Rules to Live By Read online

  “Flogger?” Jon raised his eyebrows hopefully, but Alistair shook his head.

  “No, I don’t think so. I want to encourage good behavior, not reward the bad, and you like that flogger far too well. No, that’s for when you’re being good. When you’re being naughty . . .” Alistair rubbed his hands together and grinned like a shark, teeth sharp and gleaming. “I think it’s better you get a more personal touch.”

  “Your hand?” Generally he liked any excuse to get Alistair’s hands on him, but they were surprisingly tough considering his career. He used to wonder if Al had shoved them into buckets of hot sand at some point, but Alistair had laughed off his questions and put the pain he could bestow down to “natural talent and inclination.”

  Well, at least it wasn’t a paddle.

  “My hand. Be grateful I’m not putting you over my lap for it.”

  “That’s never been your kink.”

  Alistair looked unamused. “This isn’t about kink, and you’re not going to get out of it by delaying. Take your pill, then meet me, ready to go, in the bedroom.” Alistair put his dishes in the sink, then left.

  It was close to pill time, wasn’t it? It was noted on the whiteboard along with all the other rules, and unlike some of the rest of them, Jon did his best never to get off track when it came to the pills. He swallowed one back, washed it down with some water, and stood. The dishes . . . there was no specific rule about them, but he was trying to stay on Alistair’s good side, so he dropped them off in the sink, careful not to let them clatter, and went to join Alistair in the bedroom.

  Only Alistair wasn’t there. That didn’t change his directive, though. He pulled his T-shirt off, pushed his sweatpants down over his slim hips, and then got on his hands and knees on the end of the bed. He’d take his hits, and then hopefully they’d fuck, because he was desperate for it, and then . . . God, just one day off before Alistair had to run away again would be nice.

  When they’d first met a decade ago, Alistair had been a small-time theater actor in Edinburgh, just like his parents before him. His first week in Scotland, Jon had bought a ticket to the Lyceum’s opening night showing of Andromache, in which Alistair was playing the part of the very late-to-the-game Orestes. Jon had wrangled his way into the after-party, found Alistair by a window, and proceeded to castigate him about his character’s overreliance on deus ex machina to look out for his sorry ass. Astonishingly, Alistair had been charmed rather than annoyed. They got to talking, and by the end of the night Al had smuggled him back to the dressing room to fuck him against the radiator. For the rest of the run, Jon went to every showing of that play he could manage.

  Jon sighed. He hated, hated George Bernard Shaw’s pompous moralizing, but there was something to be said for “Youth is wasted on the young.” He’d been such a fool. Back then, Alistair had had the time to spend with Jon when Jon wasn’t busy drinking, or fucking around, or generally being an idiot. It was amazing he’d passed that semester of college, really; he’d been so wrapped up in his merry hedonism. And then Jon had blithely, blindly left, and that had been it between them until two years ago, and now everyone knew Alistair, and everyone wanted him. Especially that prick Edward, no matter what Al said.

  “You look pensive. Reflecting on your punishment?” Alistair asked from behind him, breaking him out of his literary fugue.

  “Kind of. Not exactly.”

  “Well, start thinking about it.” He set one hand on Jon’s lower back, skin separated from skin by the thin leather of a glove, and Jon shivered but didn’t turn around. He didn’t need to see Alistair’s face to know who was doing this to him, for him.

  Alistair drummed his fingertips against Jon’s knobby vertebrae. “Have I ever said I expect perfection from you?”

  “No.”

  “Have I ever asked for something you were unwilling to give me?”

  He let his head hang a little lower. “No.”

  “Did you agree to do your best to abide by the rules?”

  “You know I did.”

  “And did you do your best these past few days?”

  “No.” Jon moaned with frustration. “We’ve already covered this. I screwed up, just smack me already!”

  “I could do that,” Alistair agreed, both thumbs kneading in slow circles to each side of Jon’s spine. “But you can take that without wondering anymore. You accept it and get over it and it doesn’t move you to change. So let me speak to you first, about why you should think harder.”

  He pinched Jon’s side for emphasis.

  “A few cigarettes, I don’t care about. Eating small meals: at least you’re eating.” Al paused, and Jon tensed as he waited for the rebuke that was coming next. “But making yourself sick through bad decisions and frankly insulting worry over me is a real problem. Things that have the potential to really damage you are not, and never shall be, all right. It shows that not only do you not care about yourself, you don’t care about me or what we have together, either.”

  “Al . . .” Traitorous tears rose in Jon’s eyes, and he clenched his jaw against the swell of guilt that tightened his throat. “I feel fine now. It really wasn’t that bad.”

  “But it could have become bad if I’d been gone for longer. How can I trust you to be by yourself if we don’t have the same ideas about what is permissible for you to suffer? Do you want to change the rules?”

  “No,” he whispered. He didn’t always like the rules, but he always wanted them. He needed the tangible reminder of Al’s place in his life.

  “Do you want to change our relationship?”

  “Goddamn it, no!” That was the last thing he wanted, and Al knew that; he had to know that, didn’t he? Was Jon so completely shit at communicating that he let the most important person in his life think he didn’t value him?

  “Good. Then stop being a fucking idiot and brace yourself because I’m going to turn your arse purple by the time I’m done. Count for me.” Without further ado, the gentle massage vanished, and Alistair smacked Jon’s right ass cheek hard enough to make him jump.

  “Jesus Christ!”

  “The Lord isn’t considered a unit of measurement, Jonathan. Try again.”

  “Fuck, one.” He barely finished before the next one fell, on the same fucking spot. He knew better than to complain this time, though.

  “Two.” He got to five, and Alistair stroked down his side with one hand.

  “That’s one cigarette down. Keep up the good work.” Crack.

  “Six!”

  He lasted until twenty-two before he couldn’t hold the tears back anymore. Fuck it, but this was a hard spanking. He couldn’t remember the last time Alistair had been so rough on him. His entire ass was on fire, and he still had eight strikes to go. Jon could tell Alistair to stop and he would, but then how would he prove he’d learned his lesson? He sniffled through the next three strikes and howled through the final five, and as soon as they were done, Alistair was by his side, easing him into his arms and murmuring praise, wiping his eyes with a tissue, giving him a chance to blow his nose before finally pulling him to lie facedown on the bed, and lying next to him.

  “Well done.” Alistair pressed a kiss to his cheek. Jon opened his watery eyes and glared at him as hard as he could manage.

  “You had better fuck me now.” It was hard to sound threatening around the lump in his throat, but he did his best.

  “Give me a chance to take a breather first,” Alistair teased. “That was hard work.”

  Jon knocked his shoulder with the back of his hand. “I mean it, asshole; I didn’t go through all that not to get a reward at the end.”

  “You did behave exceptionally well.” Alistair sounded suspiciously agreeable. “But as glorious as fucking you would be, your ass is so red right now I don’t think you’d enjoy it the way you should.”

  “Al, I swear to God—”

  “I’ll take care of you, but first you need to drink some water.” He stood up and headed for the bathroom, and Jon
watched him go with a strange sense of unwilling contentment. That was the beautiful thing about Alistair, more beautiful than his body or his poetic sensibilities: his capacity to forgive. Once the punishment was meted out, it was done. He didn’t torment Jon by hanging his mistakes over his head day after day. He forgave him, and they moved on. Hopefully by finding some way to fuck, because pain or not, he was getting turned on just thinking about Alistair naked.

  Alistair came back and handed him a glass of water. “Drink.”

  He settled in and gently rubbed his bare hand over Jon’s heated skin. Jon flinched at the first touch, but settled into it after a moment. Uncomfortable, but not as bad as it could have been.

  “Do you want another glass?” Alistair asked, smoothing over the last few inches of his ass. “Perhaps a nap?”

  He didn’t quite scream with frustration, but it was a near thing. “Neither of those terms are synonymous with ‘fuck,’ so now who’s misusing the language?”

  “You have a very smart mouth today.” When Alistair looked up his eyes were wide and dark and hungry. “I think we should put it to better use than speaking.”

  Jon swallowed reflexively. “Yes, please.”

  “Up onto your hands and knees again.” Jon complied and watched avidly as Alistair pulled off his gloves and set them on the dresser, then sent his T-shirt flying toward the hamper. He was so fucking pretty, with pale Scottish skin and freckles across his shoulders that they always took out in his movies, covering them up with makeup like they were blemishes, when they were just beautiful. He had a body that should have looked lanky but seemed fluid instead, gorgeously muscular but not bulky. And his cock . . .

  Alistair dropped his pants, and Jon’s mouth watered. Long enough to bang against the back of his throat and thick enough to shut him up. Alistair’s cock filled him deliciously, no matter in which end he was taking it. And this was one thing they could safely do raw. Jon made a whimpering sound that would normally have embarrassed him.

  “Enough begging, Jonathan.” Alistair climbed onto the bed and knelt in front of him, cupping his face and sliding his fingers through his loose hair before his grip tightened. “I’m here,” he murmured, and pressed forward. Jon was ready for him, so fucking ready— “Take me.”

  And Jon did.

  It was rough, and that was perfect. Alistair held his head still and fucked forward into his mouth, not too hard, but deep on every stroke, leaving Jon with barely enough time to get a breath before his throat was full again. He loved it, loved the freshly cleaned taste of Alistair’s cock, hot and smooth against his cradling tongue. He wanted more of it, wanted to press forward until his nose was buried in Alistair’s bright-red curls and just stay there and keep him inside. Alistair kept a measured pace though, thrusting in and out and watching every inch disappear into Jon’s wet, swollen lips.

  “I love fucking your smart mouth.” Alistair sounded almost as breathless as Jon felt as he thrust his hips harder. Jon choked and spluttered and tried to take more, but Alistair’s grip on his hair was unrelenting to the point of pain. “Don’t fight, just take it; take me, take me, there . . . ah, Jonathan.” His breath quickened and his cock drove deep, the head resting against the back of Jon’s throat. He was so fucking ready to taste Alistair he could feel it, and then—

  He pulled out and moved away, sliding off the side of the bed. Jon whined with frustration, but in a second Alistair was behind him, holding him still with one hand on his hip as the other worked his own cock hard, jerking it until he panted and arched forward and came all over Jon’s bright-red ass.

  Jon barely felt the warmth of the cum on top of his spanking, but he’d turned his head to watch Alistair’s face as he came, the way his eyes drifted closed for a moment at the beginning, then opened again, drawn to watch his spunk paint Jon’s ass. Alistair’s throat quivered with pent-up groans, and his chest hitched breathlessly. If Alistair didn’t reach for him soon, he was going to come all on his own, untouched.

  “Al,” Jon croaked, and after another second, Alistair remembered and pulled Jon’s hips back, resting his slick cock in the crack of his ass as he reached around and grabbed Jon’s cock. The pressure hurt but Jon still reveled in the close contact, and a handful of strokes later he forgot the pain and ground against Alistair as he tensed.

  “Fuu . . .” He couldn’t even finish a simple four-letter word. It felt so good to let go, an ache as his balls emptied, the desperate strain of his dick finally finding some relief, orgasm washing over his mind like a balm. He came so hard he felt his spine creak as he arched into Alistair’s perfect hand, oh God . . .

  “That’s it.” Alistair stroked him until he was empty, until it hurt. “That’s it, so good. Jonathan, bloody hell.”

  “Mmm . . .” As soon as Alistair let go, Jonathan fell over onto his right side, avoiding the wet spot and feeling no pain. “Nice.”

  “I agree.” Alistair lay down behind him and clasped a loose arm around his waist. “You feel all right? No aches that shouldn’t be there?”

  “No.” Jon was already drowsy, reduced to comfortable monosyllables. “Fine.” Sex always made him lethargic, and Alistair tucked up against his back was just enough warmth to ward off the slight chill of the room.

  “Good.” Alistair stroked his hand slowly up and down Jon’s side, and he drifted off. No worries, no tension, nothing but satisfaction and the faint burn from his spanking. Alistair was here, in bed with him, and that plus the punishment and the sex was enough to send him peacefully to sleep.

  Jon woke up a while later to Alistair gently shaking his shoulder.

  “We have to get cleaned up.”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “And then we should take Brutus for a walk.”

  “Mm— Wha?” He reengaged his brain with difficulty. “No. Really?”

  “Two walks a day, and we’re already late for his first one. That’s the rule.”

  “Can’t we throw a ball from the front porch for one of them?” Jon wasn’t trying to be pitiful, but he didn’t really care if it came off that way either.

  “No . . . but we can stay within sight of the house so you don’t have to explain your wincing to Mrs. Wozniak,” Alistair allowed, and Jon smirked into the comforter.

  “Hey,” he said a moment later, postponing their leaving the bed as long as he could without making it too obvious. “Do you think they’ll ever figure out that Colin and I faked that fight?” That night had been a stroke of genius. It had been fun for both of them, had given him a reason to bow out of future awards shows, and hadn’t reflected too badly on Alistair because he hadn’t been nominated for anything last year. Jon and Colin had laughed themselves silly about it when they’d seen the footage the next day. Alistair hadn’t been so sanguine, but the punishment hadn’t been too dire that time around.

  “Probably not unless you tell them.” Alistair brushed his hand through Jon’s hair a few times before sitting up. “I know you and Colin are friends, but you don’t see each other very often. You could make it into a tale of redemption, if you wanted to. Exchange handshakes on the red carpet, sit together at the next Golden Globes. Enemies to friends, isn’t that a popular storytelling trope?” He paused, then added, “I’d appreciate your accompanying me, if you think you could get through it all without biting off your tongue.”

  His first impulse was to say No can do, but then he thought of the way Edward had come running when he’d seen Alistair, the hand on his back, the way he’d turned to him, looked at him . . .

  “I’ll think about it,” he said at last, surprising himself a little but grinning at how he’d shocked Alistair. “Do I get a pass on my next cigarette for being so open-minded?”

  “Your pass is not getting spanked again for the next few days.” Alistair’s voice was dry as he stroked a single finger over Jon’s ass. The soreness sparked up instantly, prickly and throbbing. “Come on, then. Let’s get ready for the rest of the day now that you have your focus back.”

>   He knew Alistair was referring to the result of the spanking and the sex, the way it always grounded him. But, unable to take his eyes off Alistair as he walked away, Jon thought it might be a lot simpler than that. He had Alistair with him, back where he belonged, and that did more to focus him than sex or any punishment given by his lover ever would. Not that he didn’t appreciate either of the other things, but . . .

  “Jon! Get your arse out of bed before you earn another tally mark and end up doing all the dishes for a week!”

  “I’m coming!” He pushed carefully onto all fours before sliding to his feet beside the bed. Ah yes, the marks, the rules. Another of those things he got with Alistair. He could live with the rules, especially when they got a little bent.

  Huge thanks to my husband, who reads everything I write, no matter the topic, and offers great advice.

  It was one of those days when Tad wanted to go home and kick the cat. Except he lived on campus, and he didn’t have a cat. What he had was nine hundred dollars in his pocket, and a well-thumbed business card. Nothing more than an address and a telephone number in shiny black print on a matte black background—writing that only appeared when you tilted the card in the light just so—but that was all Tad needed. He hadn’t been to the place in a week, but the urge to walk inside, take a breath, and feel like the master of everything he surveyed had been gnawing at him for days. And if the visit went like last time, even better. He hadn’t known he was the sort of guy who came hardest when he’d made his partner cry, but fuck it. Bitch needed to develop a thicker skin.

  Last week, he’d swaggered into the place, laid out his cash, and demanded “the greenest bitch here.” Which totally went against the brothel’s “socialize and hook up” way of doing things, but Tad had no interest in wasting time schmoozing with a bunch of used-up whores.

  Speaking of used up . . .

  Now that Tad had gotten a taste of teaching this place’s newbie what he could expect out of his worthless life, maybe it was time to sample the other extreme. Some whore way past their expiration date, probably desperate for money and clients in a room full of younger, fresher wares. Willing to do pretty much anything.