Friend to Fear

And loaded gun

Live life like the owner of a heart of stone.

No one touches,

Touch no one,

But the world gets weary when you're all alone.

-Richard Marx, "Wait For The Sunrise"

May, 1956

He had not been raped, but it felt damned close to it. As close as a consensual sex act could get. If being coerced into accepting another man's attention could be considered consent. In the mind of Dr. Sergei Ivanovich Kourdokov, that seemed to be the case.

"Get dressed and get out," Kourdokov ordered as he cinched a robe around his not inconsiderable girth. The young blond man that still huddled on the bed sat up carefully, favoring his abused hindquarters. "Hurry up!" the older man snarled, hurling clothing at his hapless bedmate. He left his victim in the bedroom.

The slight youth snatched the garments and put them on with trembling fingers, as anxious to get out as Kourdokov was to get him out. The past three hours had not been pleasant ones. Not for him. He had no doubt as to the pleasure Sergei Ivanovich had derived from their tryst, however.

The boy knew he sustained some damage, judging by the blood that gummed his thighs together. He knew the difference between the stickiness of blood as opposed to that of semen. He stoically swallowed his pain as he pulled trousers over bruised hips, slipped his feet into his shoes and stuffed the socks into his coat pocket. Leaning over to pull on socks and tie shoes was more than he wanted to deal with right now.

He left the bedroom and made a beeline for the exit. Kourdokov stopped him at the door, grabbing his jaw in a bonecrushing grip. "Not a word of this to anyone. Otherwise, they will send you to a Siberian gulag for being a homosexual. They will believe me, you see, when I tell them how you seduced me while I was drunk."

The boy resisted the urge to break the man's neck. Instead he nodded meekly, continuing his portrayal of an incredibly young, inexperienced lab assistant. In reality, Illya Nicovetch Kuryakin had not been young since his indoctrination into the KGB at eleven and he was all too experienced in the ways of the world. He had slipped into this particular role two weeks prior. Kourdokov's practice of pressuring male underlings within the facility where he reigned as head physicist into his bed had recently come to the attention of the KGB. Twenty-one-year-old Illya, with his scientific background and pretty looks, had been sent in to see if the information was true.

Kourdokov pressed a painful kiss onto Illya Nicovetch's abused lips. Illya's stomach turned when the older man's thick tongue invaded his mouth for not the first time this evening. The pig tasted like dead fish. Old, decayed, dead fish. Illya Nicovetch barely managed to restrain himself from wrenching away and ripping that tongue out of Sergei Ivanovich's face.

Kourdokov pulled away finally and released his victim's jaw. He opened the door and shoved the slight blond into the hallway. "Make certain you are not late tomorrow." The door slammed shut.

The KGB agent's blue eyes narrowed. "It is you who will be late tomorrow, Sergei Ivanovich," he whispered. He spun on his heel and left.