“Are you going to… punish him?” I ask, voice tight. My brain can't keep from picturing Ethan, alone in a room with Griff.
Griff's eyebrow twitches upward, though, surprised that I'd ask.
“That will only happen if he's not doing his job well. I believe this incident isn’t influenced by him, right?”
I hesitate for a split second. I could make something up, just to spite Ethan, but I don’t actually want to ruin his life.
“No, sir,” I say, and I mean it. Griff nods.
“You’ll be in detention for the rest of the week.” His voice makes me want to disappear. I feel my cheeks flush, humiliation burning. I’m the victim here. But I don't have a choice. If I argue, it’ll only get worse. I’m right, he does look like a Daddy, but not in a fun-kinky way. More like in a ‘ew, dad, go away’ type of way.
“Come with me,” he says. “And you will apologize to the entire class for the chaos you’ve caused. Then you’ll join the group, and we won’t have more interruptions today, am I clear?” I swallow, nod, and he opens the door. The room goes quiet, all eyes on me, and I see Ethan standing at the back of the class, arms crossed, face cold. I know he’s calculating how he's going to fucking murder me.
“Liam has something to say,” Griff says, turning to the class. Everybody is staring at me, some kids with mocking smiles; most of them just looking dead bored.
“Sorry, guys. Won’t happen again,” I say. It’s ridiculous. For once, I've got nothing else to add. Garrett is now holding a damp, red paper towel where I hit him, and he gives me a hurt and angry look as if he still sees me as prime prey.
“You’ll sit on your knees for the rest of the session, just watching everyone. No more training today,” he tells me.
And all I can reply is, “Yes, sir.”
“Ethan, come here, I want to talk to you,” he finally says. If looks could kill, I'd be dead. Ethan shoots me a glare so chilling that my legs almost give out. That look is straight-up psycho.I drop to my knees in the far corner of the mat room, right where Griff points, like a dog ordered to stay. I can see, from where I’m stuck kneeling, the full gym: the mirrored wall with silvered cracks, the punching bags with their tape stitches, the rows of kids.
I imagine him grilling Ethan, maybe warning him about keeping his dog in line. Maybe Ethan’s even apologizing for having such an unpredictable troublemaker. I’ve only been here a day and already put a target on my back. Oh, fucking hell. It does sound like me.
They’re back soon, and Ethan has a neutral look on his face, like the perfect little soldier he is. The class resumes, and it doesn’t take long for the kneeling to start hurting, which is probably the point. At first, I shift from side to side, trying to find a sweet spot where the pressure doesn’t dig straight into my kneecaps (no such luck). After three minutes, I think about just starting to shriek like Garrett did. After five, my back is screaming, and my toes are going numb. I’ve been in trouble enough to know that every institution has its own brand of punishment. I force my chin up, refusing to bow my head, even though my neck is starting to cramp as well. But I also feel pretty sorry for myself. Boo hoo.
Garrett, still cradling his face like he’s been shot rather than punched, sits with his little clique, a few of whom keep shooting me dirty looks. Ethan, who's spent the whole incident staring at me as if he'd like to kill me just with his eyes, is now at the edge of the mat, back in his element, partnered with Jack. His defined muscles move with precision with each punch, almost robotic. But he doesn't look my way anymore. Not even a side glance. I keep sneaking glances at him, trying to catch him looking at me, willing him to at least give me a stare-down or a whispered insult, but nothing. It's as if by ignoring me completely, he can pretend his cell didn't just take in the most fucked up rookie possible. It makes me fucking pissed. Whydoes he think he can be such an asshole to me and then act like I don't exist?
In the meantime, Griff paces the perimeter, barking corrections or encouragement. That guy is ridiculously fit. He never stops, he’s all over the place, all the time. Every so often, his gaze snaps to me, and each time I straighten my back just a little bit more. If he wants to break me, he’ll have to try a hell of a lot harder. I’ve survived way worse than this.
The session drags on. My legs burn. I start counting the seconds between rounds, wishing for a fire alarm or a surprise inspection, or for the ceiling to collapse and kill us all, anything to get me out.
It hurts more than the spanking.
And, to make matters worse, the longer I stay kneeling there, the less I can ignore another problem: I’m hard. Not just a little, not the usual bored-out-of-my-mind kind, but full-on tenting my stupid shorts. I shift, mortified. My dick is really plotting something against me. There’s no hiding it. It’s like my body has decided, “You’re humiliated, powerless, great, let’s make this sexual!” Which is so sick it makes me laugh. Somewhere deep in my idiot wiring, humiliation and arousal are jammed together, and always have been. I’ve spent years trying to kill that part of myself, and all it takes is half a day in this place for it to come crawling back to life.
By the time Griff calls an end to the session, both my legs are pins and needles. When he finally tells me to stand, my knees buckle, and I nearly topple over, but I catch myself with a hand on the wall and force myself upright. Hell yeah, I can do this. Everyone watches to see if I’ll fall. I don’t give them the satisfaction. Instead, I square my shoulders and limp to the edge of the mat, doing my best to show that I’m someone who totally meant to kneel in agony for forty minutes.
Then the ritual starts: guys lining up to bump fists as a showof respect. The smell of sweat and testosterone almost takes me; it's really good. I do it too, even though one or two leave me hanging, those asses. Garrett makes a point of giving me a look, as if to say, “This isn’t over.” I make a point of smiling back, just enough to piss him off.
I’m already halfway out the door, head filled with plans to collapse onto my bunk and maybe even jerk off, just to get the humiliation out of my system, when Griff calls out, “Marsal.” Everybody stops what they’re doing to watch us, especially that wretched thing called Garrett, who now has the biggest smile like he’s been avenged. They all want to see what’s coming next, they feed off it.
I freeze, then turn. “Yes, sir?”
He motions for Ethan to join us. Ethan moves, but his eyes dart to me, still livid.
Griff folds his arms and says, “You two will be on mat cleaning duty together. For the rest of the week. Starting now.” He looks at each of us in turn, waiting for a reaction. I glance over at Ethan, who stares straight ahead. “Yes, sir,” he says, again like the perfect little soldier he is. But I know that underneath that persona, he's burning with rage, and he wants my ass.
Then, Griff leaves, and the other kids start following him. Garrett and his friends, though, linger behind, probably to make fun of me or something. I brace myself for it. They probably know I’ve been too humiliated for a lifetime, and I wouldn’t give them shit back if they started something now.
It all happens too fast, though. One moment, they’re approaching me like predators, circling, thinking of their chances, the next, Garrett has his back against the wall, Ethan holding him there by his shirt, feet barely scraping the floor, growling in front of his face:
“Don’t you dare ever lay your filthy, disgusting little handson Liam again. He’s mine. If you do, I promise you won’t be doing anything with your hands for a long time, as I will break every one of your fingers. Do you understand?”
He’s mine? Now he’s even telling the others that!
We have a stunned silence for a second. Garrett doesn’t even say anything, only a shocked sound comes from his throat, and he nods, very fast. Ethan is so much bigger and stronger than he is. He’s fucking scary up close like that.
