Chapter 11 Micah #2
Ilya stops and smiles down at me. “Last time, you liked kneeling. Do you want to submit? Or do you only like pain?”
I don’t release his hand. “Both,” I say. “I like submitting, I like obeying, I like a little bit of pain.” I look warily at him. “What do you like? You’re new to things like floggers and all. I don’t want to push you into anything you don’t want to do.”
Not like I have been.
No. I’m not thinking about that right now.
Ilya’s deep chuckle is warm. “You cannot push me into anything, Micah. I am bigger and older than you. If I do something, it’s because I want to.”
I wonder how things would be if I was bigger and stronger than I am. Would people still be able to push me around? Or would I somehow be immune to that?
I nod, accepting his answer. “Okay,” I say. I feel lost, unmoored, without the pressure of a touch or an order, and I shift restlessly from one foot to the other. “What do you want me to do?”
Ilya looks at me, considering, before he says, “Undress, pretty boy.” He sits down at the edge of the bed, keeping his eyes on me.
Somehow, I don’t think he means a striptease. He means something more intimate, something slow but sensual.
I think.
I carefully pull my shirt over my head, folding it and setting it on top of the nearby dresser. Then I remove my pants, adding those to the neat pile, before shedding my underwear.
I feel exposed, and I wonder if he can see through me. How much does he know? How much has he guessed? Am I fooling him?
Are you fooling yourself?
I wrap my arms around my skinny torso and look at him.
This is the part where Adam starts nitpicking my body. He says I need to exercise more, and eat healthier, but he also doesn’t want me leaving the house or cooking foods he doesn’t like.
Ilya’s smile widens. “You are so beautiful, Micah.”
I can’t tell if he’s only saying that or if he means it. So much, so badly, I want to believe that he thinks I’m beautiful, and talented, and that I’m anything other than a liar and someone who will ultimately betray him.
I’m not, I want to say.
But I know the truth of the world.
People are out to use others. Adam is right that Ilya is probably flattering me so he can get me into bed.
“Thank you,” I say, nearly choking on the words.
I’m only pretending, I’m playing along.
Except I know better.
“Kneel for me,” Ilya says, with a charge of dominance. He points to the spot between his legs.
I obey without hesitation, grateful for the clear order. I bow my head, my eyes downcast, and I feel steadier than I have since Adam had walked out of the restaurant.
This is known; this is familiar.
This, I can do.
Ilya strokes the top of my head gently. “You are so good, Micah. How you sucked my cock. How you listen to me.” He lifts my chin up and forces me to look him in the eyes. “Kiss my cock, Micah. Then you will lay down on the bed, and I will flog your ass and thighs.”
I lean forward to kiss his cock through his pants, mouthing it, then I rise, getting onto the bed. Once I’m on my stomach, I lift my ass up in the air to invite him to do what he’d said.
I need the familiar kiss of the flogger.
I need so much more, and I can get it from Ilya.
I shouldn’t trust him to give me that pleasure-pain, but somehow, for some reason, I do.
Adam would be yelling at me for being stupid. Ilya is a mobster. I can’t trust him not to cause lasting damage.
But he went out and practiced for my sake.
He wants to do this right.
Ilya gets off the bed and takes the flogger from a nearby bag. It’s brand new, bought just for me.
My stomach gets warm, and my cock throbs from the thought alone.
Ilya strokes my ass gently. “I’ll go easy at first. You can tell me if you want more or if it’s too much. I’ll listen to your words. If you say stop, I’ll stop.”
Adam always expects me to trust him, to take as much as he says I can, even if it means I take more than I want.
I need to stop thinking about him, especially in such a harsh light. I’m going home to him after all of this, and this is only twisting my thinking up.
“Okay,” I tell him, then I bury my face in the blankets, already anticipating the first strike from the flogger.
Ilya trails the tails of the flogger on my ass. The sensation tickles a bit. I don’t think I’ve felt this before.
The first strike is as light as promised, barely a blow at all.
I don’t ask for more, though. Not yet.
I want to see what he’ll do, left to his own devices.
He goes again, slightly harder, but it’s nowhere near enough to hurt. If anything, I would almost say it tickles.
It’s strange to think that a man like Ilya would go so light on me, but he seems so intent on not hurting me that it doesn’t really surprise me.
“You can go a little harder—” I begin, only to realize this falls into the realm of dictating to him what I want.
This isn’t the place for that.
We’ll go at his pace.
Ilya’s next strike finally brings with it the quick stinging pain, the tails lashing over my skin.
I stifle a small groan.
“It’s hard to tell how much force is good,” Ilya admits. “So don’t hide your noises. I need to hear your reactions.”
I nod into the blankets, then realize he probably can’t see it. “Okay,” I tell him, the word muffled.
The next few blows are about as hard, and I moan, lifting my ass in blatant invitation to continue. He does, and I encourage him with the sounds and movements of my body.
It’s bliss.
He uses the same even tempo, the same level of force, in such a controlled way that I can barely believe he’s never done this before.
Because he’s lying to you, a dark thought whispers.
Because he’s just buttering you up.
I shove that thought aside and concentrate on the sensations.
The next blow is suddenly sharper, harder. I startle and cry out, my back lifting unconsciously.
Ilya says something in Russian, angry enough to make me flinch, and places a hand on my shoulder. “Micah? Did I hurt you?”
I shake my head quickly. “No! Not in a bad way,” I amend. “It took me by surprise. It’s good, though.”
“Should I stop?” Ilya asks. He sets the flogger down on the bed while he strokes my back.
Startled, I shake my head again, turning my head to look at him. “Please don’t,” I say, shivering beneath the touch.
Ilya nods. “Okay.” He sounds shaky, like he’s the one affected by all this, but he picks the flogger up again and gets back into position.
I should tell him that he doesn’t have to do this, but a selfish part of me wants him to continue too badly. If he really doesn’t want to, he’d say that though.
Wouldn’t he?
The next strike is under my ass, along my thighs, and it’s every bit as hard as the previous blow.
This time, I’m expecting it, and I moan, clutching the sheets beneath my hands.
“Yes,” I whisper. I don’t know if he can hear me, but another few blows rain down upon me, and I moan and writhe and whimper my way through them.
The pain morphs into bliss, and I start to feel floaty, like everything has emptied from my mind and left me capable of feeling nothing but pleasure.
This time, when he sets the flogger aside, I’m ready for more.
I’m ready for the way he trails his fingers along the welts, the way he presses into my ass cheeks where I know I’ll be bruised.
“Please,” I whisper, my voice choked. “Fuck me.”
Ilya groans loudly. “Yes.” He kisses my ass, his lips pressing against one of the welts, before he stands up. He undoes his belt and reaches for the lube and condoms on the bedside table.
Condom.
Huh.
Adam hadn’t bothered with condoms even on our first night together. He said condoms meant we didn’t trust each other.
Ilya rolls the condom on, then pours lube onto his fingers.
I squirm in anticipation, lifting my ass in the air again and spreading my legs more.
I close my eyes, and when I feel the press of two fingers into me, I moan helplessly.
I want more than that. Adam never bothers with much prep, and to have Ilya take his time with me is both alluring and confusing all at once.
“More?” I ask more than say, not wanting to give him orders but wanting to clearly signal to him that I’m ready to take him.
Ilya lets out another pleased sound. “You are so tempting, Mishka.”
I want to be tempting.
I want to be irresistible.
I need to be.
“I’m ready for you,” I plead, pushing back against his fingers.
He slowly thrusts them in and out of me, then he withdraws them completely. “Are you sure?” he asks.
I nod, still feeling dazed but all too eager to have him inside of me properly.
Maybe I am a whore.
I can’t bring myself to care.
Behind me, I feel the bed dip beneath his weight, then the head of his cock poises against my hole. I tilt my head back as a moan spills from my lips when he starts to slowly push inside, and I don’t bother to hold back the needy sounds.
I want him to know I want this, that I want him, and I want him to keep going.
I want to prolong this high as long as I can.
“You are so tight,” Ilya moans as he finally bottoms out inside me. He grips my thighs and holds me in place for several seconds, impaled on him. “I have imagined this for so many nights, Mishka.”
There the name is again.
It sounds intimate, affectionate, in a way I’m not used to.
“Me too,” I say, even though I’m not sure whether I’m telling him the truth or simply what he wants to hear.
I’m sure he’s only telling me what he thinks will keep me in bed with him, too.
It doesn’t matter, in the end.
I rest my forehead against the blankets again as he starts to withdraw, his strokes becoming slow but purposeful as he takes me.
It isn’t the frenetic energy Adam has when he fucks me. It’s gentler, more aware of my pleasure, and I’m keenly aware of the way he’s angling to peg my prostate on each thrust.
At this rate, I’m not going to last long.
Ilya presses his thumbs down on my welts on the next thrust, and I howl, the pain and pleasure slamming into me in equal force. I tighten around Ilya, and he lets out a moan equally loud.