Tenderly Wicked

by Katerina Ross

  Vadim seemed to have enjoyed their intense experience, but he hadn’t said anything like “it was great, so we should get together again sometime”. And though he was half-undressed, he sat so that Max couldn’t see his back, clearly still feeling uncomfortable about the marks marring his skin, though last night he’d appeared to forget about them for a while.

  Max wanted to ask if it had worked out for him. Was there something he didn’t like? But he didn’t know how to start this conversation. Wouldn’t it seem like he was fishing for compliments? In a way, he really needed reassurance, some kind of post-session feedback to learn if he was doing everything right. Just to make certain the next time could be fun, too. If there was going to be a next time of course.

  Instead, he asked, “How’s your backside? I have arnica gel for bruises. If you need it, that is.”

  Vadim shifted in his seat and confessed, almost shyly. “No, it’s all right, some soreness is fine, and not only, um, from the spanking… Tell me frankly, is your offer just a pretext to see my backside again?”

  “That too,” Max admitted.

  For a long moment, they just stared at each other, both half-smiling, and Max thought he felt a heat wave of mutual attraction shimmering between them. Maybe he should have acted on the impulse, grab the sassy guy and drag him back to bed where he belonged. But he fucked the moment up, due to his typical hesitancy, and reached out to collect the dirty dishes instead.

  “Your accent … if you don’t mind me asking, are you from the Baltics maybe?” Vadim inquired casually, nothing flirty in his voice now. He grabbed his t-shirt from the chair and put it on. What a shame.

  “United States,” Max corrected him, setting the plates and cups on the creamy kitchenette counter with a loud chink and turning on the taps. “I’m American.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t have guessed. How come your Russian is so good? Some Russian origins?”

  “I probably should tell you something romantic, something like my grandmother was a Russian countess who had to flee abroad after the revolution. But in fact, it’s nothing that interesting. It’s just that I was born in a small town in Idaho, really small, with hardly more than twenty thousand people living there, and it was called Moscow. Actually, it’s not the only town with this name in the U.S., and mine was named after one of them, and not the Russian capital, but still, I was curious when I learned about this city overseas, so I looked up pictures in the public library, and then I started dreaming. I dreamed of the Kremlin and Red Square and St. Basil’s Cathedral, the usual stuff when you think about Moscow, and of seeing it all someday, and then I started learning Russian. I came here for the first time as an exchange student, then returned as a tourist. Took a few jobs as an English-Russian translator and at last decided to settle here. And here I am,” he concluded with an awkward chuckle, belatedly embarrassed by this outburst of words. “It’s been almost a year now.”

  “Hmm. But it is romantic,” Vadim protested.

  Max lifted an eyebrow. “Really?” It was unexpectedly pleasant to hear such a comment.

  “Yeah. I mean not just anyone would act on his childhood dream.”

  Well, some people call it silly, not romantic, Max thought. His parents, for instance, were of this particular opinion on the matter. It was a good thing they had another child to fulfill their own dreams. At least his sister wasn’t a disappointment to them, happily married in her home town, and with two kids by now.

  But it wasn’t something you told a man who’d just called you romantic.

  Vadim typed his number into Max’s phone, and Max did the same with Vadim’s, fumbling with the virtual keys on the slim device and feeling unbearably clumsy.

  Then they stood by the elevator doors, and Max couldn’t think of anything smarter to say than, “You won’t get lost, will you? The Kitai-gorod station is nearest, you just turn left when you…”

  Vadim interrupted him with a quick kiss, a brush of lips against lips. “I won’t get lost, promise.”

  And that was it.

  Max returned to his apartment, closed the door, and stripped the stained sheets from the bed to put them into the washing machine. The adventure was over. He would text Vadim of course, in a day or two, but nothing indicated he would be interested in meeting again. Max felt a pang of regret that he’d confined the scene to a spanking and hadn’t used any implements on Vadim other than his hand. There was a kit of blatantly unused SM gear hidden in his wardrobe, and the chances he would have another chance to try it were pretty low. Yesterday, going slow and being careful had seemed like a good idea. Now Max couldn’t help but imagine what Vadim would have looked like handcuffed to the headboard, his back arching, shiny clover clamps screwed tight on his nipples, a large vibrator mercilessly stretching his tight hole.

  Damn. What was the use of fantasizing about it? He probably wouldn’t have done anything too hardcore to Vadim anyway, even if he’d known for sure it would be the only chance to experiment on his beautiful, lean body. Vadim had been so skittish at first, it would have been improper not to take it into account.

  There was something endearing in the way he’d curled up beside Max, settling for the night, like Max had managed to gain his trust. If only for a night.

  Did it count as a success? Max wasn’t sure, given the fact Vadim was gone now and he’d left without saying anything about their session.

  It was only some time later when Max started making up the bed with new sheets that he cast a look at the bedside drawer. The leather bracelets. Vadim had taken them off for a shower—and left them lying there, forgotten.

  Max dropped the pile of bedclothes on the mattress and reached for his phone. He’d wanted his one-night-sub back since the moment he’d seen him out, and now he had a reason to text him without seeming to be annoyingly persistent.

  Max: I’ve got something of yours that you might want back. M.

  Just half a minute later came a reply.

  Vadim: I’m a moron. So absent-minded. Could I stop by this evening?

  Max: Sure. I’ll be home after eight.

  He would have told Vadim he could come back immediately, but sadly, unlike normal people, he had to work on Saturdays. To be honest, he had always thought he was quite fortunate with his current job. It had never bothered him before that he had unusual work hours, sometimes in the morning, in the evening, or during weekends. In actuality, it was for the best because it got him free time when most people were busy in their work-places, and thus he could avoid crowds while exploring Moscow.

  This job was nothing special, but it provided him with an official work visa, medical insurance, and a monthly salary enough to pay his rent and other living expenses. He was a teacher in a language center, one of many in Moscow. An occupation plain and ordinary, just like the man he was. Max liked it though. Interacting with new people—all kinds of Muscovites, mostly corporate students—and finding ways to gain their attention was a welcome challenge for him.

  He usually walked to work, and it was a pleasant trip. He lived in a quarter not frequented by the majority of tourists, unless they were staying in some seedy hostel, well-hidden in the alleys twisting off from his nearby streets, Maroseyka and Myasnitskaya, and yet, to his liking, this neighborhood seemed to be the closest to what felt like the old Moscow. It possessed a certain charm. Upon first glance, its winding narrow streets, pereulki, looked like a chaotic maze, even though Max could read all the signs in the Cyrillic alphabet perfectly well, but after the first days of taking wrong turns and repeatedly getting lost, he finally seemed to have gained his sense of direction.

  There were small and humble white churches in there, and proud, pale yellow mansions, recently renovated to become the headquarters of wealthy corporations, and also, right beside them, half-ruined historical houses that seemingly belonged to no one in particular, with peeling paint of indistinct color, broken windows, and grass growing on the cornices—a very sad contrast.

  Closer to the metro station, the quar
ter became a striking mix of workshops, offices, and stores, and signs of different size and shape competing with each other, somehow very Chinese-like. Funny enough, considering the whole neighboring area was called Kitay-gorod, which meant China Town in modern Russian. The name derived not from Chinese living there, but from kita, an old word meaning wattle, after the palisades that reinforced the long-vanished medieval wall. This site was very merchant-like, very busy, and yet you could divert to either side of the alley to avoid the crowds.

  Usually, the nearest street was heavily packed with traffic, blocked by cars looking alien against the pompous buildings of the 19th century, but now it seemed strangely quiet. Most people were probably catching the last sunny hours of summer in the country. Up the street there was an old tea and coffee store, decorated in the style of a pagoda—another funny reminder of China. Max enjoyed buying fragrant teas there very much. It was certainly more exotic than shopping in a small, undistinguished grocery store closer to his house. Walking down the street you could reach the spacious Lubyanka Square where the infamous headquarters of the KGB had occupied a massive Neo-Baroque building during the Soviet times. The Kremlin was just a ten-minute walk away, and sometimes Max indulged in small detours from his customary route before and after work if he had spare time. He enjoyed rambling along the small streets that spanned from Red Square. His favorite was an elegant pedestrian thoroughfare lined with boutiques and bars. And then there was one of the oldest streets in Moscow, with several churches of the 17th and 18th centuries.

  But today, Max scarcely paid attention to the sights he usually relished so much. His mind was full of obscene images from last night. Vadim bent over his lap, restrained by a leg over his thighs. His milky-white buttocks that had turned indecently pink from the spanking. His balls, hairless and soft as satin, and the swell of his erection. Damn. Max sighed. If he ran these pictures over and over again in his mind, he’d spend most of his teaching hours in a shamefully inappropriate state of half-arousal.

  Which was exactly what he did.

  When Max returned home after this torture, a surprise awaited him in the courtyard. Vadim sat there on a crooked bench in the shade of the ash tree, smoking a cigarette. Probably not the first one. He stood up when he saw Max and hastily stubbed it out on an old litter bin, even more crooked than the bench. “Sorry. I’m a bit early. Killing time waiting for the right hour.”

  “So you strive to be punctual, huh?”

  “And fail most spectacularly, as you can see.”

  They stood against each other, both smiling. Vadim looked like a male model on a day off—casually dressed, with his hair tousled like he’d nervously brushed through it with a hand, but still gorgeous. If Max had the power to make his fantasies come true at once, Vadim’s faded green polo shirt and sand-colored chinos would evaporate right then and there.

  “I’m sorry I had to disturb you.” There wasn’t much regret in Vadim’s voice, silken and seductive.

  Max raised his eyebrows in disbelief. “Really? And exactly how sorry are you?”

  “Very,” Vadim assured him with a sly, quivering grin. “I’d say my unforgivable behavior should be corrected most strictly, don’t you think? Would you maybe want to discipline me?”

  “I have every intention of doing so.”

  In the elevator, Max did what he had wanted to do so much yesterday—shove Vadim against the wall, hard, and press up against him. Vadim’s skin smelled faintly of cologne, a grassy fragrance, light and pleasant. “You don’t seem too contrite.” Max’s hand slid down to check his crotch. “No, you definitely don’t. But you will be.”

  He could hardly take his hands off Vadim, which made opening the door problematic, but he forced himself to back off in the tiny hallway. “I’m sure you forgot something.”

  Vadim stared at him, uncomprehending.

  “Insurance,” Max reminded him. “Have you left a message on your answering machine, or anywhere else, about who you’re meeting with tonight?”

  Vadim blinked. “But we’ve already played…”

  “So?” Max prompted him. “What does it matter? Maybe I haven’t shown my bad side yet. Make a call, don’t argue. And if we continue seeing each other,” he stumbled over this assumption, just slightly, “and you decide to stop using this silent alarm at some point, you’re not obliged to tell me. All right?”

  Without further dispute, Vadim obediently fetched his phone. As for the “seeing each other” part, he didn’t say anything. Which was promising, if Max chose to be optimistic. Perhaps some time later—if it all became a more or less permanent thing—he could convince Vadim to fill out a Yes/No/Maybe chart with what they could try during their sessions and what would be extremely undesirable. Allergies, phobias, negative experiences—it would be helpful to know such things in advance. Max couldn’t deny the thrill of pushing and probing, but he would have felt so much more confident if they talked it over. The problem was, he didn’t want to appear boring—a wretch of a scholar.

  And without this list, it was better to be cautious again. No heavy bondage then. No heavy anything. Pity of course, but still, he had some ideas in mind.

  “Clothes off and you onto the bed now,” Max ordered cheerfully. “Lie down comfortably, but hold on to the headboard with both hands.”

  Not waiting for his sub to obey, like it was obvious he would, Max went to inspect the wardrobe for the necessary item. A woolen winter scarf, too thick and prickly, probably wouldn’t do. A plain, dark gray tie was a better option. It hadn’t been worn much. Why not find a new use for it?

  He looked back the moment Vadim slid his chinos down. He wasn’t wearing any underwear underneath this time, and his cock sprang free, bobbing upward. Max swallowed. Vadim obviously saw this reaction. He was smiling when he lay down. He stretched his hands above his head and took hold of the headboard.

  When Max sat down beside him, though, Vadim’s face became serious, and he spoke with a hint of hesitancy. “You asked me if I had a fantasy. Well yes. Maybe. Just don’t … laugh, will you?” He paused, diffidently. “Could you pretend that we’ve not just met, that we’ve been together for some time—and I’m yours—you own me?”

  Max nodded. “All right. It will be a pleasure, owning you.” And I hope it will be the same for you, too, he didn’t add. “What I’m going to do now with my sub is make him wear this.”

  He gently covered Vadim’s eyes with the wide tie, and Vadim helpfully craned his neck so Max could wrap the improvised blindfold around his head. “Good boy,” Max crooned. “Let’s see if you can keep being this good for a longer period of time. I have a test for you. First rule: no matter what I do to you, don’t let go of the headboard. I’m not tying you up so that you can demonstrate your ability to concentrate on following my orders. You seem to forget things when distracted, but it’s a simple task. I’m sure you can handle it.”

  “Any other rules?”

  Max traced Vadim’s plush lower lip with a finger, pressed, and Vadim’s tongue darted out to swirl around it. Max chuckled softly. “So impatient. Don’t worry. I’ll keep you informed.”

  Max trailed his palm lightly down Vadim’s throat and chest, lingering on his flat stomach and felt his breathing become more erratic and labored. Vadim’s cock had completely hardened by now, beading with pre-cum. Judging by the way Vadim rolled his hips in anticipation, he wanted a hand closing on it, and the sooner the better.

  “Impatient, as I said,” Max repeated, tapping at his stomach teasingly, with no intention to indulge his agitated sub just yet. “I want you to stay completely still. Just accept what I’m doing to you. It might take quite a while.”

  With this ominous promise, he backed off to get rid of his own clothes. He unbuttoned his flannel shirt unhurriedly, watching his blindfolded playmate biting his lower lip, his thighs splayed wide in a very wanton manner. Max made sure Vadim heard what was going on—the rustle of clothing being folded, the clang of his belt buckle and the hiss of the leather be
lt sliding through the loops, the metal sound of the zipper easing down. Finally, his jeans and boxers came off, but when Max slid back to the bed to straddle his sub again, he suddenly understood something was badly off. Vadim wasn’t hard anymore. His whole body had gone rigid, and his jaw was clenched. Panic. Why?

  Max climbed off of Vadim—it was better to remove any kind of threat he might pose—and settled beside him, on the edge of the bed. “Hey. What’s wrong?”

  Vadim didn’t respond. He was still holding on to the headboard—a white-knuckled convulsive grip—and breathing heavily. Max reached for his wrist and caressed the underside. Vadim strained under his touch, and Max hastily backed off again.

  “You may let go for a moment,” he suggested, unsure what he should do. “I allow you. It’s fine. Let’s have a breather. Come on, just let go.”

  Vadim shook his head frantically. “No. It’s all right. I’m sorry.”

  “I’m taking the blindfold off then,” Max warned him. “We’re not going on like this.”

  Vadim finally let go of the headboard, trembling, and Max dared to move closer. “Now I’m going to lie down beside you. And wait until you calm down. And when you do, you’ll tell me what’s wrong.”

  Vadim didn’t recoil this time when Max pulled him into his arms, and for a while they lay like this, both naked but not aroused. Vadim let Max hold him, and it was reassuring. The trembling subsided, but his breathing was still too quick. “I feel like an idiot, spoiling everything,” he finally muttered into Max’s shoulder. “It’s fine, just … just please, if you’re to use your belt, no buckle, all right?”