Tenderly Wicked

by Katerina Ross

  EVERNIGHT PUBLISHING ®

  www.evernightpublishing.com

  Copyright© 2016 Katerina Ross

  ISBN: 978-1-77339-000-0

  Cover Artist: Jay Aheer

  Editor: Carlene Flores

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  TENDERLY WICKED

  Katerina Ross

  Copyright © 2016

  Chapter One

  The Moscow Deviants

  The old cream-colored building looked quite respectable and unassuming from the outside. No flickering neon lights. Not even a sign above the heavy black door. Just an ordinary house on a quiet street in the center of Moscow. In its basement, though, was an establishment of dubious moral value, at least according to its friends only blog, which provided a brief insight into the cultural delights to be found there. Those included horny videos on the big screen, unusual pieces of furniture like St Andrew’s Crosses and stocks, whips swishing through the air … and lots of kinky people to meet.

  Gentlemen only.

  Clubs of this particular kind weren’t abundant in Moscow. Officially, this one didn’t seem to exist at all. It took Max quite some time browsing relevant forums to find this refuge for deviants and procure an invitation. Strangely, being a foreigner had helped. It had endeared him that people could be so eager to give helpful tips to a stranger in their city. As for the owners of the club, they probably had practical reasons for welcoming him. They could have assumed—after Max had mentioned he was American—that he was some sort of well-to-do businessman looking for exotic entertainment abroad who’d spend a generous amount of money in their den.

  In a way, it was like going undercover. Very thrilling. Maybe he should make his barely noticeable westerner accent more pronounced…

  Except now he wasn’t sure he could muster the courage to walk in. He stood across the street, torn between the temptation to go over and the urge to sneak away. Basking in the last rays of a faded late summer sunset, he cowardly pretended to fiddle with his phone. Just a harmless, average-looking passerby in casual dark jeans and a black t-shirt, who had nothing to do with … ahem … perverts.

  It was not the first BDSM dungeon he’d dared to visit. He’d been to the legendary Torture Garden in London and a few less famous night clubs of the same variety around the world. He’d traveled a lot. But they’d all turned out to be overcrowded and mainstream, full of extravagantly dressed dancers, as well as curious gawkers who came to see the freaks. That was not what he was looking for.

  Hell, he didn’t really know what he was looking for. Just not this. Not a put-on-a-show kind of relationship. He was almost thirty—not a party boy anymore—and to be honest, he’d never identified with the carnival imagery, enticing as it may have been for others. All these rubber jackets, collars, leashes, and other gear—it was just a lively spectacle for him, entertaining but not arousing. The fantasies he’d been chiseling and polishing for years were of a more intimate nature. A lean, naked body in the dusk of his bedroom, tied to the headboard, face-down, and completely at his mercy. Striped buttocks… He’d trace each and every welt he’d planted there, feel the muscles tense under his touch and then relax into it… There would be just the two of them, lost to the world, living in the moment. Giving and taking. Commanding and submitting. That would be for real.

  He’d had a tough time reconciling with his unusual tastes. A sadist. Bad, huh? As if it wasn’t trouble enough being gay. He’d repeatedly told himself he shouldn’t want things like that. But at the same time, it was excruciatingly obvious he had no control over his fantasies, no matter how hard he tried to ignore them. Max remembered how he’d played war games with a neighbor kid, Davie, where he’d been a commander and Davie the prisoner, with his hands ineptly bound behind his back. He’d dreamed of Davie captured in the back yard, stripped and forced to kneel on the ground in front of him. He’d never acted on his desires, though, not even in college when he warily started to explore his sexuality.

  He’d successfully fought his inclinations until recently, when he’d clicked on a bondage website, purely by accident… And then he’d found another… And another... Endless nights of reading about safe, sane and consensual SM, about tops and bottoms, dominants and submissives, had helped him come to peace with himself. It could be a pleasure for both parties. It could be negotiated and planned. It could be all right.

  And here he was, standing across the street from an anonymous black door that promised lots of fun for those who dared to enter.

  Still, there was a huge problem. After having moved to Moscow, the new Babylon heaving with all kinds of people who didn’t care about him and where his reputation didn’t matter, Max hoped it would be easier to explore the well-hidden dark fantasies he’d been repressing for so long. But he wasn’t sure he fit into the serious SM scene. At his age, he was just a newbie, inexperienced and clumsy, and it made his chances pretty bleak.

  Who’d want him?

  He might have read a lot, he might have practiced knot tying, and dripping hot wax onto his own forearm to understand what it would feel like for another person. He’d even purchased a few, er, implements to be used on a partner he didn’t yet have—an awfully confusing experience. But still, Max remained a raw novice, and to be honest, what sub would choose a Dom who needed tutoring?

  More importantly, Max didn’t normally behave like a truly dominant person, the one to be obeyed and worshiped. In his fantasies, he managed to be stern, calm, and always in control, but not in his everyday life. He was sure everyone, everyone in the club would take one look in his direction and recognize him for what he was: a pathetic wannabe Dom, edgy and insecure.

  He wasn’t bad looking, but he wasn’t strikingly handsome either, and had no commanding quality about his appearance that a Dom, in his opinion, ought to possess. Earlier this evening, he’d critically studied his reflection in the mirror. It had frowned back, dark gray eyes, sad and disapproving. He was sturdy, strong, and maybe too broad-shouldered for his not-too-prominent height, but didn’t have that indefinable air of authority he thought necessary for topping other men. His plain, good-humored face was probably to blame. His ex-lover, Andie, used to say he looked nice. Like the good reliable man he was. Not exactly the impression Max always wanted to project. But he’d never had the guts to say, “Hey, I’m not as nice as you think. Wanna take a look at the real me? Would you dare to?” Maybe that’s why his liaison with Andie had finally faded into friendship. Not the worst ending to a relationship, but it was of little consolation.

  Max sighed, putting his cell phone into his pocket. He wished there was something more exotic about his personality. The only extraordinary thing about him was a faint accent, but it turned out being too thorough at learning foreign languages wasn’t always a good thing. He was so good at it that everyone assumed he came from Estonia, or Latvia, or Lithuania—one of the former Soviet republics where almost everyone his age spoke fluent Russian, but with a slight brogue, melodic due to longer vowels. Hence he seemed to be nothing special here. Even his name, common in Europe, too simple and rough to his taste, didn’t mark him as a foreigner. They just pronounced it a little bit differently in Russia—Mahks.

  Not only was he incredibly average looking, but ordinary in every way.

  Could he present himself as someone else tonight—as a tough
guy? Could he fake it? Perhaps he should have added some unmistakably dominant cues to his appearance: leather trousers, boots of the Doc Martin type, or a pair of handcuffs dangling from his belt loop. Or maybe not. Most likely, he would have not only felt, but also looked, ridiculous.

  His black jeans and matching dark t-shirt would have to do. Luckily, there was no dress code in the club. Visitors were encouraged to enter into the spirit of the evening by wearing fetish gear, but some clearly preferred something less noticeable. For the last ten minutes, Max had been contemplating a quite ordinary dressed guy who stood near the club door, chain-smoking. Well, some people didn’t need special clothes to look attractive. In this case, faded jeans, tight and low on the hips, and an equally tight white t-shirt were enough.

  He was lean and wiry, probably a few years younger than Max, with unruly auburn hair—the kind you’d want to put your hands in and tug or pet or smooth—and milky-white skin redheads often had. His every movement was perfection, full of quicksilver grace. Max was mesmerized by the way a jumble of thin leather bracelets slid back and forth along his slender arm as he brought a cigarette to his mouth and then let his hand fall. He also wore a sort of charm, a miniature bunch of keys attached to a belt loop on his jeans, on the right hip. Too small to be car or apartment keys—just dangling there for decoration. Max had read about it: in the BDSM community, keys worn on the right hip indicated the wearer was submissive. Oh how good it could be to pin this pretty boy to the bed, hold him down, slip handcuffs on his narrow wrists… This tempting image made Max’s cock twitch rather inappropriately, but he instantly laughed at himself. Hey, don’t be ridiculous. You’re never going to get such a gorgeous creature. Miracles don’t happen, not with an amateur sadist like you.

  Max kept watching the guy though, completely curious. He seemed to be edgy and tense. Another newbie? Looked very much like it. He’s even more nervous than I am. The realization calmed him. Come on then, Max. Move.

  The object of his survey didn’t notice him as he stepped closer, not until Max asked, with genuine sympathy, “Are you all right?”

  The young man blinked, his long eyelashes fluttering. “Um … yes, I just … I’m fine, thanks.”

  Okay. Max dared a wary smile. “It doesn’t look like you want to go inside. What about going to my place instead?” It was a shitty pick-up line, and Max knew it the very moment it slipped from his tongue.

  Surprisingly, the guy didn’t brush him off, he just left Max’s question without an answer. “Do you hang out here often?” he inquired instead. “This club, I mean. I’ve never seen you before.”

  Max shot him a grin, this time a more confident one. “I haven’t seen you either. Pity.”

  It wasn’t exactly a lie, but close enough. It would be too awkward to admit it was actually his first visit to the club.

  The guy shrugged. “I’ve been away for a month or so…” He looked at the cigarette butt still clutched in his fingers as if pondering why he was holding it. “Must have missed a lot of fun.” He finally glanced up and smiled, although briefly.

  Eyes of a lost puppy, Max suddenly thought. They were transparent green with hazel speckles, and there was something sad about the way the smile didn’t touch them.

  “Well, you can always make up for it,” Max suggested. “With me, for instance. I’d take good care of you, promise. If you’re sure about what you want.”

  “Oh yeah.” The guy chuckled, sounding nervous. “For better or worse, but I am, yeah.” Unexpectedly, he turned away and took a few steps to dispose of his cigarette in the nearest bin. He moved with edgy grace, and Max just stood there watching him. Of course—why would a man like that be interested in him, even in the slightest? Max had always been bad at sweet talking, and his looks were nothing special…

  “All right,” the object of Max’s awe and despair declared, returning, and nodded with sudden resolve. “All right. So you were saying ... your place?”

  ****

  It felt strange going home with … what would be the right word? A play partner? Not a lover yet and not a friend, but still, someone willing to place his wellbeing into Max’s hands. And it felt all the more weird because said someone, Vadim, appeared to be shockingly careless about his own safety. Max suggested they sit down somewhere first and discuss things but saw a shade of uncertainty on Vadim’s face.

  “Not in the club,” Max said hastily. “Too noisy in there.”

  He had no idea how loud it might be inside, but it looked like he’d guessed right. Vadim’s shoulders sagged with obvious relief. Still, he didn’t show much enthusiasm about discussing things anywhere else. “I suppose you know what you’re looking for.” He jiggled the keys on his hip. “So do I. An eager top meets an eager sub. Everyone’s happy.”

  Max was confused. He’d read so much about the importance of profound negotiations in BDSM practices. Wasn’t it vital to set things straight when planning kinky stuff? Wasn’t it basics? Vadim must have been really inexperienced, if not a newbie. Again, Max felt a surge of panic. Should he have told Vadim he had no experience either? Would it be fair to continue without this warning?

  It felt like Vadim desperately wanted a pretext to avoid the club tonight. Whatever reasons he had, wasn’t it maybe too hasty a decision on his part—to flee with a complete stranger? Max didn’t want him to change his mind, oh no, but he needed to be sure Vadim understood what he was getting himself into.

  “Any turn-offs?” he asked. “I mean, it’s better to know things beforehand.”

  Vadim’s lips twitched. “Sex is on the menu, in case you’re worried.”

  “Good. Okay,” Max muttered, feeling like an idiot. “Um … do you mind if we walk? I don’t live too far away.”

  Vadim shrugged—and there they were, strolling side by side through a network of narrow alleys flooded with faded, orangey light. From time to time, Max stole brief glances at his conquest … though he didn’t feel like a conqueror, not really. Despite it being summertime, Vadim’s skin was white and fair, like he didn’t spend much time in the sun, and Max couldn’t stop imagining him stripped of his clothes: smooth, alabaster, perfect. A whip would immediately leave marks across his back, angry red against tender flesh. The thought was disturbing and equally appealing.

  What about things that turn you on? Max wanted to inquire. But sheepishly asking what would please your sub probably wasn’t a very toppy thing to say. Every Dom he knew on the net seemed to think it was wrong. Subs existed for Doms’ pleasure, not vice versa, right? At least that was what he’d read so often. Negotiation was a big deal, sure, and yet it was more about a sub accepting or not accepting what a Dom chose to suggest. Max wished he had that effortless quality of authority he thought every good Dom ought to possess. The power to force his will on a submissive and to demand obedience, no matter what he was going to do. Instead, he was so excruciatingly nervous about doing something wrong that he wanted to get as specific as possible … and so shy at the same time that he didn’t dare to. He couldn’t bring himself to ask if it was Vadim’s first time bottoming because he was afraid of the question that might follow, whether it was Max’s first time topping—and the inevitable rejection if he told the truth.

  We’ll go slow, he decided at last, to soothe his conscience. I won’t try anything too extreme.

  ****

  The neighborhood they strolled through was a part of the old Moscow, not far away from the multi-lane, traffic-clogged streets, and yet so peaceful, so homely, and almost deserted on summer weekends when lots of Muscovites escaped the city to their country houses, so-called dachas.

  Max had been lucky to find an apartment here, in a quiet, curved alley squeezed in between two narrow but busy streets. The nine-story building he lived in was a home with history, judging by its black iron gate in the Art Nouveau style, but not a well kept one. The gate was warped, and the walls in the shadowy archway leading into the courtyard were covered with amateurish graffiti. The common areas were sadly negl
ected, too. Peeling paint, crusty stairwells, an old shaky elevator with rather rude inscriptions all over it. At first, Max had been hesitant about settling down in such a place. However, the apartment itself had been recently refurbished and the small studio looked pretty good. It was enticingly close to his work place, so the deal had been set.

  As for the apartment also being in the vicinity of a certain club … Max had decided that it was a sign.

  Now he was a bit embarrassed about the shabby surroundings. To distract Vadim from having a look around as they stood in the hallway waiting for the sluggish elevator to come down, he asked, “Do you want to call someone … I don’t know … a friend? Tell him where you’ll be staying?”

  Vadim frowned. “What for?”

  “It’s just … you know nothing about me. Wouldn’t you feel safer if someone knew where you were?”

  Vadim gave him a crooked smile. “You don’t look like a serial killer. Too nice.”

  Max sighed at the word nice. “It doesn’t mean that I’m not one,” he retorted, quite reasonably. “I’m not, of course, but anyone would say so.”

  “True.” A smirk lingered in the corners of Vadim’s mouth. Max wanted to trace it with his index finger, but hesitated. Should he somehow indicate the moment they started a scene? Or should he act like a Dom all the time?

  “I just thought you’d maybe feel more relaxed,” he said as they stepped into the narrow elevator and he pressed the button for the fifth floor. He felt uncomfortable being so close to the one who had agreed to be his submissive and not knowing if it was all right to reach out and caress his cheek, and then push him against the dirty elevator wall and claim his plushy mouth with a fierce, rough kiss.

  Vadim appeared to have considered Max’s reasoning, unaware of this inner struggle, then shrugged. “Nah. Who would I call, anyway?”