First Blood

by Aleksandr Voinov

  Heathrow. Still, the memento was awarded a place of honor in his

  temporary habitat.

  No doubt Nikita didn't feel at home here. He'd barely settled in.

  There was a weight bench set up in the living room, blocking the cheap

  TV, weights rusty like he'd bought them on eBay for a fiver. He could

  imagine Nikita's physique struggling under the weights, with

  predictable results. He was starting to feel a little annoyed at how little

  his body obeyed him.

  The next door was the bathroom. Nikita shaved with a single

  straight blade safety razor, which was ironic considering his knife kink.

  Chris's inner thigh itched at the thought.

  He headed upstairs to the bedrooms. There was an unused bed in

  one, with a smaller room attached, which, in the scheme of things,

  might easily serve as a nursery. A couple closets for clothes, which

  held a few suits, all wrapped in plastic from a dry cleaners'. Bedclothes

  were all black. He shook his head and headed into the master bedroom.

  “Close the door behind yourself, will you?”

  Oh fuck.

  Chris turned. Nikita stood there, arms crossed in front of his chest,

  showing off his muscular biceps in a tight black T-shirt and black jeans,

  legs casually braced. The Russian was a whole 'nother animal when he

  “dressed down,” and he looked like he'd be right at home in a rough

  biker bar or prison yard.

  Chris slid his hands into the pockets of his own pants and

  couldn't help wondering what Nikita would look like in leather. “You

  crashed my place. I thought a payback was in order.”

  Nikita remained silent, like a hulking stone sentinel guarding a

  castle keep.

  “Just so you know, Katya didn't want to bring me here, but I

  insisted. If you have a problem take it up with me not her.”

  Damn but he'd forgotten how warm leather pants could be. Of

  course the sight of those brawny arms and taut pecs covered in the

  black T wasn't helping his temperature situation.

  Shit. Nothing and no one had ever affected him this way. Ever.

  He didn't like it. And worse than that, there was a pile of chromed steel

  chains clearly visible under the black-clad bed. The only colors in this

  room, honey-colored wooden floor, whitewashed walls, black

  coverings, silvery steel, black Nikita, colorless eyes. He had a black

  phone charging on one of the power points.

  Chris wasn't sure why he'd come here—this place gave nothing

  away of Nikita he hadn't known before, and the Russian seemed

  forbidding rather than attracted.

  “Too bad you're not sprawled on the bed so I can fuck you this

  time,” Chris ventured.

  The Russian lifted an eyebrow. “You think.” The expression in

  his eyes said “make me,” and Chris felt his chest tighten. One day, he

  really wanted to fuck Nikita.

  “I know you'd be begging for more.”

  “What's that thing you Americans say? Ah… in your dreams.”

  Chris pulled his hands from his pockets, took his car keys out as

  well. “We Americans also say, catch you on the flip side, my man.” He

  started toward the door. Nikita simply stood there like the fucking lord

  of the manor, blocking his exit. Chris paused, adjusting his balance in

  the event Nikita tried to attack.

  But he didn't. He stared with that bloodless (and too damn hot)

  stare of his, and then he stepped aside. Not completely aside, mind you.

  He left just enough room for Chris to leave and have no other choice

  but to brush against him.

  Smug fucker.

  “We'll see who has the last laugh,” Chris muttered as he walked

  to his car.

  Being a spy had a lot of perks, and many of them centered around

  the real-life better-than-Bond gadgetry, especially when it came to

  miniscule A/V equipment like the few dime-sized cameras he'd

  managed to plant at Nikita's.

  Chances were the Russian would find them sooner than later, but

  Chris figured no one could blame him for trying.

  Chapter 5

  HE HADN'T anticipated how hard it would be to see Nikita go through

  his daily routine. Appear in the kitchen in the mornings for a bowl of

  cooked rolled oats, to which he added half a fruit basket; then he went

  for a run. When he came back, he stripped on the way to the shower.

  Dripping in sweat and naked before he closed the door behind him,

  Nikita's body held no clues whatsoever, only that he was serious about

  maintaining it. He jerked off in the shower, one hand against the tiles,

  powerful neck bent, those soulless eyes closed, just a man taking his

  daily pleasure. Chris couldn't help but do the same, as pathetic as it was.

  Then Nikita left the flat, doing whatever. Chris resolved he'd

  follow him the next day and see where he went. He came back in the

  evening, as if he held down a nine-to-five job, then lifted weights for

  two hours, stretched, sat down with a book, and read.

  But later in the evening, Katya came, and then things got really

  interesting.

  Just a week ago, Chris wouldn't have thought it was hot, seeing

  them “play.” But he had gooseflesh all over, watching Nikita drip hot

  wax over her body in the bedroom, seeing her squirm. He fucked her

  mind before he fucked her body, after hours of play, ritualized and

  strangely beautiful, completely restrained. Nikita wouldn't have broken

  a sweat hurting her bad, but he didn't. And Chris groaned when he saw

  Nikita add two more cuts to that pattern on her back, his own skin

  tingling up to the roots of his hair.

  Nikita licked the cuts, dabbed on some ointment, and covered

  them lightly with gauze. He had her kneel then, on all fours, her head

  facing away from the camera, her cute little ass fully exposed. Nikita

  pulled out lube, coated his fingers, and began massaging the slick liquid

  along her crack. She squirmed as he penetrated her with his thick

  fingers.

  Chris licked his lips, let his hand drop down and pull his dick

  from his sweatpants when Nikita slid his cock in her ass and began

  humping away. Chris's ass throbbed in remembrance of being filled,

  taken hard and fast. He jerked himself harder, wanting to come when

  Nikita did.

  But he came sooner, along with Katya, who shuddered, dropped

  her head to the mattress and shimmied her hips. Nikita stopped,

  climbed on the bed, fisting his own cock in front of Katya's face. Chris

  could tell he was close, and he licked his lips again, waiting….

  Nikita looked up, right at him, it seemed, and gave one last pull,

  letting his load loose on the bed, on Katya's face. He got off the bed,

  moved forward straight to the tiny camera.

  Shit. A whitish splotch obliterated the view; then the picture

  turned to static.

  Chris gave an exasperated laugh. Shit. Nikita had fucked them

  both with his little show. Damn.

  Despite the fact he'd come, Chris felt empty and not completely

  sated. He wanted that rough touch, wanted, God help him, to take

  Katya's
place. “Forget it,” Chris admonished himself, and he wiped

  himself down with a towel.

  One day remained until his return to Switzerland, and he didn't

  want to go. He didn't want to risk Nikita losing his trail. Or worse,

  losing interest. Whatever that interest was, exactly. John would become

  mother hen if Chris told him. And he was the only guy he could

  possibly tell. Andrei would think he had gone completely loco.

  Chris shook his head and moved the laptop mouse. He'd logged

  into GORGONnet and downloaded the images connected to the case of

  Andrei Voronin. The red icon indicated the case was “claimed” but not

  closed. There were loose ends, namely Zaitsev.

  He clicked through the gallery of images. Hundreds of images of

  Andrei, Zaitsev, and known associates. Bodyguards. Art dealers, asset

  managers. A fair amount of them were IDed, but he couldn't find

  Nikita. How did he fit in? Who did he work for? And Nikita who?

  Chris poured himself a drink and then began ticking off a list of

  his GORGON associates and their specialties who might be able to

  shed some light on the dark little puzzle that was his new Russian

  friend. A slow smile lifted the corners of his mouth, and he sipped his

  drink with one hand while using the other to maneuver the mouse to

  access GORGON's in-house e-mail system.

  To: Stefan.Wudarczek@GORGON.net

  From: C.D.Gibson@GORGON.net

  Subject: Name that Communist

  ...Or former Commie as the case may be.

  Hey Steve-o riddle me this. I’m looking for intel on a guy connected to

  an open case John and I have going. Russian mob shit real tough ass

  goes by the name of Nikita. Not quite sure who he works for or what

  he’s into beyond breaking kneecaps and playing whips & chains with

  hookers.

  Best I can offer you to go on is a camera screencap. Anything and

  everything will be appreciated.

  Hearts & Huggles

  C.

  Chris half-closed the laptop and went to make himself another

  drink in the kitchen, then a snack. Sex made him ravenous, even if it

  had been a largely solitary pleasure. He doubted Nikita was on the way

  to Sevenoaks—after that scene and that orgasm, he was probably curled

  up in bed. Don’t delude yourself he might even look cute when he’s

  relaxed. Because he won't, he chided himself.

  A toasted baguette, a packet of pastrami, and two boiled eggs

  later, he settled back down and opened the laptop to surf before

  checking his e-mails. He really should get rid of the Facebook account

  clogging up his inbox, but it was a great place to cruise. He logged into

  GORGONnet to find Stefan had already responded. He double-clicked

  to open the message. It was big, stuffed full with attachments.

  To: C.D.Gibson@GORGON.net

  From: Stefan.Wudarczek@GORGON.net

  Subject: Re: Name that Communist

  Hi Chris,

  That’s not a mobster, he doesn’t have the tats or cheap track suit.

  Check exhibit A. Doesn’t keep the Russkies from respecting him,

  though. He’s connected to human traffickers, usually Eastern European

  ladies. So, yeah, he’s into whips and chains and slavery. Maybe even

  snuff porn? Got no proof, but a bunch of theories.

  He was arrested in Berlin eighteen months ago when the German cops

  stormed an illegal brothel. They let him go, for whatever reason, and

  he slipped away. See exhibit B. He was IDed in that bust as Nikita

  Sergeyevich Kazakov, so sounds like he’s your man. Give him a bullet

  from me when you meet him again—that raid busted my case.

  Warmest Greetings,

  Stefan

  Chris reread the message as he formulated his reply. Certainly

  didn't want Steve-o to stir up any shit, not yet, anyway.

  To: Stefan.Wudarczek@GORGON.net

  From: C.D.Gibson@GORGON.net

  Subject: Re: Name that Communist

  No hearts no huggles for old Chris? You haven’t forgiven me for that

  Christmas party incident last year have you? Didn’t mean to breech

  your heteronormative boundaries dude. I’m a sucker for kissing under

  the mistletoe and you looked so hot in that red sweater...

  Seriously thanks for the head’s up on Kazakov. I knew he was dirty the

  minute I saw him. I’m not sure if he fits in with the case John and I had

  going but from what little I’ve seen the bastard deserves a well placed

  bullet. I’ll keep you posted.

  C.

  Chris exited the e-mail program. He chuckled to himself and

  repeated Nikita's middle name aloud, making it sound like separate

  words. “Sir Gay A-vitch.” He clicked open one of the screenshots, his

  hand falling to his bandaged wound while he took in Nikita's hard body,

  that thick cock. As tempting as it was to push the Russian's buttons a

  little more, he needed to get back to home base.

  ANDREI and John were already at the condo, John in the kitchen

  cooking up some delicious-smelling stir fry concoction, Andrei seated

  at the glass-topped table going over his copy of the phonebook-sized

  GORGON rookie handbook.

  Chris snatched the binder from his hand and deposited it in the chrome trashcan. “Forget everything that's in here and do what we tell you. You'll be happier and healthier that way.”

  John turned, rolled his eyes, and retrieved the binder.

  “Policies and procedures have their purpose. Chris, let's not get

  Andrei started on the wrong foot.”

  “If you'd have followed procedure he wouldn't be here now,

  would he? Procedure would have had us let him bleed out all over that

  nice white rug at the chalet.”

  John's mouth sagged open. He looked at Andrei, whose

  expression was a mixture of anger and hurt.

  John shut down the stovetop burner. “What's gotten into you?”

  Chris pulled a bottle of water from the fridge. “Nothing. I'm tired,

  okay?” He nodded toward the wok. “Don't worry about saving me any.

  I ate at the airport.”

  He went straight to the bedroom, tossed his unpacked suitcase on

  the closet floor, took his laptop from his messenger bag to retrieve a

  DVD, and popped it into the player hooked up to the large flat panel

  screen opposite the bed. He stripped down and settled on the bed, fast

  forwarding through the paper-thin plot setup until the sex action began.

  It was some heavy S&M shit he'd found in a SoHo shop before

  leaving London. A burly guy with Nikita's coloring and similar build

  was putting a skinny masked guy through his paces with an entire bag

  of tricks—cock and ball torture, needles piercing his ball sac, metal

  alligator clips clamping his nipples. Chris took the bottle of lube from

  the bedside stand as it began getting to “the good part”—the scrawny

  guy suspended in a leather sling, the Dom putting on a latex glove and

  shoving his hand into a tub of lube, then fisting the fuck out of the

  skinny guy's ass, the sling swaying with each push of his hand, the

  skinny guy moaning and half crying but begging for more.

  Chris jerked off, going in time with the fisting,
his own asshole

  twitching, wanting to be filled, remembering the pounding he'd taken

  from Nikita. And at the end of the scene, when the Dom bent forward

  and bit into the guy's thigh, Chris came with a shudder as he'd done the

  first time he'd watched this, the cut on his own leg burning as it had the

  night it'd tasted the cold kiss of Nikita Kazakov's blade.

  HE DIDN'T know when he'd fallen asleep, but he woke to the sounds

  of sex, Andrei and John giving each other blow jobs in the big bed next

  to him. Fuckers. Like they couldn't have done that in another room?

  He clamped his eyes shut, clutched the edge of his pillow. Get a

  grip. That Russian screwed with your head. It wasn’t that long ago that

  you’d woken up one or the other by starting a little action with John or

  Andrei.

  Taking a deep calming breath, he turned over to look at his lovers.

  John lay with his head at the foot of the bed, and Andrei straddled him

  facing opposite. God, they were beautiful separately and together, their

  fucking intense and yet somehow sweet as they took their time using

  lips and tongues to extract the optimum pleasure from one another.

  Andrei saw him watching in the pale light of the small bureau

  lamp. He paused, let John's cock loose long enough to say, “Join us?”

  “Maybe.”

  Andrei returned to his mission while John reached out to touch

  Chris's leg, gently stroking the hair on his calf. Damn, but John Soong

  had interesting skills. The tension and dismay that had filled Chris a

  moment ago soon ebbed beneath that magic touch. They changed

  positions—Andrei got off him, and Chris moved to John's back. He

  turned the opposite way to grab the lube, coated his fingers, then began

  to slide them along the length of John's crack. Andrei kept tonguing

  John's dick and reached down to pull the globes of flesh, giving Chris

  an easier entrance.

  He fingered John until the other man whimpered; then he pulled

  out and turned his attention to Andrei, switching back and forth as they

  quickened their pace. He stopped touching when he knew they were at

  the breaking point, and when they stilled, their cocks pulsing in release,