Saddled, epilogue (Patreon)

John poked his meal with a plastic fork and scowled at the man sitting at a matching picnic table on the other side of the barbecue pit. “Next time I'm going to kick his ass,” he said darkly. Most of the Saturday crowd had left late last night, and John wondered how many had gone from a kink fest in the woods to Sunday church. Personally John didn’t see a problem with that, but he could imagine plenty of people would. Well they could fuck themselves because none of the people at this fete would fuck them.

Clive nodded knowingly. “I don't doubt it.” The bastard sounded amused.

John stabbed his crab salad. “I'm not kidding.”

When Clive coughed, it looked suspiciously like he was covering a laugh.

John raised an eyebrow, but he didn’t call Clive out. He liked that Clive was laughing more and throwing temper tantrums on his phone less, not that John would ever again make the mistake of calling them tantrums in front of Clive. 

“Again, I'm not doubting you,” Clive said before he glanced over his shoulder at the large man who had taken the spot of John’s least favorite person in the world, only one spot ahead of Fawn’s asshole ex-husband. “In fact, I would enjoy seeing you kick his ass. I understand that he has quite the history at these competitions. If you can beat him, you're going to be handing him a real humiliation.” Clive’s grin made it clear he would enjoy holding the reins when John took Jo-Jo’s title away. Jo-Jo. What a stupid name. No doubt it was his horse name, but unlike John, he continued to introduce himself as Jo-Jo even after the tack came off.

“He had better be prepared to be humiliated,” John said darkly. “I can't believe I lost that fucking competition.” John hated losing.

“It was your first time pulling in harness,” Clive said in an infuriatingly cheerful tone. John wasn’t sure if the bastard was honestly trying to be supportive or just rubbing John’s nose in the fact that he’d lost.

“No, it wasn't. You're slightly obsessed with putting me in harness.” When life had forced John off his fishing boat, he’d had to start working out to maintain his weight and the large physique certain clients wanted. The irony was that now that he could get fat and happy if he wanted since he didn’t work for Elena, Clive worked him so hard in harness that John hadn’t gained a single pound.

“Yes, but I'm also not putting you in competition with other stallions every day of the week. That was your first time in competition.” Clive dropped his barbeque rib bone on the plate and wiped his fingers off on the napkin.

“I wouldn't have lost if I was still fishing every day.”

Clive frowned. “Do you want to go back to fishing every day?”

John snorted. God save him from the occasional flares of insecurity Clive showed. Then again, at least Clive would speak up if he was unhappy. John needed someone who was willing to show emotions in a way that John would notice. And if John ever missed the subtle hints, Clive would get in his face and point out that leaving underwear on the bedroom floor inspired homicidal rage. 

“Strangely I don’t miss having the ocean try to kill me on a regular basis,” John said. “Besides, if I did go back to fishing, your television show is falling apart.” John wasn’t even kidding about that. Dan Filloby was a great writer and everyone on set kept talking about how they were going to make a strong showing during awards season.  However what the man knew about fishing would fit on the head of a pin. John spent far too much of his life trying to explain the obvious to a twit who couldn’t see past the pen in his hand.

“I don't doubt that,” Clive said in a flat voice. “He can write characters like nobody's business, but he's a moron.”

John was full, but the crab salad was so good he keep eating anyway. “You noticed. If I don't keep my eye on that script every minute of every day, he slips stupid shit in there three times a day. Four times on Sunday. Has he ever actually been on a boat? We might want to consider taking him out and pointing out things like a person can't reach from one side of the boat to the other. Well you can in some boats, but those are called canoes. And fishermen don't go out in canoes. Canoes are stupid boats that people from the city like to play with.”

Clive laughed, not even hiding his amusement. “You really are in a spectacularly bad mood.”

John glared across the yard to Jo-Jo. This time the man spotted John and he gave a wide smile. John frowned. “Yes, I am. And it's going to last until I beat that asshole.”

“Once you do win, do you plan on being in a better mood?”

“I plan on being in fucking, great mood. I'll show you exactly how good my mood will be.” John offered his lover a salacious look. “Who knows, maybe I'll even let Filloby do one stupid thing in one script just so that he feels less incompetent. Why couldn’t he write about something he knew, like creative writing programs at a university in a state with a lot of wheat.” He had told John all about his life. It involved beer and wheat and some creative writing professors Filloby had a crush on. He wrote interesting scripts, but his actual life was boring enough to use as a sedative.

“You do know that the little shit in question is probably the reason why the show is going to win an Emmy.” Clive sounded pleased at the thought, but not overly excited. 

“You do know that I don't actually care about Emmys, right? I just want to make sure I can go have a beer in Maine without people making fun of the damn show. I can't believe you put my name on the credits. Now everyone knows I'm associated with it.”

Clive picked up his beer bottle and pointed it at John. “Yes. And now you're going to make sure that it doesn't suck because your name is on it.”

“Manipulative son-of-a-bitch.”

“Well I'm pretty sure there are two of us in this relationship that match that description.”

John made a show out of thinking that over. “Probably.” For a time they finished their food and beers and watched as others started heading out. This little neck of the Vermont woods was private enough that people who wanted to hide their sexuality could come out here to fly their freaky flag. Personally, John didn’t care who knew he was gay and if they asked and he thought he could get some amusement out of it, he would happy tell them exactly how kinky he got.

“You want to swing by and see Beverly on our way home?” Clive asked.

“This soon after having while kinky sex? I don't think so.” John was comfortable with his sexuality, but he still wanted to keep it as far from his mother’s sharp gaze as possible. “Let's give it a couple of days.”

Clive huffed. “That seems unfair because I never got to have sex with you.”

“You tied me up, harnessed me to a damn wagon and took a whip to my backside. Close enough.” John stood and grabbed his plate and Clive’s before he headed for the trash bins close to the barbeque pit.

Jo-Jo stood when he came near. “Good competition,” he said.

“I’m kicking your ass next time.”

Jo-Jo’s partner was a curvy woman with padding in all the right places—the sort that young people called fat. She rolled her eyes. “Stallions. You’re all the same.” Her exasperation was clearly for show and Jo-Jo leaned into her.

“We like competing for the attention of beautiful women,” he said.

John’s snort made them both tense up, and John realized his mistake. He quickly said, “Speak for yourself. I compete for the attention of a beautiful man.” They both relaxed, and John dropped the dirty plates in the bin and fled. He tried harder to get along with people, but John figured forty years on ships made that difficult.

Clive watched with amusement, and as John came closer, he picked up their argument about the definition of sex. “Clearly, we need to expand your definition of sex. Bondage and sex are not the same.”

“You know you get your rocks off just thinking about what you do to me,” John said with confidence.

“While I can't deny that, I'm also going to point out that you get your rocks off being a competitive son-of-a-bitch. So were even.”

“Exactly, which is why I don't want to go visit my mother until the sex glow has worn off. Last time we did something kinky and visited mother the same day, she kept giving me strange looks.”

Clive started toward the parking lot “You're being paranoid.”

“No, I'm not. The woman is psychic. And quite frankly, I don't want her reading this on my mind.” John gestured toward the camp.  The stables looked standard enough, but even now several of the fete guests walked around in leather and one girl in the paddock stood harnessed to a surrey and left to wait for her owner. John wondered what it felt like to be left to fend for himself while locked into his gear. No one seemed to be paying the filly much attention. John felt a tingle of heat in the pit of his stomach. He would have to bring it up with Clive later. After all Clive had access to technology that would make the illusion real enough, even if Clive insisted on being a mother hen.

“What are you thinking about?” Clive asked as they reached the SUV. The back was full of their tack and gear, but Clive had left their cargo sled and surrey behind. Hopefully that meant they’d get at least one more weekend in before the weather turned too cold and they were trapped playing indoors. 

And hopefully Jo-Jo would be back for a rematch. “I’m just plotting some perversions,” John said.

Clive laughed. “Oh? That sounds promising. And given the expression you have on your face, I second the plan to visit your mother later. Beverly is going to take one look at you and know you have something salacious on your mind. So, I’m really tired of having to make a choice about whose house to stay at.”

“There’s not much choice,” John said. His little home was drafty, small and surrounded by nosy neighbors who were far too interested in the changes in John’s life. He normally thought of Mainers as salt-of-the-earth folks who minded their own business, but apparently John’s newly minted bisexuality and his job working in television made him irresistible. Even John didn’t want to spent too much time at his home.

“Then move in with me,” Clive said, his voice low and serious.

John glanced over before turning his attention back to the road. “What?”

“I put the title to the Maine house and the Boston condo in both our names, and before you get pissy about not wanting my money, this isn’t money. They’re the homes we share.”

“Okay,” John said before Clive could go off on an unnecessary tangent. 

For long minutes, Clive stared, open-mouthed and silent. Eventually twitched back to life. “Really? No angst? No argument? Because I have a whole serious of logical arguments ready to roll out.”

That was so Clive. He tended to prepare for the worst.  

“Twenty years ago or even ten, I would have argued. But you know, life is too short.” John had figured that out even before his mother’s cancer. Having his profession stripped away and being forced into prostitution caused him to rethink his priorities, and his mother’s illness had reinforced the lesson. Even though he had quit the job and his mother was now free of cancer and trying to recover from the cure, that bone deep fear that life was always one minute away from unraveling remained. A drunk driver could take Clive tomorrow. Hell, one could take them both now, and leave a very confused crime scene investigator trying to figure out what to make of the bondage gear in back.

They were happy. They loved each other. They could work and live and sleep together without annoying each other too much. That seemed like a damn good reason to make it official and move in together.

“It is,” Clive agreed softly. “And I am a selfish bastard; I want to hang on to the man I love.”

John held his hand out palm up. “I love you, too.”

Clive put his hand in John’s and they headed down the winding road toward home. Their home. For the first time since John had left his parents’ home, he had a family of his own. “I’m replacing that shitty coffeemaker of yours,” he warned.

Clive sighed. “Of course you are. You do know that thing cost a fortune.”

“And I’ve never once gotten it to make good coffee.”

“Your definition of good is questionable. However, I am willing to give up the coffeepot just to avoid listening to you curse at five in the morning. And you are not putting that singing fish on the wall anywhere that people will actually see it.”

John gasped in mock indignation. “Big Mouth Billy is a classic.”

Clive grunted.

“But he can live in a closet,” John said. “Although we could make a bet. You tie me up using only ropes. If I get free because you’re still making shitty knots, I can put Billy anywhere that I want.”

“And if I win?” Clive asked.

“You could smash him.”

Clive pursed his lips. “No, I don’t want to destroy your stuff. How about if I win, I get to use you as decoration and hang you on the wall?”

John’s dick twitched. “It’s hard to see a down side for me in that bet.”

“Oh, I can make you suffer,” Clive said in his best Snidely Whiplash impression. He even added in an eyebrow waggle of evil.

They were never going to be a normal couple, but that made John happy. “Deal,” he said. His honor would keep him honest, but he really did hope Clive practiced on his knots. But no matter who won this bet or the ones sure to follow, John had finally gotten the sweet end of the lollipop after a lifetime of fuzzy. He just had to look someplace new. He should probably send Elena a flower arrangement to thank her for getting him to finally look for happiness in the right direction.

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I had a hard time finding the exit ramp on this one, especially since I had only intended it to be a bit of shiny porn.  My porn has a bad habit of growing plot at a prodigious rate.  But I think this is a place where I can leave them.  John can submit and feel strong because he recognizes that Clive does need sheltering in some ways. Clive can be dominant without getting bored because John will always challenge him.  And Clive has found that helping others and having a family are fulfilling in their own way.  So if there is some niggling complaint or something that feels "off," now is the time to say something. My goal is to, over the Christmas break, clean this up and send it off to MLR.  *fingers crossed*  I've never published there, but I think this has an edge that fits better there than at Dreamspinner.  But no matter what, this story is officially done at 111,000 words.  Whew.