First Blood

by Aleksandr Voinov

  John came on the line. “Are you sure you're all right?”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  John let out an exasperated sigh, and Chris smiled, picturing the

  expression. It pained him to admit he missed it.

  “I don't believe you. And I want you to promise to let this go. He

  thinks Andrei's dead, then that's it. The end. You need to tell HQ, of

  course, but let them handle any follow-up. You stay away from him.”

  “Do you really need to bust my balls all this way across the

  Atlantic?”

  “I know how impulsive you are, and we don't need to jeopardize

  what we've already accomplished.”

  Chris sipped his drink. “I'd never do that.” And he meant it. He

  shared a deep bond with John and Andrei, the closest thing to love he'd

  ever really had, but it was clear, on his end at least, that John and

  Andrei had a little something extra between them. “The time difference

  is kicking my ass. I'll touch base with you guys soon.”

  “Chris—”

  “Love you too, Mom, bye-bye.”

  He put down the handset and looked around the house. Enormous

  box for just one guy. This had enough space for a family. Maybe that

  was when Andrei had thought he'd have kids and marry and whatnot.

  Chris stood and gazed outside into the garden. Nikita certainly

  wasn't watching from there. But he could.

  From a security viewpoint, it took nothing to take this place. He

  should upgrade it, but then the plan was to keep it in trust until the

  house prices came back and then sell it and buy something in

  Montreaux. Officially, Chris was only acting with power of attorney

  and was only here to pack some stuff Andrei wanted so they could set

  him up with all creature comforts—memories, tailored suits, the lot—in

  his new habitat.

  It was pretty empty, though, and Chris headed upstairs into the

  master bedroom. Andrei hadn't even owned porn, but Chris's memory

  was fresh enough to conjure up that other Russkie. This time, he turned

  the tables in his head, tied him up and fucked him rather than getting

  fucked.

  Chris looked at his watch. It was heading into one a.m., but the

  club was still kicking and would be until the early morning hours

  before closing for three hours to reopen at noon.

  To go back or not to go back, that was the question. And one that

  was already decided, judging by the way his feet carried him to the

  armoire to grab fresh clothes. Black jeans and T-shirt to go with the

  leather blazer. Good choice.

  While his clothing selection was a wise one, getting Chris a lot of

  second and third looks, he decided that giving in to that damn

  impulsive streak wasn't such a hot idea after all.

  Shit. He wasn't a horny schoolboy, and he was more experienced

  than to let infatuation want to trail after Nikita Whatshisname like some

  fucking puppy wanting his belly scratched.

  Chris curtailed his rounds of the club and headed back out.

  “Looking for someone?”

  The deep voice, the mocking tone that came from the darkness,

  made Chris's dick swell.

  “Hey, Nicky, how's it hanging?”

  “Not hanging at all.” The Russian appeared from the shadows,

  walking a little stiffly, no doubt because of the way his back had

  connected to the wooden pillar in the house. “We have to talk.”

  “Not interested.”

  Nikita arched an eyebrow. “You seemed „interested' enough.”

  “I don't want to talk. I got nothing to say, and I don't care what

  you have to say.” He saw Nikita frown thoughtfully. “I'm here to fuck

  you. Maybe I'll even let you tie me up again. That makes you hard,

  doesn't it?”

  The way those cold eyes flashed, he'd hit the nail on the head.

  “But it hurt your manly pride to resort to torn sheets, didn't it?

  You like nice leather straps or chains. Yeah, you're a whips and chains

  kind of guy, aren't you?”

  Chris anticipated his move and responded, shoving Nikita face

  down onto the hood of the BMW. He moved in close, prodded the

  Russian's ass with his groin. He leaned over, pressing down on Nikita's

  back. “Let me guess, you like watching skinny young guys bound and

  gagged. Maybe a big fake dick up their ass, a real one shoved down

  their throat.”

  He flicked his tongue on the side of Nikita's neck. “Newsflash,

  my former Soviet friend. I'm not the leash-wearing kind.” He held him

  securely down with his arm twisted behind his back, putting in more

  pressure than necessary, but he figured too little would allow the

  Russian to free himself, and he wouldn't give a fuck what that cost him.

  The way Nikita breathed, he was pretty sure the bastard was rock

  hard. The fact that Chris was rock hard, too, didn't help with the

  realization. Goddamn it, he took them as they came, and meeting this

  dominance freak just meant he'd broaden his horizons. “Is that why

  you're after Voronin? You wanted to fuck him, tied up.”

  That low, angry snarl told him he'd hit bull's-eye again. The

  Russian was easy to read once he lost his calm.

  “I hate to break it to you, my man,” Chris whispered, letting his

  breath skim over the Russian's ear. “But he wasn't that great in the

  sack. Not like me, anyway.”

  A growl, a goddamned animal growl rumbled in the Russian's

  chest, and before Chris could counter, Nikita broke the hold, spun,

  heaved him over the roof of the car.

  Chris crashed into the bank of shrubs bordering the parking area.

  His face stung from the scratches on his cheeks, and he had to shield

  his eyes when getting to his feet. He'd just stood when the Russian

  reached in and hauled him out, shoved him onto the car hood.

  “Keys.”

  “Fuck off.”

  Nikita shoved his hand into Chris's pocket, his posture stiffening

  as he pulled it out, brushing dick along the way. But he had the keys

  and damn near ripped Chris's pocket on the way out. “Get in the car.”

  The Russian just opened the door and didn't seem to care one

  whit if Chris got in on the other side.

  He did. He wanted that motherfucker too badly, and he definitely

  wouldn't let him go joyride with the rented BMW. His GORGON

  supervisor would have kittens if he let his car be stolen from him.

  Nikita drove them into the center of London—The City, then

  SoHo. He seemed to know the gay areas well enough, Chris thought,

  watching the man focus on the traffic. They dropped the car off at a

  parking place near Leicester Square; then the Russian strode off

  through the milling tourists and cinema crowd toward SoHo.

  Old Compton Street, here we go, Chris thought. Almost home.

  Sex shops, “cinemas,” cafés with rainbow flags. The Russian stopped

  near a nondescript entrance, the door opened, they were both

  scrutinized and waved in. Steps led underground, red light poured up, a

  disco beat thumped. Inside, the leather crowd, mixed gender, or the

  women were drag queens. Very hard to say in this kind of light.<
br />
  Well, except for that dominatrix in the corner. Those were Grade

  A, genuine, non-silicone-enhanced tits on her. As if sensing the

  attention, she glanced up. And for a minute Chris almost wanted to

  trade places with her boy toy, who was on his knees kissing the toes of

  her boots.

  “This way,” Nikita barked.

  Chris thought it over and then followed. They wove through the

  dancing crowd and to the back toward another door. This one led to a

  narrow, dim corridor, then down a curving iron staircase to the dungeon.

  One thing about the Europeans: they knew dungeons, and this one

  did a hell of a lot more to add atmosphere to kinky tastes than any he'd

  ever come across in passing.

  Genuine stone walls, hard flagstone floor, iron hooks set in the

  walls to accommodate stainless and heavy wrought iron chains. He

  wouldn't be at all surprised if that couple of wooden stocks hadn't held

  some 18th century prisoners at one time. And that big-ass X-frame

  cross, that bad boy had some history behind it as well.

  Chris followed Nikita to a set of leather armchairs along the east

  wall. And damn if the Russkie didn't look like the lord of the fucking

  manor, like he was a regular fixture. He could easily imagine Nikita

  clad head to toe in shining black leather. Hell, even big biker shit-

  kicker boots or chrome and spikes wouldn't make this guy look like a

  Judas Priest wannabe. Here was a guy that exuded that kind of

  dominance wearing a dark suit and tie.

  He found he wanted to see what Nikita looked like under the

  clothes—all he'd seen so far was his dick, and that had been pretty

  impressive. Though he was still sore from the rough fucking. And

  wanted more of it.

  Nikita sat down, legs open, yet another bit of body language that

  said he was the biggest swinging dick in the room, but looking at his

  package, Chris didn't think there was anything strictly “swinging” here.

  Interesting. Seemed he had a similar effect on this guy as he'd had on

  Chris.

  Chris scanned the room. There weren't many people in here: a

  red-haired dominatrix having her feet massaged by a naked guy and girl,

  a couple unaccompanied submissive babes, and one guy kneeling on a

  Flokati rug in the corner to the left of the door. And a short, bearish guy

  sprawled on another rug off to the right. He had three, count 'em, three

  babes at his disposal, one running her fingers through his thinning salt

  and pepper hair, another feeding him grapes like he was a fucking

  Caesar. A third simply knelt by herself at the edge of the rug as if she

  were a naughty girl given a time-out.

  The air in the room was humid despite the natural coolness

  emanating from the stone walls when they'd entered. A soft sweetness

  of citrusy incense lingered, as did the scent of fat candles burning in

  sconces set high on the walls. There was also the unmistakable musk of

  sex around them.

  Chris glanced at Nikita. Interesting. He seemed to be paying some

  attention to the bear and his harem. More interesting. The bear met

  Nikita's stare, but only for a moment. Well, that was understandable.

  Nikita's cold eyes could make a mere mortal shit bricks.

  “So, this is your idea of a big night on the town? Hate to say it,

  but it's lacking, my friend. Seriously lacking.”

  The Russian turned, and Chris wondered what was going on

  inside that head of his. “I bore you?”

  Chris shrugged. “Not sure I'd go that far… yet.” He stood.

  “Maybe I'll hit the main room and get my groove on to the music.”

  Nikita clamped his hand around Chris's wrist with enough force

  on the pressure points to make it hurt like a bitch.

  “Sit.”

  Chris gave him a long look but remained standing. “Do we really

  want to make a public scene and bust this place up? That's going to

  happen if you don't get your hand off me.”

  Nikita did not loosen his grip. “I don't want you to miss the

  entertainment.”

  “And that would be what, exactly?”

  Nikita let him go, a thoroughly wicked grin curving his mouth.

  “You'll see.” He gestured to the chair. “Please.”

  What the hell. Chris sat and watched Nikita pull out his cell. He

  spoke softly yet commandingly in Russian, and momentarily a waifish

  blonde padded in and knelt at Nikita's feet, her head bowed to the cold

  floor.

  “Sit up.”

  The woman did, her large hazel eyes filled with an odd

  combination of desire and trepidation. Her breathing was quick, her

  perky little tits bobbing beneath the silky black robe she wore. She

  knelt with knees parted. The robe skimmed her thighs, and Chris caught

  the glint of a silvery piercing peeking from the folds of her shaved

  pussy.

  Chris slid his gaze up, not in the mood for anything straight. He

  noticed she wore a collar, metal, titanium was his guess. Symbols were

  etched upon it. Not symbols, Russian letters.

  “Don't tell me, let me guess. She's your pet?”

  Nikita smirked and reached out to stroke the woman's cheek.

  “Jealous?”

  “Consumed with unspeakable envy. Note the striking shade of

  green I'm turning.” Chris raised his right hand, flipped Nikita the finger.

  “I've killed men for being less annoying.”

  “I'm so scared. Eeek.”

  Nikita's smirk grew wider, the look in his eyes more dangerous.

  And Chris felt his dick swell and ache like never before.

  “Remove the robe.”

  Turning his attention back to the woman, Chris shifted in the

  chair to better accommodate his aching balls. The blonde dutifully

  undid the robe's sash and let it fall to the floor.

  Jesus fucking Christ. She had a series of small, precise scars,

  straight lines across the tops of her shoulders, reddish splotches like

  splash burns from cooking oil on the tops of her breasts.

  Chris looked over. Nikita was watching him as if he'd been

  reading his mind.

  “Not my doing,” he said. “Too amateurish.” He sniffed and cast a

  glance at the bearish guy across the way before looking to the blonde.

  “Turn around, kitten. Show off my handiwork.”

  Holy shit on a stick.

  The woman's lower back looked like a goddamned Faberge egg.

  Thin white scar lines defined a large diamond pattern, and other,

  thinner lines crisscrossed inside the border to create smaller diamonds.

  Newer, healing cuts within each of the higher-placed diamonds looked

  like tiny leaves along vines. The vine created an oval, and placed in the

  center of the top one was a tiny gold ring.

  “I have a gift for you, kitten.” Nikita said softly.

  The woman gasped. “Thank you, master.”

  Chris watched as Nikita reached into his breast pocket and

  withdrew a velvet pouch. He opened it, shook out a pearl attached to a

  finding with an opened ring. He showed it to the blonde.

  Her voice caught as she spoke. “It's beautiful.”

  “As are you, when yo
u give yourself to me.”

  Chris swallowed, his attention glued to the way Nikita's large

  fingers attached the pearl to the tiny ring piercing the girl's back. His

  cock ached when he saw Nikita nuzzle the woman's hair, cup and

  fondle her breast, let his hand skim down her belly to swipe between

  her pussy lips.

  Nikita sat up, lifted his slick fingers to his mouth, and licked

  away the woman's juice. He stroked the top of her head; she leaned

  into his touch, and Chris swore she purred. “That will be all tonight,

  kitten. I have other business to tend to.”

  “Yes, master.” She stood gracefully, sliding up her garment in the

  same fluid motion, and Chris thought for a moment he wouldn't mind a

  mixed-gender threesome with her and Nikita. Seeing the big man fuck

  her would be a serious thrill. Beauty and the Beast, something like that,

  if there was an XXX-rated version.

  He noticed Nikita studying his profile and gave him a sideways

  glance, pretending he was looking at the bear and his harem, while in

  his mind, he imagined her lips around Nikita's cock. Jesus. What a way

  to jerk him back toward the straight end of bisexual. He'd always

  prided himself on being pretty much open for anything, but hardcore

  S/M wasn't part of his portfolio. Fuzzy handcuffs and blindfolds

  happened to other people, not him. Let alone cutting or burning or

  kneeling, naked, in public, in front of a master or mistress. What the

  fuck. He hadn't even watched that kind of porn, and his collection

  wasn't half bad.

  “Let me guess, no missus at home, then?” he asked, and looked at

  Nikita.

  The Russian made an amused sound. “No, I'm not married.

  Would you care?”

  “No.”

  “Then why are you asking?” Nikita stood. The chair gave a

  relieved groan.

  Chris stood too. “Just curious.”

  “Profiling me for a hit.” Nikita arched an eyebrow. “No doubt

  you knew a lot about Voronin.”

  “I knew enough.” And why was the big man coming back to

  Andrei? It bordered on obsession. “What are you going to do about it?”

  Nikita shrugged. “I'm considering the options.”

  WITH that he strode to the exit, noting the time it took for the

  American to follow. But follow he did. Nikita smiled to himself but did

  not turn back. He led the way back upstairs and out of the club. Once