Kept Boy, Hockey RPS, NC-17, 1/2
Title: Kept Man
Author: creepy_crawly
Pairing: Derick Brassard/Nikita Filatov
Rating: NC-17
Wordcount:
Kink: BDSM
Notes/Warnings: This involves guys-real guys-in compromising, kinky situations. Not that I have any idea if they’d actually do it or not. But I do have a dirty, dirty mind.Many thank yous to Megan and Skye for reading through this, finding the mistakes I made (undoubtedly many), and not telling me that I am a failcakes at life!)
Summary: Nikita needs a Master…and Derick’s not that good at resisting… (Shamelessly written for kink_bigbang.)
Artist: Zabby
As he strode in to the arena to start the season’s training camp, Derick Brassard’s eyes were immediately drawn to one of the young players in the corner of the lobby.
The kid had long, dark hair that hung to his shoulders in what, from behind, looked like a sloppy bowl cut. He was clearly strong; wide, powerful shoulders strained at the shoulders of his soft tee-shirt. He was dressed casually, and it was a beautiful thing to look at. His jeans fit just right, their cut working wonders to subtly emphasize the rounded swell of his butt, and, at the same time, making his powerful thighs, a hallmark of years of skating, seem less than they were.
“Brass!” Rick Nash, a tall, handsome man called. Dropping his own bag-it made a tremendous “thunk” as it collided with the ground, as Rick didn’t travel anywhere without at least two or three tons of gear in said bag-he crossed over to where Derick was entering the room in a few quick strides. “Hey, man!” he said cheerfully, wrapping the shorter center in a tight embrace.
“Hey, Ricky,” Derick laughed, slapping him on the back. He was grateful, briefly, for the heavy bag he himself was carrying; without the obstacle him having it on his shoulder presented, Rick’s hug probably would have been just this side of painful.
“Rick, let the man breathe!” a young, playful voice called. “He’s damn useless to me if he can’t scare the shit out of Boller this year!”
Laughing, Rick let go of Derick and turned to the newcomer. “Kris! Long time, no see, and all that, little man.”
Kris Russell smirked up at his friend. “You saw me at prospect camp, Ricky. Stop pouting.” That said, he turned to his other teammate. “Nice to see you again, though, Brassy. How was your summer?”
“Pretty good, all told,” Derick replied, returning the fist bump. “Got a great tan, finally. And you? What did you do this summer? And what’s this with you being at prospect camp?”
Kris laughed delightedly. “Come on over this way; Rusty’s fighting to lay claim on his locker, before they get “technically” assigned this year.” He began to lead the way, pushing through the crowd of chatting hockey players, equipment managers, coaches, trainers, and the various other people who had something to do with the training and functioning of a professional hockey team.
“Anyway,” Kris continued, speaking up a little louder so that he could be heard over the clamor of voices, “I had a pretty good summer. Ryan and I took a summer boating trip again, just like we used to, only no parents, this summer.” Turning back, he waggled his eyebrows suggestively. “So we did that for about two weeks, then we headed back home, ‘cause Ry-Ry’s girlfriend wanted to tap some of that, apparently.”
“I have a question about that, actually,” Rick butted in, grinning dangerously. “Has she ever approached you two about a threesome before? Because, dude, seriously. I know if I was dating twins…” he trailed off, licking his lips lasciviously.
“Swedish twins,” Derick agreed with a sage nod, though he was struggling to swallow his laughter as he recalled the National Hockey League’s All Star Game ad from a few years earlier. Too, teasing Kris was like making fun of Michael Jackson: too god damned easy by far.
Sure enough, Kris’s eyes narrowed. “Funny, Ricky,” he sniped. “No, actually, this one has yet to do so. But, having finally met her, I am counting down the days, let me tell you. I’m not sure she could tell us apart-or that she was even trying, really.”
Rick stopped suddenly, blinking. “Woah, woah, woah. Hold up there, Pup,” he ordered, holding up a hand in the internationally recognizable sign for “stop.” “One of your twin brother’s girlfriends has actually gone so far as to ask about a threesome with you?” he demanded, looking more than a little sick.
Kris blushed, something that made his pale face light up like a stop light. “Um… actually… it was my girlfriend that asked about the threesome, first.”
“First?” Derick demanded. “Oh, man, now you have to tell us. You can’t just drop something like that without an explanation!”
Kris sighed shortly, running a hand through his long hair as he sat down on one of the wooden benches. “When we were, like, fifteen, Ry and I were dating the two hottest girls in the school, I swear. Anyway, Annie-that would be my girlfriend, by the way-asks me one day, while she’s totally got her hand down my pants, if I have ever even thought of a threesome with my brother. What was I supposed to say to that? I was a fifteen year old boy and the hottest girl in the school was totally playing with my junk! So I was kind of like, “ohhhyeahwhatever.”-Shut up, Nash, I can see you laughing-and totally forgot about it, ‘cause she totally didn’t bring it up again.”
Rick was, by that point, howling with laughter. He struggled to bring himself under control, and, when he finally managed it, somewhat, squeaked out, “first… first implies that there were others, Kris!”
Gritting his teeth, Kris heaved a great sigh. “There were. Ryan’s girlfriend asked the second and third time. And let’s not go into how kinky it is for the two of us to go to a bar; I can’t pull in bars. The girls just want to tap both of that. And, really, some things are just not meant to happen.”
“I’d tap it,” Jared Boll offered cheerfully, placing one sharp elbow on either side of his teammate and fellow troublemaker’s head. “Hey, Booboo,” he added, kissing the side of his head noisily.
“You’d tap anything that breathes,” Kris said darkly, pushing the other young man off of his shoulders. “And probably a few things that don’t breathe, too.”
“He has a thing for hockey equipment, I think,” Derick agreed with a snicker, throwing his bag down on the ground. “Hey, Boller.”
“Brassy!” Jared greeted brightly. “Probably right, you are, at that. Or maybe it’s just the people in the hockey equipment that gets me going. Be worth finding out.” Smiling beatifically, he turned slowly to the man behind him. “Oh, Rusty! Are you up for a little experimentation, my love?”
The quiet, dark man blinked at him for a moment, and then slowly shook his head. “Only if, by experimentation, you mean, how far can Ricky kick your ass,” he replied softly. “You should see what he did to my last girlfriend, really.”
Derick had to laugh at that; Rusty was aware of the rumors that surrounded his friendship with the Blue Jackets’ star, and often played up on them when presented the opportunity to do so. Which, to be fair, the Puppies did on a regular basis. Together, they were a dangerous team, but giving them a straight man like Rusty to play off of was inviting some serious mischief.
“She’ll recover,” Rick replied, his voice thick with mock offense. Then, after a beat of silence, he added, “eventually.”
Laughing, Derick nodded at the Czech. “Hey, Rusty. Good summer?”
“Great,” Rusty told him, beaming. “Though I’d be happier if I could get all of my stuff sorted out. I don’t think I actually know which of my suits are in Novy Jicin and which are here in Columbus, let alone other things like my DVDs or CDs.”
“Could be worse,” Jared snorted. “You could be struggling to keep out of an unwanted threesome!”
“Shut up, Puppy,” Rusty retorted. “At this rate, you’re going to make sweet little Kris cry.”
“Ooh, speaking of Kris,” Derick chimed in, turning to face the Puppy in question. “You said you were at prospect camp. Why? How?”
“Ryan,” he said by way of answer, leaning over to unzip his hockey bag. “He had to go to camp, and I really didn’t feel like staying at home with my mom being all over me about finding a girlfriend and settling down. So… I left. Came to Columbus and hung out with Rick and Danny.”
“Fritsche’s still got an apartment in town?” Rusty asked, confused.
Kris nodded. “His brother uses it, sometimes. He came back for the summer, mostly to pack his shit up, I think.” He shrugged half-heartedly, pulling his skates out and checking the blades.
Derick turned to his own bag and, with a heavy sigh, began to open it, as well. He rifled around, looking for something. “I have a question for you lot,” he said, pulling out a balled up pair of socks.
“Yeah?” Rick asked, leaning against Rusty as he helped Jared untangle a skate lace.
“Those of you who were at prospect camp,” Derick clarified. “Pretty boy with the dark hair, bad bowl cut. Talk to me.”
“Oh, the one with the red “In Soviet Russia, Nose Blow You” tee-shirt?” Kris demanded, grinning broadly.
Derick nodded. “That would be the one, though I didn’t see much of the shirt.” Kicking off his tennis shoes, he stood up and unzipped his jeans. He began working them down his strong thighs.
“Thaaat would be Nikita,” Kris replied with a playful drawl, his grin widening. “Nikita Valeryevich Filatov. Columbus’s very own cautiously drafted wunderkind.”
“Cautiously drafted, because they’re still waiting to see if he’ll handle it on American ice,” Rick pointed out shrewdly. “He’s… on the light end of the spectrum, you’ll find.” He handed Jared his skate back, and sat up completely. “But, having watched him play, oooh, it was a good pick.”
“He’s good?” Derick asked.
Rick nodded sharply. “He’s damn good,” he agreed. “And I do mean daaaaaaamn.” He smirked. “You’ll get a chance to play with him in a minute; Coachie said he was going to put the baby out on the ice with us for a little bit of play time.”
“You think he’s got potential?”
“If he can stop fluttering those eyelashes and blushing like a virgin, yeah,” Kris snorted. He flopped down next to Rusty, fully dressed but for his sweater, which was draped over his shoulders like a towel. “I swear, when the men weren’t fainting because he plays so well, the women were fainting from lack of breathing.”
“You give me too much credit,” a soft voice murmured.
Derick turned around to see who had spoken, and met the so-called pretty boy face to face for the first time. He could feel his heart speed up; Nikita Filatov was pretty.
From this close a distance, Derick could see that Nikita’s dark hair was, in fact, more of a mahogany color, brown shot through with bright red. His eyes were a deep, clear grey, hidden beneath luxurious eyelashes that any girl would have been jealous of. His lips were red and chapped, and curved in an adorable little smile.
But that was not the thing that really drew his eyes.
Nikita’s skin was nicely tanned; he’d come to Columbus a week after the draft and stayed. He liked to be outside in the sun, either running and playing or just chilling and relaxing by the pool. He did much the same thing at home. But Derick knew none of that.
All he knew was that Nikita Filatov, the young man standing before him, had a tan line around his throat…
A collar tan line.
-----
Nikita, hearing his name, wandered over to where a group of the previous year’s team were reconnecting through gossip. He began to change for warm-ups, all the while overhearing-or, okay, intentionally listening in to-the men’s conversation. It seemed to be about him, actually.
Never being one for letting things just lie-either his greatest gift or his greatest curse, depending on who you asked and when you asked them-Nikita waited until there was a pause in the conversation, immediately after someone said something that, if overheard, would be humiliating, and then chose to drop into the conversation.
“You give me too much credit,” he offered softly, smiling shyly at them.
The speaker-who he now recognized as Kris Russell; Rick Nash, standing beside a small, pretty man who must have been Rostislav Klesla, had introduced them during camp-blinked up at him, startled to have been heard-or answered. Most of the assembled others looked the same way, as if though they had been caught gossiping about someone or something they had been told not to mention.
One of the listeners turned around, most likely to see who had spoken, and Nikita felt himself fall.
Dark eyes and dark hair were played against a pale face, in what would have undoubtedly been named a beautiful visage, had someone who was not Nikita been describing it. But that wasn’t what made Nikita’s heart beat double time and skip from time to time.
No, that little bit of tachycardia could only be attributed to the fact that the man currently staring at Nikita had an air about him.
Something about the man made Nikita’s blood run hot, and then run cold, and then hot again in an endless cycle. Something about him made Nikita suddenly, painfully aware of the way his chest rose and fell as he breathed in and out. Something about his presence made Nikita’s head go all drifty and fuzzy, thoughts and concerns a distant, distant concept.
Something about the man made Nikita want to drop to his knees and beg like the little whore he knew himself to be.
“Nikita!” Rick Nash said brightly, coming over and clapping him on the shoulder. “Good to see you here.”
Nikita blushed and smiled, not knowing how to respond to the Canadian man’s enthusiastic greeting. Luckily, however, it appeared that he didn’t have to bother to come up with a response, as Rick had not waited for one before starting to introduce him to all the people huddled in the little knot.
“So, you already know Kris Russell,” he began. “Next to him is Jared Boll; we tend to act like they’re one unit: the Puppies. That man there is Rusty Klesla-wave Rusty!-and that’s Derick Brassard, only we just call him Brass. Guys, this is Nikita.”
“Hi,” Nikita said shyly, waving slightly. “It’s nice to meet you all.”
It looked like Derick was getting ready to say something-his mouth was open, and his eyes were focused squarely on Nikita-when one of the coaches came in and began to yell for everyone to listen up.
“We’re going to start warming up in fifteen minutes, people!” the man barked, standing in the doorway. “Fifteen minutes! If you are already done changing and taping your sticks, get your ass out there and start skating around! No wasted time! Let’s get it moving, gentlemen!”
His commands ordered, the grey haired man exited through the door he had come in through.
Rick winced dramatically. “Our Lord and Master calls us,” he sighed, quirking his lips.
“And we will, as always, obey his command,” Rusty agreed, heaving himself up off the bench. “Let another training camp begin!”
-----
Training that day had been long and hard. None of the coaches on staff were the kind to cut corners or let one make half efforts; they insisted on seeing the best of your best each and every time you were out there on the ice. Admittedly, it was a good training technique, because everyone and his PeeWee team knew that perfect practice made perfect. That didn’t mean it was pleasant.
Derick Brassard was only too happy to strip out of his sweaty training gear. He took the extra time to hang it neatly in his locker, and then grabbed a towel and made his way to the showers. He hated having the grimy sweat of practice clinging to his skin, and he was also counting on the heat of the water coming out of the new massaging showerheads to help deal with some of the aches and pains left by an hour’s worth of skating drills.
He was definitely not the only one looking forward to the showers; ahead of him, Rusty was gleefully flinging his towel on a hook and turning the water on. The entire team teased Rusty about how long he could stay in a shower, so long as the water was hot, but they all knew that he wasn’t the only one. Derick didn’t care about the temperature of his shower, just that he could waste the time beneath the pounding water, analyzing how he had played during the game, or how his practice had gone. Rick, on the other hand, spent fifteen minutes, at the most, in the water, but kept it at a nearly scalding temperature the entire time.
Kris and Jared both tended to enjoy their showers, as well, but for a different reason. While making fools of themselves was not something that either one would allow to happen while they were on the ice, the locker rooms and showers were marked as safe zones for their joking. They tended to fool around and just generally goof off while they were showering off after a game or practice.
Derick calmly hung his towel up on the hook and stepped into the shower stall. He twisted the water on, standing just outside the spray, and waited for a few moments to allow the water to heat up. When it reached the temperature he preferred, he stepped back under the showerhead.
He nearly groaned aloud as the pounding water began to work miracles on his tired and aching muscles. Good god, but that felt good! He could feel the hot water sluicing down his skin, washing away the sweat and grime of the day’s practice. With it went the various aches and pains that inevitably snuck up on him for the first few practices after not doing much in the way of hockey practice all summer. Standing beneath the hard spray of hot water felt nothing short of miraculous.
Across the way, Nikita Filatov watched him quietly, just observing the way he moved as he washed himself. Nikita had watched Derick all through practice, trying to put his finger on the one thing that had so entranced him about the older man. He was failing marvelously at naming anything, though the time spent watching Derick Brassard move was most certainly not a waste in the young Russian’s mind.
Squeezing some shampoo into his hand, Nikita turned away from the other man and began to mentally categorize his options as he worked the soap into a rich lather in his hair. As far as he could tell, right off, he had several options.
One, he told himself, he could flat out tell Derick. Just walk up to him and ask if he was looking for a slave, because Nikita was looking to be beaten.
Of course, that option carried with it great humiliation, torment, possibly murder, and, of course, the omnipresent worry that he was not yet sure of Derick’s sexual orientation.
Option Two was to say and do nothing that would tip the other man off, or even make him think something was up. It would be difficult, yes, burying a part of himself that he had not bothered to hide for a good two years, but it would be possible. He thought. Maybe.
Unfortunately, as Nikita saw it, Option Two carried with it the threats of possible nervous breakdowns, stress like he couldn’t even begin to imagine, and, oh, his favourite, the death of whatever sex life he might have.
His third and final option, at the moment, anyway, was to be very subtle, but not nonexistent. If Derick did know anything about it, then he would catch Nikita’s signals, and, hopefully, respond. If he didn’t-or if he didn’t want to have anything to do with Nikita and his signals-then he wouldn’t respond, and Nikita would never have to come out and embarrass himself by saying something. It would be completely a “no harm, no foul” type of situation.
Option Three had the least number of downsides, as far as Nikita could tell. It prevented embarrassment, on both his part and Derick’s part. It did not entirely preclude sex; if Derick was receptive to sex with him, that was good, and if he wasn’t, well, Nikita would only wait so long before finding a discreet club. And it ruled out stress, too, because Nikita wouldn’t be burying that side of him at all.
His mind made up, Nikita began to wash the lather from his hair. He scratched hard at his scalp, hating the way it always felt gross after a long practice. Sweat and oil built up until he swore he could see the reflection of his scalp from a mile away, and something-undoubtedly some unnamed evil of legendary proportions-made the roots of his hair feel gritty and rough. Nikita hated dirty hair.
-----
“Meet me for lunch at the end of practice?” Rusty demanded a few days later, skating up beside Derick during practise and skidding to a halt.
Derick looked down at the ice that Rusty’s entrance had sprayed all over his sweater and pants. Rolling his eyes and sighing, he half-heartedly tried to brush it off. “The same place as usual?” he inquired.
Rusty nodded. “My treat,” he added winsomely, and then, more quietly, “we need to talk, Brass.”
“We do,” Derick agreed uncomfortably.
After the coach called practice over, both men hurried back to the locker room. They stripped out of their gear rather quickly, and both of them took showers that were much shorter than their usual. As they dressed back into comfortable street clothes, Rusty spoke to Derick.
“So, I rode here with Rick this morning. Any chance you want to drive? Or do you want to take the underground?” he asked.
Derick pretended to shiver in horror. “I think I’ll drive, thank you. The underground here gives me nightmares.”
“I hear that,” Rusty agreed. He stood up with a low groan, and proceeded to twist at the hips, trying to get his spine to crack. When it obliged, he rolled his shoulders and stood, waiting, for Derick to finish tying his shoes.
The drive to O’Shaughnessy’s from the practice facility wasn’t too bad, all things considering. It was in the Plaza, which meant it was conveniently placed whenever they had events at the Arena. Too, the popular pub served some of the best sandwiches in Columbus, as far as most of the team was concerned, which was saying something.
For once, Derick didn’t have to work to find parking near the pub. He was absurdly glad, as he wasn’t one hundred percent sure that his legs were up to the walk from the parking deck they usually ended up parking in; practice had been brutal, and if he ever had to do another Herbie again…
“My legs are killing me,” Rusty grunted, unknowingly echoing his teammate and friend’s thoughts. “I’d kill for a good beer right now. And foooooooooooooooooood.”
Derick laughed, following him across the street. “Good thing we went to lunch, then, isn’t it?” he snorted. Reaching forward, he yanked the door open and stepped inside the air-conditioned building. He could tell Rusty had followed him in.
The hostess smiled at them. Rusty recognized her; she was a long-time Blue Jackets’ fan, but she never gave them any fuss when they came by. Most times when the team came in for lunch after practice, Macy was the one working. “Hey, guys. Training camp starting up?” she asked, reaching under the podium to grab menus. “Just the two of you?”
Rusty nodded tiredly. “With a vengeance,” he told her. “Just me and Brass. The usual spot, if it’s open.”
“It is,” Macy replied, her eyes flicking down to her map to confirm it. Holding the menus, she led the two men over to a small table in the corner, just inside the large, ornate ring that dominated that part of the restaurant. The table was in the corner where two large, stained glass windows joined, and the colorful tiles threw vibrant stripes across the table, chairs, and floor.
Macy set down the menus and smiled at the pair of men. “Cara’ll be your server today; I’ll send her your way in just a tick. Anything you guys need, just holler.”
“Thanks, Macy,” Derick said, smiling at her as he settled into the comfortable chair.
Smiling, she turned and left. They could see her talking briefly with another young woman.
Derick didn’t even pretend to look at his menu as he waited for Rusty to begin the interrogation. He knew what was coming, and he was ready and willing to take it. Rusty only interrogated because he cared, and he never asked questions about things he wasn’t willing or able to help with. Part of being a true Blue Jacket was suffering through one of Rusty’s lunch-time interrogations.
Rusty set down his menu-he, unlike most of the team, actually changed his order from time to time-and looked around for the waitress.
As if summoned by some unheard call, the young woman came over rather quickly. “Hi,” she said warmly, her words thick with a Southern drawl. “My name’s Cara, and I’ll be your waitress for this afternoon. Can I get you gentlemen anything to drink?”
“I’d like a water with lemon, please,” Derick requested.
“I’d like the same, and also a pint of your Porter,” Rusty said. He closed his menu.
The waitress nodded, and wrote quickly. “Now, Macy said y’all are familiar with our pub. Would you like to order now, or do you want a few minutes?”
“I’m starving,” Rusty said with a wry grin. “How about you, Derick?”
“So hungry I could eat a baby,” the young man agreed. He smiled up at the waitress. “I’ll have the brew battered cod sandwich.”
Nodding, the waitress wrote down his order even as she turned to look at Rusty.
“And I’ll have…” he began slowly. “Hmm. Okay, I think I’ll have the philly beef.”
“D’you want bacon on that, sir?” she asked.
Rusty contemplated it for a moment, and then shook his head. “No, thank you.”
“Alrighty then,” the young woman said, beaming at the both of them. “I’ll just go and get this order in. Your drinks will be right out, and the food right behind!”
After she left, Rusty watched Derick for a long, silent moment. He waited until the younger man was shifting in his seat, clearly uncomfortable, to speak. “You know what I want to talk to you about.”
Derick agreed to the statement with a little nod.
Rusty sighed. “Derick. You know I don’t give a damn about your… preferences. You’re my friend. I don’t care if you like men or women or transsexuals or dogs. I don’t care about what you do behind closed doors, or how you do it, or who you do it with.” He paused briefly. “Well, not as long as they agree, anyway.”
At that, Derick cracked a tiny smile.
Rusty nodded encouragingly. “See, the thing is, I notice that you seem to have a thing for our new little Russian.”
“No, Rusty, I-” Derick began, suddenly panicked.
But Rusty cut him off ruthlessly. “You do. You want to tie his little white butt down in your basement, and you want to fuck him blind.” He looked his teammate squarely in the eye. “And I am not going to stand around and let it fuck with team dynamics, do you understand me?”
“I’d like to think I’m more professional than that,” Derick grumbled, flashing a warning look at the older man as the waitress came back, bearing a tray with their drinks on it.
The conversation stalled until she was gone again, and then Rusty picked up right where he had left off.
“It’s okay if you want him, Brass. He’s of age. Legal. He’s not too horribly much younger than you are.” Rusty paused, sipping at the beer in front of him. “Here’s the rub, though. He’s desperate for someone to cling to. Surely you’ve noticed that vibe?”
Flushing, Derick nodded. He had noticed; Nikita gave off the aura of desperately wanting someone to keep him. It was part of what had attracted Derick to him in the first place. Aside from being unbelievably easy on the eyes, the boy practically begged for a master to dominate him. Derick was strong, but even he had his weaknesses.
Rusty nodded firmly. “You have noticed. Good.”
“How could I miss it?” Derick muttered. “He’s all but begging for someone to hold him!”
Rusty smirked. He held up a finger to forestall any more conversation from Derick, just in time for their sandwiches to arrive. After the waitress had disappeared once more, they ate in silence for a few seconds. Rusty was not one for letting tough conversations ruin perfectly good sandwiches.
“What are you warning me against?” Derick asked finally, fiddling with a chip on his plate. “Because you have to know that I’d never approach him, not unless I honest to god thought that it was something he wanted. I’m more discreet than that, Rusty!”
Rusty sighed. “I know that,” he admitted, fiddling with his napkin. Setting it down, he picked up a chip from his own plate and stared at for a minute. After contemplating it, he popped the chip in his mouth and crunched down. “See…” he started, only to stop and heave another heavy sigh. “It’s like this,” he said finally.
“Rick… you know I haven’t got a single secret from that man, no matter how hard I’ve tried to keep them, yes?” he asked. He waited for Derick’s patient nod before continuing. “So. He knows you’re gay-and he knew before you came out. I tried not to tell him, but, well, that afternoon…”
“He guessed it anyway.”
“Exactly,” Rusty confirmed. He popped another chip in his mouth. “So, as you probably figured out, Rick doesn’t give a damn, either. As long as you’re playing hockey well, he’s happy. Which is what leads us to the problem.”
“I’m playing as well as I ever have,” Derick said, confused. He picked up his sandwich again, and took a large bite.
Rusty smiled a little. “You are, actually. You’re doing really well. But…” He paused again, and took a bite of his sandwich. Raised not to talk with his mouth full, Rusty chewed and swallowed before speaking again. “Nikita. Not doing so well.”
“What?”
“And… Nikita gives off the ‘dominate me!’ vibe. Both you and I have picked up on that, and Rick yanked it from me the other day. I might have made some stupid comment about someone needing to take that boy in hand, but… well. He figured out.”
Derick blinked, suddenly seeing with disturbing clarity where this conversation was headed. “He doesn’t… He can’t…”
“He does,” Rusty answered. “He says Nikita practically kisses the ice you skate on, and we’ve all noticed how Nikita’s the first to jump up and get you something if you mention you’d fancy having it. He wants, Brass, and he wants bad.”
“But that doesn’t mean he needs me as a Master,” Derick argued. “Hell, for all we know, that ‘dominate me!’ thing is complete and total bull.”
Rusty winced. “It’s… it’s not. I had breakfast with him this morning.” He poked at his sandwich, not looking up at Derick. “You should see the shades of red that boy can go. I thought he was going to have a heart attack when I asked him if he had a Master.”
“And does he?” Derick asked, not entirely out of the goodness of his heart. “Because, uh, his Master would have a better control…”
“Nope,” Rusty replied, his eyes twinkling in that way that said he had seen right through Derick. “He had a temporary arrangement with one of his teammates back in Russia, just to keep him calm. Fuckbuddies, if you will.” He smirked. “So, that answers two questions. Yes, he is gay and yes, he does like to be dominated.”
“And you’re bringing this to me, because Rick thinks I can dominate this kid, and he’ll do better?”
Rusty frowned. “When you put it like that, it sounds so mercenary. We prefer to think of it as…” He paused for a moment, clearly thinking. “As using available resources to ensure the best performance of our players.”
“You’re full of shit, the pair of you,” Derick pointed out, reaching for his sandwich once more. “But I’ll talk to the kid.”
-----
The instant Derick arrived at the arena the next morning, he saw the look on Nikita’s face and knew that Rusty and Rick had been right. The kid was spinning himself into nothing, and he had the wild-eyed look of desperate fear when he cornered Derick in the hall.
“Could you…” he began weakly. “I… Can we… talk alone?”
Derick blinked. “Sure thing, kid,” he agreed. “Where?”
Shivering, a look of relief on his face, Nikita led him down the hallway. He tapped on one door. Hearing no response, he pushed it open and stepped into one of the tiny trainer’s rooms. Derick followed him in and closed the door.
“What’s up? What do you need to talk about?” he asked.
Breathing out with a trembly little sigh, Nikita fell to his knees and prostrated himself before Derick. “Please,” he whimpered. “I… I need to be mastered. It’s ruining my hockey, and if I can’t control it… Please. You… I need you to help me.”
Derick inhaled sharply. Nikita’s posture was perfect. The slave in submission, obeisance before the master. It was obscenely elegant on one so young.
Nikita interpreted his silence as disgust or refusal, and quickly hurried on in his plea. “I’ll be good, I promise,” Nikita said in a low, whimpering voice. He twisted so that he was looking up at him, desperation and tears in his eyes. “I just… you’ll never have to see me outside of this… I just… I need…” Tears started filling his eyes, then tumbling over and down his tanned cheeks. “I’m desperate and I don’t know who to ask and I just need this and I know I need it and I’m a very bad slave but I’ll be good, I promise, I promise, just…” He broke off in a rough sob, lowering his eyes once more. “Please.”
Kneeling, Derick placed a hand on his shoulder. “Shh,” he whispered. “Shh. Calm down.” Placing a finger under Nikita’s chin, he turned his face up to meet his own. “Look at me, Nikita.”
The dark-haired boy did as ordered, his watery eyes fixing on Derick’s face. He was obedient despite his obvious discomfort; he had been well-trained, to say the least.
The look on his face melted Derick’s heart right then and there. “I was actually coming to talk to you about your…” he paused, not sure how to phrase it, then plundered on, “your behavior recently. The team is worried about you.” Letting go of Nikita’s chin, he wiped a broad thumb through the tear tracks on his face. “You’ve been being awful bad, little one, and you know it.”
Nikita shivered violently beneath his touch, not from distaste, but from desire. “Yessir,” he slurred out, starting to fall already. “I’m no good.”
“Enough of that!” Derick snapped. He was a little startled by how easily the younger man fell, and how completely. It was unusual, to say the least, in a man so young. He cupped Nikita’s face in his hands. “You’re just lost,” he told him gently but firmly. “And I can help you. What do you need?”
Nikita was pale beneath his tan as he stared up at him, practically shivering out of his skin.
Whoever had had him before, Derick could tell, had used him harshly. He consciously relaxed his hand on Nikita’s face, and then let go of him completely. Standing up-looming over Nikita would affirm the thought of him as Master in his mind-he carefully reached down and pressed the boy’s cheek into the soft flannel of his pants. They hadn’t changed into workout clothes, not yet.
“Shh, little one,” he whispered calmingly, his thumb sweeping in a slow, constant arc over Nikita’s cheekbone. “Tell me what you need.” He paused, then added, in his most masterful voice, “that’s an order.”
Nikita’s eyes slid shut, and he began to press his face into the older man’s leg, like a kitten. “I…” he began slowly. “I need… controlling. I need to be ordered about-told to do things. And when I don’t… I need… punishments. Like spankings. Paddlings. Whippings.” His eyes opened and he twisted to watch Derick’s face as he spoke. “I need to be… to be…” He flushed the most beautiful red Derick had ever seen as he tried to pantomime what it was he wanted.
Derick saved him further shame. “To be used? To be put in your place?”
Shame-faced, Nikita looked down at the floor and nodded.
“Very well,” Derick sighed. “I will make good use of you, little one. Not sexually, mind,” he warned, “not yet. But I do believe I could use a house-slave.”
Nikita looked up at him, clearly hopeful. “Master?”
“Yes, slave. Master,” Derick confirmed. Stooping slightly, he caught the boy’s chin in a tight grasp. “Come to my house after camp today. We will discuss the basics of your… enslavement.”
Nikita shivered in delight.
-----
Derick watched silently as Nikita worked, cleaning the house like his life depended on it. Someone had trained the boy well; he was thorough, to say the least. He knew his way around mops, brooms, and sponges. He worked like he had been trained to clean houses.
Sometimes, Derick wondered if maybe he had been. He knew nothing about Nikita’s previous master; the boy never talked about him or his time with him. Every once in a while, Derick stumbled across some portion of the other master’s “training,” bits and pieces of training that Derick didn’t agree with, but which Nikita’s previous master had insisted upon… like the fact that Nikita had to beg permission to use the bathroom, or that he was only permitted to sleep in the laundry room, on a mat, or that he was only permitted to eat, kneeling at his Master’s feet, whatever the man dropped for him.
Whoever had Nikita before him, Derick knew, had been a harsh son of a bitch. Derick knew a lot about training submissives, but he was fully aware that he, even with his skill, never could have gotten those kinds of results from Nikita, that instant, ineffable submission. That took cruelty-cruelty, and a healthy dose of dominant anger. He suspected that Nikita had felt the harsh end of submission, but not the softer, kinder side. It had become his goal to introduce the lithe man to the idea that submission wasn’t just necessary for his mental stability-that it could be fun and enjoyable, too. But he had to go slowly… already, Nikita was fidgety about the changes Derick was forcing him to make.
“Good job, little one,” Derick called, noticing that Nikita had finished scrubbing the floor. He stood up from his chair, careful not to mark up the nice, clean tiles, and nodded to the chair across from his. “Come.”
Nikita carefully dropped the sponge back in the bucket of soapy water and wiped his hands on the well-worn tee-shirt he was wearing. He stepped over to where his new Master had indicated. As he went, he listened to the jangling of the shiny tags hanging off his collar; he was glad that this Master had chosen to recognize him as his own, as a beloved pet.
Stepping onto the soft carpeting of the family room, Nikita eased himself to his knees. The thick plush kept it from hurting, but there was still a delicious thrill of humiliation that tingled at his spine. On his knees, with his hands crossed behind his back, he crawled over to where the Master stood. He stopped beside him, his head bowed, waiting.
“Good boy,” Derick murmured, sinking his fingers deep in Nikita’s soft hair. “You’ve done a good job. Look at how those tiles shine.”
Nikita swallowed the smile that threatened, leaning in to his Master’s touch, letting him reward him. Master’s hand was warm and gentle as it moved through his hair, like he was a treasured animal. The touch was possessive and caring; it sent hot tingles down his back.
Derick watched his pet for a moment, just enjoying the easy submission. Nikita was plaintive and needy, but not in an annoying way. If anything, Nikita inspired the urge to dominate and own him-probably what had gotten him in trouble with his last master. Derick was determined to care for the younger man, who clearly needed it.
He needed something else, too, Derick reminded himself, continuing to card through Nikita’s hair. The young man hadn’t brought it up again after that incident in the trainer’s room, but he was used to being a pleasure slave just as much as a house slave. He had as good as told Derick that he expected it and needed it.
Why, then, was Derick so afraid to give in? Privately, he tried to convince himself that it wasn’t fear that kept him from putting Nikita’s body to use. He was being moral, really. Taking care not to abuse Nikita’s trust. Taking care of him where he couldn’t.
He knew, however, that all of his stalling and objecting came from one single source: his own terror. Derick knew that it would only too easy for him to fall in love with Nikita, just like he had fallen for slaves at clubs. But Nikita, just like those slaves for hire, was not his to keep. He didn’t want to fall for the boy, work him into his life and home, only to then lose him to some other dom. He knew better than to fool himself; Nikita was not with him because he honestly desired Derick. Nikita was there, wearing a collar and his tags, because he had not yet found someone closer to his own desires, but he still felt the burning need for a controlling hand.
I will not have my heart broken by something I can prevent, Derick told himself firmly.
Against his thigh, Nikita closed his eyes as his Master’s fingers unconsciously tightened in his hair, pulling strongly at the roots.
-----
“Please, Master,” Nikita begged, crouched on hands and knees before the older man’s imposing form. “I beg of you…!”
“You dare order me, slave?” Derick barked, placing one loafered foot on Nikita’s shoulder. He pushed him back, so that Nikita tumbled out of his perfect posture, rocking back on his heels. “You think you’re that worthy?”
“N-no, Master,” Nikita stammered, not looking up at him.
“No, what?”
“No, Master, I’m not worthy,” Nikita whimpered. “I…I am a bad slave. I deserve to be punished!” Almost hopefully, he twisted, turning as if to present himself for a whipping.
Derick had to laugh at Nikita’s audacity. “My, my, little one. Even when you know you’re in trouble, you can’t help begging for it. You’re such a little slut.”
“Yes, sir, I am,” Nikita agreed.
“Well, lucky for you, my horny little whore, I happen to agree. You do need to be punished,” Derick murmured, stooping and stroking the curve of Nikita’s face. Then, rapidly, he clutched the lithe young man’s thin face in a tight grasp and yanked his face up so that they were looking eye to eye.
Nikita trembled, feeling Derick’s strength in the hold he had on his chin. He wanted to feel that strength, wanted to feel that kind of force behind a swing with a paddle. And, he was sure, he was in luck this time. For once, Derick’s eyes had that certain glow he recognized, and his lips were parted in an unconscious declaration of desire. Everything in Derick’s face promised what Nikita wanted.
“We’ll go to the Box tomorrow,” Derick promised. Smiling evilly, he leant in and kissed Nikita gently-but only on the forehead. He released Nikita’s chin, and then stroked the top of his head as he stood upright once more. “Now, slave. Go to bed!”
“Yes, Master,” Nikita whispered, lowering his eyes and bowing his head once more. He pressed his lips to his Master’s feet, starting with the left and moving to the right. It wasn’t sexual-neither Derick nor Nikita were into foot fetishising-but it was subservient and submissive. And Nikita was always good at submitting.
His task done, he carefully crawled backwards out of the room, never looking up at his Master. It was rude to turn his back on the Master; that had been trained into him very early on. He crept out into the hallway, and, as soon as he was out of sight of the living room, he turned around and quickly crawled on hands and knees to the small pallet that sat in the corner of the guest bedroom.
Pushing the soft fabric into a comfortable pile, he settled himself down and slept.
While his slave did as ordered, Derick sighed and ran a hand through his hair. He wanted Nikita-wanted to tie him down and whip him until he screamed and begged. The worst part was, he knew that Nikita wanted it, too. Nikita was not shy with his desires, for all that he liked to play like he was completely under Derick’s thumb.
“You top from the bottom, little slave, and you do it so well,” Derick whispered to himself, sitting down on the nearby couch. Laughing softly, he ran a hand down his chest and cupped himself through his pants. Christ; he was hard. He wanted to fuck Nikita blind. He could admit it to himself, now. There were no pure motives in this, his taming of Nikita’s behavior. He wanted his submission and his body as much as he wanted his good behavior.
When the phone rang suddenly, Derick very nearly leapt in the air. He hadn’t been expecting anything, and, in the aftermath of conceding to Nikita’s silent demands, he was jumpy as hell. Shaking his head at his own folly, he reached over and picked up his cell phone.
“Hello?”
“Brass? Hey,” Rusty replied. “Listen, I was calling to ask after Nikky. How’s he doing?”
“That kid,” Derick groaned, “is an absolute monster. I’m telling you, Rusty, that he is going to drive me witless!”
“Is something wrong?” Rusty asked, sounding concerned. There was the slight sound of rustling in the background; he was clearly shifting in place.
Derick snorted. “I told you that I’d take the kid in to keep him out of trouble, yeah?” he said. “Well, heaven help me, but I am not as pure as the driven snow, and that boy is seriously testing my self-control.”
At that, Rusty laughed, relaxing. “You really want to tap that, eh?” he chuckled evilly. “I told you!”
“Yeah, yeah; you’re a genius, Rust,” the younger man grumped, sprawling out on his comfortable couch. “Just… what in hell am I supposed to do? He just sort of bends and begs for it… tells me just how badly he needs to be punished, how he deserves to be whipped or paddled or… Lord, I don’t even know what to do, Rusty!”
“Give him what he wants?” Rusty suggested wryly. “What’s the worst that could happen? You get a screaming orgasm from something that isn’t your hand?”
“What, you think I can’t pull?” Derick demanded.
“No, I just know that you don’t try,” he friend answered, his smirk audible. “Don’t lie, Derick. You don’t want anyone finding out about your kinky little habits, so you don’t do anything about finding someone. Guess what? Someone just fell into your lap!”
“You’re a bastard, Klesla.”
“And you love it. Go on; stop worrying. Go tie him to your bed and fuck him ‘til he can’t see straight,” Rusty advised.
Derick rolled his eyes. “Did you call for anything like a reason?” he demanded impatiently.
The Czech man laughed. “Yeah, actually. You free this weekend? Ricky wants to barbeque over at his house, and I’m apparently his social secretary.”
“I’ll be there,” the young man agreed. “Now, good night!”
Part 2
Author: creepy_crawly
Pairing: Derick Brassard/Nikita Filatov
Rating: NC-17
Wordcount:
Kink: BDSM
Notes/Warnings: This involves guys-real guys-in compromising, kinky situations. Not that I have any idea if they’d actually do it or not. But I do have a dirty, dirty mind.Many thank yous to Megan and Skye for reading through this, finding the mistakes I made (undoubtedly many), and not telling me that I am a failcakes at life!)
Summary: Nikita needs a Master…and Derick’s not that good at resisting… (Shamelessly written for kink_bigbang.)
Artist: Zabby
As he strode in to the arena to start the season’s training camp, Derick Brassard’s eyes were immediately drawn to one of the young players in the corner of the lobby.
The kid had long, dark hair that hung to his shoulders in what, from behind, looked like a sloppy bowl cut. He was clearly strong; wide, powerful shoulders strained at the shoulders of his soft tee-shirt. He was dressed casually, and it was a beautiful thing to look at. His jeans fit just right, their cut working wonders to subtly emphasize the rounded swell of his butt, and, at the same time, making his powerful thighs, a hallmark of years of skating, seem less than they were.
“Brass!” Rick Nash, a tall, handsome man called. Dropping his own bag-it made a tremendous “thunk” as it collided with the ground, as Rick didn’t travel anywhere without at least two or three tons of gear in said bag-he crossed over to where Derick was entering the room in a few quick strides. “Hey, man!” he said cheerfully, wrapping the shorter center in a tight embrace.
“Hey, Ricky,” Derick laughed, slapping him on the back. He was grateful, briefly, for the heavy bag he himself was carrying; without the obstacle him having it on his shoulder presented, Rick’s hug probably would have been just this side of painful.
“Rick, let the man breathe!” a young, playful voice called. “He’s damn useless to me if he can’t scare the shit out of Boller this year!”
Laughing, Rick let go of Derick and turned to the newcomer. “Kris! Long time, no see, and all that, little man.”
Kris Russell smirked up at his friend. “You saw me at prospect camp, Ricky. Stop pouting.” That said, he turned to his other teammate. “Nice to see you again, though, Brassy. How was your summer?”
“Pretty good, all told,” Derick replied, returning the fist bump. “Got a great tan, finally. And you? What did you do this summer? And what’s this with you being at prospect camp?”
Kris laughed delightedly. “Come on over this way; Rusty’s fighting to lay claim on his locker, before they get “technically” assigned this year.” He began to lead the way, pushing through the crowd of chatting hockey players, equipment managers, coaches, trainers, and the various other people who had something to do with the training and functioning of a professional hockey team.
“Anyway,” Kris continued, speaking up a little louder so that he could be heard over the clamor of voices, “I had a pretty good summer. Ryan and I took a summer boating trip again, just like we used to, only no parents, this summer.” Turning back, he waggled his eyebrows suggestively. “So we did that for about two weeks, then we headed back home, ‘cause Ry-Ry’s girlfriend wanted to tap some of that, apparently.”
“I have a question about that, actually,” Rick butted in, grinning dangerously. “Has she ever approached you two about a threesome before? Because, dude, seriously. I know if I was dating twins…” he trailed off, licking his lips lasciviously.
“Swedish twins,” Derick agreed with a sage nod, though he was struggling to swallow his laughter as he recalled the National Hockey League’s All Star Game ad from a few years earlier. Too, teasing Kris was like making fun of Michael Jackson: too god damned easy by far.
Sure enough, Kris’s eyes narrowed. “Funny, Ricky,” he sniped. “No, actually, this one has yet to do so. But, having finally met her, I am counting down the days, let me tell you. I’m not sure she could tell us apart-or that she was even trying, really.”
Rick stopped suddenly, blinking. “Woah, woah, woah. Hold up there, Pup,” he ordered, holding up a hand in the internationally recognizable sign for “stop.” “One of your twin brother’s girlfriends has actually gone so far as to ask about a threesome with you?” he demanded, looking more than a little sick.
Kris blushed, something that made his pale face light up like a stop light. “Um… actually… it was my girlfriend that asked about the threesome, first.”
“First?” Derick demanded. “Oh, man, now you have to tell us. You can’t just drop something like that without an explanation!”
Kris sighed shortly, running a hand through his long hair as he sat down on one of the wooden benches. “When we were, like, fifteen, Ry and I were dating the two hottest girls in the school, I swear. Anyway, Annie-that would be my girlfriend, by the way-asks me one day, while she’s totally got her hand down my pants, if I have ever even thought of a threesome with my brother. What was I supposed to say to that? I was a fifteen year old boy and the hottest girl in the school was totally playing with my junk! So I was kind of like, “ohhhyeahwhatever.”-Shut up, Nash, I can see you laughing-and totally forgot about it, ‘cause she totally didn’t bring it up again.”
Rick was, by that point, howling with laughter. He struggled to bring himself under control, and, when he finally managed it, somewhat, squeaked out, “first… first implies that there were others, Kris!”
Gritting his teeth, Kris heaved a great sigh. “There were. Ryan’s girlfriend asked the second and third time. And let’s not go into how kinky it is for the two of us to go to a bar; I can’t pull in bars. The girls just want to tap both of that. And, really, some things are just not meant to happen.”
“I’d tap it,” Jared Boll offered cheerfully, placing one sharp elbow on either side of his teammate and fellow troublemaker’s head. “Hey, Booboo,” he added, kissing the side of his head noisily.
“You’d tap anything that breathes,” Kris said darkly, pushing the other young man off of his shoulders. “And probably a few things that don’t breathe, too.”
“He has a thing for hockey equipment, I think,” Derick agreed with a snicker, throwing his bag down on the ground. “Hey, Boller.”
“Brassy!” Jared greeted brightly. “Probably right, you are, at that. Or maybe it’s just the people in the hockey equipment that gets me going. Be worth finding out.” Smiling beatifically, he turned slowly to the man behind him. “Oh, Rusty! Are you up for a little experimentation, my love?”
The quiet, dark man blinked at him for a moment, and then slowly shook his head. “Only if, by experimentation, you mean, how far can Ricky kick your ass,” he replied softly. “You should see what he did to my last girlfriend, really.”
Derick had to laugh at that; Rusty was aware of the rumors that surrounded his friendship with the Blue Jackets’ star, and often played up on them when presented the opportunity to do so. Which, to be fair, the Puppies did on a regular basis. Together, they were a dangerous team, but giving them a straight man like Rusty to play off of was inviting some serious mischief.
“She’ll recover,” Rick replied, his voice thick with mock offense. Then, after a beat of silence, he added, “eventually.”
Laughing, Derick nodded at the Czech. “Hey, Rusty. Good summer?”
“Great,” Rusty told him, beaming. “Though I’d be happier if I could get all of my stuff sorted out. I don’t think I actually know which of my suits are in Novy Jicin and which are here in Columbus, let alone other things like my DVDs or CDs.”
“Could be worse,” Jared snorted. “You could be struggling to keep out of an unwanted threesome!”
“Shut up, Puppy,” Rusty retorted. “At this rate, you’re going to make sweet little Kris cry.”
“Ooh, speaking of Kris,” Derick chimed in, turning to face the Puppy in question. “You said you were at prospect camp. Why? How?”
“Ryan,” he said by way of answer, leaning over to unzip his hockey bag. “He had to go to camp, and I really didn’t feel like staying at home with my mom being all over me about finding a girlfriend and settling down. So… I left. Came to Columbus and hung out with Rick and Danny.”
“Fritsche’s still got an apartment in town?” Rusty asked, confused.
Kris nodded. “His brother uses it, sometimes. He came back for the summer, mostly to pack his shit up, I think.” He shrugged half-heartedly, pulling his skates out and checking the blades.
Derick turned to his own bag and, with a heavy sigh, began to open it, as well. He rifled around, looking for something. “I have a question for you lot,” he said, pulling out a balled up pair of socks.
“Yeah?” Rick asked, leaning against Rusty as he helped Jared untangle a skate lace.
“Those of you who were at prospect camp,” Derick clarified. “Pretty boy with the dark hair, bad bowl cut. Talk to me.”
“Oh, the one with the red “In Soviet Russia, Nose Blow You” tee-shirt?” Kris demanded, grinning broadly.
Derick nodded. “That would be the one, though I didn’t see much of the shirt.” Kicking off his tennis shoes, he stood up and unzipped his jeans. He began working them down his strong thighs.
“Thaaat would be Nikita,” Kris replied with a playful drawl, his grin widening. “Nikita Valeryevich Filatov. Columbus’s very own cautiously drafted wunderkind.”
“Cautiously drafted, because they’re still waiting to see if he’ll handle it on American ice,” Rick pointed out shrewdly. “He’s… on the light end of the spectrum, you’ll find.” He handed Jared his skate back, and sat up completely. “But, having watched him play, oooh, it was a good pick.”
“He’s good?” Derick asked.
Rick nodded sharply. “He’s damn good,” he agreed. “And I do mean daaaaaaamn.” He smirked. “You’ll get a chance to play with him in a minute; Coachie said he was going to put the baby out on the ice with us for a little bit of play time.”
“You think he’s got potential?”
“If he can stop fluttering those eyelashes and blushing like a virgin, yeah,” Kris snorted. He flopped down next to Rusty, fully dressed but for his sweater, which was draped over his shoulders like a towel. “I swear, when the men weren’t fainting because he plays so well, the women were fainting from lack of breathing.”
“You give me too much credit,” a soft voice murmured.
Derick turned around to see who had spoken, and met the so-called pretty boy face to face for the first time. He could feel his heart speed up; Nikita Filatov was pretty.
From this close a distance, Derick could see that Nikita’s dark hair was, in fact, more of a mahogany color, brown shot through with bright red. His eyes were a deep, clear grey, hidden beneath luxurious eyelashes that any girl would have been jealous of. His lips were red and chapped, and curved in an adorable little smile.
But that was not the thing that really drew his eyes.
Nikita’s skin was nicely tanned; he’d come to Columbus a week after the draft and stayed. He liked to be outside in the sun, either running and playing or just chilling and relaxing by the pool. He did much the same thing at home. But Derick knew none of that.
All he knew was that Nikita Filatov, the young man standing before him, had a tan line around his throat…
A collar tan line.
-----
Nikita, hearing his name, wandered over to where a group of the previous year’s team were reconnecting through gossip. He began to change for warm-ups, all the while overhearing-or, okay, intentionally listening in to-the men’s conversation. It seemed to be about him, actually.
Never being one for letting things just lie-either his greatest gift or his greatest curse, depending on who you asked and when you asked them-Nikita waited until there was a pause in the conversation, immediately after someone said something that, if overheard, would be humiliating, and then chose to drop into the conversation.
“You give me too much credit,” he offered softly, smiling shyly at them.
The speaker-who he now recognized as Kris Russell; Rick Nash, standing beside a small, pretty man who must have been Rostislav Klesla, had introduced them during camp-blinked up at him, startled to have been heard-or answered. Most of the assembled others looked the same way, as if though they had been caught gossiping about someone or something they had been told not to mention.
One of the listeners turned around, most likely to see who had spoken, and Nikita felt himself fall.
Dark eyes and dark hair were played against a pale face, in what would have undoubtedly been named a beautiful visage, had someone who was not Nikita been describing it. But that wasn’t what made Nikita’s heart beat double time and skip from time to time.
No, that little bit of tachycardia could only be attributed to the fact that the man currently staring at Nikita had an air about him.
Something about the man made Nikita’s blood run hot, and then run cold, and then hot again in an endless cycle. Something about him made Nikita suddenly, painfully aware of the way his chest rose and fell as he breathed in and out. Something about his presence made Nikita’s head go all drifty and fuzzy, thoughts and concerns a distant, distant concept.
Something about the man made Nikita want to drop to his knees and beg like the little whore he knew himself to be.
“Nikita!” Rick Nash said brightly, coming over and clapping him on the shoulder. “Good to see you here.”
Nikita blushed and smiled, not knowing how to respond to the Canadian man’s enthusiastic greeting. Luckily, however, it appeared that he didn’t have to bother to come up with a response, as Rick had not waited for one before starting to introduce him to all the people huddled in the little knot.
“So, you already know Kris Russell,” he began. “Next to him is Jared Boll; we tend to act like they’re one unit: the Puppies. That man there is Rusty Klesla-wave Rusty!-and that’s Derick Brassard, only we just call him Brass. Guys, this is Nikita.”
“Hi,” Nikita said shyly, waving slightly. “It’s nice to meet you all.”
It looked like Derick was getting ready to say something-his mouth was open, and his eyes were focused squarely on Nikita-when one of the coaches came in and began to yell for everyone to listen up.
“We’re going to start warming up in fifteen minutes, people!” the man barked, standing in the doorway. “Fifteen minutes! If you are already done changing and taping your sticks, get your ass out there and start skating around! No wasted time! Let’s get it moving, gentlemen!”
His commands ordered, the grey haired man exited through the door he had come in through.
Rick winced dramatically. “Our Lord and Master calls us,” he sighed, quirking his lips.
“And we will, as always, obey his command,” Rusty agreed, heaving himself up off the bench. “Let another training camp begin!”
-----
Training that day had been long and hard. None of the coaches on staff were the kind to cut corners or let one make half efforts; they insisted on seeing the best of your best each and every time you were out there on the ice. Admittedly, it was a good training technique, because everyone and his PeeWee team knew that perfect practice made perfect. That didn’t mean it was pleasant.
Derick Brassard was only too happy to strip out of his sweaty training gear. He took the extra time to hang it neatly in his locker, and then grabbed a towel and made his way to the showers. He hated having the grimy sweat of practice clinging to his skin, and he was also counting on the heat of the water coming out of the new massaging showerheads to help deal with some of the aches and pains left by an hour’s worth of skating drills.
He was definitely not the only one looking forward to the showers; ahead of him, Rusty was gleefully flinging his towel on a hook and turning the water on. The entire team teased Rusty about how long he could stay in a shower, so long as the water was hot, but they all knew that he wasn’t the only one. Derick didn’t care about the temperature of his shower, just that he could waste the time beneath the pounding water, analyzing how he had played during the game, or how his practice had gone. Rick, on the other hand, spent fifteen minutes, at the most, in the water, but kept it at a nearly scalding temperature the entire time.
Kris and Jared both tended to enjoy their showers, as well, but for a different reason. While making fools of themselves was not something that either one would allow to happen while they were on the ice, the locker rooms and showers were marked as safe zones for their joking. They tended to fool around and just generally goof off while they were showering off after a game or practice.
Derick calmly hung his towel up on the hook and stepped into the shower stall. He twisted the water on, standing just outside the spray, and waited for a few moments to allow the water to heat up. When it reached the temperature he preferred, he stepped back under the showerhead.
He nearly groaned aloud as the pounding water began to work miracles on his tired and aching muscles. Good god, but that felt good! He could feel the hot water sluicing down his skin, washing away the sweat and grime of the day’s practice. With it went the various aches and pains that inevitably snuck up on him for the first few practices after not doing much in the way of hockey practice all summer. Standing beneath the hard spray of hot water felt nothing short of miraculous.
Across the way, Nikita Filatov watched him quietly, just observing the way he moved as he washed himself. Nikita had watched Derick all through practice, trying to put his finger on the one thing that had so entranced him about the older man. He was failing marvelously at naming anything, though the time spent watching Derick Brassard move was most certainly not a waste in the young Russian’s mind.
Squeezing some shampoo into his hand, Nikita turned away from the other man and began to mentally categorize his options as he worked the soap into a rich lather in his hair. As far as he could tell, right off, he had several options.
One, he told himself, he could flat out tell Derick. Just walk up to him and ask if he was looking for a slave, because Nikita was looking to be beaten.
Of course, that option carried with it great humiliation, torment, possibly murder, and, of course, the omnipresent worry that he was not yet sure of Derick’s sexual orientation.
Option Two was to say and do nothing that would tip the other man off, or even make him think something was up. It would be difficult, yes, burying a part of himself that he had not bothered to hide for a good two years, but it would be possible. He thought. Maybe.
Unfortunately, as Nikita saw it, Option Two carried with it the threats of possible nervous breakdowns, stress like he couldn’t even begin to imagine, and, oh, his favourite, the death of whatever sex life he might have.
His third and final option, at the moment, anyway, was to be very subtle, but not nonexistent. If Derick did know anything about it, then he would catch Nikita’s signals, and, hopefully, respond. If he didn’t-or if he didn’t want to have anything to do with Nikita and his signals-then he wouldn’t respond, and Nikita would never have to come out and embarrass himself by saying something. It would be completely a “no harm, no foul” type of situation.
Option Three had the least number of downsides, as far as Nikita could tell. It prevented embarrassment, on both his part and Derick’s part. It did not entirely preclude sex; if Derick was receptive to sex with him, that was good, and if he wasn’t, well, Nikita would only wait so long before finding a discreet club. And it ruled out stress, too, because Nikita wouldn’t be burying that side of him at all.
His mind made up, Nikita began to wash the lather from his hair. He scratched hard at his scalp, hating the way it always felt gross after a long practice. Sweat and oil built up until he swore he could see the reflection of his scalp from a mile away, and something-undoubtedly some unnamed evil of legendary proportions-made the roots of his hair feel gritty and rough. Nikita hated dirty hair.
-----
“Meet me for lunch at the end of practice?” Rusty demanded a few days later, skating up beside Derick during practise and skidding to a halt.
Derick looked down at the ice that Rusty’s entrance had sprayed all over his sweater and pants. Rolling his eyes and sighing, he half-heartedly tried to brush it off. “The same place as usual?” he inquired.
Rusty nodded. “My treat,” he added winsomely, and then, more quietly, “we need to talk, Brass.”
“We do,” Derick agreed uncomfortably.
After the coach called practice over, both men hurried back to the locker room. They stripped out of their gear rather quickly, and both of them took showers that were much shorter than their usual. As they dressed back into comfortable street clothes, Rusty spoke to Derick.
“So, I rode here with Rick this morning. Any chance you want to drive? Or do you want to take the underground?” he asked.
Derick pretended to shiver in horror. “I think I’ll drive, thank you. The underground here gives me nightmares.”
“I hear that,” Rusty agreed. He stood up with a low groan, and proceeded to twist at the hips, trying to get his spine to crack. When it obliged, he rolled his shoulders and stood, waiting, for Derick to finish tying his shoes.
The drive to O’Shaughnessy’s from the practice facility wasn’t too bad, all things considering. It was in the Plaza, which meant it was conveniently placed whenever they had events at the Arena. Too, the popular pub served some of the best sandwiches in Columbus, as far as most of the team was concerned, which was saying something.
For once, Derick didn’t have to work to find parking near the pub. He was absurdly glad, as he wasn’t one hundred percent sure that his legs were up to the walk from the parking deck they usually ended up parking in; practice had been brutal, and if he ever had to do another Herbie again…
“My legs are killing me,” Rusty grunted, unknowingly echoing his teammate and friend’s thoughts. “I’d kill for a good beer right now. And foooooooooooooooooood.”
Derick laughed, following him across the street. “Good thing we went to lunch, then, isn’t it?” he snorted. Reaching forward, he yanked the door open and stepped inside the air-conditioned building. He could tell Rusty had followed him in.
The hostess smiled at them. Rusty recognized her; she was a long-time Blue Jackets’ fan, but she never gave them any fuss when they came by. Most times when the team came in for lunch after practice, Macy was the one working. “Hey, guys. Training camp starting up?” she asked, reaching under the podium to grab menus. “Just the two of you?”
Rusty nodded tiredly. “With a vengeance,” he told her. “Just me and Brass. The usual spot, if it’s open.”
“It is,” Macy replied, her eyes flicking down to her map to confirm it. Holding the menus, she led the two men over to a small table in the corner, just inside the large, ornate ring that dominated that part of the restaurant. The table was in the corner where two large, stained glass windows joined, and the colorful tiles threw vibrant stripes across the table, chairs, and floor.
Macy set down the menus and smiled at the pair of men. “Cara’ll be your server today; I’ll send her your way in just a tick. Anything you guys need, just holler.”
“Thanks, Macy,” Derick said, smiling at her as he settled into the comfortable chair.
Smiling, she turned and left. They could see her talking briefly with another young woman.
Derick didn’t even pretend to look at his menu as he waited for Rusty to begin the interrogation. He knew what was coming, and he was ready and willing to take it. Rusty only interrogated because he cared, and he never asked questions about things he wasn’t willing or able to help with. Part of being a true Blue Jacket was suffering through one of Rusty’s lunch-time interrogations.
Rusty set down his menu-he, unlike most of the team, actually changed his order from time to time-and looked around for the waitress.
As if summoned by some unheard call, the young woman came over rather quickly. “Hi,” she said warmly, her words thick with a Southern drawl. “My name’s Cara, and I’ll be your waitress for this afternoon. Can I get you gentlemen anything to drink?”
“I’d like a water with lemon, please,” Derick requested.
“I’d like the same, and also a pint of your Porter,” Rusty said. He closed his menu.
The waitress nodded, and wrote quickly. “Now, Macy said y’all are familiar with our pub. Would you like to order now, or do you want a few minutes?”
“I’m starving,” Rusty said with a wry grin. “How about you, Derick?”
“So hungry I could eat a baby,” the young man agreed. He smiled up at the waitress. “I’ll have the brew battered cod sandwich.”
Nodding, the waitress wrote down his order even as she turned to look at Rusty.
“And I’ll have…” he began slowly. “Hmm. Okay, I think I’ll have the philly beef.”
“D’you want bacon on that, sir?” she asked.
Rusty contemplated it for a moment, and then shook his head. “No, thank you.”
“Alrighty then,” the young woman said, beaming at the both of them. “I’ll just go and get this order in. Your drinks will be right out, and the food right behind!”
After she left, Rusty watched Derick for a long, silent moment. He waited until the younger man was shifting in his seat, clearly uncomfortable, to speak. “You know what I want to talk to you about.”
Derick agreed to the statement with a little nod.
Rusty sighed. “Derick. You know I don’t give a damn about your… preferences. You’re my friend. I don’t care if you like men or women or transsexuals or dogs. I don’t care about what you do behind closed doors, or how you do it, or who you do it with.” He paused briefly. “Well, not as long as they agree, anyway.”
At that, Derick cracked a tiny smile.
Rusty nodded encouragingly. “See, the thing is, I notice that you seem to have a thing for our new little Russian.”
“No, Rusty, I-” Derick began, suddenly panicked.
But Rusty cut him off ruthlessly. “You do. You want to tie his little white butt down in your basement, and you want to fuck him blind.” He looked his teammate squarely in the eye. “And I am not going to stand around and let it fuck with team dynamics, do you understand me?”
“I’d like to think I’m more professional than that,” Derick grumbled, flashing a warning look at the older man as the waitress came back, bearing a tray with their drinks on it.
The conversation stalled until she was gone again, and then Rusty picked up right where he had left off.
“It’s okay if you want him, Brass. He’s of age. Legal. He’s not too horribly much younger than you are.” Rusty paused, sipping at the beer in front of him. “Here’s the rub, though. He’s desperate for someone to cling to. Surely you’ve noticed that vibe?”
Flushing, Derick nodded. He had noticed; Nikita gave off the aura of desperately wanting someone to keep him. It was part of what had attracted Derick to him in the first place. Aside from being unbelievably easy on the eyes, the boy practically begged for a master to dominate him. Derick was strong, but even he had his weaknesses.
Rusty nodded firmly. “You have noticed. Good.”
“How could I miss it?” Derick muttered. “He’s all but begging for someone to hold him!”
Rusty smirked. He held up a finger to forestall any more conversation from Derick, just in time for their sandwiches to arrive. After the waitress had disappeared once more, they ate in silence for a few seconds. Rusty was not one for letting tough conversations ruin perfectly good sandwiches.
“What are you warning me against?” Derick asked finally, fiddling with a chip on his plate. “Because you have to know that I’d never approach him, not unless I honest to god thought that it was something he wanted. I’m more discreet than that, Rusty!”
Rusty sighed. “I know that,” he admitted, fiddling with his napkin. Setting it down, he picked up a chip from his own plate and stared at for a minute. After contemplating it, he popped the chip in his mouth and crunched down. “See…” he started, only to stop and heave another heavy sigh. “It’s like this,” he said finally.
“Rick… you know I haven’t got a single secret from that man, no matter how hard I’ve tried to keep them, yes?” he asked. He waited for Derick’s patient nod before continuing. “So. He knows you’re gay-and he knew before you came out. I tried not to tell him, but, well, that afternoon…”
“He guessed it anyway.”
“Exactly,” Rusty confirmed. He popped another chip in his mouth. “So, as you probably figured out, Rick doesn’t give a damn, either. As long as you’re playing hockey well, he’s happy. Which is what leads us to the problem.”
“I’m playing as well as I ever have,” Derick said, confused. He picked up his sandwich again, and took a large bite.
Rusty smiled a little. “You are, actually. You’re doing really well. But…” He paused again, and took a bite of his sandwich. Raised not to talk with his mouth full, Rusty chewed and swallowed before speaking again. “Nikita. Not doing so well.”
“What?”
“And… Nikita gives off the ‘dominate me!’ vibe. Both you and I have picked up on that, and Rick yanked it from me the other day. I might have made some stupid comment about someone needing to take that boy in hand, but… well. He figured out.”
Derick blinked, suddenly seeing with disturbing clarity where this conversation was headed. “He doesn’t… He can’t…”
“He does,” Rusty answered. “He says Nikita practically kisses the ice you skate on, and we’ve all noticed how Nikita’s the first to jump up and get you something if you mention you’d fancy having it. He wants, Brass, and he wants bad.”
“But that doesn’t mean he needs me as a Master,” Derick argued. “Hell, for all we know, that ‘dominate me!’ thing is complete and total bull.”
Rusty winced. “It’s… it’s not. I had breakfast with him this morning.” He poked at his sandwich, not looking up at Derick. “You should see the shades of red that boy can go. I thought he was going to have a heart attack when I asked him if he had a Master.”
“And does he?” Derick asked, not entirely out of the goodness of his heart. “Because, uh, his Master would have a better control…”
“Nope,” Rusty replied, his eyes twinkling in that way that said he had seen right through Derick. “He had a temporary arrangement with one of his teammates back in Russia, just to keep him calm. Fuckbuddies, if you will.” He smirked. “So, that answers two questions. Yes, he is gay and yes, he does like to be dominated.”
“And you’re bringing this to me, because Rick thinks I can dominate this kid, and he’ll do better?”
Rusty frowned. “When you put it like that, it sounds so mercenary. We prefer to think of it as…” He paused for a moment, clearly thinking. “As using available resources to ensure the best performance of our players.”
“You’re full of shit, the pair of you,” Derick pointed out, reaching for his sandwich once more. “But I’ll talk to the kid.”
-----
The instant Derick arrived at the arena the next morning, he saw the look on Nikita’s face and knew that Rusty and Rick had been right. The kid was spinning himself into nothing, and he had the wild-eyed look of desperate fear when he cornered Derick in the hall.
“Could you…” he began weakly. “I… Can we… talk alone?”
Derick blinked. “Sure thing, kid,” he agreed. “Where?”
Shivering, a look of relief on his face, Nikita led him down the hallway. He tapped on one door. Hearing no response, he pushed it open and stepped into one of the tiny trainer’s rooms. Derick followed him in and closed the door.
“What’s up? What do you need to talk about?” he asked.
Breathing out with a trembly little sigh, Nikita fell to his knees and prostrated himself before Derick. “Please,” he whimpered. “I… I need to be mastered. It’s ruining my hockey, and if I can’t control it… Please. You… I need you to help me.”
Derick inhaled sharply. Nikita’s posture was perfect. The slave in submission, obeisance before the master. It was obscenely elegant on one so young.
Nikita interpreted his silence as disgust or refusal, and quickly hurried on in his plea. “I’ll be good, I promise,” Nikita said in a low, whimpering voice. He twisted so that he was looking up at him, desperation and tears in his eyes. “I just… you’ll never have to see me outside of this… I just… I need…” Tears started filling his eyes, then tumbling over and down his tanned cheeks. “I’m desperate and I don’t know who to ask and I just need this and I know I need it and I’m a very bad slave but I’ll be good, I promise, I promise, just…” He broke off in a rough sob, lowering his eyes once more. “Please.”
Kneeling, Derick placed a hand on his shoulder. “Shh,” he whispered. “Shh. Calm down.” Placing a finger under Nikita’s chin, he turned his face up to meet his own. “Look at me, Nikita.”
The dark-haired boy did as ordered, his watery eyes fixing on Derick’s face. He was obedient despite his obvious discomfort; he had been well-trained, to say the least.
The look on his face melted Derick’s heart right then and there. “I was actually coming to talk to you about your…” he paused, not sure how to phrase it, then plundered on, “your behavior recently. The team is worried about you.” Letting go of Nikita’s chin, he wiped a broad thumb through the tear tracks on his face. “You’ve been being awful bad, little one, and you know it.”
Nikita shivered violently beneath his touch, not from distaste, but from desire. “Yessir,” he slurred out, starting to fall already. “I’m no good.”
“Enough of that!” Derick snapped. He was a little startled by how easily the younger man fell, and how completely. It was unusual, to say the least, in a man so young. He cupped Nikita’s face in his hands. “You’re just lost,” he told him gently but firmly. “And I can help you. What do you need?”
Nikita was pale beneath his tan as he stared up at him, practically shivering out of his skin.
Whoever had had him before, Derick could tell, had used him harshly. He consciously relaxed his hand on Nikita’s face, and then let go of him completely. Standing up-looming over Nikita would affirm the thought of him as Master in his mind-he carefully reached down and pressed the boy’s cheek into the soft flannel of his pants. They hadn’t changed into workout clothes, not yet.
“Shh, little one,” he whispered calmingly, his thumb sweeping in a slow, constant arc over Nikita’s cheekbone. “Tell me what you need.” He paused, then added, in his most masterful voice, “that’s an order.”
Nikita’s eyes slid shut, and he began to press his face into the older man’s leg, like a kitten. “I…” he began slowly. “I need… controlling. I need to be ordered about-told to do things. And when I don’t… I need… punishments. Like spankings. Paddlings. Whippings.” His eyes opened and he twisted to watch Derick’s face as he spoke. “I need to be… to be…” He flushed the most beautiful red Derick had ever seen as he tried to pantomime what it was he wanted.
Derick saved him further shame. “To be used? To be put in your place?”
Shame-faced, Nikita looked down at the floor and nodded.
“Very well,” Derick sighed. “I will make good use of you, little one. Not sexually, mind,” he warned, “not yet. But I do believe I could use a house-slave.”
Nikita looked up at him, clearly hopeful. “Master?”
“Yes, slave. Master,” Derick confirmed. Stooping slightly, he caught the boy’s chin in a tight grasp. “Come to my house after camp today. We will discuss the basics of your… enslavement.”
Nikita shivered in delight.
-----
Derick watched silently as Nikita worked, cleaning the house like his life depended on it. Someone had trained the boy well; he was thorough, to say the least. He knew his way around mops, brooms, and sponges. He worked like he had been trained to clean houses.
Sometimes, Derick wondered if maybe he had been. He knew nothing about Nikita’s previous master; the boy never talked about him or his time with him. Every once in a while, Derick stumbled across some portion of the other master’s “training,” bits and pieces of training that Derick didn’t agree with, but which Nikita’s previous master had insisted upon… like the fact that Nikita had to beg permission to use the bathroom, or that he was only permitted to sleep in the laundry room, on a mat, or that he was only permitted to eat, kneeling at his Master’s feet, whatever the man dropped for him.
Whoever had Nikita before him, Derick knew, had been a harsh son of a bitch. Derick knew a lot about training submissives, but he was fully aware that he, even with his skill, never could have gotten those kinds of results from Nikita, that instant, ineffable submission. That took cruelty-cruelty, and a healthy dose of dominant anger. He suspected that Nikita had felt the harsh end of submission, but not the softer, kinder side. It had become his goal to introduce the lithe man to the idea that submission wasn’t just necessary for his mental stability-that it could be fun and enjoyable, too. But he had to go slowly… already, Nikita was fidgety about the changes Derick was forcing him to make.
“Good job, little one,” Derick called, noticing that Nikita had finished scrubbing the floor. He stood up from his chair, careful not to mark up the nice, clean tiles, and nodded to the chair across from his. “Come.”
Nikita carefully dropped the sponge back in the bucket of soapy water and wiped his hands on the well-worn tee-shirt he was wearing. He stepped over to where his new Master had indicated. As he went, he listened to the jangling of the shiny tags hanging off his collar; he was glad that this Master had chosen to recognize him as his own, as a beloved pet.
Stepping onto the soft carpeting of the family room, Nikita eased himself to his knees. The thick plush kept it from hurting, but there was still a delicious thrill of humiliation that tingled at his spine. On his knees, with his hands crossed behind his back, he crawled over to where the Master stood. He stopped beside him, his head bowed, waiting.
“Good boy,” Derick murmured, sinking his fingers deep in Nikita’s soft hair. “You’ve done a good job. Look at how those tiles shine.”
Nikita swallowed the smile that threatened, leaning in to his Master’s touch, letting him reward him. Master’s hand was warm and gentle as it moved through his hair, like he was a treasured animal. The touch was possessive and caring; it sent hot tingles down his back.
Derick watched his pet for a moment, just enjoying the easy submission. Nikita was plaintive and needy, but not in an annoying way. If anything, Nikita inspired the urge to dominate and own him-probably what had gotten him in trouble with his last master. Derick was determined to care for the younger man, who clearly needed it.
He needed something else, too, Derick reminded himself, continuing to card through Nikita’s hair. The young man hadn’t brought it up again after that incident in the trainer’s room, but he was used to being a pleasure slave just as much as a house slave. He had as good as told Derick that he expected it and needed it.
Why, then, was Derick so afraid to give in? Privately, he tried to convince himself that it wasn’t fear that kept him from putting Nikita’s body to use. He was being moral, really. Taking care not to abuse Nikita’s trust. Taking care of him where he couldn’t.
He knew, however, that all of his stalling and objecting came from one single source: his own terror. Derick knew that it would only too easy for him to fall in love with Nikita, just like he had fallen for slaves at clubs. But Nikita, just like those slaves for hire, was not his to keep. He didn’t want to fall for the boy, work him into his life and home, only to then lose him to some other dom. He knew better than to fool himself; Nikita was not with him because he honestly desired Derick. Nikita was there, wearing a collar and his tags, because he had not yet found someone closer to his own desires, but he still felt the burning need for a controlling hand.
I will not have my heart broken by something I can prevent, Derick told himself firmly.
Against his thigh, Nikita closed his eyes as his Master’s fingers unconsciously tightened in his hair, pulling strongly at the roots.
-----
“Please, Master,” Nikita begged, crouched on hands and knees before the older man’s imposing form. “I beg of you…!”
“You dare order me, slave?” Derick barked, placing one loafered foot on Nikita’s shoulder. He pushed him back, so that Nikita tumbled out of his perfect posture, rocking back on his heels. “You think you’re that worthy?”
“N-no, Master,” Nikita stammered, not looking up at him.
“No, what?”
“No, Master, I’m not worthy,” Nikita whimpered. “I…I am a bad slave. I deserve to be punished!” Almost hopefully, he twisted, turning as if to present himself for a whipping.
Derick had to laugh at Nikita’s audacity. “My, my, little one. Even when you know you’re in trouble, you can’t help begging for it. You’re such a little slut.”
“Yes, sir, I am,” Nikita agreed.
“Well, lucky for you, my horny little whore, I happen to agree. You do need to be punished,” Derick murmured, stooping and stroking the curve of Nikita’s face. Then, rapidly, he clutched the lithe young man’s thin face in a tight grasp and yanked his face up so that they were looking eye to eye.
Nikita trembled, feeling Derick’s strength in the hold he had on his chin. He wanted to feel that strength, wanted to feel that kind of force behind a swing with a paddle. And, he was sure, he was in luck this time. For once, Derick’s eyes had that certain glow he recognized, and his lips were parted in an unconscious declaration of desire. Everything in Derick’s face promised what Nikita wanted.
“We’ll go to the Box tomorrow,” Derick promised. Smiling evilly, he leant in and kissed Nikita gently-but only on the forehead. He released Nikita’s chin, and then stroked the top of his head as he stood upright once more. “Now, slave. Go to bed!”
“Yes, Master,” Nikita whispered, lowering his eyes and bowing his head once more. He pressed his lips to his Master’s feet, starting with the left and moving to the right. It wasn’t sexual-neither Derick nor Nikita were into foot fetishising-but it was subservient and submissive. And Nikita was always good at submitting.
His task done, he carefully crawled backwards out of the room, never looking up at his Master. It was rude to turn his back on the Master; that had been trained into him very early on. He crept out into the hallway, and, as soon as he was out of sight of the living room, he turned around and quickly crawled on hands and knees to the small pallet that sat in the corner of the guest bedroom.
Pushing the soft fabric into a comfortable pile, he settled himself down and slept.
While his slave did as ordered, Derick sighed and ran a hand through his hair. He wanted Nikita-wanted to tie him down and whip him until he screamed and begged. The worst part was, he knew that Nikita wanted it, too. Nikita was not shy with his desires, for all that he liked to play like he was completely under Derick’s thumb.
“You top from the bottom, little slave, and you do it so well,” Derick whispered to himself, sitting down on the nearby couch. Laughing softly, he ran a hand down his chest and cupped himself through his pants. Christ; he was hard. He wanted to fuck Nikita blind. He could admit it to himself, now. There were no pure motives in this, his taming of Nikita’s behavior. He wanted his submission and his body as much as he wanted his good behavior.
When the phone rang suddenly, Derick very nearly leapt in the air. He hadn’t been expecting anything, and, in the aftermath of conceding to Nikita’s silent demands, he was jumpy as hell. Shaking his head at his own folly, he reached over and picked up his cell phone.
“Hello?”
“Brass? Hey,” Rusty replied. “Listen, I was calling to ask after Nikky. How’s he doing?”
“That kid,” Derick groaned, “is an absolute monster. I’m telling you, Rusty, that he is going to drive me witless!”
“Is something wrong?” Rusty asked, sounding concerned. There was the slight sound of rustling in the background; he was clearly shifting in place.
Derick snorted. “I told you that I’d take the kid in to keep him out of trouble, yeah?” he said. “Well, heaven help me, but I am not as pure as the driven snow, and that boy is seriously testing my self-control.”
At that, Rusty laughed, relaxing. “You really want to tap that, eh?” he chuckled evilly. “I told you!”
“Yeah, yeah; you’re a genius, Rust,” the younger man grumped, sprawling out on his comfortable couch. “Just… what in hell am I supposed to do? He just sort of bends and begs for it… tells me just how badly he needs to be punished, how he deserves to be whipped or paddled or… Lord, I don’t even know what to do, Rusty!”
“Give him what he wants?” Rusty suggested wryly. “What’s the worst that could happen? You get a screaming orgasm from something that isn’t your hand?”
“What, you think I can’t pull?” Derick demanded.
“No, I just know that you don’t try,” he friend answered, his smirk audible. “Don’t lie, Derick. You don’t want anyone finding out about your kinky little habits, so you don’t do anything about finding someone. Guess what? Someone just fell into your lap!”
“You’re a bastard, Klesla.”
“And you love it. Go on; stop worrying. Go tie him to your bed and fuck him ‘til he can’t see straight,” Rusty advised.
Derick rolled his eyes. “Did you call for anything like a reason?” he demanded impatiently.
The Czech man laughed. “Yeah, actually. You free this weekend? Ricky wants to barbeque over at his house, and I’m apparently his social secretary.”
“I’ll be there,” the young man agreed. “Now, good night!”
Part 2