"Anything good on?" Mulder asked casually, as he shrugged out of his suit
jacket, dropping it over the back of his desk chair.
"No." Krycek didn't even look up. "It's all crap."
Mulder tossed his tie on top of his jacket. "Have a bad day, did we?"
At last Krycek looked up at him. The sullenness was replaced, for a moment,
with a look of soul-weary desolation. Then he returned to staring at the
television, three precise seconds per channel. "Yeah," he muttered, the low
voice mostly air and chill. "Seriously fucking bad."
Mulder folded his arms and pursed his lips thoughtfully. "Want to talk about
it?"
Krycek shrugged.
"Want to fuck?"
The trace of a smile twitched at the corner of Krycek's mouth. "Don't be
nice."
"I have no intention of being nice."
The remote clattered to the floor. Krycek stood. There was a trace of a
wobble in his stance. The left arm was strangely twisted.
Mulder gestured towards it. "What happened to the...?"
"Don't ask." He sighed. "I'll get it fixed. But it'll cost me." There were
hard little glints of light in his eyes.
There was a story there, Mulder thought. And he meant to have it. But these
things had to be handled carefully. A slow, charged smile began to form on his
face. Krycek couldn't just be broken open like a child's piggybank. He had to be
softened up first. Too bad it wouldn't be a fair fight, with Krycek having to
struggle with the broken prosthetic. But since it was there: "I'll take that
advantage."
The glints of lights brightened, just a little. "I've beat you with one hand
before."
"We'll see." Mulder turned to walk towards the bedroom, without looking back.
But he didn't have to look back to know that Krycek was following. It always
seemed that he could feel Krycek's heat halfway across the room. A mere step
behind, Krycek's presence raised the hair on the back of his neck.
Mulder stayed to the left as he walked through the bedroom door. Then he
threw his weight back suddenly, turning towards Krycek, grabbing him by the
broken prosthesis and pulling him forward into the room, while seizing the back
of Krycek's neck with his other hand and pushing him down onto the floor.
Mulder dove to the floor on top of him, and the contest began in earnest.
There was a whoof of air as Mulder's elbow drove into Krycek's back; a
sharp cry as Krycek twisted under him, trying to turn over. Mulder loved the
noises Krycek made when he struggled: the breathy squeaks, the groans, the
startled little cries. Mulder never had to guess whether he was getting through
to him.
They rolled into the chest of drawers. Krycek's good arm was trapped under
him for a moment; Mulder almost had him. But he flung out his prosthesis,
smacking Mulder on the arm with it, kicked out with his knee and slithered away.
Mulder managed to grab him by the collar before he escaped entirely, got one
knee between his legs. The damaged prosthesis did put him at a
disadvantage—but in this situation, that was a good thing. In this mood,
Krycek wanted to be beaten, and the little extra frustration and humiliation
would only make his defeat sweeter.
Mulder kept a tight grip on the collar of Krycek's leather jacket, pulling it
down as Krycek struggled. Soon, Krycek's arms were bound behind him by the
leather bunched at his back. Still he kicked and grunted and tried to roll over
to break Mulder's hold on him. Mulder held on tight, managed to get astraddle
one hard, hot thigh. He caught hold of the prosthesis, using it for purchase,
and worked his way across Krycek's squirming body, finally grabbing hold of the
flailing real arm and twisting it sharply up behind Krycek's back.
Krycek cried out in pain and anger. He fought violently against the hold,
while Mulder gripped him tightly and rode him until his struggles collapsed.
Carefully maintaining his hold, Mulder moved his knee from between Krycek's legs
and across to straddle both thighs just behind his butt, and brought his free
hand up to grip Krycek by the back of the neck. Now was not the time to get
complacent—Krycek hadn't given up yet, and Mulder had learned to his
chagrin that it was never to late for his nighttime partner to pull out a few
tricks. And if Mulder were foolish enough to leave him an opening, Krycek would
surely take it, even if it meant winning when he really wanted to lose.
So Mulder held on tight and inspected the man held captive beneath him. How
much would it take to make him surrender? Krycek was in pain, Mulder could tell
from the waves of heat coming off him, the tremors that passed through his
shoulders and back, the sharp edges in his gasping breath. But he was fighting
it off, strung tight as a bow, poised to make his break at the slightest
opportunity. Just holding him immobile would not break him tonight. He needed
the pain to let himself go.
Mulder leaned forward, until his mouth was inches from Krycek's ear. "Say
it!" he hissed.
His only answer was an angry moan, and another helpless attempt to buck the
tormenter off his back.
Silkily this time: "Say it, Krycek. You know I've got you."
"It hurts, Mulder." Soft, pleading whisper. Mulder had fallen for it before.
Once.
"Of course it hurts. You know what to do to make it stop."
Three deep, gasping breaths. Then, quietly, "I give."
"You what? I couldn't hear you." Mulder didn't always tease. But he could
feel the hard tension in the body beneath him, feel the fight still in him.
Krycek would need a lot of taming tonight.
"Unh. I give, Mulder. Let me up." The body twitched; hardness ebbing for a
moment, then snapping back.
Mulder waited. "Mistake, Krycek. Try again."
At last, the body quieted. Mulder eased the pressure on Krycek's arm, just a
fraction.
"I give." This time he meant it, and Mulder could feel it in Krycek's body:
one full shudder, giving way to the slight arch of his back, hips thrusting up,
the loosening of tension in his shoulders and thighs. It was always a thrilling
moment to feel Krycek's surrender, a jolt right to Mulder's cock. He leaned
forward, releasing the straining arm, grinding his crotch into Krycek's butt.
Krycek's moan was part relief, part pleasure. Mulder stroked his hair, giving
him a moment to recover. Then he pushed himself upright. "All right," he said
briskly. "You'll do what you're told now. I don't want to have to fight with you
any more."
"Yes," Krycek agreed, all sullen heat and small showers of sparks.
Mulder let him go then, and got to his feet. He plucked at his shirt, sticky
with sweat. Krycek stayed where he was, laid out on the floor, knowing not to
get up without permission. His prosthetic arm was twisted strangely behind his
back, still tangled in his jacket, looking sad and pathetic. The real hand
scrabbled quietly at the floor, a sign of returning tension. "Get up," Mulder
ordered.
As always, Alex Krycek was a beautiful sight—and never more beautiful
than as he was now, glowing from the exertion, face flushed, jade eyes bright,
breath coming in short gasps, as he stood ready at Mulder's command.
Mine, Mulder thought, and a dark rush of excitement filled his body,
warming his belly. Krycek was beautiful; an intelligent, powerful man, his body
crackling with electricity—and tonight he was Mulder's toy. His soft, round
lips were pressed tightly together, though, and his one fist clenched. He kept
rising onto the balls of his feet, then forcing himself to drop down. He was
having to fight with himself to stand still and wait for his orders. Not that it
wasn't pretty to watch, but he would work himself into a frenzy and lose the
pleasure of it if he didn't take some of that edge off. He needed to be taken
down a notch. Perhaps some old-fashioned discipline would be in order.
"Christ, you're in bad shape," Mulder told him. Krycek flinched as though
he'd been slapped. Too real. He was far from ready to talk about it yet. Mulder
shifted gears at once, let his voice turn stern. "You need a spanking. Get your
pants down."
Krycek's response was instant, and delicious: a heady mix of resentment,
humiliation, and heavy lust—a sudden intake of breath, flush deepening on
his cheeks, eyes going dark with arousal. He didn't need to be told
twice—he took his orders seriously. His hand went to his waistband, and he
began to work the buttons of his jeans, frowning reluctantly all the while. No,
he didn't like it, but he made no protest, no active show of resistance. And his
arousal was feeding off his own internal battle—Mulder could see it on him,
each button more difficult than the last to open, and his need ratcheting up
with each flick of his thumb on his fly. He didn't always play the surly
child—there were times he bent over cheerfully, batting his eyelashes
coquettishly as he grinned over his shoulder, inviting the whip to fall. Not
tonight. Tonight, he was going to fight for every inch, constantly feeling the
authority working over him, straining against his limits at every step. Mulder
had never seen him quite so wild—not since they'd stopped fighting each
other in anger and begun doing it in pleasure. It was almost frightening, but it
was an exhilarating and seductive fear, one that Mulder was eager to face.
And Christ, what had they done to him, to put him in this state? Mulder felt
his own anger rise at the powerful men in the shadows who toyed with both of
their lives. But never mind: put that aside for now. He needed a clear head if
he was going to bring them both through this safely. Whatever the problem was,
it wasn't something to be urgently dealt with, or Krycek would be out dealing
with it, not standing here working his jeans down over his hips with one hand,
while his prosthetic arm hung uselessly at his side. Mulder would find out soon
enough. Meanwhile, this was what Krycek needed.
It took some little time for Krycek to get his jeans down, working them
one-handed, one side and then the other, a few inches at a time. He was good
with one hand—good with his prosthesis, too, when it was
functioning—but there were limitations that came with missing a limb, there
was just no way around it. It was adding to his humiliation and anger to have to
make this extra effort to lower his jeans, and that too was fueling his lust. It
wasn't something that Mulder would use on him deliberately, but he couldn't deny
the power of it when it happened. Nor did he mind taking the time to watch
Krycek expose his smooth, solid hips little by little, or the bush of dark hair
at his crotch, surprisingly silky and fine; his full cock springing free and
engorged from the confining denim, heavy round balls following at last.
When he had finished, Krycek stood upright, arm at his side, looking at
Mulder with hot defiance on his face, breathing deep, sharp breaths.
Mulder gestured towards his dressing table, just thigh-height and ideal for
bending him over. "Get over there," he ordered mildly, a pleased smile that
pulling at the corner of his mouth. "Assume the position." And Krycek did,
lowering his chest to rest on the smooth wood surface of the table, head
pillowed on his arm, spreading his legs just enough to be in compliance with the
rules. Mulder could take him on over that—but decided to let it pass.
Krycek didn't need a lot of teasing; he was already in a state. Just get right
to the pain.
Still, Mulder paused a moment to consider his choice of implement. He stepped
forward to lay his hand on Krycek's delightfully naked round butt, and stroked,
letting his fingers slip between Krycek's buttocks, toying briefly with his
anus. Krycek squirmed, pushing back onto Mulder's fingers. He liked to be
penetrated, and sometimes Mulder let him have a butt plug while he whipped him,
but tonight he wanted nothing to distract him from the blows falling on his ass.
Besides, Mulder was planning to fuck him later, and wanted to keep him tight, so
he could feel his anus slowly opening on his cock.
So, what to use on him? Krycek was far too tightly strung tonight to be
satisfied with an open hand. The flogger would hit harder, but that would be
more of a whipping than a spanking, and Mulder wanted something with a flavor of
discipline in it. Something like a fraternity paddle would be ideal, but of
course Mulder didn't have one (mental note to do a little shopping, it was time
to increase their stock of toys). The cane was painful, in a thin, sting-y way,
but Mulder thought a wide, heavy thud would serve the purpose better. The belt,
Mulder decided. It was a relic from the seventies, heavy black leather, a good
inch-and-a-half wide. It would give Krycek a solid thrashing.
The bottom left drawer of Mulder's dresser had become their toy storage.
Mulder rummaged in it briefly, among the whips and restraints, butt plugs and
clamps, and found what he wanted. "This is what you need," he said softly, as if
to himself. He lifted up the belt and held it in front of Krycek's face, as he
lay crouched over the dressing table, head cradled in his arm, cheek crushed
against the sleeve of his leather jacket. Once again, he flushed red, and his
eyes smoldered with fury, but also with fierce hunger. Then his eyes fluttered
shut for a moment, and his tongue flicked out and licked his lips. Mulder
smiled—he'd gotten it right. He brought the belt forward and let it trail
across Krycek's cheek, pulled up the end of the strap and let it fall onto
Krycek's face—just the slightest stinging kiss of leather, that made him
flinch and moan.
Mulder stepped back a moment, took a deep breath. He wrapped the end of the
belt around his hand, and slapped it across his arm a few times to test its
heft. It was stiff and a little awkward; he would get no finesse with it. No
matter, tonight was not the night for finesse. He slapped the belt lightly
across Krycek's butt, just once, to set his aim, and to give Krycek fair warning
to prepare himself.
Then he drew back his arm, and swung. The belt hit solidly across Krycek's
firm buttocks, the crack of leather striking flesh resounding through the room.
Krycek bucked and cried out, and his fist tightened. An angry red stripe formed
across the smooth white bottom. Mulder smiled to himself, and let the belt fall
again.
And yes, it was good to stand there with Alex Krycek bent over his dressing
table, beating his bare ass with a belt. It was good to watch Krycek's butt turn
red, to watch him flinch and gasp in pain, to swing his arm and feel the belt
thud onto vulnerable flesh, to hear the solid crack as it struck. It was good to
watch the red stripes come up, to know they were burning, growing ever more
tender. It was good to feel the terrible power coursing through him, to know
that Krycek was his to do with as he pleased, to be owned and used. It was good
to hurt him. And it was good to give him what he needed, and to know that it was
good for him, too.
He didn't make it a long spanking—a dozen or so stripes, and Mulder
lowered the belt and stepped away. They were both breathing hard. Krycek shifted
a little, flexing his angry red buttocks. His half-closed eyes glinted with
feral points of light. He'd come down a notch, yes, but the fire was still
there, only banked down a little. It had been nearly eight months ago, now, that it had begun. At first, it had
been just another of those sudden encounters that seemed to happen between them,
like a cold front meeting a tropical wind: Krycek had shown up at his door, and
in moments a storm had blown up, and they were at each other's throats. But
somehow, this time, instead of hurling insults and a few blows and walking away
from each other, they had ended up with their mouths and groins pressed
together, and Mulder had felt himself explode with a terrible heat, and he'd
come just standing there grinding his crotch into Krycek's. Then, before he'd
had time to really think about it, Krycek had given him one strange and smoky
stare, and run.
He'd have been willing to chalk it up to the heat of the moment, and forget
about it (except late at night, except in his darkest dreams), but a few weeks
later, the tropical storm named Krycek had blown in again, and this time Krycek
had spelled it out to him: I want you to hurt me. Mulder could still hear the precise tones of
Krycek's voice, could still see his face, his stance, exactly as it had been the
first time he'd said those words. He'd wanted to laugh and say, Are you
crazy? No way! The blood pounding through his body, throbbing in his cock,
had choked the laughter in his throat.
—And the look on Krycek's face. There had been lust there, darkening his
eyes to deepest jade. Something fierce that looked like anger. Raw power that
sizzled off him like heat waves. But there had been something else there, too,
in the way his lip twitched slightly as it curled at the corner, and his chest
rose and fell beneath his leather jacket. It was fear.
What had he been afraid of? That Mulder would break the rules and do
something terrible to him? That his masters would find out he was serving
another and punish him? That somehow his offer would backfire in ways he
couldn't imagine? Whatever it was, the fear had made him more beautiful than
ever. It made him seem more human, somehow, more real. It had made it
seem that Krycek was offering something valuable and important.
So Mulder had agreed. He would follow the rules, and Krycek would be his.
Mulder was going to have to hurt him bad. In the back of his mind, an idea of
how he'd go about it was forming. But first, perhaps they both could use a
little break. A little attention to Krycek's asshole might be in order. He
stepped directly behind Krycek, still holding the belt, and kicked at the
insides of Krycek's boots. "Spread for me, Alex. Nice and wide."
Krycek obeyed without hesitation, spreading his legs as wide as he could
comfortably manage. So the spanking had worked that far: he might still be wound
as tight as a clock, but some of the resistance had burned away. That was good.
Mulder was pleased, and a little relieved, that he was succeeding in taming the
wildcat that was Alex Krycek tonight. "Spread yourself with your hand." Too bad
Krycek didn't have two hands for this. But one would be enough—his anus was
already exposed, with his legs this far apart. The order was mainly for the
feeling of submission he would get from being forced to hold himself open for
more punishment.
Krycek was a little more reluctant to do this, but still he obeyed,
whimpering a little fitfully as he pulled his arm from beneath his head, reached
behind himself to grip his sore buttock, and pull it away from his anus.
Mulder's cock throbbed. God, it would be good to just stop now, shove it into
him and fuck him senseless. Good for himself, but perhaps not so good for
Krycek. Krycek needed more than a hard fucking tonight. It would be better yet
to wait. Control was the top's lesson, and it had been a hard lesson for him to
learn, but he thought he was doing better at it these days.
He took the belt by the end, leaving about six inches of the strap loose. The
thick leather was stiff enough to have a bit of spring in it. He held it over
Krycek's anus, pulled the end back and let it go. It landed with a sharp little
slap directly on his tender asshole.
Krycek jumped and cried out. But he settled back at once, thrusting his hips
back, working his fingers tighter around his buttock. So Mulder put a little
more force into the next slap, and received an even more gratifying response.
Oh, Krycek liked this. So Mulder indulged him for a while, working the belt at
different angles, varying the intensity, moving down to slap at his balls, even
giving him a spank or two on the shaft of his cock. Soon Krycek was moaning with
every harsh breath, rocking his hips, and sweat was dripping down his spine and
forming a tiny pool in the small of his back.
It was good, but soon Mulder decided he'd had enough, and stepped away again.
He left Krycek as he was for a few moments, face crushed into the table, gasping
for breath, still gripping his own buttock. Then, softly, "All right, you can
get up now."
It was another thing he'd learned from Krycek: quiet authority worked best.
You'd think he might have learned it from Skinner after all these years of being
on the receiving end of it, but somehow, it wasn't until he found himself in a
position of authority that he understood—shouting and bluster and threats
got him nowhere; Krycek would run rings around him and leave him feeling like a
fool. But a calm order, firmly delivered, carried all the weight necessary. And
maybe it was just because Krycek wanted orders to follow—but Mulder had
also learned that Krycek gave up nothing for free; he made Mulder work for every
shred of power.
Krycek straightened up slowly and turned around. His face was as red as his
flaming bottom, damp with sweat that might also be tears. He looked wary,
defiant but desperate. He also looked hungry and eager for round two. And he
looked—grateful.
Mulder stepped forward and took him in his arms, held him tight and stroked
his back. Krycek crushed his body into Mulder's with a terrible fierceness,
suddenly wracked with a shudder that felt almost like a sob. Too much. He wasn't
ready for kindness yet. It was time to stop playing and give him what he needed.
Mulder held him for another moment, then stood back. He smiled, gave Krycek a
friendly cuff on the jaw. "Take your clothes off."
Mulder loved watching Krycek undress. And he'd been treated to many
delightful stripteases in the months since they'd come together: wary and
watchful, eager and coquettish, relaxed and friendly, sleepy-eyed and silly. He
loved them all, but there was a special electricity to the way Krycek was
stripping off his clothes tonight; a smoky slither that curled along Mulder's
cock like the hot lick of a tongue. Krycek moved slowly, carefully, like a cornered animal, unwavering eyes
locked on Mulder's. The broken prosthesis hung at his side as he worked the
leather jacket off his shoulders. He was finding it a little awkward to maneuver
around it. His mouth was tight, all his motions charged with wild energy,
stiffly controlled but ending in sudden little bursts. The jacket was tossed
aside, onto a chair. The tee-shirt was a problem—it tangled around the
useless arm, and he couldn't get it off. He pulled at it, trying to shove the
arm out of the way while he yanked at the sleeve, but the prosthesis was dead
weight, and continued to obstruct him. Krycek's left heel struck the floor in
angry frustration. His jeans, already down, fell a little farther around his
knees.
Mulder stepped forward to help him, holding the prosthetic arm up so Krycek
could pull the tee-shirt over it. When at last he was free of it, Krycek stood
biting his lower lip, nearly in tears. God, he hated having to have help to get
his clothes off! Mulder ached in sympathetic humiliation. He wanted to take
Krycek in his arms, tell him it was all right, but he knew that pity would be
even more hateful to him than his helplessness. Better to tie him up and make
him hurt, let him work it off fighting against the pain. Later, maybe, he'd be
ready to let Mulder hold him.
Mulder stepped back. "All right, get on with it." There was a slight catch in
his voice. Krycek flinched away from it, but only for a moment. Then he steeled
himself and continued undressing, and it was easier for him now: he heeled off
his boots, pushed his jeans and shorts down and stepped out of them, then bent
down to begin with his socks. "Never mind that," Mulder ordered. "Get up."
Krycek wore clean white athletic socks, soft cotton on strong feet. Mulder liked
the way they looked on him. They made him seem even more naked.
Krycek stood up slowly. There was a sheen of sweat on him. His muscular body
strained as if against invisible bonds. His lip was wet and swollen from his own
teeth. His hair formed damp spikes against his forehead. His one fist clenched.
And the damaged prosthesis hung from his ruined left shoulder, straps biting
around his upper chest.
Mulder stood with one hip thrust forward, arms crossed and lips pursed,
inspecting his prize. "Pretty," he pronounced finally. "Very pretty." And god,
he was, one wrecked arm notwithstanding. It was an intrusion, though, that
twisted hunk of plastic. No longer useful, it was now only an ugly reminder of
horrendous loss. Mulder gestured toward it with his chin. "Let's get rid of
that, shall we?"
Krycek nodded once, then reached for the buckles at his shoulder. He tugged
at it quickly, even eagerly, wanting to get rid of the broken thing, now only a
hindrance and a torment. When he had it loose, he flung it angrily to the floor.
That was better. Some of the tension loosened in him; some of the frustration
slid away. Not all of it, by any means; not even very much of it. They still had
a long way to go. But they were going in the right direction.
"On the bed," Mulder ordered, his voice deadly quiet. "On your back." Krycek
swallowed and moved to obey.
He didn't like being on his back, Mulder had learned. He felt more exposed,
more vulnerable with his groin and chest unprotected. He wasn't able to hide his
face, his expressive eyes and mobile mouth spelling out his response. And he
liked his assplay a little too much to mind being on his face with his butt
sticking up in the air. So this would be difficult for him, a greater test of
his obedience.
But Mulder didn't intend to strain Krycek's obedience very far. He turned
again to the bottom left dresser drawer, and came up with three fleece-lined
leather cuffs, a short length of chain, and several long leather straps. Krycek
needed to be able to let himself go. So Mulder would let him have some nice
comfy restraints to struggle against.
Mulder sat on the bed beside Krycek, a slow, sleek smile on his face. He
reached down to take hold of Krycek's wrist, and buckled one of the cuffs around
it. Then he drew Krycek's arm over his head, and used the short chain to fasten
the cuff midway along another length of chain that had been strung between the
bedposts. Strung there by Krycek, during some earlier game. And Mulder had left
it there, for the reminder of Krycek's steamy presence on the long nights they
spent apart. The wooden bedposts were scored where the chain had rubbed. He
ought to get an iron bedframe, Mulder mused. One with bars for a headboard. (And
no doubt that was one reason more people weren't into S/M—the equipment was
so expensive. Although he'd probably saved enough on videotapes to buy himself a
new bed by now.)
And now he was getting off track, and his smile had gone thoughtless and
cold, scaring Krycek, who was staring up at him wild-eyed. He patted Krycek's
chest, with its flat, hard muscles and pretty brown nipples. He toyed with them,
one and then the other, enjoying the way it made Krycek squirm. "It's okay,
baby, I'm here." And how much reassurance did Mulder really want to give? A
little fear might be good for him. It would help to distract him from whatever
was troubling him, allow him to let go. Anyway, he was so beautiful like this,
helpless and frightened, Mulder couldn't help wanting him to stay that way. He
moved down the bed, and began to buckle the other cuffs around Krycek's legs,
just above the knees. And while he worked, he kept up a soft stream of nonsense,
the gentle tone an ironic counterpoint to the words. "We'll spread you wide and
punish you hard, just the way you need it. Make you hurt real bad." He tied the
straps to the cuffs, then ran each strap up to the near bedpost at the head of
the bed, tying it off tightly, pulling Krycek's knees up and apart, spreading
him, lifting his hips just a little off the bed, exposing his cock and balls and
asshole, and a teasing glimpse of his pink, spanked bottom. "Oh, yeah, it's
going to hurt. I think I'm going to make you scream tonight."
And how much of the fear in Krycek's face was real? In the bright glint in
his stormy green eyes, the sweat that trickled across his forehead and down his
temples, the working of his soft mouth? Did he wonder if Mulder's rage still
burned, banked down but waiting to flare up at some opportune moment, when
Krycek was bound and helpless, and the game would suddenly turn horribly real?
There had been a time when Mulder had wondered that himself. And he had
wondered how Krycek dared to risk himself in Mulder's hands. It was a funny
thing about trust—the way it had grown, through the chances they'd taken
with each other, the pain and penance offered, the power exchanged. Mulder had
not wanted to think too hard about what was happening between them, beyond the
pleasure of having a warm body in his bed from time to time, and the sweet
satisfaction of a man who'd once been his enemy now groveling at his feet, but
somehow something more had happened. They'd turned the awful realities between
them into games, and then the games into reality. Krycek was safe with him.
Their very first time had been awkward and strange. Having won his prize,
Mulder had found that he had no real idea what to do with him. Hurt him?—In
anger, that was easy enough. Handcuff him, call him names, drive his fist into
him, make him suffer—but now? With Krycek standing expectantly, waiting for
it? With rules to follow and the responsibility for Krycek's pleasure, as well
as his own?
To his humiliation, he'd had to have Krycek's help. Shall I tell you what
I like, Mulder? Krycek had asked, and then listed off his favorite things,
calmly as if he were ordering dinner. He liked being spanked. Whipped. Bondage.
Verbal abuse. Ass play. He liked pain. They didn't have any toys, not back then,
so they would have to improvise. Mulder could use his hand, or his belt.
Frustrated and a little angry, Mulder had turned Krycek over his knee for a
spanking. He'd wanted to humiliate Krycek, but his own face had blazed almost
painfully with embarrassment over what he was doing. He could barely imagine it:
Alex Krycek, his mortal enemy, lying across his lap with his jeans down around
his ankles and his bare butt turned up for a spanking. And liking it.
Well, almost liking it. <Harder,> he'd begged, after Mulder's first few
tentative slaps. <Harder,> when Mulder increased the pressure only
slightly. Then something had switched on inside him. Something powerful and wonderful.
The tentativeness had disappeared, making Mulder feel huge and in control. He
wants harder? I'll show him harder! And Mulder had let loose, putting all
his force into the blows, hitting as hard as he could, making Krycek gasp and
jump and moan with pain. And god, it had been good. Mulder had wanted to laugh
with triumph.
And Krycek had liked it! Mulder had felt Krycek's cock stiffening in
his lap, hips thrusting eagerly into the blows. Mulder was hitting him as hard
as he could, and Krycek loved it. It was astonishing. And the realization had
come to Mulder like a thunderclap: I can do anything I want with him. Oh,
he'd known that before, but he hadn't really known it. There were rules,
he'd thought. It was just a game. He couldn't really hurt Krycek, not the way he
would have wanted to. But that was wrong. He could do anything he wanted.
The rules—well, they were nothing he really would have wanted to do,
anyway. Lasting damage. Real physical harm. He'd had Krycek under his control
before, and what had he done? Hit him, handcuffed him, dragged him around. Nasty
enough, but nothing serious. As often as he'd told himself he wanted to kill
Krycek, when the opportunity came, he'd slapped him around a little and let him
go. In Hong Kong, he hadn't even been able to bear seeing the blood trickle down
Krycek's nose. In Tunguska, he'd had a knife and never used it, preferring his
fists. And there was nothing in the rules about how hard he could hit.
He'd given Krycek the spanking of his life. (Or so he had then thought.) They
had both come with Krycek still across his lap, grinding their cocks together
through Mulder's jeans. Afterwards, Krycek had slid into the floor, wincing when
his sore butt hit the carpet, then lay there in a sated heap. They'd looked at
each other with huge, silly grins on their faces. Mulder couldn't remember when
he'd had so much fun.
And so it had begun.
Finally, Mulder was satisfied with the restraints, and he stepped away from
the bed to drink in the sight: Krycek's sweet, strong body, smooth and white as
marble, damp with sweat and hard with tension, on his back with his one arm tied
over his head, and his knees pulled apart and back, white socks on his feet, his
full cock stiff along his belly, rosy brown asshole peeking out from between
reddened cheeks. And it was past time Mulder got his own clothes off; his dress
shirt and wool suit pants were sticky and uncomfortable.
But perhaps his human sculpture needed one final touch. Nothing much, just a
little something up his ass to keep him occupied while Mulder undressed. Mulder
had just the thing—something new he'd been wanting to use. He dug again in
the toy drawer, his own face blazing, and his cock throbbing against the cotton
fabric of his underwear. It was a rectal thermometer he'd picked up at a drug
store a couple of weeks ago, embarrassed as hell, and sure the sales clerk would
take one look at him and know he was not buying it for any medical purposes. But
just the thought of using it on Krycek made him crazy; he'd almost come right
there in the store.
He took the thermometer out of its case and grabbed a tube of lube, and
turned back to Krycek, smiling wickedly. "You're a hot one, aren't you? Let's
just see how hot you really are." He checked the reading on the thermometer and
shook the mercury down, as he sat at the foot of the bed, at Krycek's bottom.
Krycek squirmed, his arm tugging at the cuff around his wrist, legs pulling
on the restraints—which only served to lift his hips farther off the bed,
and spread him wider. Another advantage of tying him up this way—he
couldn't struggle without exposing himself even more. Mulder smiled to himself
and patiently watched his captive work against his restraints. He'd have to
remember this position for the future—he hadn't tied Krycek up like this
before. It was quite lovely being able to watch his face, eyes dark with
discomfort and arousal, mouth working, sweat dripping down his temples. And the
view from below was just as satisfying—the stiff cock pulsing along his
belly, already streaming with shiny thin strands of precum, balls rolling back
and forth as he squirmed in his bonds, asshole squeezing and pulsing. Krycek
wasn't really fighting against the prospect of the thermometer, Mulder knew, or
the restraints—he was fighting the men who used and tormented him for real,
who'd tried to discard him, who passed him around among them like a broken toy.
He was fighting the prosthetic arm he hated and depended upon. He was fighting
the circumstances that wouldn't let either of them rest for long, or settle
their differences without endless complications, that put threat and conspiracy
and danger unrelentingly at the back of their minds. It was a lot to fight
against, and they needed these little battles, with their rituals and rules,
where winning and losing both meant the same thing, to ease the path of their
greater struggles.
Mulder took the tube of lubricant, and squeezed a fat drop onto the end of
his index finger. He didn't really need lube for such a small, smooth thing, but
Krycek liked it, and anyway, Mulder wanted to play with him a little. And it was
beautiful to watch the way Krycek gasped and thrust his hips in response to the
touch of Mulder's finger on his asshole. It made Mulder smile, and his own cock
twitch, as he leaned in, elbow around Krycek's thigh, to work just his fingertip
into Krycek's ass, spreading the lubricant. And then the thermometer—and it
was always a pleasure to penetrate him, no matter how large or small the object
used: to feel the slight tug of the sphincter as the tip of the thermometer
pushed past, to watch the narrow cylinder of glass slide in. Mulder couldn't
help leaning down to kiss the inside of Krycek's thigh, once he'd gotten the
thermometer in. The skin was hot and quivering under his lips. He kissed the
other thigh as well, then, and briefly nuzzled Krycek's warm balls, nipping them
gently with his teeth.
But not too much. Not yet. Pain first; work him hard and break him, and then
stroke and soothe him, when he was ready for it. Patience. It was hard, and this
was Mulder's struggle, to be patient and make sure Krycek got what he needed
before Mulder indulged himself. He pulled away, a little reluctantly, giving
Krycek a light slap on the butt as he got off the bed. "There, that will keep
you happy while I get my clothes off."
And it was a relief finally to unbutton his sticky shirt and pull it off his
back, and slide out of his wool trousers. He took his time with it, though,
keeping his eyes on Krycek all the while, making his movements languorous and
sensual, giving his captive a little show. And oh, Krycek liked it. His chest
rose and fell with ragged breaths, and his eyes were a haze of lust. The short
end of the thermometer poking out of his ass was just as delightful as Mulder
had known it would be.
Now, they were ready for the real action at last. Mulder went to the closet
and dug for the small box buried near the back. It was an electric stimulation
box, something he'd picked up a few years ago, mostly out of curiosity. He'd
used it on himself a few times, found it more than he could usually handle, and
tucked it away. But he knew quite well that Krycek could take a lot more
physical pain than he could, and liked being pushed to his limits, and tonight
especially needed something beyond the usual whipping and pinching.
Their safe word was "red." Krycek had insisted upon having one, when they'd
first started playing these games. I want you to feel free to really hurt
me, he'd said. I don't want you to hold back. Mulder hadn't really
understood it then, but now he did. He would have been reluctant to try
something like this, that they'd never done or discussed before, if he hadn't
known that Krycek had his failsafe, an instant way out if things went wrong.
Neither of them had ever used the safe word, and as a matter of pride Mulder
never wanted to put Krycek in a position where he had to use it, but it acted as
a safety net beneath their games that allowed them play out on the edge with
confidence.
Mulder gathered up the box and its attachments, along with a condom for
later, and brought it all over to the bed. The box ran off a nine-volt battery;
it had been fresh when he'd last used it, which was quite a while ago now, but
it was probably still good. He switched it on for a moment to test it, and the
LED readouts glowed. Good. (And it would have been a bit embarrassing now to
have to go rooting for batteries). Then he picked through the attachments
thoughtfully, deciding which to use where. "I'm going to have to hurt you bad,"
he murmured, as he held the different devices in his hands. "Let's see. You need
something up your ass, for a start." Not a plug, Mulder decided. He still didn't
want to stretch Krycek's anus. The sparkler would be best—a short length of
conductive rubber that would introduce a pure pulse of electricity into Krycek's
ass. He attached one of the leads to the box, and the other end to the sparkler.
Now he took the thermometer and drew it out, slowly. Krycek moaned and worked
his hips, so keyed up that even this little bit of stimulation had him going.
"Ninety-nine degrees," he read. "You are a hot one." Just the slightest touch of
fever—or was this Krycek's normal body temperature? He always seemed to run
hot. Mulder found it endearingly appropriate. He would have to do this again.
He put the thermometer aside, and picked up the sparkler. There was a special
lubricant gel that enhanced the electrical signal; Mulder spread some over the
sparkler, then inserted it into Krycek's anus. There was a little tremor in
Krycek's body as the sparkler went in. The device itself was no wider than the
thermometer, but it would pack a hefty jolt.
"Okay," Mulder said, "Now the other lead goes on your cock." The current
would go right through him, from his cock to his ass. Mulder had only tried this
particular arrangement once, himself. He'd come almost instantly, but had been
so shaken afterwards he hadn't dared do it again, especially not by himself. But
if he had a strong top to take care of him and lead him through it, perhaps he'd
be able to handle it. He and Krycek switched every now and then. Not often, and
not for any really heavy action. They both preferred the present arrangement.
But perhaps one day Krycek would teach him to stretch his own limits. The
thought created a pleasant tingle in his groin.
He would have liked to insert another sparkler into Krycek's cock. But he
only had the one, and besides, he didn't have the experience in urethral
insertion, and didn't trust himself to do it safely. He wanted to learn—and
he was tempted to ask Scully to teach him how to insert a catheter, but had no
idea how he'd explain to her why he wanted to know. And anyway, her experience
was with dead bodies, and might not translate so well to living sex partners. So
it would have to be one of the cock rings, and certainly, there was nothing
wrong with that. Just behind the crown, he thought, to send the current down the
whole length of Krycek's cock. He had several, of various sizes. Not the
smallest; Krycek's cock was thicker than his, although not longer. Solid and
substantial, like the rest of his body. Mulder adored it. He chose the second of
the rings, connected the leads, slicked it inside with the special lubricant
gel, then took Krycek's cock in his hand and worked the ring over it. It fit
snugly. Mulder curled his fingers around the shaft of Krycek's cock and gave it
a few firm strokes, making him arch and moan. Then he sat back, pausing for a
moment to gather himself.
Krycek was breathing hard. His eyes were wild again; his hand tightened into
a fist, pulling on the cuff. The leads trailed from his cock and ass. The
tension, which had never really gone, was hard in him. It was time to stop the
preliminaries, and give him what he needed. "It's time," Mulder said softly.
Krycek went rigid. Mulder found it a little unnerving. Krycek might not need any
reassurance, but perhaps Mulder did. He stroked Krycek's thigh. "Okay, baby?" He
never called Krycek "baby" except when they were deep in a scene. It would have
felt foolish at any other time, but now it seemed only natural.
Krycek's eyes rolled back, and his face twisted. His mouth was a hard line.
"Do it." His leg began to shake under Mulder's hand.
"I will." Mulder's voice went hot and smoky, and his fingers tightened,
turned harsh. "I will."
The unit was set at its lowest level. It was always best to work up to these
things. And Mulder had no real idea how Krycek would react. It was a special
kind of pain, exotic and tingly, filling the body with a sizzling shock that was
warm and sweet and unbearable. And Krycek was going to feel it deep inside his
body, right where he was most vulnerable, helpless to resist or defend himself
against it. Mulder found that his own hand was damp with sweat, and trembling on
the controls. It was time. He turned the unit on.
Krycek cried out. His body arched off the bed, his legs reached up toward the
ceiling, jerking against the restraints, lifting his hips high off the bed. The
LED readouts glowed, recording the electricity pulsing through his body. Mulder
switched it off, and Krycek sagged in his bonds, whimpering.
He waited out a count of five, then switched it on again. And again, Krycek's
helpless response: body jerking like a fish on a line, gasping breaths
punctuated with sharp, whimpering cries, sweat dripping down his sides, the
leads from his cock and ass twitching in the air. His cock was swollen and
purple, like a ripe fruit, and his balls pulled tight against his body. Mulder
himself felt so hard his whole lower body throbbed.
Mulder let it last longer this time before switching off the current, then
gave him two quick jolts in rapid succession. Krycek's ass clamped down on the
sparkler, as if trying to squeeze the shock out of it. His hand found the chain
running between the bedposts and gripped it tightly. Mulder continued to turn
the box on and off, varying the intervals, never letting Krycek guess when the
next spike of electricity would come, or how long it would last, until Krycek
was writhing franticly, moaning gasps that were almost sobs, and the acrid tang
of fear and pain rose from him.
It was astonishing how tough he was, Mulder thought. How resilient. He was
strong, but it was more than that—he was soaking up the pain, taking it in,
transforming it. He was yielding to it, yet not letting it destroy him. He was
like that outside the bedroom, too—he took whatever was thrown at him and
absorbed it and went on, not so much a fighter as an unstoppable force of
nature. He was tougher than Mulder in that way, and Mulder knew it—his own
setbacks and defeats settled in and ate away at him, never really healing. More
than once he'd given up, wanting only to crawl away and hide, and it had taken
Scully or Skinner or even Krycek to drag him out of the pit he'd dug for himself
and make him fight back again. But Krycek seemed to have some limitless well of
determination inside him.
It was ironic, in a way—Mulder would have thought that the man on top
would have to be the strong one, the powerful one. But it hadn't turned out that
way. And it made sense, when he thought about it—it was the one on the
bottom who had to take all the pain and abuse and come out of it whole and
healthy. Mulder wasn't sure he could do it, himself. But Krycek certainly could.
And now, at last, the terrible fight and anger were draining out of him,
overcome by the torture he was enduring. There were tears dripping from his
eyes, mingling with the sweat at his temples, and his struggles were quieting,
leaving only the uncontrollable twitches and jerks in response to the
electricity pulsing through him.
"Mulder...." His voice was desperate and thick with pain. He was begging,
which he very rarely did. They were close now.
"I know," Mulder said, and dialed up the intensity on the box.
Krycek thrashed in his restraints and screamed. His hips thrust. A low
keening wail began to emerge from his throat. When Mulder turned off the box,
Krycek was sobbing.
"Mulder, please...."
Mulder ached. There were tears in his own eyes. "Almost there, baby. Hang
on." And Krycek's mouth formed a determined line, and he nodded once. He would
take whatever Mulder wanted him to take, until he simply couldn't take any
more—because Mulder asked him to. Mulder felt as though his heart would
break. He switched on the box again, and left it on.
Krycek writhed and moaned. But something was different this time: he was
fighting with the current, rather than against it. When his hips worked, they
seemed to be pulling the sparkler inside him, thrusting his cock into the ring
of fire. His fist opened, and his hand reached up to the sky. His moans took on
a tone of ecstasy. Finally, Krycek had broken. Not to failure and despair, but
to freedom and joy.
Mulder waited out another count of five, then turned off the box and set it
aside. He stroked Krycek's thigh and waited while the tremors in his body
subsided. Then, gently, he pulled the sparkler out of his anus, and worked the
ring off the end of his stiff cock. Krycek was still crying, but now his sobs
were soft and easy. His muscles had gone limp, and he lay in his bonds like a
baby on its back. God, he was beautiful. His sea-green eyes were shiny with
tears, and his improbably dark, thick eyelashes were damp and spiky. His smooth,
white chest, with its fine scattering of soft golden hairs, rose and fell with
deep, heavy breaths. His thick cock lay throbbing against his sinewy belly.
Mulder had been planning to untie him and turn him over before finishing him,
but decided after all to take him just like this. He was too lovely to disturb,
and anyway would probably appreciate being allowed to stay in his bonds a little
while longer.
Mulder knelt at Krycek's butt, and stretched out on top of him, belly to
belly and chest to chest. Under his right hand lay the hard lump of what was
left of Krycek's lost arm. He massaged and stroked the tough stump of flesh. He
fitted his left arm against Krycek's right, and twined their fingers together.
Sighing happily, he lowered his mouth onto Krycek's, and let his tongue slide
deep into warm wetness. He moved his body slowly, rubbing his stiff cock against
Krycek's. It was a gorgeous feeling, luxurious, to lie here with his prize; a
man of surprising depths and passions, strong and hard and beautiful, now at
last relaxed and easy, all the fight worked out of him, happy in his defeat.
He could almost get lost in it, just lying atop Krycek's bound body, kissing
his soft mouth deeply, tasting his submission. But Mulder's cock was hard almost
to the point of pain, and wanted to be inside, to feel tight muscle yielding to
him. So, reluctantly, he pulled away, found the condom he'd left down by
Krycek's hips, and rolled it carefully onto his twitching cock, almost afraid to
touch himself, lest he explode too soon. Then the lube: a generous amount,
worked into Krycek's anus, spread firmly into the small folds and puckers of
flesh.
Mulder lay down over him again, this time with his cock in his hand, guiding
it into Krycek's body. As always, he felt a thrill deep inside him as the head
of his cock pressed into the firm ring of muscle. This was what Mulder liked
best of all—Krycek surrendering beneath him, eager and receptive, taking
Mulder's cock up his ass. Two shallow, gentle thrusts; three; then the sphincter
opened and Mulder's cock slid inside. Krycek sucked in air, a tiny gasp of
delight, and lifted his hips.
Mulder bent down to kiss him, chuckling with pure pleasure, driving his cock
in with long, leisurely strokes, slowly at first, then building and building,
faster, harder, to an impossible crescendo. Krycek came first, with a whimpering
little squeal, body stiffening and semen spurting out between their bellies,
sphincter squeezing Mulder's cock. Mulder followed soon after, pumping hard into
Krycek's ass, finally collapsing with him into a sweaty, blissful heap.
Mulder let them drift for a few minutes, but only a few, before stirring
himself to dispose of the condom, unfasten Krycek's restraints, and gather the
toys to put back in their drawer. After a moment's consideration, he put the
electro-stimulation box in the drawer as well, leaving the sparkler and cock
ring with the thermometer on top of the dresser to be cleaned later. They
wouldn't use it often, he didn't think, but it had worked well for them tonight,
and he thought they should keep it with the rest of the toys for these special
occasions. Then he got back into bed, pulling the comforter up over them both,
and gathering Krycek into his arms. Krycek curled up against him, all warm and
boneless, fairly purring with contentment. Mulder pulled him tighter and kissed
his cheek.
"Thank you," Krycek whispered huskily into his ear. "That was great."
"You're very welcome." Mulder smiled. He loved having Krycek in his
bed—the size of him, his heat, the solid weight of his body. Mulder never
had to wake up wondering whether Krycek was still there. There would be a hot
hip pressed against him, or an arm flung across his chest. Or at the very least,
a depression in the mattress from the weight of his body, a well for Mulder to
fall into. So much of Mulder's life was coverup and deceit. It was good to have
someone solid and unmistakeable at his side.
He still didn't really understand how it worked between them. Why it was that
when he'd hated Krycek, and hurt him, it had made him feel sick and wrong; but
now, when he didn't hate him at all, hurting him felt good. It was supposed to
be a bad thing to hurt someone. It wasn't supposed to make people care about
each other.
Mulder kissed Krycek's cheek again. "You want to talk about it now?"
Krycek squirmed against him. "Yeah. In a minute."
There was no hurry. In a little while, they would talk. He would finally
discover what had happened to Krycek's prosthesis, and if talking about it wound
him up again, Mulder would gladly bring him back down. They would rest and talk
and fuck again until exhaustion took them, and then they would sleep for
whatever was left of the night.
In the morning, Krycek would probably leave early. Occasionally he was able
to stay for a day or two, but this time he'd most likely have the business with
his arm and whatever had led up to it to deal with, so it would only be an
overnight visit. Mulder never knew exactly when he'd see Krycek again, but
they'd keep in touch, by email mostly, and if there were tidbits about the alien
colonization Krycek thought he could safely pass on, he would. Maybe in the
meanwhile, Mulder would do a little shopping, and have that fraternity paddle
waiting for him the next time he came by.
No, he didn't understand it at all. But he knew this for sure: it wasn't a
bad thing at all. It was very, very good.
The End
Bad
by Cody Nelson
It was nearly eleven when Mulder got home. He opened his apartment door to the
faint light of the television flickering on the walls of the hallway as it
streamed in from the living room. Smiling to himself, he stepped in, a warm
tingle of anticipation beginning to form in the pit of his stomach. And there
was Alex Krycek sitting on his couch, looking like seven kinds of trouble in his
black leather jacket and worn jeans and raggedy punk haircut. It was no longer
any great surprise to find him here, popping up for one of his occasional
visits. What was surprising was to see Alex Krycek slumped down in the middle of
the couch with a dark look on his face and the TV remote in his gloved hand,
cycling slowly but relentlessly through the channels on the muted television.
