Chapter 9
Teddy
The lights on the small stage feel warmer than usual tonight, or maybe it is just the adrenaline still buzzing through my veins.
I stand with the rest of the improv cast, all of us slightly sweaty and breathless, bowing deeply as the audience applauds. The theater is packed for a weeknight, maybe forty or fifty people crammed into the intimate space with its mismatched chairs and fairy lights strung across the ceiling.
Someone whistles, and a few others cheer. We’ve gone down well and I can feel the love from the audience in a way that makes me feel all warm inside.
“Let’s do it,” Andy, the group leader says. “Let’s show these guys we love them too!”
We straighten up and start clapping right back at them, shouting thank-yous over the noise.
“Great suggestions tonight, folks! You made us look good!” I call out, grinning so wide my cheeks hurt. The final scene—a ridiculous alien cooking show gone wrong—landed perfectly, and the laughter still echoes in my ears.
As the applause dies down and people start gathering their things, my eyes scan the crowd out of habit, looking for familiar faces. Skeet couldn’t make it tonight, but that’s okay. What I am really searching for is taller, broader, and far more intimidating…
And there he is.
Near the rear, leaning against the back wall with a drink in his hand, stands Kirill. Even in the dim lighting, he stands out—dark shirt stretched across those powerful shoulders, expression calm and unreadable. Neutral.
My stomach does a nervous flip.
Did he hate it?
Was the silly humor too much for a man like him?
Improv comedy is chaotic and ridiculous on purpose, but maybe it felt childish to someone who runs… whatever quote unquote serious business he runs.
I hop down from the low stage, weaving through the thinning crowd with my heart pounding harder than it did during the performance. When I reach him, I tuck my hands behind my back to hide how they are shaking a little.
“Hey,” I say, trying to sound casual even though my voice comes out breathy. “You came.”
Kirill looks down at me, and the corner of his mouth twitches, just the faintest hint of something warmer beneath that neutral mask. “I said I would.”
I bite my lip, nerves getting the better of me. “So… what did you think? Be honest. I know this isn’t exactly your natural habitat. Lots of shouting and bad accents and people falling over furniture.”
Kirill takes a slow sip of his drink before answering, eyes never leaving mine. “This is not my usual environment, no,” Kirill says. “But you were very good, Teddy. Natural timing. You commit fully. I could see why people enjoy watching you.”
Relief floods through me so fast I almost laugh. “Really? You’re not just saying that?”
“I do not say things I do not mean.” His voice is low, steady, that slight Russian accent wrapping around the words and making them feel heavier. Then he adds, “And I did not come alone…”
Before I can ask what he means, Kirill turns slightly and gestures to a man standing a few feet away who I had not noticed.
The man is in his late forties, dressed in a casual blazer over a t-shirt, holding a half-empty glass of wine.
I recognize him instantly—Marcus Hale, a well-known producer whose name has been attached to several successful sitcoms and comedy pilots over the past few years.
Marcus steps forward with an easy smile and extends his hand.
“Teddy, right? Kirill told me a bit about you. I have to say, you have great comedy chops. Sharp instincts, good physicality, and you don’t hold back.
That last scene with the alien chef? Gold.
I think you could be a strong fit for a new sitcom I’m casting.
It’s still in early development. Single-camera, ensemble comedy with a lot of improv-style energy.
If you’re interested, I’d love to have you come in for a reading. ”
My mouth falls open.
I stare at him, then at Kirill, then back at Marcus. “Wait… seriously? Me?”
Marcus chuckles. “Seriously. Here’s my card. Email my assistant tomorrow and we’ll set something up. Nice work tonight.” He claps Kirill on the shoulder once, gives me a friendly nod, and slips away into the crowd, already waving at someone else he knows.
I stand there frozen for a second, card clutched in my fingers like it might disappear if I blink. Then excitement explodes through me. I let out a squeal that is definitely too loud for the slowly emptying theater and throw my arms around Kirill in a tight hug.
“Oh my God, thank you!” I press my face against his chest, breathing in the clean, expensive scent of him. “I can’t believe you brought him. That was… that was incredible. Thank you, thank you, thank you!”
Kirill’s body is solid and warm against mine.
For a moment his arms come around me—strong, steady, one large hand resting between my shoulder blades.
The hug lingers just a second longer than a casual thank-you should.
When I pull back to look up at him, the air between us shifts.
His eyes are darker now, focused entirely on me. My gaze drops to his mouth.
Neither of us speaks.
Then I rise onto my toes and kiss him.
Our lips meet softly at first, almost tentative.
But the second we connect, sparks fly—hot, electric, undeniable.
Kirill makes a low sound in his throat and deepens the kiss, one hand sliding to the back of my neck to hold me exactly where he wants me.
His mouth is firm and commanding, tasting faintly of vodka.
I melt into it, my fingers curling into the front of his shirt as heat rushes through my entire body.
For those few perfect seconds, the noisy theater fades away and there is only him—his strength, his control, the way he kisses like he owns every part of the moment.
When we finally break apart, both of us breathing harder, Kirill’s eyes are blazing. He glances around once, then takes my hand.
“Come,” he says quietly.
We sneak out the side exit of the bar attached to the theater, slipping into the dimly lit alley behind the building.
The night air is cool against my flushed skin, but it does nothing to calm the fire racing through me.
The moment the door clicks shut behind us, Kirill turns and backs me gently against the brick wall.
But I do not want to be backed anywhere right now. The submissive, naughty part of me that has been simmering since the locker room spanking takes over. I drop to my knees right there on the concrete, looking up at him with wide, eager eyes.
Kirill’s breath catches. “Teddy—”
“Please,” I whisper, already reaching for his belt. “I want to pleasure D-D-Daddy.”
My hands are trembling with excitement as I free him. He is already hard, thick and impressive. Kirill has a real Daddy cock, that’s for sure.
I lean forward and take him into my mouth, swirling my tongue around the head before sliding deeper. The low groan he lets out sends a thrill straight between my legs.
I don’t just suck him. While I work him with my mouth—slow, wet, eager—I reach back with one hand and start spanking myself. Each sharp smack against my own bottom echoes softly in the alley.
The sting mixes with the taste of him, the submissive act making me dizzy with arousal. I moan around his length, the vibrations pulling another deep sound from his chest. My free hand braces on his thigh as I take him deeper, spanking myself harder, imagining it is his hand instead of mine.
Kirill’s fingers thread into my hair, guiding but not forcing. “Good boy,” he murmurs, voice rough. “Look at you… so eager to please.”
The praise makes me whimper.
I spank myself again and again in rhythm with my movements, bottom tingling, cock aching with need.
It does not take long before Kirill tenses, his grip tightening as he cums with a low, controlled groan.
I swallow every drop of his hot, thick seed, feeling deliciously filthy and proud at the same time as I feel his salty cum slip down my throat.
“Now jerk that little cock for Daddy right here and now,” Kirill commands, his eyes hungry for more.
I do as I’m told and it’s almost over before it’s started as the sheer thrill and humiliation of jerking myself off in an alley having already sucked and spanked myself in public rises up inside me.
“Fuckkkk,” I groan, my cock exploding with wave after wave of cum as Kirill observes, towering over my like a menacing, incredibly sexy God.
“Keep wanking,” Kirill commands, evidently enjoying the spectacle. “I want every drop out.”
“Yes, sir,” I obey, my head spinning and my mind blank.
When it is over, I sit back on my heels, lips swollen, breathing hard and my butt hot to the touch. Kirill helps me up gently, tucking himself away and straightening my clothes with surprising tenderness.
We slip back inside through the side door like nothing happened, rejoining the thinning crowd at the bar.
No one seems to notice our brief absence.
But we share a secret now. Every time our eyes meet across the small space, heat flares between us.
I feel deliciously naughty—still tasting him, bottom warm from my own hand, my dick hard and throbbing under my briefs and chinos once again.
I want more. I want him to bend me over the nearest table, to spank me properly, to take me hard and tell me I am his good boy.
Instead, when the crowd thins further, Kirill pulls me aside near the exit.
“You need to go home to your place tonight,” Kirill says firmly, though his thumb brushes my lower lip like he is fighting the same urge. “We will talk more soon. This… cannot happen again tonight.”
I nod, even though every part of me protests.
The Daddy tone in his voice leaves no room for argument, and that only makes me want him more.
“Okay,” I whisper, still feeling that secret thrill. “But… thank you again. For everything.”
He leans down and presses one last, brief kiss to my forehead—gentle, almost protective before stepping back.
“Go home, boy. Rest,” Kirill commands. “And that’s Daddy’s Orders.”
I watch him disappear into the night, heart racing, body still buzzing. My improv show just changed my entire career trajectory, and then I dropped to my knees in an alley and spanked myself while sucking off the most dangerous, commanding man I have ever met.
Talk about an action packed night.
I touch my swollen lips and smile, a secret, naughty little smile that no one else in the bar would understand.
I want more.
So much more.
And somehow I know Kirill does too—even if he is trying to be responsible tonight.
I head home with my producer’s card burning a hole in my pocket and the memory of Kirill’s groan still ringing in my ears, feeling more alive than I have in my entire life…
* * *
The walk home from the theater feels like floating. My legs move on autopilot while my mind spins in a thousand dizzying directions at once.
The thrill of the improv performance still buzzes under my skin—the laughs, the energy, the way the audience leaned in during every chaotic scene.
Then there is the producer, Marcus Hale, handing me his card and telling me I have great comedy chops.
I mean… a real sitcom audition.
Me.
Teddy from a small town who trains clients by day and dreams by night.
And then there’s Kirill…
My cheeks burn as I remember dropping to my knees in that alley. The way he tasted, the low groan he tried to hold back, the sharp smacks of my own hand against my butt while I pleasured him.
The secret we now share makes me feel deliciously naughty and small and wanted all at once. Every step sends a little reminder of the warmth still lingering on my skin.
By the time I reach my apartment door, I am overstimulated in the best and worst ways—heart racing, body buzzing, thoughts refusing to slow down.
I need to come down gently or I will never sleep.
I lock the door behind me, kick off my shoes, and head straight for the tiny kitchen.
Brando waits on the couch where I left him, his floppy ears flopped over one eye like he is winking at me.
I scoop him up and hug him tight against my chest while I warm a mug of milk in the microwave.
A splash of vanilla and a little honey go in—just the way my mom used to make it when I was little and couldn’t settle.
With the warm mug in one hand and Brando tucked under my arm, I pad into my bedroom. I change into my softest sleep romper—the pale yellow one with tiny white stars—and climb under the covers.
My iPad is already on the nightstand. I prop it up on a pillow, open my comfort film, and press play on 101 Dalmatians.
The familiar opening music wraps around me like a hug.
I sip the warm milk, letting the sweetness soothe the edges of my racing thoughts, while Brando sits nestled against my side. On screen, Pongo and Perdita run through London, and I mouth the lines along with the narrator, voice soft and sleepy.
The overstimulation slowly melts away.
The wild energy from the stage, the shock of meeting a real producer, the secret heat of the alley—all of it softens into something warm and hopeful. My eyelids grow heavy as the puppies tumble across the screen in their spotted chaos.
I doze off with a smile on my face, thoughts drifting in that hazy space between awake and asleep. One day I could be starring in a sitcom—making people laugh every week, seeing my name in the credits.
And maybe, just maybe, I could have a family of dogs someday. A whole house full of spotted puppies running around while a tall, strong man with the devil in his eyes watches from the doorway, arms crossed, that faint approving smile on his lips.
Kirill.
Even in my half-dream, he feels solid and safe.
Protective. Commanding in the way that makes my stomach flutter and my bottom tingle at the same time.
I imagine him scooping me up after a long day, calling me his good boy, correcting me when I get too sassy, then holding me close while we watch silly movies together.
My life suddenly feels like it might be coming together.
The audition. The possibility of real acting work. The thrilling, terrifying pull toward a man who makes me feel small and cherished and alive.
I snuggle deeper into the blankets, Brando tucked under my chin, the gentle barks and music of 101 Dalmatians fading into the background.
For the first time in a long while, the future does not feel like an endless hustle.
It feels bright. Possible. Even a little magical.
With that warm, hopeful thought curling around me like the milk in my belly, I drift off completely, smiling, content, and dreaming of spotted puppies, spotlights, and a certain commanding Russian who might just want to share it all with me.