How to Domesticate a Russian Bear
So, all Mischa really wanted was sex. Hot, kinky sex, and preferably lots of it. But then he got a sub, and then the sub turned into a fiancé, and now apparently Mischa is supposed to settle down and be all domesticated. However, Mischa does not do tame.
Well, at least he didn’t use to. Now he’s beginning to think that yes, he does indeed do tame. Unfortunately, his sub doesn’t seem to get that.
Tom knew that Mischa was a handful. Hell, that’s basically what made Tom fall head over heels for him. But figuring out how to handle his postgraduate studies combined with a long-distance relationship is driving him nuts. And not in the great, Mischa-is-torturing-me-with-kinky-sex-toys way (even though that happens, too. A lot). More like in the this-is-killing-me-slowly-and-I-don’t-know-what-to-do-about-it way. Unfortunately, Mischa finds out and puts his foot down, and then suddenly Tom has some very hard choices to make.
Then there’s Mischa’s busybody bridezilla friend, karate practice with people who actually hit back, and the arrival of the inlaws. That’s when Tom realizes that domesticating a Russian bear may take more work than even he realized.
Warning: An unrepentantly grumpy Dom with an unrepentantly pain-loving sub, kink so hot that the reader will be in imminent danger of blushing, and two characters who do their very best to turn a perfectly nice romance into a porn movie every chance they get.
Well, at least he didn’t use to. Now he’s beginning to think that yes, he does indeed do tame. Unfortunately, his sub doesn’t seem to get that.
Tom knew that Mischa was a handful. Hell, that’s basically what made Tom fall head over heels for him. But figuring out how to handle his postgraduate studies combined with a long-distance relationship is driving him nuts. And not in the great, Mischa-is-torturing-me-with-kinky-sex-toys way (even though that happens, too. A lot). More like in the this-is-killing-me-slowly-and-I-don’t-know-what-to-do-about-it way. Unfortunately, Mischa finds out and puts his foot down, and then suddenly Tom has some very hard choices to make.
Then there’s Mischa’s busybody bridezilla friend, karate practice with people who actually hit back, and the arrival of the inlaws. That’s when Tom realizes that domesticating a Russian bear may take more work than even he realized.
Warning: An unrepentantly grumpy Dom with an unrepentantly pain-loving sub, kink so hot that the reader will be in imminent danger of blushing, and two characters who do their very best to turn a perfectly nice romance into a porn movie every chance they get.
Excerpt:
“Eight?” The TSA agent nervously adjusted the hem of his blue latex glove. “Did you say eight, sir?”
There were many situations in which Mischa loved having a handsome man calling him “sir”. On his way out of an airport, though, with a large portion of his belongings on display on the table in front of passengers exiting the airport, wasn’t one of them. Being held up like this took precious time. It was bad enough that his plane from Boston had somehow ended up in the international terminal of O'Hare, which was why he now had been randomly picked out for a security check.
Well, as random as things ever got in an airport when you had a suspiciously Russian-sounding name. Traveling had become a lot more challenging to Mischa lately, and it did not improve his mood.
“Yes,” he answered more than a little impatiently. “Well, eight silicone ones, of course. Then there are another three made of metal.” He liked to be prepared for any eventuality.
Why was he here again? Mischa was pretty sure they had said something on the plane about being redirected something-something, but he had been too busy planning what to do to Tom to really listen. He had his priorities right.
The man in front of him swallowed hard. “Do I understand you correctly, sir, that you’ve brought eleven…” His voice petered out as he searched for a word. Then he seemed to find one sufficiently neutral to use in an official capacity surrounded by innocent travelers. “Uh, ‘adult toys’ on your trip today?”
“You do,” Mischa said crisply.
That seemed to leave the agent at a loss for words. Mischa decided to help him out. “It is a long weekend, after all.”
It was Thursday evening now, and Mischa didn't have to go back before Monday night, which meant they had four days. Every one of which he intended to put to very good use. And quite a bit of that use would involve those very plugs that were at the moment being handled (quite inexpertly, if Mischa should say so himself) by the foremost of American homeland security enforcement.
“I see,” the TSA agent said, his voice sounding slightly faint.
Mischa was pretty sure the man didn't see. As a matter of fact, he seemed slightly lost when he studied Mischa's open suitcase where the three other plugs where still hiding. The guy looked a little like he expected to find a snake down there.
Despite his impatience, Mischa started to enjoy the situation. He was a sadist, after all, and you had to take whatever entertainment life offered you. And it wasn't like Mischa hadn't politely informed the TSA agent that he might want to skip this search in case he was easily offended. It hadn't really seemed to make an impression, though. Quite the contrary, in fact. Apparently telling security personnel that they shouldn't do something was a surefire way of getting every bit of your luggage examined closely.
Taking a deep breath, the TSA agent dug deeper into Mischa's belongings, and lo and behold, found the three metal plugs in their soft case. But since he really did handle the nylon bag like there was a snake inside, he managed to upend it, and the biggest plug fell out, crashing first to the metal table and then to the floor. The sound of it was quite impressive.
Next to Mischa, a business-clad woman did a double take and almost tripped over her trolley when she saw the impressive exhibition of top-quality sex toys on the table. Well, maybe it wasn't the quality as such that she stumbled over, Mischa mused. Most people had such low standards when it came to sex toys.
The racket from the heavy metal plug had caught the attention of one of the other airport employees, causing him to come over and bend down to pick up the object. He hesitated briefly when he saw it and then grabbed it, got up, and placed it next to the others on the table with a clang. Mischa could swear he saw the side of the man's mouth twitch.
“Here you go, Mitch. I think you dropped something.”
By now the first security guy was reduced to speechlessness, and helplessly gestured to the row of eight colorful silicone plugs and one shiny metal one. He looked poorly prepared for this situation. In his defense, Mischa had a hunch that high-grade butt plugs were not something the TSA had ever used as an example in any luggage search training video. Although perhaps they should; the man seemed at a loss at what to do.
“I did offer to unpack everything for you,” Mischa began impatiently.
“It's quite all right, sir,” the second TSA agent said. “I'm sure my colleague is fully capable of handling your baggage.” With that, he turned away before Mischa could reply.
Mischa could feel his eyebrows doing that thing they had learned from Tom. He couldn't help but admire people who could slip an insult that stylishly into everyday formal conversation. Mischa wondered briefly whether the man was a sub. A pity, really, if he weren't. He would be fun.
None of this little intermezzo had really improved the poor TSA agent’s confidence any, and the rest of the search was fumbling and not quite as thorough as it perhaps should be. For example, the agent didn't even comment on the three paddles at the bottom of the suitcase. Perhaps he thought they were ping pong equipment. Or else he had just had all the kink that he could take for one day.
Suitcase repacked, plugs safely secured back in their cases (he would have to disinfect the whole lot now; no way was he putting anything in Tom that had been on an airport floor), Mischa could finally get on his way. At the other side of the barrier, his gaze caught the uniformed driver holding a discreet sign with Mischa's last name on it. Excellent; now he was only a short drive away from seeing Tom again.
***
God, this had been the longest two-and-a-half months of Tom's life. Moving to Chicago to begin his postgraduate studies was one thing. That part of it was actually fun. His new colleagues in the department seemed relatively sane (had he been studying anything else, he would perhaps had aimed higher than “relatively sane”. But he was in art history; you had to be realistic). He'd gotten a nice work space which he shared with two other PhD students, both ahead of him in the process of writing a thesis, and he had even managed to snatch up some teaching he really liked, starting with summer school classes and now regular freshman classes. It meant that he wasn't dependent on using Mischa's money, and he did not want to be dependent. In any way. However grumpy Mischa got when Tom pointed out that no, no way, was he going to be living off Mischa like some kind of sugar baby.
All right, he hadn’t added the thing about the sugar baby. He was pretty sure that Mischa didn’t even know what it was. But lately, Tom had had this nagging feeling deep inside that their relationship would never last if Tom turned into some kind of… dependent? Burden? Whatever the correct word was, it was enough to make little tendrils of panic shoot through Tom every time Mischa mentioned anything about sacrificing time or money just because of Tom. It was not fair to Mischa that just because Tom had gotten a PhD position half way across the country, Mischa should give up everything he liked. Hence why Tom was living alone in Chicago while Mischa stayed back in Boston. It simply made sense, which Tom had repeatedly, well, repeated in his many discussions with Mischa about the subject. In the end, Tom had simply informed him that this was how it was going to be for the next two years: Mischa was going to stay in Boston, and Tom would be living in Chicago.
Talking about Tom’s living situation, there wasn't anything wrong with it as such. As a matter of fact, he had been incredibly lucky to find a couple of other postgraduate students who were looking for a housemate. They were civil, mostly cleaned up after themselves, and, well, he’d quickly learned not to ask about research in the field of atomic time measuring. Or whatever it was called. Even after the one-and-a-half-hour lecture, Tom still wasn't sure he really knew what Christopher was studying. But since Tom basically was studying paintings of sex, he probably wasn't one to complain.
The one thing the house didn't have was one grumpy, kinky financial advisor, though.
It was pathetic, really. They hadn't even been living together for a year before Tom moved here, and Tom had always been a very independent person. There was absolutely no reason for moping around like a lovesick puppy whining for his daddy.
Okay, that metaphor went to hell in a handbasket faster than you could say “never get kinks like those mixed up.” Tom shuddered while he folded the last of his sheets and put them away. Puppy play and daddy fetishes were perfectly fine for other people, but he would never be that dependent on anybody.
And he hadn't really been moping around at the beginning. He had been very determined to enjoy every moment of his time in Chicago. It was exciting, after all; new work environment, new friends, and a city to explore which was every bit as interesting as Boston. The first month had been fun, exhausting, and challenging. Everything he liked. Even the state of being constantly horny because Mischa wasn't there to do unspeakable things to Tom had been kind of interesting. Tom had never known phone sex to be so hot.
Then Mischa had cancelled his plans to come visit; something about a crisis in the European Union which made the pound go down. Or up? Anyway, it meant that the financial market suddenly did things that made it necessary for Mischa to watch it very, very carefully in order to make his loaded clients even more loaded. Tom did understand the necessity of tending to your work, but it really wasn't fair to fumble around with financial crises when there were sexually frustrated fiancés out there.
Then they hadn't been able to reschedule until three weeks later – this weekend – and that was when reality hit Tom hard.
He missed Mischa.
It wasn't even the kink – although he did look forward to being thoroughly debauched for the next four days. Hell, he almost thought he could manage without the kink. But then again, why should he? And now he was arguing with himself again. It really was time for Mischa to return; then Tom certainly would have somebody else to argue with.
The simple fact was that he had lived with his impossible grump of a boyfriend-turned-fiancé for so long that he vastly preferred it to being on his own.
It was a little scary to admit. First and foremost because he had always been on his own and always been hell bent on showing everybody that you could still make it and still be happy even if you were not a part of a white picket fence and golden retriever couple. But also because the admission made it all the more real; he really was going to be living here without Mischa for the next two years. That fact was a lot less fun than the whole “explore your new city and get on with your amazing thesis” thing, and at the moment it didn't help a lot to repeat to himself that he'd only have to spend the first two years of his four-year-long PhD scholarship in Chicago before moving back to Boston where the other participants in his project were located. Two years seemed like a very long time.
But hey, he was a big boy, and he was determined to make this work. And for the next four days, he was going to enjoy every single kinky thing to which Mischa would subject him. Tom might have missed the little everyday things; Mischa, on the other hand, was all about the kink. Their Skype conversations had been so x-rated that Tom praised himself lucky that he lived in the attic room. It might have weirdly crooked walls and not nearly enough closet space even for his sparse belongings, but it was nicely out of the way of his housemates. He had tried to be quiet, he really had, but when Mischa got going, it was nigh on impossible to stay silent.
Especially because Mischa had forbidden him to touch his ass. Tom blushed just thinking about the conversation they had had three weeks ago. “I want you so sensitive and so tight that it'll be just like when I fucked you for the very first time,” Mischa had growled. Well, Tom thought that was what Mischa had said; Tom had been busy coming all over his desk.
For some reason, knowing that he wasn't allowed to touch himself there made him all the more aware of that part of his body. To begin with, it had simply made him horny; he had wanked more than he ever had for the first couple of days after that. Mischa had had a lot of fun watching him on Skype.
Then something peculiar started to happen. It was almost like he forgot what it was like to be touched there, and particularly how it would feel to be fucked. He started to wonder about it, how exactly it would feel after all this time, if it would hurt. Well, of course it would; it always did to some degree when Mischa fucked him, and if he were honest with himself, he liked that very much. His cheeks might be permanently on fire around Mischa, but the two of them were a match made in kink heaven. Tom was very much looking forward to their visit, but that didn't mean that he wasn't nervous as hell.
Bloody Mischa; he was one hell of a mind fucker. Or maybe he was simply a horny bastard enjoying torturing his sub in as many ways as possible. Tom grinned; knowing Mischa, the last option was definitely the most likely possibility.
He was also a horny bastard about to get as much sex as Tom could possibly give him in just under a hundred hours. Tom adjusted himself before donning his jacket and going downstairs to get in the cab Mischa had arranged for him. It was, of course, completely unnecessary to take a cab, but Mischa had apparently made it his mission to ensure that Tom used his car as little as possible. He seemed to think that the thing was a deathtrap. Sometimes he was a little weird.
On the way to the house Mischa had lent from some acquaintances, Tom's suspicions grew until he had to shake his head in disbelief. Mischa had told him that the house was very conveniently located not far from the airport, and Tom had automatically thought of a dull middle-class neighborhood frequently overflown by airplanes. Instead they turned off the Kennedy Expressway toward Forest Glen and Edgebrook. Even new to the city, Tom had heard about these neighborhoods. Lincoln Park was a very nice area, but the house Tom lived in would probably fit into a closet up here. It was just so typically Mischa to do something like that. Not the fact that he had friends in high places. After all, those were the people he worked very hard to make very rich, so it was only natural that they would be among his acquaintances. It just seemed that he didn't care one bit about the money part of his job. There was no end to his arrogance when it came to his trust in his own skills, but that was exactly what mattered to him: skills; not the money you earned by using those skills. Well, judging by the number of clients he had, perhaps that wasn't so much arrogance as a somewhat firmly stated confidence.
And now Tom was debating with himself again. He knew why, of course. He was half hard, his heart was beginning to hammer, and his palms were slightly sweaty. Because Mischa. And Mischa's arsenal of sex toys and depraved ideas of what to do to a formerly innocent, pain-loving sub. He had a feeling that he was going to get his mind blown this weekend.
Other parts too, of course.
It didn't come as a surprise when the cab swung up in front of a stately building that looked like it couldn't decide whether it wanted to be a house or a mansion. However, Tom didn't pay much attention to architecture at that point, apart from a fleeting appreciation of the fact that there was a good distance to any prying neighbors. He was using all his willpower to keep his steps calm and measured as the cab drove off behind him; desperation was never a pretty sight, even though he most of all wanted to sprint up the driveway stretching in front of him.
Finally he stood in front of the door. He took a deep breath, trying to compose himself, and reached up to knock at the door.
Before his hand made contact with the dark wood, the door was flung open and he was pulled into an embrace so tight that he couldn't breathe. For a moment, he was shocked; then his brain registered the scent of Mischa, and Mischa's arms around him, and he gave up on any pretense of being stoic and mature and simply clung, breathing in deeply and finally, finally indulging in the feeling of being back in Mischa's arms.
He’d envisioned this meeting pretty much every single day since they'd parted. He’d pictured Mischa kissing him, Mischa having kinky plans that started right on the doorstep, Mischa bossing him around.
He hadn't imagined this desperate clinging. Mischa held on so tightly that it felt like Mischa's arms and Mischa's body were his entire world.
He hadn't imagined, either, the way Mischa was hiding his head against Tom's shoulder, and he certainly hadn't imagined the labored breaths that sounded suspiciously moist. Tom gently let one hand slide through Mischa's dark hair, rubbing softly, comforting.
“Hey, hey,” he whispered. “It's okay. We're okay now.”
Then he realized why he was whispering and pulled a little harder on Mischa's hair. “But you could consider letting me breathe sometime soon. It would probably be good for my health.”
Mischa mumbled something, and his arms loosened slightly.
“I'm sorry, I didn't catch that?” Tom said, gently massaging Mischa's neck.
Mischa finally lifted his head. His eyes were somewhat shiny, and Tom would bet that his shirt would be slightly damp where Mischa's face had been. “I said, ‘you sarcastic little shit’.”
Tom barked out a laughter. “Jesus, Mischa, you're such an asshole. I had completely forgotten...” But then Mischa's lips were on his, and any coherent thought promptly left his head.
“Eight?” The TSA agent nervously adjusted the hem of his blue latex glove. “Did you say eight, sir?”
There were many situations in which Mischa loved having a handsome man calling him “sir”. On his way out of an airport, though, with a large portion of his belongings on display on the table in front of passengers exiting the airport, wasn’t one of them. Being held up like this took precious time. It was bad enough that his plane from Boston had somehow ended up in the international terminal of O'Hare, which was why he now had been randomly picked out for a security check.
Well, as random as things ever got in an airport when you had a suspiciously Russian-sounding name. Traveling had become a lot more challenging to Mischa lately, and it did not improve his mood.
“Yes,” he answered more than a little impatiently. “Well, eight silicone ones, of course. Then there are another three made of metal.” He liked to be prepared for any eventuality.
Why was he here again? Mischa was pretty sure they had said something on the plane about being redirected something-something, but he had been too busy planning what to do to Tom to really listen. He had his priorities right.
The man in front of him swallowed hard. “Do I understand you correctly, sir, that you’ve brought eleven…” His voice petered out as he searched for a word. Then he seemed to find one sufficiently neutral to use in an official capacity surrounded by innocent travelers. “Uh, ‘adult toys’ on your trip today?”
“You do,” Mischa said crisply.
That seemed to leave the agent at a loss for words. Mischa decided to help him out. “It is a long weekend, after all.”
It was Thursday evening now, and Mischa didn't have to go back before Monday night, which meant they had four days. Every one of which he intended to put to very good use. And quite a bit of that use would involve those very plugs that were at the moment being handled (quite inexpertly, if Mischa should say so himself) by the foremost of American homeland security enforcement.
“I see,” the TSA agent said, his voice sounding slightly faint.
Mischa was pretty sure the man didn't see. As a matter of fact, he seemed slightly lost when he studied Mischa's open suitcase where the three other plugs where still hiding. The guy looked a little like he expected to find a snake down there.
Despite his impatience, Mischa started to enjoy the situation. He was a sadist, after all, and you had to take whatever entertainment life offered you. And it wasn't like Mischa hadn't politely informed the TSA agent that he might want to skip this search in case he was easily offended. It hadn't really seemed to make an impression, though. Quite the contrary, in fact. Apparently telling security personnel that they shouldn't do something was a surefire way of getting every bit of your luggage examined closely.
Taking a deep breath, the TSA agent dug deeper into Mischa's belongings, and lo and behold, found the three metal plugs in their soft case. But since he really did handle the nylon bag like there was a snake inside, he managed to upend it, and the biggest plug fell out, crashing first to the metal table and then to the floor. The sound of it was quite impressive.
Next to Mischa, a business-clad woman did a double take and almost tripped over her trolley when she saw the impressive exhibition of top-quality sex toys on the table. Well, maybe it wasn't the quality as such that she stumbled over, Mischa mused. Most people had such low standards when it came to sex toys.
The racket from the heavy metal plug had caught the attention of one of the other airport employees, causing him to come over and bend down to pick up the object. He hesitated briefly when he saw it and then grabbed it, got up, and placed it next to the others on the table with a clang. Mischa could swear he saw the side of the man's mouth twitch.
“Here you go, Mitch. I think you dropped something.”
By now the first security guy was reduced to speechlessness, and helplessly gestured to the row of eight colorful silicone plugs and one shiny metal one. He looked poorly prepared for this situation. In his defense, Mischa had a hunch that high-grade butt plugs were not something the TSA had ever used as an example in any luggage search training video. Although perhaps they should; the man seemed at a loss at what to do.
“I did offer to unpack everything for you,” Mischa began impatiently.
“It's quite all right, sir,” the second TSA agent said. “I'm sure my colleague is fully capable of handling your baggage.” With that, he turned away before Mischa could reply.
Mischa could feel his eyebrows doing that thing they had learned from Tom. He couldn't help but admire people who could slip an insult that stylishly into everyday formal conversation. Mischa wondered briefly whether the man was a sub. A pity, really, if he weren't. He would be fun.
None of this little intermezzo had really improved the poor TSA agent’s confidence any, and the rest of the search was fumbling and not quite as thorough as it perhaps should be. For example, the agent didn't even comment on the three paddles at the bottom of the suitcase. Perhaps he thought they were ping pong equipment. Or else he had just had all the kink that he could take for one day.
Suitcase repacked, plugs safely secured back in their cases (he would have to disinfect the whole lot now; no way was he putting anything in Tom that had been on an airport floor), Mischa could finally get on his way. At the other side of the barrier, his gaze caught the uniformed driver holding a discreet sign with Mischa's last name on it. Excellent; now he was only a short drive away from seeing Tom again.
***
God, this had been the longest two-and-a-half months of Tom's life. Moving to Chicago to begin his postgraduate studies was one thing. That part of it was actually fun. His new colleagues in the department seemed relatively sane (had he been studying anything else, he would perhaps had aimed higher than “relatively sane”. But he was in art history; you had to be realistic). He'd gotten a nice work space which he shared with two other PhD students, both ahead of him in the process of writing a thesis, and he had even managed to snatch up some teaching he really liked, starting with summer school classes and now regular freshman classes. It meant that he wasn't dependent on using Mischa's money, and he did not want to be dependent. In any way. However grumpy Mischa got when Tom pointed out that no, no way, was he going to be living off Mischa like some kind of sugar baby.
All right, he hadn’t added the thing about the sugar baby. He was pretty sure that Mischa didn’t even know what it was. But lately, Tom had had this nagging feeling deep inside that their relationship would never last if Tom turned into some kind of… dependent? Burden? Whatever the correct word was, it was enough to make little tendrils of panic shoot through Tom every time Mischa mentioned anything about sacrificing time or money just because of Tom. It was not fair to Mischa that just because Tom had gotten a PhD position half way across the country, Mischa should give up everything he liked. Hence why Tom was living alone in Chicago while Mischa stayed back in Boston. It simply made sense, which Tom had repeatedly, well, repeated in his many discussions with Mischa about the subject. In the end, Tom had simply informed him that this was how it was going to be for the next two years: Mischa was going to stay in Boston, and Tom would be living in Chicago.
Talking about Tom’s living situation, there wasn't anything wrong with it as such. As a matter of fact, he had been incredibly lucky to find a couple of other postgraduate students who were looking for a housemate. They were civil, mostly cleaned up after themselves, and, well, he’d quickly learned not to ask about research in the field of atomic time measuring. Or whatever it was called. Even after the one-and-a-half-hour lecture, Tom still wasn't sure he really knew what Christopher was studying. But since Tom basically was studying paintings of sex, he probably wasn't one to complain.
The one thing the house didn't have was one grumpy, kinky financial advisor, though.
It was pathetic, really. They hadn't even been living together for a year before Tom moved here, and Tom had always been a very independent person. There was absolutely no reason for moping around like a lovesick puppy whining for his daddy.
Okay, that metaphor went to hell in a handbasket faster than you could say “never get kinks like those mixed up.” Tom shuddered while he folded the last of his sheets and put them away. Puppy play and daddy fetishes were perfectly fine for other people, but he would never be that dependent on anybody.
And he hadn't really been moping around at the beginning. He had been very determined to enjoy every moment of his time in Chicago. It was exciting, after all; new work environment, new friends, and a city to explore which was every bit as interesting as Boston. The first month had been fun, exhausting, and challenging. Everything he liked. Even the state of being constantly horny because Mischa wasn't there to do unspeakable things to Tom had been kind of interesting. Tom had never known phone sex to be so hot.
Then Mischa had cancelled his plans to come visit; something about a crisis in the European Union which made the pound go down. Or up? Anyway, it meant that the financial market suddenly did things that made it necessary for Mischa to watch it very, very carefully in order to make his loaded clients even more loaded. Tom did understand the necessity of tending to your work, but it really wasn't fair to fumble around with financial crises when there were sexually frustrated fiancés out there.
Then they hadn't been able to reschedule until three weeks later – this weekend – and that was when reality hit Tom hard.
He missed Mischa.
It wasn't even the kink – although he did look forward to being thoroughly debauched for the next four days. Hell, he almost thought he could manage without the kink. But then again, why should he? And now he was arguing with himself again. It really was time for Mischa to return; then Tom certainly would have somebody else to argue with.
The simple fact was that he had lived with his impossible grump of a boyfriend-turned-fiancé for so long that he vastly preferred it to being on his own.
It was a little scary to admit. First and foremost because he had always been on his own and always been hell bent on showing everybody that you could still make it and still be happy even if you were not a part of a white picket fence and golden retriever couple. But also because the admission made it all the more real; he really was going to be living here without Mischa for the next two years. That fact was a lot less fun than the whole “explore your new city and get on with your amazing thesis” thing, and at the moment it didn't help a lot to repeat to himself that he'd only have to spend the first two years of his four-year-long PhD scholarship in Chicago before moving back to Boston where the other participants in his project were located. Two years seemed like a very long time.
But hey, he was a big boy, and he was determined to make this work. And for the next four days, he was going to enjoy every single kinky thing to which Mischa would subject him. Tom might have missed the little everyday things; Mischa, on the other hand, was all about the kink. Their Skype conversations had been so x-rated that Tom praised himself lucky that he lived in the attic room. It might have weirdly crooked walls and not nearly enough closet space even for his sparse belongings, but it was nicely out of the way of his housemates. He had tried to be quiet, he really had, but when Mischa got going, it was nigh on impossible to stay silent.
Especially because Mischa had forbidden him to touch his ass. Tom blushed just thinking about the conversation they had had three weeks ago. “I want you so sensitive and so tight that it'll be just like when I fucked you for the very first time,” Mischa had growled. Well, Tom thought that was what Mischa had said; Tom had been busy coming all over his desk.
For some reason, knowing that he wasn't allowed to touch himself there made him all the more aware of that part of his body. To begin with, it had simply made him horny; he had wanked more than he ever had for the first couple of days after that. Mischa had had a lot of fun watching him on Skype.
Then something peculiar started to happen. It was almost like he forgot what it was like to be touched there, and particularly how it would feel to be fucked. He started to wonder about it, how exactly it would feel after all this time, if it would hurt. Well, of course it would; it always did to some degree when Mischa fucked him, and if he were honest with himself, he liked that very much. His cheeks might be permanently on fire around Mischa, but the two of them were a match made in kink heaven. Tom was very much looking forward to their visit, but that didn't mean that he wasn't nervous as hell.
Bloody Mischa; he was one hell of a mind fucker. Or maybe he was simply a horny bastard enjoying torturing his sub in as many ways as possible. Tom grinned; knowing Mischa, the last option was definitely the most likely possibility.
He was also a horny bastard about to get as much sex as Tom could possibly give him in just under a hundred hours. Tom adjusted himself before donning his jacket and going downstairs to get in the cab Mischa had arranged for him. It was, of course, completely unnecessary to take a cab, but Mischa had apparently made it his mission to ensure that Tom used his car as little as possible. He seemed to think that the thing was a deathtrap. Sometimes he was a little weird.
On the way to the house Mischa had lent from some acquaintances, Tom's suspicions grew until he had to shake his head in disbelief. Mischa had told him that the house was very conveniently located not far from the airport, and Tom had automatically thought of a dull middle-class neighborhood frequently overflown by airplanes. Instead they turned off the Kennedy Expressway toward Forest Glen and Edgebrook. Even new to the city, Tom had heard about these neighborhoods. Lincoln Park was a very nice area, but the house Tom lived in would probably fit into a closet up here. It was just so typically Mischa to do something like that. Not the fact that he had friends in high places. After all, those were the people he worked very hard to make very rich, so it was only natural that they would be among his acquaintances. It just seemed that he didn't care one bit about the money part of his job. There was no end to his arrogance when it came to his trust in his own skills, but that was exactly what mattered to him: skills; not the money you earned by using those skills. Well, judging by the number of clients he had, perhaps that wasn't so much arrogance as a somewhat firmly stated confidence.
And now Tom was debating with himself again. He knew why, of course. He was half hard, his heart was beginning to hammer, and his palms were slightly sweaty. Because Mischa. And Mischa's arsenal of sex toys and depraved ideas of what to do to a formerly innocent, pain-loving sub. He had a feeling that he was going to get his mind blown this weekend.
Other parts too, of course.
It didn't come as a surprise when the cab swung up in front of a stately building that looked like it couldn't decide whether it wanted to be a house or a mansion. However, Tom didn't pay much attention to architecture at that point, apart from a fleeting appreciation of the fact that there was a good distance to any prying neighbors. He was using all his willpower to keep his steps calm and measured as the cab drove off behind him; desperation was never a pretty sight, even though he most of all wanted to sprint up the driveway stretching in front of him.
Finally he stood in front of the door. He took a deep breath, trying to compose himself, and reached up to knock at the door.
Before his hand made contact with the dark wood, the door was flung open and he was pulled into an embrace so tight that he couldn't breathe. For a moment, he was shocked; then his brain registered the scent of Mischa, and Mischa's arms around him, and he gave up on any pretense of being stoic and mature and simply clung, breathing in deeply and finally, finally indulging in the feeling of being back in Mischa's arms.
He’d envisioned this meeting pretty much every single day since they'd parted. He’d pictured Mischa kissing him, Mischa having kinky plans that started right on the doorstep, Mischa bossing him around.
He hadn't imagined this desperate clinging. Mischa held on so tightly that it felt like Mischa's arms and Mischa's body were his entire world.
He hadn't imagined, either, the way Mischa was hiding his head against Tom's shoulder, and he certainly hadn't imagined the labored breaths that sounded suspiciously moist. Tom gently let one hand slide through Mischa's dark hair, rubbing softly, comforting.
“Hey, hey,” he whispered. “It's okay. We're okay now.”
Then he realized why he was whispering and pulled a little harder on Mischa's hair. “But you could consider letting me breathe sometime soon. It would probably be good for my health.”
Mischa mumbled something, and his arms loosened slightly.
“I'm sorry, I didn't catch that?” Tom said, gently massaging Mischa's neck.
Mischa finally lifted his head. His eyes were somewhat shiny, and Tom would bet that his shirt would be slightly damp where Mischa's face had been. “I said, ‘you sarcastic little shit’.”
Tom barked out a laughter. “Jesus, Mischa, you're such an asshole. I had completely forgotten...” But then Mischa's lips were on his, and any coherent thought promptly left his head.