and in the passenger seat of a florist van driven by a kind delivery driver to what he thought was at least close to his final destination. 

The snow was coming down harder, whipping against his face and sticking in his eyelashes. Wayne bent double and trudged forward, each footstep slower and heavier than the last. If only he could find a house, he would ask for shelter. He stumbled forward, landing on his knees in a snow drift. He struggled upright and fell again. Frantically he pulled himself to his feet, his legs weren’t working. He fell again, and this time he didn’t rise.

Mittens, fur, bells, a heavy arm, and a deep laugh: the images jumbled together unreal and fantastic.

“We’ll get you warm, boy.” Strange hands tucked a heavy throw around his body. A whip cracked in the air, and the bells sounded closer. Good natured shouts rose in the air.

******

Milton herded their gang of brats in front of him and wrapped his arm over a reluctant Tilden’s shoulder as they headed for the lodge’s massive sitting room that was now dominated by an enormous Christmas tree. “It won’t be awful,” Milton said and gave Tilden’s shoulder a firm squeeze.

“Christmas with Gordon. I’ve heard Sheldon’s stories,” Tilden said under his breath.

“You didn’t give Gordon a lurid orange and purple sweater, did you?”

“No.” Tilden managed a small smile. “I have a well developed survival instinct. But I don’t know about my boys.”

“Mike can handle anything, and Luke has the good sense not to stir the pot.”

“Milton!”

“That’s Sheldon. Hurry!” Both tops broke into a run. They pushed their way through a cluster of brats to come to a stop in front of the tree. 

“Santa brought us a brat,” Sheldon said from down on his knees where he had wrapped his arm around a very stunned looking young man. The young man in question was wrapped in a plaid wool throw with only a shock of golden curls and strikingly blue eyes visible. “There’s a note,” Sheldon said handing Milton a crumpled sheet of paper dotted with cookie crumbs and a stray bit of carrot.

Milton unfolded the note and read the bold crayoned text out loud, “I trust you to take care of this boy. He needs a home and family, and this is the best place I know. Kris.”

“Is this true?” Milton asked gently.

“Yes,” the young man whispered, his eyes roving around the room in shock, fear, and perhaps excitement. “Am I here?”

“Where’s here?” Milton asked practically, trying to keep a calm top persona as his mind went into overdrive with unbelievable and fantastic scenarios.

“The Green Mountain Boys?”

“Yes, you’re here.”

The golden haired boy smiled and tears dripped from his glistening blue eyes. “It’s the best Christmas ever.”

Day 24 - December 24th

The Great Outdoors

“This tree is perfect.”

“For Charlie Brown,” Chase said and swatted his partner lightly. It wasn’t as if Colton would feel it dressed in three layers against the biting cold. “The best trees are up over the hill.”

“That’s a long way. It will take hours.”

“I didn’t dress you all up in insulated coveralls to spend five minutes looking for a tree. I want a tree with actual branches.”

“It’s cold, and it’s snowing.”

“It’s supposed to snow at Christmas. Are you really cold?” Chase asked. “You should have ample clothes.”

“Now that I look like I’ve gained fifty pounds.”

“We are not posing for Outdoor Life. Let’s get the tree, and then I can enjoy you with far less clothes.”

“It will take hours to walk up there.” Colton pointed at the hillside covered in pines.

“You did always have a gift for exaggeration. It will only take hours if we stand here debating it.”

The walk didn’t take hours, but it took long enough. The path was steep and slippery, and Chase kept pointing out the wonders of nature. The wonders of nature were far more entertaining in front of the television in a warm apartment. Chase studied the trees, eyeing their symmetry and estimating their height. He might as well have been buying a fine piece of art. Finally they found the perfect tree, according to Chase’s elaborate criteria. Chase pulled out the axe and chopped away. It was a pity it was freezing because a bare backed Chase swinging the heavy axe would have been an enticing view. It would have made all the sticky sap and prickly needles worthwhile.

“Help me carry it.”

Ugh! The trip up had been bad enough. It was twice as bad going down. The tree kept poking him in the face, and Chase walked impossibly fast.

“And you think this is fun?” Colton huffed as they were lashing the tree to the car roof with intricate knots. He’d have to ask if Chase had been in the scouts. He was damn good at knots.

“Do you like knots, my boy?” Chase said, coming up behind Colton and wrapping his arms around his partner’s waist. “I can do knots indoors also?”

“As long as it’s not on the car roof. You tie me to the car roof, and I’m suing for divorce.”

“It would be no fun on the car roof. I couldn’t watch you struggle.” Chase ran a gloved finger down Colton’s cheek and circled around his mouth. “Car, boy. We need privacy.”

That was the best suggestion he’d heard all day, and Colton scrambled for the car.

Snow was falling lightly as they drove down the winding road to the village. Old-fashioned gas lamps decorated with greenery gave the air of a Victorian Christmas. Chase pulled the car into a long drive, shielded by pines and great trunks of naked trees, their bare branches reaching toward the sky. The driveway ended at a saltbox house nestled against a frozen pond. White lights snaked up the lampposts, giving the house a slightly festive air without being gaudy. Small barns and cottages dotted the hillside behind the house.

“I’ll get us checked in,” Chase said and hopped out of the car.

It only took a few minutes before he came back with a large man, still ruggedly handsome despite the thickening in his middle and the sharp crags around his eyes and on his brow. He jerked open the door and climbed in the back. “Ah, boy, you’re going to have fun tonight. I’ve put you in the most private cottage. Just back up and take the drive to the right,” he said to Chase.

The cottage was private; Colton hadn’t even seen it from below. A small covered porch wrapped around two thirds of the cabin, tastefully decorated with garland and tiny red lights. A neat stack of firewood, including kindling, stood by the door. The innkeeper pulled out a ring of keys and opened the door with a flourish.

“I think this is just what you boys were looking for,” he said with a half smile and a distinct gleam in his eye. 

The cottage was two rooms: a combined living room, kitchen, and dining area and a bedroom. A fire had been started in the living room hearth, and the room was already pleasantly warm.

“I keep ‘em warm enough that you won’t need many clothes.” The inn keeper practically cackled at his own humor. “The thermostat’s by the wall if you need more heat. I assume you’ll be making your own. Help yourself to the decorations. I have a workshop if any of them suit your fancy.”

Colton stared at the small carvings on the wall. The nearest depicted a herd of reindeer clustered around a sleigh. The reindeer were etched onto a board about the size of a small bread board. Holy shit! They were paddles. Colton couldn’t help himself; he ran his finger over the dark wood, tracing the outline of a reindeer. What would this feel like on his ass?

“Some guests prefer the flower arrangements.” The innkeeper pointed to a vase filled with pine boughs and thin branches dotted with red berries.

Chase and the innkeeper were chatting about something, but Colton wasn’t paying attention. He couldn’t take his eyes of the innocent vase. Those were switches; switches hurt. Oh, God!

“He’s gone,” Chase said. “And from the looks of you, my boy, you are wearing way too many clothes.” Chase moved close, kissed Colton’s waiting lips, and casually reached for one of those ever so innocent twigs.

Day 23 - December 23

This is in the same timeline as Christmases Long Long Ago and Licorice Whips and Candy Canes.

The Christmas Ogre

Gordon untied the ribbon and tore the paper off the box. Sheldon watched as the tissue paper was folded back, and Gordon lifted out the sweater: a brilliant purple with an orange lightning bolt across the front. Gordon lifted out the second item, a magenta pink scarf.

“I take it my wardrobe needed a little more color,” Gordon said with a slight smile.

Sheldon could feel the heat and color filling his face. Gordon was acting like an orange and purple sweater accompanied by a magenta scarf was a fine and appreciated gift. Milton had turned his full attention on Sheldon, and Sheldon dropped his head quickly at the steel in his partner’s eyes. 

“It’s most interesting,” Landon said with a laugh. “Do try it on.”

“Of course. I’ll wear it to breakfast.” Milton started to interrupt, and Gordon silenced him with a brief shake of his head. “It’s Sheldon’s first Christmas with us. I will be honored to wear his gift.”

Sheldon looked down at the package in his hand. It was from Gordon and Landon, beautifully wrapped in gold foil with elaborate ribbons all in perfect bows. Sheldon was sure it was a thoughtful and generous gift, and he had been intentionally mean, giving Gordon that hideous sweater and scarf.

“They might not be colorful enough, now having seen your taste,” Landon said with a wide grin. 

Sheldon opened the box. Inside, carefully folded, were three dress shirts. By touch alone, Sheldon could tell they were the finest cotton and didn’t come from the mass market catalog retailer where he bought serviceable but unexciting clothes. 

“We weren’t sure about the green pinstripe,” Landon said. “I thought it would highlight your eyes. You can’t help that your partner has no clothes sense. The only reason Milton doesn’t look like the stereotypical rumpled professor is because Gordon drags him shopping every year.”

“I hate clothes shopping,” Milton said.

“We all know,” Landon said. “Fortunately you hate the cane more, or we’d be forced to kidnap you to get you clothed.”

Sheldon studied his partner’s corduroys and cashmere sweater. He didn’t look badly dressed. He’d never seen Milton badly dressed; everything was always pressed and well fitting.

“Gordon picked these out,” Milton said. “He’s rather emphatic that I be well dressed.”

“You looked like you bought your clothes at a yard sale before we took over,” Gordon said.

“I’m frugal,” Milton replied with a small smile.

“There’s frugal, and there’s stubborn. You’re the latter,” Landon said.

“All right,” Milton admitted with a grin. “I’d rather spend the day in the basement stacks of the library than go shopping, but I do it now.”

“Only because Gordon grabs you by the collar and drags you to the store.” Landon winked at Sheldon. “I do hope you will be a good influence on your wayward partner.”

Sheldon blushed, fingering the shirts. They were beautiful and expensive. He had some idea of the price for fine cotton shirts. “They’re lovely. Thank you.”

“Try one on,” Gordon said. “Milton supplied the measurements. I hope they were accurate.”

Sheldon lifted the green and white shirt from the box; the stripe was so fine as to be almost invisible, just enough to pick up the green in his eyes. He pulled off his sweatshirt and t-shirt and slipped into the new shirt. 

“Stand next to him, Milton,” Gordon ordered. 

Landon whistled. “They are a beautiful pair.”

“Gorgeous,” Gordon said, “but Milton is your iron broken?”

Sheldon looked down at his wrinkled khakis. As usually, he’d left his clothes in the dryer for hours, and he only wielded the iron if Milton threatened bodily harm. “It’s my fault. I hate to iron.”

“And you don’t insist?” Gordon asked Milton dryly.

“It’s my fault,” Sheldon repeated. “He reminds me to take my clothes out of the dryer and hang them up. Only I don’t listen.”

“Milton, you need to keep appropriate discipline in your home,” Gordon said.

“I pick my battles, sir,” Milton said, wrapping his arm around his partner’s shoulders. 

“He’s a beautiful boy. Don’t let him look like a slob.”  

“Yes, sir.”

“Beautiful boys are to be admired.”

Sheldon blushed. Milton always said he was beautiful, but Sheldon always thought it was a lie or at least an exaggeration. 

“He doesn’t know he’s beautiful?” Gordon asked, his eyebrows climbing into his hairline.

“I’ve told him,” Milton said. “He doubts the truth.”

“Do we have pictures from last night with both of them in their tuxedos?” Gordon asked Landon.

“I’m sure we do.”

“Good. Get one framed for them. Sheldon needs to know why I have to threaten guests with eminent harm when their eyes go astray.”

Milton pulled Sheldon closer, letting his brat bury his red face under his arm. “You’ll never forget to iron your clothes again,” he teased gently. “I can’t have my beautiful boy looking rumpled.”

“I gave him a purple and orange sweater,” Sheldon whispered.

“And a pink scarf,” Milton added in an undertone.

“I was mean.” Sheldon snuggled tighter against Milton.

“You need to fix that with Gordon. I got warned off.”

Sheldon held tighter to his partner. He didn’t want to face Gordon. He liked to pretend that he hated Gordon, that his opinion didn’t matter, and that he wasn’t thoroughly intimidated by the older top.

The door to Gordon’s suite of rooms stood open. Inside Sheldon could see Gordon stretched out on the sofa in front of the crackling hearth, a book in his hand. He was still in that awful orange and purple sweater. Sheldon swallowed hard, screwed up his courage, and knocked on the door.

“It’s open.”

Sheldon stood in the doorway, his courage having evaporated.

“Sheldon, stop hovering and come in. Shut the door after yourself.”

Oh, God, he was going to have to have a private chat with this man and all because he bought him an ugly sweater. A hideous sweater, Sheldon thought, staring at the orange lightning bolt. “I’m sorry,” Sheldon mumbled.

Gordon patted the sofa. “Come sit here. I’m not shouting across the room. And rumors to the contrary, I only bite with warning.”

Sheldon perched on the edge of the sofa, eyeing Gordon as if he might strike at any moment.

Gordon’s armed snaked out around Sheldon’s chest, and he pulled the brat hard against his chest. “Milton loves you which means you’re part of my family, and we need to come to a workable arrangement.” Gordon kissed the top of Sheldon’s head. “What do you need from me, brat? We need to get along.”

Sheldon tried to pull out of Gordon’s grasp. He wasn’t ready for this. He thought he could apologize and maybe get swatted a few times. He didn’t want to have a heart to heart with Gordon. He was old; he was terrifying. He had canes and whips, or at least that was what some of the other brats said.

“You don’t get to run away,” Gordon said, swatting Sheldon lightly. “I assume this is about the sweater and the scarf. They are rather lurid, and I don’t believe you’re color blind nor have that bad of taste. If either of those were true, you wouldn’t be bleeding guilt. Talk to me about it, boy.”

“I’m sorry,” Sheldon blurted, but still trying to pull away.

“No, boy, you need to say more. Is this easier if I put you over my knee?”

Sheldon froze. Gordon was going to spank him.

“Does Milton do these conversations before, during, or after the spanking?” Gordon asked his voice surprisingly soft and his touch easy and almost reassuring.

How did he answer that kind of question? Milton took care of it. He didn’t ask for a dissertation on spanking.

“All right, over you go.” Gordon, with the horrible efficiency of much practice, stripped Sheldon of his trousers and guided him over his knee. His arm wrapped firmly around Sheldon’s hip.”Let’s try this again.” Gordon’s hand rested on Sheldon’s boxer covered rump. “Why are we having this little chat?”

 Because he was being a shit hardly seemed like an appropriate answer. Milton would cover his ass with hard swats for such an answer, and Gordon was unlikely to be different. 

“This has to do with your motivation behind purchasing the sweater, doesn’t it, my boy?” Gordon prodded much too kindly. A quick swat landed, not horrible but a promise that this wouldn’t be only a tap. “I won’t do all the talking.” 

Sheldon jerked as Gordon landed three swats in the identical spot. “I wanted to be mean.”

“Why?” Gordon landed a flurry of swats when Sheldon didn’t answer. “Let me remind you this is not a one way conversation.”

“I don’t like you,” Sheldon mumbled, clutching the pillows in front of him.

“Fair enough,” Gordon said mildly. “I’m a stranger; I have a reputation as an intimidating top, and I was Milton’s mentor. Those are all legitimate reasons to dislike me. Why the guilt, my lad?” Gordon ran his hand over Sheldon’s shoulders and down his back.

“You’re being nice to me, and I was mean,” Sheldon mumbled on the verge of tears.

“I have you pinned over my knee, and I’m going to spank you. Most people wouldn’t call that nice.”

“I’m a brat,” Sheldon wailed. “I need spanked.”

“Milton has done a good job with you,” Gordon said with genuine warmth in his voice. “You understand this, and you two are a good match. Milton would be bored with an easy brat. I don’t think there is any danger of you being too easy.” Gordon ran his hand down Sheldon’s back again and snugged his arm tighter around the brat’s hip. “Do you need a spanking over this beautiful sweater?”

Gordon was going to make him say it. “Yes, sir,” he mumbled and shut his eyes. Please let this be over quick. He wanted to sit down tonight. Everybody would know he’d been spanked on Christmas.

Gordon pulled down Sheldon’s boxers, and his hand landed with a measured crack. Sheldon jerked; he never took a spanking stoically, and Milton was an expert at connecting with a kicking, squirming target. Milton had obviously learned from Gordon who with an almost languid ease landed measured blows. He shifted his legs easily and trapped Sheldon’s flailing feet between them. 

Sheldon was crying hard when Gordon pulled his boxers back up and flipped him upright. 

“That’s my good lad. You’re a good boy.” Gordon brushed back Sheldon’s hair and kissed his forehead: possessive and kind. “You’re Milton’s boy, but you’re also my brat. Are we sorted now?”

Sheldon nodded and let Gordon pull him into a tight hug.

“Merry Christmas, brat,” Gordon said softly and kissed Sheldon’s hair.

Day 22 - December 22nd

Ice Cream Anyone

The dish clattered to the floor, rivers of chocolate flowed around the manmade rapids of broken glass. Toby, Braxton’s cousin rose to his feet, his face an intense shade of red, rivaling the brightness of Santa’s hat. Braxton didn’t see anything else as Landon grabbed his arm and quick marched him toward the kitchen.

“What did you put in that ice cream?”

“Nothing,” Braxton said with false innocence. He hadn’t wanted to come, but both Gordon and Landon had insisted. They said he was too young to abandon his family, especially when his family was still showing interest in him. The weekly forced letter writing was bad enough. Gordon actually sat with him and made him write real letters on good stationary with a ballpoint pen and good penmanship. Whatever happened to email?

“Braxton,” Landon said sharply. Landon could be as bad as any top. He was so confusing, and from his expression he was going to feed Braxton to the lions.

“It was only cayenne pepper and chili powder.” Braxton blinked backed the tears that were coming unbidden to his eyes. He didn’t want to cry here, not at home in front of his family.

“Oh, Braxton.” Landon pulled Braxton into a tight hug, his arms tightly circling Braxton’s narrow hips. “When you decide to brat, you go all out. Not that I don’t understand your motivation; Toby was being dreadful, but it’s usually safer to do full force bratting among our own and not in public. It would be funny if you did it to one of the tops or brats at home. It’s going to get you in trouble, real trouble today, but I think maybe you’ve been angling for trouble since you turned eighteen last week.”

“Gordon’s going to spank me?”

“Without a doubt. I’ve bratted in public. It doesn’t have a good ending.” Landon brushed his hand through the fine strands of hair at the nape of Braxton’s neck. “I think maybe you were looking for a spanking. Gordon and I have been pulling you up short all week, and you did notice that he’s run interference for you all evening.”

“I threw it all in his face,” Braxton mumbled into Landon’s shirt.

“A little, brat, but Gordon’s tough. You won’t damage him. You haven’t seen me when I’m in a mood. I’ve had concerned citizens call the police sure that they’re watching the run up to a homicide.”

“You never brat.”

Landon laughed. “You haven’t been watching closely enough. Last time Milton came for a visit, he threatened to take me out into the other room and spank my ass purple if I didn’t straighten up. I like Milton a lot, but he doesn’t play around if he considers your behavior out of line, and he’s not intimidated by my switch persona. He can tell instantly when I’m on the brat side of things. That man is scary.”

“What’s going to happen? I don’t want to get spanked.”

“It’s too late for that, kid. You should have thought of that before you served Mexican spiced ice cream. If I know Gordon, he’s turned on the charm and is making nice with your relatives. We need to go say proper, polite good-byes, and Gordon will have found some believable excuse for why we need to leave immediately--undoubtedly something about our Christmas preparations. No tears now. Let’s go make a graceful exit.”

Braxton couldn’t have spoken to his parents and sounded like a halfway intelligent human if Landon hadn’t been right at his shoulder, offering silent support. Gordon was charming and had Braxton bundled into his coat and out the door in under five minutes. He’d even helped Braxton into his overcoat with old world charm.

“You drive, Landon,” Gordon said, handing Landon the keys. “Come on, Braxton. You sit with me and we’ll talk.”

Braxton climbed into the cold car barely restraining his tears. Gordon slid in next to him, unfolded a throw, and spread it over both of them. Braxton tried to slither closer to the door.

“No, Braxton. I have to touch you tonight. You stay with me.” Gordon dropped an arm over Braxton’s chest and pulled him close. “Relax. We’re going to talk first.”

“I was awful, sir,” Braxton burst out and turned into Gordon’s chest. “I embarrassed you in front of my parents. I’m a hopeless brat.” Braxton gulped and felt the tears break loose.

“Shh, my little brat,” Gordon said into Braxton’s ear. “Try to stop crying for me; I need you to listen.”

Braxton gulped and rubbed his face. “I’m sorry, sir.”

“Braxton,” Gordon said, his hand firm on the young brat’s shoulder. “We will sort this out. I was not irrevocably harmed or embarrassed by your behavior. It was classic bratting. This does not mean there will not be consequences. I do not condone that sort of behavior, but I am familiar with it.”

“You’re going to spank me?”

“Yes, you are now eighteen, and we talked about behavior that would result in corporal punishment. This meets all the criteria. If I’m not mistaken, you have been pushing me to discover the consequences now that you’ve had your birthday.”

“I don’t want to be spanked,” Braxton said in a tear-filled voice.

“It wouldn’t be a deterrent for such foolishness if you did, adulterating your poor cousin’s ice cream.”

“He’s a jerk.”

“Tampering with someone’s food is still forbidden. You come to Landon or me, and we’ll deal with the unpleasant and the foolhardy. I have considerable experience with rude people. I understand your motivation, but as a member of my household I expect you to uphold a certain level of decorum. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir,” Braxton managed to choke out.

“You understand as a consequence for your action that I’m going to employ physical discipline.”

“Yes, sir.” They were right; he’d asked for this, but now he didn’t want it. It was going to hurt. At least Gordon didn’t seem angry; his arm was tight around Braxton’s shoulder, and his chin rested on Braxton’s head.

“Brax, hang in there,” Landon said from the driver’s seat. “I’ve been on the wrong end of Gordon’s hand more times than I can count or remember, and I’m still here. He’s spanked dozens of baby brats; they all lived to tell the tale with great embellishment. Two days before Christmas in the back of the car after publicly bratting in front of your parents is novel, but I hardly think beyond the scope of a creative brat. You’ll have a better story to tell all the guys.”

Braxton buried his head against Gordon and unsuccessfully tried to stop the tears.

“Landon, are you feeling left out? Do you need a spanking?” Gordon asked.

“No,” Landon said with conviction.

“He’s not ready to be teased yet,” Gordon said in a softer tone.

“I was trying to distract him. We have a long drive home. I don’t like to wait.”

“There’s an abandoned roadside park about a kilometer farther. Pull over and get out of the car. I’ll need ten minutes.”

“It’s freezing.”

“You have winter clothes. I believe this was your suggestion.”

“I didn’t mean for you to take it seriously.”

“It will be better for him.”

Braxton pretended not to hear and pulled the blanket tighter around himself, wishing he could disappear under its thick wool. He was going to get spanked on the side of the road.

Braxton heard the click of the blinker and felt the big car slow. They bounced over a short, rutted road and came to a stop. He heard Landon muttering something about frostbite and a bang as the door slammed shut.

“Slip your trousers and shorts down. Over my knee. Come now, lad. A little cold won’t hurt Landon, but he isn’t dressed for an extended outing.”

Braxton tried to get his pants down, but his hands were shaking and kept sliding off the button. Gordon finally unfastened Braxton’s pants and pulled the young brat over his knee.

“What is this for?”

Braxton couldn’t think with the hand on his naked butt, his thighs rubbing on Gordon’s wool pants. 

“Why are we here?” A sharp swat landed on Braxton’s rump.

“Ah,” Braxton yelped and tried to squirm away.

“Braxton, you gave me consent. You are a brat in my care, and you deserve this. Don’t fight me.” 

Gordon’s voice had deepened to a tone that Braxton, despite his panic, found deeply reassuring. Braxton pressed his hands against the car floor, trying to find a purchase. He had given his consent. He was a brat. Brats did this.

“Why are we doing this?”

The same damn question. “Because I poisoned my cousin’s food.”

Braxton could hear the smile in Gordon’s voice. “If you’d actually poisoned your cousin, I wouldn’t be spanking you. What did you do?”

“I put chili powder and cayenne pepper in his ice cream.”

“And was that something you should do?”

Of course not. He wouldn’t be lying here upended over a top’s knee if it was a good thing to do. “I should have told you or Landon that he was driving me crazy, sir.”

“Very good, boy.” 

The first swat nearly sent Braxton off Gordon’s lap. It was harder than he could have imagined. It hurt; his butt was on fire, and Gordon had only started. Braxton knew brats got spanked. You couldn’t live at the lodge and not see a freshly spanked brat, but no one had told him it hurt this much. He couldn’t stop the yelps that were escaping his throat. He cried; wet sticky tears ran down his cheeks and clogged his throat.

Gordon swung Braxton back upright and wrapped him tight with the blanket. “Cry, lad. There’s no one here, and I know it hurts.”

Braxton clung to the older top, his face crushed against Gordon’s topcoat. The door opened and Landon squeezed in next to him. 

“Is everyone good now?”

What a ridiculous question! Braxton’s rump was on fire, and he was crying without concern for dignity or manly expectations. 

Landon’s arm circled Braxton, and he pulled the brat into an awkward hug in the tight space. He kissed Braxton’s wet, tear-stained cheeks. “If Gordon did this right, you should be feeling better. This is one thing my partner does well.”

Braxton nodded. He did feel better. God, he shouldn’t feel better. He’d just let a man, who anyone in his right mind would call a cranky tyrant, thoroughly spank him, but he felt better. Had he lost his mind?

“Home, James,” Gordon said with a laugh. “We have work to do. Our young brat just became a Green Mountain brat.”

  

Day 21 - December 21st

The Solstice

He could smell the smoke rising from the ceremonial fires lit all over the village. In his mind’s eye, he could see the biggest in the center, crowded by dancers in furs and brightly colored wools, the golds and reds that were worn only at the festival. Smaller fires would light the way down the pass with the last fire at the river, a glowing signpost for their territory. It wouldn’t be his territory after tonight. Last night he’d watched the nearly full moon rise over the mountain and bathe the river in its silver light, the blessing over the land. His land, his father’s land, his ancestors land: land he would never see again by either the pale light of the moon or the brilliant gold of the summer sun.

Ahan touched his wrist, rubbing his hand over the leather thong studded with the precious stones of the river. They looked identical to the decorations that all the elders wore, but Ahan knew they were different. He would be tied out tonight as the moon rose above the great mountain, left to be found by the infidels who lived in the walled city below. He was the gift that ensured the peace. In exchange for a maiden boy, the infidels, the destroyers of all that was right, agreed to live in peace. Ahan knew the legend; all the children of the village knew it from their earliest childhood. It was the greatest fear, but also the greatest honor to be picked.

It wouldn’t be long now. Today was the shortest day of the year. Already the sunbeams had almost disappeared from the narrow slits high on the wall. Ahan paced around the small cell. They would come for him soon. The mask of the bear would be slipped over his head, his hands would be tied, and he’d be escorted to the circle of fires on the edge of the village. Yesterday he’d watched as the post was sunk into the frozen ground and heard the grunts of the men as they dug in the frozen soil. His hands would be tied overhead to wait for the knife of the enemy.

Ahan hugged his legs as the final sliver of sun vanished, and the room fell into darkness.  He pushed himself to his feet as he heard the rhythmic sound of the approaching drums. It was time; he was not afraid. The prosperity of the village rested on his shoulders. It was a great honor. This is what he’d been told for the last three months since he’d been selected. 

“I am ready.”

The village elder, his face lined from sixty winters, his gray hair hidden by the brightly colored ceremonial cloak, nodded and his fingers touched Ahan’s face in a final blessing. Ahan held his hands forward, and the leather thongs around his wrists were clipped together. The two large men, who had been shadows against the wall, stepped nearer and pinned Ahan between them. Their black cloaks rubbed against Ahan’s naked side, and he shivered despite his resolution to be brave. The elder’s hand jerked against Ahan’s hair, and his mouth flew open in surprise. Something was shoved into his mouth: circular and smooth. It was big and hard, pushing his tongue down and robbing him of speech. He twisted in the men’s grip; He hadn’t expected this. He knew that he’d be tied and blindfolded, but he hadn’t expected to be muted. 

“Shh, child,” The elder said, his hand now running gently through Ahan’s hair.

Ahan stilled in the men’s arms, and in the split second when his body no longer twisted and writhed, the elder dropped the mask of the bear over Ahan’s head, and his world went dark. He felt a hand on his shoulder and knew he was being guided toward the door. His feet stung as they hit the snow; his leg snapped reflexively upward to escape the painful cold. Someone tossed him over a shoulder, carrying him like a toddler. The wool of the cloak rubbed against his cold sensitized chest.

The smoke was thicker outside, almost choking. Ahan could imagine the flames licking the night air, the sparks shooting off the logs in a miniature rain of shooting stars. In the distance, he could hear the tinkle of the rattles as the dancers swarmed the center fire. He didn’t have to see them to know the colored ribbons would be waving in the air, flitting with the leaping flames; a casually swirled ribbon licking the fire and bursting into flames. He’d seen it every winter for as long as he could remember. Fifteen winters followed by fifteen springs when the snow melted and rushed into the rivers that would feed the people. 

He wouldn’t see the spring. He wouldn’t see the young deer dart across the lush fields and disappear into the woods. He wouldn’t stand in the rush of the spring streams and catch the young trout. He’d never again taste the sweet berries that bravely clung to the steep rocky banks.

The fires burned close now, a spark striking his chest as he was slid to his feet and his hands hoisted overhead. His shoulders creaked at the unexpected strain, and his toes scrabbled at the rock below, the heat of the fires having melted the snow. A hand ran down his chest, nails scraping against his abdomen, footsteps in the snow and then silence.

Ahan didn’t know how long he stood within the circle of fire. The flames must have burned lower because he could feel the cold shoot waves of icy tendrils through his body when he heard the crunch of hooves in the snow and the rough guttural sounds of the language of the walled barbarians. A language he couldn’t understand but came from the mouths of the dark bearded people who lived within the walls, the people whom he’d been given as a living token of the fragile treaty between them.

Rough hands pulled at the ropes, and Ahan was suddenly pleased that he couldn’t see the filth pawing his body. The stench filling his nose was enough, odors that he couldn’t place or calibrate, not the smell of the pine forest or the fresh deer meat hanging on the drying racks, but the smell of a rotting log infested with the many legged creatures. 

He was slung onto a horse, one of their great warhorses from the width of its shoulders. An arm clothed in rough wool circled his waist, and a hand pulled the mask from his head. Ahan shut his eyes. He would obey these barbarians, show them the strength of a great mountain warrior when he let his body be taken in every vile manner they desired, but his mind and his soul belonged to the mountain. He wouldn’t gaze upon them with a humble, submissive eye.

Ahan heard what he imagined was a curse, and thick, clumsy fingers struggled to untie the gag. A flask filled with wine, fragrant with spices, was thrust into his face, ramming his lips and tongue. He swallowed obediently, a strange fire coursing down his throat and a heavy languidness overcoming his limbs.

********

Ahan opened his eyes, silently taking in his surroundings. Stones pressed against one side of the bed where he was lying swaddled in a half dozen blankets. Overhead great timbers held a roof so high that even standing atop the bed Ahan’s fingers wouldn’t stretch to reach its smooth surface. Across the room a fire burned behind a grate, and a man knelt pouring water into a bowl. 

Ahan shut his eyes; he wasn’t ready to wake in this foreign land. Years tracking game allowed him to hear the light footsteps across the flagstones, but he hadn’t anticipated the warm cloth wiping his face. He shot upright, grabbing the man’s wrist. The man froze, and Ahan, realizing his error, dropped his hand and looked away. He must submit to their wishes; peace depended on his obedience. The man said something incomprehensible and continued washing Ahan’s face. With primitive pointing, he indicated that Ahan should rise and dress. A uniform identical to the strange man’s of baggy pants and a white tunic was folded at the foot of the bed.

Ahan felt the fabric against his skin; it was softer than the wools of his birth village but not as smooth as the shiny fabric purchased from the traders for pelts and bear teeth. He slipped his feet into a soft felt shoe, impractical for anything but indoor wear. Not that it mattered, Ahan didn’t expect to remain clothed for long. His body had been give to whoever owned this great house, a house of many riches with an unimaginable surplus of servants if one could be spared to assist the slave boy.

Ahan followed the silent figure down winding stone passages lit by the flickering lanterns high on the wall. Without the sun or the stars to guide him, he’d never find his way. No wonder he hadn’t been chained last night; escape was impossible in these dim corridors. His guide opened a large wooden door carved with intricate figures busy at tasks Ahan couldn’t recognize. One figure depicted a great long beast belching smoke and men shoveling food into its mouth. Had these people tamed the dragons of legend? The elders spoke reverently of these great silver beasts that could disappear into a side of the mountain; Ahan had never believed they were more than embellished bears in a hunter’s famished mind.

A single figure sat at an enormous table, basking in the morning light streaming through a wall of windows, most clear but some colored. The shifting colors and light threw a pattern on the stone floor. Three fires burned in three hearths. The man rose and moved toward Ahan. He was tall and broad shouldered, his face hidden behind a dark beard.

Ahan braced himself, refusing to be intimidated by the man’s great height and fierce features. He gazed upward, trying to read the inscrutable face. What would this man want with him? 

“Did you sleep well?”

Ahan startled despite his resolve. This man spoke his language, the soft, sweet sound of the mountain.

“Yes, my lord.”

“I doubt it.” The man smiled, his white teeth like fangs. “The drink should have helped, but I don’t believe you slept well. You are not foolhardy enough to lie comfortably in a strange house, and you are awake early.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Oh, stop with my lord. I am not my father.” The man barred his teeth again.

“I meant not to offend you,” Ahan said carefully.

“You didn’t,” the man said and shrugged. “I am Arvid owner of this.” The man waved his arms, encompassing the room, the tapestries adorning the wall, Ahan and the quiet man who had led him this way. “What is your name?”

“I am your slave. My name is of no importance,” Ahan said, keeping his eyes on the man’s face instead of respectfully dropping his eyes to the floor. His body was owned, but his heart was his.

“I have no desire for a slave. Slavery has been outlawed for a century. I am Arvid, son of a man whose name is uttered with reverence within these walls but means nothing to you. What is your name?”

“Ahan, my lord.”

“Ahan, by law and custom I cannot return you to your people, but you are not my slave.”

“What am I?” Ahan whispered, his composure broken. He was the offering, the guarantee of peace. If this man didn’t want him, he couldn’t protect his people; he would fail at his sacred task.

“Ahan, sit.”

Ahan folded his legs and sank to the floor.”

“No, at the table,” Arvid said, sounding annoyed.

“My lord?” Ahan didn’t know these people, didn’t know their customs, but he was not an elder; he held no wealth. His place was not at the table with a man of great wealth, a man who owned a dwelling as big as Ahan’s village.

“You are my guest. You do not eat on the floor.” Arvid wrapped his large hand around Ahan and lifted him with surprising gentleness. “Do not fear me. I will ask nothing of you, but for you to remain in my home. We cannot risk war.”

They could not risk war with their wealth and power? Ahan must have misunderstood.

“I’m doing this badly. Please, join me at the table and eat your fill. I will try to explain.” Arvid reached tentatively forward and his fingers touched Ahan’s fine hair before he jerked back as if burned. “You are beautiful, but I am told you do not touch in that manner. I will respect your culture.”

“I am yours,” Ahan forced from his lips. He’d been prepared to give his body; he’d been warned.

“I will not take what is not freely given. You are a beautiful boy, but you are safe here. I am as much a hostage to this ancient arrangement as you. Please, come eat.”

The table was laid with foods that Ahan hardly recognized: big, glossy apples of a deep red instead of the blushing pink of the native fruit, meats smelling of foreign spices, and colorful vegetables out of season for many months.

“I thought you might be hungry.” The man Arvid seemed nervous, his hands fluttering between chair, table, and Ahan as if he didn’t know what to do. “I know the drought was followed by an early and severe winter.”

Ahan stared; there was more food than he would see or eat in a week. “No other guests are expected?” Guests was a polite term; Ahan had expected to be passed between men. 

“No, I didn’t wish to overwhelm you.” Arvid said something in his native language, the harsh sounds jarring Ahan’s ears, and the man, who had been in Ahan’s room and had stood against the wall since their arrival in this sunlit room, poured mugs of an amber liquid and heaped two plates with food.

The fragrance was enticing; Arvid was well informed of the conditions in the mountains. Ahan had not had a full meal in weeks. Unconsciously he sniffed the air, inhaling the rich scent of roasted meats. 

“Eat.” Arvid cut a piece of meat chewing carefully, watching his captive. “Is this a fast day?”

Ahan stared, not understanding.

“Is there some reason you cannot eat? I know you are hungry; I can see it in your eyes.”

Ahan lowered his head, ashamed at his own weakness and that this stranger so easily found his soft flesh where the knife would quickly cripple him.

“This is not a trap,” Arvid said, pushing the meat closer. “I can only imagine what you were told, but I want nothing of you but for you to remain here and insure the peace. We are not warriors.”

Ahan moved his fingers slowly toward the meat. He could not resist; he would give himself for even this slight kindness and the call of his physical needs.

“Good.” Arvid smiled again. This time the faintest lightness shown in his dark eyes. “These are my favorite dishes.”

“They are good,” Ahan said, not taking his eyes from Arvid as he reached for a second piece. This man Arvid was not as expected. He hadn’t grabbed him; he hadn’t hit him; he hadn’t done any of those things Ahan could not mention but haunted his dreams. The man fed him and smiled, a smile that had lost the fierceness of the wolf watching his prey. It confused Ahan. He’d heard the legends of the chosen one freely giving himself to the barbarians. Is this how the barbarians won with a kindness Ahan didn’t understand? He chewed another piece of meat. He was here forever. He’d have many moons to investigate this mystery, but for now he would eat and study this barbarian as he studied the game in the woods. He could do no more.

Day 20 - December 20th

The Present

“I didn’t expect to get a present from Jake,” Dan said, running his hand down the oddly shaped package in his stocking. “I wonder where he found wrapping paper with tea kettles.”

“The cook shop,” Sam said with a desperate wish that Dan wouldn’t put two and two together, but knowing it was a forlorn hope. Dan had seen Jake’s face when they’d returned from the trip to the mall and had known something had happened, but so far Sam had escaped with only a mild lecture about not torturing his friends in public. Jake had refused to divulge the details of their adventure at the mall, and Sam wasn’t about to enlighten his partner. After all, the man wielded a spatula like a deadly weapon.

“Well, at least it’s not fruitcake,” Dan said.

“Jake cooks too well to send anyone fruitcake.” Especially not to the top of an errant brat, Sam thought. From the shape of the item, Sam knew what it had to contain--a spatula, probably in some awful cheery color that could be prominently displayed as an innocent reminder to behave. It wouldn’t feel innocent on his backside.

“He also saw the plethora of fruitcakes that arrived at our door. Didn’t I hear him suggest we consider using them as patio pavers?” Dan asked, his eyebrows rising in mock indignation.

“He thought it was cruelty to donate them to the food bank.”

“I’m sure someone must enjoy them. They do sell them every year. This is interesting,” Dan said after he’d torn half the wrapping off the present. “Did he pick the color to suggest the shade I should turn your backside?”

Sam stared at the bright red spatula. From the way Dan was waving it in the air, it looked like it packed a mighty sting.

“And how awful were you when Jake took you shopping?”

“Cooking stores are boring.”

“Did you test it out on any innocent Christmas shoppers?”

“I’m not that bad.”

“You’re never bad. Sometimes you forget to think, or your sense of humor overwhelms your better judgment.”

“I told Jake they’d make a good paddle.”

“And thoroughly made a nuisance of yourself in the store, I bet. I’ve been shopping with you before. I pray for patience.”

Sam flushed but recovered quickly. “Patience and tolerance are Christian virtues. I give you a lot of practice.”

“You give me lots of other things too. Some maybe not so virtuous.” Dan jerked Sam’s wrist so he tumbled over the top’s lap and peppered the pajama covered backside with a dozen soft swats with the new spatula. “Only with you can I have Christmas morning play.” He swung Sam to his feet and kissed him thoroughly. “Unfortunately I have to give the sermon this morning, and you have to sing in the choir. We’ll have to take a raincheck.”

“More like a snowcheck. Have you seen the weather?”

Dan ran to the window and pulled the curtains back. The ground was covered in unmarred whiteness with flakes still tumbling from the sky. “It’s beautiful.”

“I know.” Sam wrapped his arm around Dan. “Can we call and say we’re snowed in?”

“No, we can walk, and we’ll need to call and make sure all the older parishioners are OK. They may be trapped and need assistance.”

“I knew you’d say that. I have all the snow gear on the porch. Shovels ready for action.”

Dan bent down and kissed his partner’s forehead. “I don’t tell you enough how much I love you. Thank you.”

“I like shoveling snow because afterward we strip off our wet things and crawl under the blankets, and you know where that leads.”

“Brat.”

“Always.” Sam grinned. “You’re brat forever.”

Day 19 - December 19th

This is a special post as the first part of the story was written by one of my betas. I hijacked the rest.

Christmas Play

Tilden finally gave up on finding any rest and maneuvered himself out from under his two brats.  He made a cup of tea and took it to the living room, to sit in front of the Christmas tree and try to make sense of Milton’s advice. Milton dispensed advice with the same clarity he marked a history  exam or chased Sheldon from the myriad of disasters he could create. Milton’s quiet chats were well worth Tilden’s full attention. Milton had accused Tilden of being ‘intentionally obtuse’, but was he, or had he really expressed his true feelings about the things Milton had said to him.  

The cane was something Milton understood, appreciated, and even used on occasion. Tilden’s own experience with it had left him with feelings of anger, mistrust and even abuse. How could he possibly consider using such an implement on his sweet Luke?  

For Mike he would need to be stronger. A dom/sub relationship would require Tilden to assume a sterner persona. Could he ignore his own instincts to reason with and explain to Mike in favor of forcing him to kneel at Tilden’s feet? While this might be easier to understand and even adapt to than caning someone he loved, he was unsure if he could be all that Mike needed.  

As he sat nursing his now cold tea, he heard familiar steps walking up behind him and felt Milton’s strong hands on his shoulders..

 “Do you want to talk?”

Tilden ran his hand down his face, a telltale sign of stress that Milton had chided him to hide from his brats. “What a  mess.”

“They’re quiet now, aren’t they?”

“Asleep.”

“So, it’s not a mess.” Milton reached out and touched Tilden’s glass. “Tea is better not at room temperature and thick with jam sludge. I’ll freshen it.”

Tilden watched Milton disappear into the kitchen. Even with errands as banal as pouring fresh tea, Milton carried himself with poise, control, and power. Tilden was never going to be able to do that. He didn’t pour tea like a ninja.

“Drink up.” Milton pushed a fresh glass of tea into Tilden’s hand. “Where do we start?” Milton asked after taking a sip of his own tea.

“What do you mean?”

“Tilden don’t play with me. You’re in here staring at the Christmas tree, and you haven’t even switched on the lights. And your tea was cold. We have a samovar in this house; I know you hate cold tea.”

Tilden tried to smile at Milton, but he was sure the effort was transparent. “I was thinking.”

“You were brooding. What bothers you more, playing with the cane or being a dom occasionally?”

That was classic Milton--right to the heart of the problem in one swift leap. No wonder brats fled when he walked in the room.

“Well, which is it?”

“I’m thinking,” Tilden said, choking back the snarl that threatened to escape his lips.

“You’re stalling.” Milton bent down and kissed Tilden’s forehead. “For a top, you can sometimes do a damn good imitation of a brat in trouble.”

“I’m trying.” Tilden did snarl this time.

“Steady. That’s your problem--you try too hard. You’re a natural dom with Mike. He responds to you; you don’t have to do anything else. Allow him to respond to you. He’s not a chains and whips type of boy; he wants calm and quiet, and you’re the master at that.”

“I can’t cane Luke.” Tilden couldn’t suppress the shudder at the mention of the cane.

“I’m not talking about those barbaric judicial canings; I’m talking about a little schoolboy and master fun. You do dialogues in Russian class?”

“Yes.”

“You role play in those dialogues? Sales clerks, taxi drivers and such?”

“Of course.”

“This is no different, except the cane is the prop instead of a few kopek coins or a lacquered box.”

“I don’t hit my students with a lacquered box.”

“You’re not hitting Luke either; you will be laying down several carefully placed strokes. The important part is the fantasy, not the actual strokes. Luke is not a masochist.”

“The cane hurts,” Tilden protested.

“It can.” Milton rose to his feet and stared down at Tilden, his eyes suddenly stern behind his glasses. “You, young man, are late for lessons again. Haven’t I warned you of this fault before? Answer me?” Milton thundered when Tilden sat silent.

Tilden reflexively pulled back in his chair and dropped his head. Milton was every inch the angry school teacher, and almost without thinking Tilden searched his mind for a lost test paper or a chat in the hall that made him late for class.

Milton smiled and ruffled Tilden’s hair. “See. I didn’t even set you up, and you reacted to that. Set the scene correctly with a nice desk, an old globe, and a few musty books, and all you’ll have to do is wave the cane, and Luke will be happy. It’s the fantasy, not the reality, that Luke wants.” Milton reached down and pulled Tilden from the chair. “Come on. I’ll teach you how to swing the thing, and you can give him a little fantasy for Christmas. You’ll be his hero for life.”

Tilden let himself be pulled behind Milton. He wasn’t convinced, and fighting Milton in this mood was impossible, but Tilden could just about manage a little play acting.