Another Man's Treasure

by J. A. Rock

  Ilia groaned into the leather couch. “I don’t care.”

  Mikhail moved his hand to Ilia’s ass, swiping it across the denim. “But I care.”

  Ilia’s breath hitched as Mikhail swept his hand upward, leaving skin tingling in its wake. He flinched as Mikhail’s fingers toyed with the bow resting against his lower back. Mikhail was putting no pressure on it; it didn’t hurt, not yet, but Ilia was almost overcome by the sick anticipation of pain.

  “Don’t move,” Mikhail murmured. He leaned closer, his hard cock jabbing into the back of Ilia’s thigh. He pressed his lips against the back of Ilia’s neck, the one place that didn’t burn. “Oh, Ilie. So fucking hot.”

  Ilia closed his eyes as Mikhail leaned up again. He shifted his hips to try and relieve the tightness in his jeans. His cock was hard and leaking. He wanted Mikhail to rub it again. He wanted something to distract him from the pain in his back.

  “Let me unwrap you now,” Mikhail said. He tugged on the bow to release it. Ilia cried out and tried to rear off the couch, but Mikhail gripped him by the hips and held him there. He made shushing noises while hot tears burned down Ilia’s face. “Ah, so beautiful.”

  “Really?” Ilia asked, his voice wavering. The pressure on his back had eased, but the pain hadn’t lessened. It was different. Shallower, but spread over a larger area somehow. Ilia wanted to see, because he knew he couldn’t trust his overwhelmed senses at the moment. His pain receptors were sending panicked, jumbled messages to his brain that were impossible to pick apart. Everything hurt. “Tell me what it looks like.”

  “Ah.” Mikhail rubbed his hips. “You are bleeding. From all the little rings, you are bleeding.” His voice was low with desire. “You did this for me?”

  “Yes.” Ilia shivered as he heard the rasp of Mikhail’s zipper. God, yes. Let me...let me...”

  Mikhail murmured something to him that Ilia didn’t understand.

  “Don’t talk Russian to me,” Ilia said, jutting out his lip. “It’s not fair.”

  Mikhail laughed and swatted him on the ass gently. “Chechen, Ilia, not Russian.”

  Ilia rocked his hips against the couch, the movement causing the skin along his back to pull. He shuddered. “It hurts,” he moaned.

  “Does it?”

  “Yes.” Ilia wanted to shove a hand under himself so that he could jerk off, but he couldn’t bring himself to move again. “It hurts, but I want to come so bad.”

  “My poor Ilie,” Mikhail whispered. “Too bad for you, hmmm?”

  Ilia opened his mouth to talk back, and then he heard it. The soft slap of flesh against flesh. A shiver washed over him as he realized what Mikhail was doing. “Oh God, Mikhail.”

  “You are bleeding. For me.”

  Ilia tried to slow his breathing, but it was hard. He could picture Mikhail crouched behind him, cock in hand, jerking himself off over Ilia’s bloody piercings. He could feel warmth trickling down his sides onto Mikhail’s expensive couch. Tiny ribbons of blood, as silky and sinuous as the ribbon Kris had threaded through the rings.

  “For you,” he agreed, inhaling deeply. He tasted blood and leather in the back of his throat. His cock throbbed underneath him.

  “Uh, Ilia. My Ilia.” Mikhail’s voice was ragged now, each word more like a gasp.

  Ilia tried not to squirm. He panted, swiping his tongue over his lips and wishing he could lick Mikhail’s cock. He could almost feel the weight of it on his bottom lip as he pushed out his jaw to accept it. That sharp, salty taste bursting across his tongue. Staring up into Mikhail’s face as Mikhail made crooning noises at him, encouraging him to take him deeper.

  He would, always. Always try harder for Mikhail. Always go further.

  Ilia ground his cock against the couch. Rolled his shoulders, the pain tearing down his back. He gasped at the sharpness of it as fresh rivulets of blood trickled down, hotter even than his burning skin. His cock pulsed, aching. “Please touch me!”

  “Ilia!”

  Wet heat sprayed up Ilia’s back, and Ilia choked out a sob. He teetered on the edge of coming himself, just from that. His back: ribbons and rings, and blood and flesh, and Mikhail’s cum. Mikhail had jerked off over him until he’d come, but Ilia didn’t feel objectified. He felt worshipped.

  “Oh, my beautiful boy.” Mikhail groaned, breathless. “The things you do to me.”

  “Please,” Ilia mumbled. “Touch me, please.”

  “Ilie.” Mikhail got a knee wedged between Ilia’s thighs, pushed up against his aching balls. He leaned over Ilia, the heat from his body burning Ilia’s back, and kissed the knot at the top of his spine. “Are you hard?”

  “Mmmm.” Ilia sucked his breath in as Mikhail slid a hand underneath him, and into his jeans.

  “You are,” Mikhail said, nipping at Ilia’s shoulder. He rubbed Ilia’s cock. “Hard and wet.”

  Ilia rocked against Mikhail’s hand, against his knee, heedless of the pain in his back now. “Please. Please.”

  “Come,” Mikhail said. “Come in my hand, my Ilia.”

  Ilia bucked and cried out as he obeyed, the ache and the pleasure climbing high, twisting together somehow. He collapsed on the couch struggling for breath, smiling through his tears.

  It didn’t matter how often he shattered. Mikhail put him back together, every time.

  III

  Ilia sat on the couch with his legs curled under him as the guy set up the massage table. He shifted so that his erection wasn’t obvious in his pajama pants.

  Mikhail smiled at him knowingly from across the room. He lit a cigarette and glanced at the guy. “You are not the usual one.”

  The guy looked up. His face was flushed. “No. John called in sick.”

  “Mmmm.”

  Ilia chewed his thumbnail and resisted the urge to hunch over. The laces were tight, but suddenly he wanted to feel them tugging even more.

  The guy adjusted the table. Tightened the same knob for the third time.

  Ilia wondered what John had told him.

  John was big and muscular. A walking ad for a gym. This man—”Patrick,” he’d stammered at the door—was slim, and probably not much taller than Ilia. He was in his early twenties, Ilia guessed, with scruffy red hair and glasses. He looked like the sort of person you called when your computer broke.

  “I hope you didn’t have any trouble finding the place,” Ilia said, just so Patrick looked at him.

  “No, no trouble.” Patrick swallowed. He glanced from Ilia to Mikhail. “This is um, a nice neighborhood.”

  “I like it,” Ilia said.

  He loved his apartment in Georgetown. It was his sanctuary, and Mikhail’s too. Only the best for his Ilia, he’d said when he’d given Ilia the key. The apartment was nicer than any hotel Ilia had ever stayed in. It had designer furniture and a kitchen fitted with stainless steel appliances Ilia didn’t use. His refrigerator was full of takeout containers, something Mikhail scoffed at every time he visited—he cooked occasionally; had tried to teach Ilia, but Ilia was hopeless. Usually Ilia got a text message an hour or so before Mikhail arrived, which gave him enough time to get back to the apartment and get ready if he was out. He wasn’t out often though.

  Tonight, Mikhail had arrived at nine—later than Ilia had expected.

  “Are you okay?” he’d asked.

  Mikhail had waved him off, muttering something about Nick.

  Nick again. Ilia half wished one of Mikhail’s associates would take the guy out, though he never said as much to Mikhail. Mikhail didn’t get along with his brother, but, he said, family was family. And family was fucked. Ilia agreed.

  Mikhail’s black mood had lifted in minutes. It always did, around Ilia. He’d taken his shoes off and wandered around the apartment barefoot. Ilia had never even seen him do that at his own house. They’d eaten Chinese takeout on the floor in front of the television, feeding each other with chopsticks and laughing at the mess they made while they waited for the massage guy to arrive.

  And now
he was here, and nobody was laughing.

  Patrick was very clearly out of his depth.

  “How do you want me?” Ilia asked.

  Patrick blushed like a cartoon character, twin spots of color appearing on his cheeks. “If you’ll come over here and lie facedown on the table, please.”

  “Okay.” Ilia rose and crossed the room, tugging off his shirt as he moved. He turned to Mikhail as he approached the table, exposing his back to Patrick.

  “Holy shit.”

  Mikhail smiled. “He is beautiful, yes?”

  “Um...yes.”

  Ilia pushed his pants lower on his hips and climbed onto the table.

  “I’ll, um, I’ll need to undo it.”

  It didn’t surprise Ilia that Patrick addressed Mikhail rather than him. Patrick probably thought Ilia was just another expensive fixture of the place. Ilia didn’t mind. He wasn’t insecure enough to give a damn what this guy, or anyone, thought. He and Mikhail knew Ilia was more than an ornament, and that was all that counted.

  “No,” Mikhail said. “The lacing stays.”

  Ilia stared through the hole in the table at Patrick’s trainers. Could almost see his toes curl inside them.

  “I’m sorry, um, sir. I can’t massage him with that.”

  “Find a way.” Mikhail’s voice was even. He didn’t need to raise it. Everyone in D.C. knew who he was. The media described him as an entrepreneur, a businessman, or a promoter. Everyone knew what he was, but nobody called him that to his face.

  “Okay.” Patrick’s trainers shifted, and a moment later Ilia felt his hands touch his shoulders before sliding tentatively lower. “I normally, um, I do Swedish or sports massage. Just straight massage though.”

  “Normally,” Ilia murmured, and Patrick’s fingers twitched against the topmost rings of his piercings.

  Mikhail’s laugh was warm.

  Patrick cleared his throat. “Um, how does it feel?”

  “You’ve hardly touched me yet,” Ilia said, lifting his head a little.

  “I meant the, um, the rings.” He cleared his throat again. “Do they hurt?”

  “Not anymore. They’re intense though. If I’m laced tight, they’re intense.” He shivered as Patrick ran a finger lightly over the laces, ending at Ilia’s tailbone.

  “That doesn’t hurt?”

  “No,” Ilia said, the word escaping him in a huff of breath.

  “I don’t know what sort of massage I can give you.”

  “Just touch,” Ilia said. “Just touch me.”

  Ilia heard the faint click of the lotion bottle as Patrick pressed the lever. For a second he felt very alone. Even with Mikhail watching him. Even with Patrick right there.

  He sighed as Patrick put his hands at the base of his neck. The lotion was cold, probably from traveling outside with Patrick. It had been chilly for October this past week. Ilia worried the Brugmansia plant on the balcony was missing its tropical climate.

  Patrick slid his palms across Ilia’s shoulders. Hesitated. “You’ll tell me if it hurts, won’t you?”

  No. Ilia would let Mikhail see how much it hurt. He’d raise his head and meet Mikhail’s gaze and let Mikhail see all the pain there. But he wouldn’t ask Patrick to stop.

  Patrick’s hands were soft. Ilia’s cock swelled, and he tried to tell himself that was because Mikhail was watching. Because this was their routine—John came over and massaged Ilia, rubbed deep into the muscles until Ilia was groaning, and Mikhail watched and got hard.

  But it was because of Patrick’s fucking hands. Because he was picturing Patrick’s cartoon blush, the anxious quiver of his lips. Because Patrick looked like you could tell him there were unicorns in the National Forest, and he’d believe you. Ilia didn’t get to spend too much time around guys like that.

  “I will tell you if it hurts him,” Mikhail said quietly.

  Ilia arched his back a little. Lifted his hips and pushed down his briefs.

  “Oh, uh, I’ll get you a towel,” Patrick said.

  “No.” Mikhail didn’t raise his voice.

  Ilia kicked his underwear the rest of the way off. The movements made his back sore. He spread his legs just enough to tease Mikhail. Patrick was silent.

  Patrick rubbed Ilia’s shoulders, his touch firm now, almost too rough. John always started out gentler. Maybe guys like Patrick thought they had something to prove.

  “That’s a nice…” Patrick’s voice was faint. “Those are nice flowers.”

  Ilia lifted his head and looked through the glass balcony doors at the large potted plant.

  The Brugmansia had been a present from Mikhail. Mikhail had told Ilia the other names for the plant. Angel’s trumpet. Devil’s trumpet. Thorn apple. The flowers were beautiful, like big white hanging bells. Poisonous, Mikhail had said. You had to be careful if you had pets. Or children.

  Ilia had come to adore the plant. On days when the time seemed to crawl by, when the hours before Mikhail arrived were brutally dull, he looked at it. Remembered he was loved. That he held the heart of someone beautiful and dangerous.

  “You like it?” Mikhail was staring out the doors as well. “It is quite toxic. A friend used to grow it. She had a terrier who chewed the leaves. Bit off its own tail then died choking on it.”

  Ilia laughed. “That’s a nice story, Mikhail. You’re gonna scare Patrick away.”

  “That’s too bad about the dog,” Patrick said.

  Mikhail shrugged. “Very annoying dog. Silly. Yip-yip-yip.”

  Patrick stroked down Ilia’s sides. Avoided the columns of rings. Pushed into the base of Ilia’s back with the heels of his hands.

  Ilia thought he’d go into a trance, like he did with John. Slip into a place where only Mikhail’s soft breathing existed. But he stayed present, aware of everything Patrick did. Noting when Patrick’s cool palms warmed, when his breath hitched because he had to press hard to get into Ilia’s tight muscles. He thought about Patrick’s hand on his dick.

  Fuck. No.

  Mikhail. Only ever Mikhail.

  His cock didn’t quit, though, and Ilia grew more and more frustrated. He gave a ragged sigh and shifted.

  Whore.

  Pathetic fucking whore.

  He wished Patrick would grab the laces and yank until Ilia screamed. Call him a whore, and shove his cock into Ilia’s ass while Mikhail watched.

  What he and Mikhail had, it was perfect. Would be perfect, if Mikhail didn’t work all the time. If Ilia didn’t have to sit here alone day in and day out, spending hours online watching what happened to boys who were home alone when the furnace repair guy showed up. Boys who gulped cum and spread their shaved asses. His resolution this year had been to stop watching porn, because it always made him feel ashamed afterward.

  He loved Mikhail, and Mikhail was enough. So why did he need the videos?

  Yet when he was lonely, that was what he turned to. Had to be what was making him react this way to Patrick. He was caught in the thin plot of a bad porno, getting hard for his masseur while his boyfriend watched. He didn’t like the thought. It cheapened this ritual. Ilia got hard when John did him, sometimes, but that was because Mikhail was watching. Not because Ilia wanted John.

  You don’t want Patrick. You don’t give a shit about him. You damned whore.

  “Under the laces.” Mikhail’s voice jerked Ilia from his self-castigation. Ilia felt Patrick hesitate. “Touch him under the laces.”

  “Yes,” Ilia whispered, when Patrick still didn’t move. “Come on.”

  Patrick had been working on his lower back. Now, tentatively, he pushed his fingers under the bow. The laces tightened, and Ilia winced and spread his legs.

  “Keep going,” Mikhail said.

  Patrick continued until both hands were under the ribbon. He tried his best to rub the skin between the rows of rings, but there wasn’t much room for movement. “Oh God,” Ilia murmured.

  Make me hurt. Show me what I get for wanting you.

  Fucking whore.
>
  I’m a fucking whore. Make me pay.

  His cock leaked onto the sheet.

  “Pull on the ribbons,” Mikhail said.

  Patrick tugged tentatively on one loop of the bow. Ilia gasped and raised his head. Patrick stopped immediately.

  “Keep going,” Mikhail ordered.

  With John, before the piercing, Mikhail said the massages were about watching Ilia relax. Mikhail liked to see Ilia slowly go slack, liked to see him floating. Liked to lift him off the table when John was done and carry him to the bedroom. Tuck him in. Then he’d go back out to the living room and settle up with John. Ilia would be just conscious enough to hear their murmuring. To feel safe, knowing Mikhail was taking care of everything. He’d listen for the sound of the door as John left. He’d listen to Mikhail make coffee, and wait for Mikhail to come back into the bedroom so they could fuck.

  Now Ilia wondered if it was about watching him respond to Patrick. Watching him try to manage the pain. Ilia was so turned on that the pressure of his cock against the table was worse than whatever Patrick was doing to his back. He squirmed, trying to get some friction, and hoped that was what Mikhail wanted to see.

  Patrick tugged the ribbons rhythmically—two short bumps, followed by a long, steady pull that made Ilia whimper.

  Whore, Ilia repeated in time with the flashes of pain. Whore, whore, whore.

  That idea, that word—so hot right now. Ilia’s shame at his attraction to Patrick was real, but it only made his cock harder. Whore, you fucking whore—deserve to hurt. You’re Mikhail’s, only Mikhail’s, so stop thinking about Patrick’s cock, you filthy little fuck.

  He rubbed against the table, even more humiliated that Patrick was seeing him do this, but he needed to come. Wanted Mikhail to order Patrick to punish Ilia with his cock. Wanted to come screaming and hurting, begging Mikhail’s forgiveness.

  “Very nice.” Mikhail’s voice was rough.

  Patrick withdrew one hand and placed it on the back of Ilia’s neck. Threaded the fingers of his other hand through the ribbons. Then he curled those fingers slowly into a fist, putting pressure on a combination of rings. When Ilia went rigid, Patrick used his other hand to stroke Ilia’s nape, calming him. Ilia relaxed, feeling a sudden affection for Patrick. He didn’t even know the man, and yet this combination of sharp and gentle, of following orders and improvising—it collided with the unclean horror of Ilia’s desires, made Ilia want to be used hard and then soothed.