It Started in the Fall
Title: It Started in the Fall
Rating & Warnings: NC-17. Sssmmmuuuttt
Pairing: Max Talbot / Petr Sykora
Disclaimer: If this is true...I really don't even think I want a part in it.
Part one of four season themed chapters.
Comments: This is cracked as hell, be forewarned. I must give a shout out to nofaves for making it seem not so fucking crazy to be submitting Pens bdsm. Thank you. Thank you very much. Also, this is dedicated to more_unknown, without whom I would be writing about kittens and rainbows and would never have invented dirty!petr.
I consider myself a mostly innocent bystander in the whole thing. I know declaring innocence before accused isn’t really a strong selling point, and maybe I’m a little bit at fault, but I never meant for it to be like this. Whatever “it” is.
It started after a loss, of all things. Overtime. The Wild. Like that even makes any sense. Fleury was sitting on the bench next to me, still in his pads, trying to talk to me about whatever the fuck, and I wasn’t hearing any of it. I just kept changing, ignoring him, trying to get out to the parking lot before anyone who would actually notice I wasn’t listening tried to start a conversation. He kept going on, and I heard “demain il fera jour” and just groaned. The man is a fucking fortune cookie when we lose. I can’t handle it. Sykie, sitting nearby looked over and laughed. “What did he say?”
I rolled my eyes and shook my head. “Nothing worth repeating.” Sykora grinned and nodded, turning his attention back to his equipment. I like that about him. He doesn’t press for talk when people want nothing to do with it. He looked up again, catching me spacing out, and grinned again. He moved his mouth like he might ask a question but decided better of it and just looked away.
Fleury didn’t let anything stop him. I’m pretty sure when I made my way to the parking lot with Sykora he was still sitting there talking like nothing ever happened. We looked up to the wall and saw the usual gathering of a few fans. We gave a small wave, all they ever really wanted from us, and started towards our cars. I told him I’d see him in the morning, and he looked me over for a second and started laughing.
“No, you can follow me.” He walked to his car before I could even figure out what the fuck he meant. I stutter stepped in the middle of the aisles in which our cars were parked across from one another. He didn’t look back to give me any idea of what I was supposed to be doing. I went for my car. I knew I had been right when I saw him grinning from his driver’s seat. He pulled out. I followed.
We ended up at some bar towards Canonsburg. I half wondered if I was following him home for some reason, and then started to doubt that he had really meant for me to follow him at all, but then we pull into this place and everything was normal again. Nothing unusual about wanting to drink away an early season loss, and Sykie wasn’t one to party with us all. It could be fun. Was I even fooling myself?
He bought me my first drink, which is really what you should do when you take someone to a bar in the middle of nowhere. He bought my second and my third, too. The bartop was sticky. The vinyl stools were ripped. The wooden boards of the floor had too much space between them and I tried to figure out if it was dirt in between them or some sort of…something else. We talked about the game and about practice and about gas prices and the newest episode of nip/tuck which he apparently doesn’t watch.
By my fourth drink I realized he was still on his first. I knew better, but I didn’t say anything. I guess this is where it becomes partially my fault. Drink five and six I hardly tasted. I just knew I had better keep drinking. Seven, I don’t even know if I finished it. The bar is a film strip with panels missing from there on out. And all I can see in the flickering is him staring at me with that stupid fucking grin plastered on his face, because he knew that I knew what was happening. What an asshole.
Somehow I got into his car. If I walked there by myself I’ll take the blame for that part too, but I get the feeling he shoved me along a little. Not that I would notice if he left a bruise or anything. Who the fuck is to say where all of my bruises come from? I’m a hockey player.
The guilty get used to making excuses.
The drive might as well have not happened. I remember swaying in the driveway to his house, sticky hot from the mid-fall heat wave and the alcohol surging through my body. At some point I yelled something about the Minnesota Wild being motherless fucks and how they’d never see the cup on my watch. I remember this specifically because I’ve said it sober quite a few times since. I slurred something about no other cars being at the house, mostly to myself, because I knew long before we left the bar that this would be the case. I just confirmed it by saying it out loud.
I followed him helplessly into the house. He stopped in the hallway and looked me over like he was trying to remember something he had forgotten. I leaned forward, or maybe lurched forward because my motor skills weren’t as finely tuned as they could have been. That close, I could smell myself more than I could smell him; my heavy breath hung between us and I could pretend that I didn’t know he was completely sober. I didn’t think he’d let me kiss him there, like that, but he did. His lips were softer than I’d predicted they would be, but the prickling of the small hairs on his face was exactly as I had imagined. I caught his lips slightly as I pulled away, drawing it out for a second. I had started the kiss and I had ended it.
We stood there for a moment, me trying to pretend I was suave and in control, taking charge after the man had lured me into an unknown bar and gotten me drunk and then taken me home without so much as a question as to what I wanted to do. I knew I wasn’t in control. I knew the illusion was going to end. I was just surprised he’d let me act like it was possible. At that moment my jumbled thoughts considered he wanted my dignity to remain intact.
There’s a lesson I learned the hard way.
He walked away from me, leaving the air in front of me strangely cool. I stupidly looked after him and then followed him up the stairs without so much as a moment’s hesitation. Every step was a question, but I knew the answer to each one. I wasn’t wearing a leash but I was forced to follow just the same. There was nothing enigmatic about the situation. It wasn’t a discovery. At this point it was just the inevitable.
In the bedroom I thought he might let me kiss him again but when I leaned in he firmly told me to stop. I could never take Sykie seriously when he tried to act all stone faced in the locker room, but he wasn’t trying that now. It was that fucking grin again. I grinned a little as well, unsure if I should be finding something funny. He arched an eyebrow at me. My grin faded. He walked slowly behind me and put his face into the nape of my neck. I felt his beard scratching at my skin, his lips trailing down my shoulder, his hands running along my arms. I didn’t dare move, only breathing heavily into the quiet room as he touched me.
His hands ran down my arms slowly and stayed at my wrists this time, which he had slowly drawn together without my noticing, or maybe without my caring. He held them there together as he kissed my neck, bit me lightly, nuzzled me with a tenderness I didn’t imagine could last much longer. When I instinctively went to move my arms, just to feel for something to hold onto, he drew my wrists more tightly together his hands, making me wince as bone pushed on bone. He pressed his forehead into my shoulder, looking down while still restraining me. I knew it was coming, but couldn’t tell exactly what it was that he was weaving through my wrists. A scarf maybe, something soft. With a solid, jerking tug, he returned his mouth to the other side of my neck, releasing his hands from my wrists, no longer needing to hold them together himself.
I felt suddenly unbalanced when he moved away from me. He had to expect that one, my level of drunkenness not lending to balance to begin with. I was starting to get anxious, even apprehensive about the situation. I guess I expected him to lead me to the bed at that point, but mind you, this is back before I understood a lot of things about what was happening. I still thought it was some sort of exciting game. That illusion probably started to fade about the time he planted a hand firmly on my back and pushed.
With your hands tied behind your back you’re helpless to do anything when you fall. I could swear I felt my skull crack against the hardwood flooring. “What the fuck, Petr, what the fu-“ I couldn’t finish with a hand over my mouth. He had straddled me, knees pressing into my sides to stop my thrashing. He easily subdued me, not only having the advantage in size but also sobriety. My hands made my body arch uncomfortably, especially with our combined weight pressing down on them. He took away his hand, laughing. It wasn’t insane or maniacal, just his normal laugh, which makes it all the more unnerving in the grander scheme of these things. Once you know he laughs like that in these moments you can’t help but imagine it any other time.
“You got yourself into this. You’re not getting out now.” I tried to rifle through my thoughts for evidence that he was right, that it was my fault, but didn’t come up with much. A few stray glances over the weeks, maybe an inappropriate joke or two. And then of course downstairs, in the hallway…still, I hadn’t asked for anything. I hadn’t asked for this, my head throbbing in pain from the impact of the floor, my wrists being crushed beneath me as he looked down at me deviously and drew his belt out from his pants, tossing it to the side. That stupid, stupid fucking grin as he unfastened his slacks. No, I hadn’t asked for it, but that last one sure as fuck reached down into me and made me want it.
He leaned down and kissed me forcefully, balancing on one hand and using the other to twist through my hair. His mouth was hot and inviting and his kiss commanding and all I wanted was more. I raised myself up to get closer, invite him further, but he pulled my head back down. I found myself wishing against my better judgment that I had left my hair long for the season, giving him something more to grab onto as he bit along my collar bone and ground his hips into mine.
I wasn’t sure where we were going with this even still, but any care I had about it was wiped away when I felt the pressure of his hardened cock against mine, even through the layers of fabric. He didn’t allow me to arch up further to meet him, but made no attempts to stop the noises coming from me, the short gasps and groans that I couldn’t stop myself from making. Even his breath would catch when he pressed down harder than he had anticipated letting himself, short breaths between jumbled words of approval, lustful ramblings I didn’t care to catch as I thought too much about my own ability to get off.
Without warning, he swung his leg over me, leaving my wrists beneath me relieved but my body feeling desperately abandoned. He stood, kicking his shoes and slacks to the side, and I scrambled behind, trying to stand alongside him. I didn’t know what he wanted from me exactly, but I was in a hurry to give it to him. I had made it to my knees and was struggling to get any further when I realized that maybe I was exactly how I should be. He looked at me, confused by my sudden lack of movement, and smiled in a disconcertingly sweet way. “You look fucking hot on your knees, Max.” His face told me he had meant it, an expression of bemused appreciation, maybe even desire, lighting up his eyes. He stared at me like that for what seemed like minutes. “But not tonight. Stand up.” He didn’t offer to help.
When I had finally managed to my feet, he stepped closer and kissed me softly, wrapping his arms around me, his hands loosening the knots around my wrists. When they finally came free, I tentatively put my own arms loosely around his waist, afraid to do anything too sudden, lest he see it as a reason to bind me again.
He gently guided me over to the bed where I willingly laid down and he crawled over me, leaning in to kiss me lightly several times. He slid his hands up my sides, pulling my shirt off and throwing it to the side of the bed. “I didn’t hurt you too badly, did I?” He smiled, lightly rubbing my forearm. I shook my head, reaching up for another kiss. He kissed me back softly, almost lovingly, and I reached my hands up slowly to unbutton his shirt, not sure if he would allow it. When I saw that he would, I continued, and gently slid it off of his shoulders, hardly breathing. I heard it crumple somewhere on the floor as he tossed it out of the way.
“I’m going to tie you again,” he whispered in my ear as I ran my hands across his broad back, relishing the feeling.
“No, come on…just a little bit-“
“I wasn’t asking.” He drew my hands above my head, which was almost a relief, as I was worried he would tie them behind my back again. He threaded the fabric through the bars of the wrought iron headboard and drew it tightly. I whimpered slightly in pain and he paused to loosen it a little. “Not so tightly then,” he whispered, mostly to himself. He slid back down to face me and stared at me for a minute, smiling like I had just told one of my hilarious jokes. I didn’t know why he was looking at me like that, had never seen anyone look at me like that when sex was breathing down our necks. He kissed me softly again and then followed up with something deeper, resuming his position on top of me, this time my hands not digging into my back. The inability to grab onto him was unnerving, and I could only lay there helpless as he stripped me of my remaining clothes, only parting his mouth from mine occasionally to look down and see that he was unfastening something correctly.
He trailed his mouth down my neck, stopping at all of the places he had already memorized to make me writhe in pleasure. He absentmindedly kicked off his own boxers while his face was buried in my neck, settling between my legs like we had done this a hundred times before and would do it countless more. Feeling him pressed against me like that I could only pray that the latter became the truth.
He was taking too long, running his hands along my skin, kissing my neck. I wanted something, anything to happen. I raised my body towards him and he looked up to meet my eyes. “I’m sorry, am I taking too long?” I raised my eyebrows, not willing to say anything to anger him. He didn’t care that I hadn’t responded, only thrust upwards to press himself into me. I screamed. I hadn’t meant to, but I hadn’t expected the sudden rush of liquid pain as he entered me, didn’t know that it would be like that.
“I can go slower, but I know you’re just so impatient.” He said through grit teeth, thrusting again to punctuate the word. My eyes watered as he dug his fingernails into my hips. “So, maybe you can appreciate me taking my fucking time?” I nodded, biting my lip in pain. He kissed me almost sweetly, forgiving me my flaw, and began thrusting slowly, his breaths heavy with effort and my small whimpers of pain filling the silence. Eventually the pain subsided and my whimpers turned to other noises, noises that let Petr know he could increase his pace. Suddenly it became effortless, shameless, even, in our cries and groaning. In the midst of things I couldn’t take it, freed my hands from the loose bindings, clutched onto him. I worried he would stop me, but he didn’t seem to care, just continued mumbling things into my mouth, my shoulder, my chest. The language barrier left me guessing, and I supposed it was no different for him listening to my scattered French. It was only when we reached the end that we understood one another clearly, when meaningless words were replaced by one another’s name, before he collapsed into me and I could do nothing but stare at the ceiling as I held him, for once feeling the slightest in control.
I woke up before he did, the thickness in my mouth caused by too much alcohol and too little water making me uncomfortable. I shook Petr, who was still asleep, half on me. “Uh…Sykie?” he squinted his eyes up at me and then closed them again. “I need to get some water, okay?” He groaned lazily and rolled off of me, laying face down next to me, not moving a muscle. I slid out of bed and headed to the bathroom where I drank straight from the faucet.
When I returned, he was sitting on the edge of the bed, rubbing his eyes. “I need to drive you back to your car.” I sat down next to him on the bed and he leaned his head against my shoulder. “Practice won’t be fun.” I kissed his hair, and it smelled like smoke and sweat.
“Shower?” I asked, looking at the alarm clock. We had plenty of time. He nodded sleepily and stood to gather his clothes.
With the steam billowing around us it almost felt for a second as though everything that had transpired was entirely normal. I knew it wasn’t, I knew something was wrong, but I’d have preferred to believe otherwise. He kissed me softly, lovingly, and I gently stroked the hair at his neck with my thumb while I tried to consider what had happened. I didn’t walk into anything blindly, there were plenty of ways out and I had used none. I had wanted it. He kissed away the water pooling in the grooves of my collar bone and I sighed deeply, pulling him close, his body awkwardly slick with the remnants of soap that hadn’t rinsed off. It wasn’t about the taboo of fucking another man, or even a teammate. Everything else made those things seem insignificant. I just couldn’t shake a feeling of shame.
Petr stopped my thoughts in their tracks by looking at me, suddenly confused. “How did you get free?”
I shrugged. “They were loose.” I examined my wrists, both worn red and puffy, color exaggerated from the steam.
He frowned. “Next time we’ll just have to use metal.” He seemed to think it over, and I shivered in response to the thought. I wasn’t sure until that very moment that there would be a next time. And I wasn’t sure if I wanted there to be, either.
Rating & Warnings: NC-17. Sssmmmuuuttt
Pairing: Max Talbot / Petr Sykora
Disclaimer: If this is true...I really don't even think I want a part in it.
Part one of four season themed chapters.
Comments: This is cracked as hell, be forewarned. I must give a shout out to nofaves for making it seem not so fucking crazy to be submitting Pens bdsm. Thank you. Thank you very much. Also, this is dedicated to more_unknown, without whom I would be writing about kittens and rainbows and would never have invented dirty!petr.
I consider myself a mostly innocent bystander in the whole thing. I know declaring innocence before accused isn’t really a strong selling point, and maybe I’m a little bit at fault, but I never meant for it to be like this. Whatever “it” is.
It started after a loss, of all things. Overtime. The Wild. Like that even makes any sense. Fleury was sitting on the bench next to me, still in his pads, trying to talk to me about whatever the fuck, and I wasn’t hearing any of it. I just kept changing, ignoring him, trying to get out to the parking lot before anyone who would actually notice I wasn’t listening tried to start a conversation. He kept going on, and I heard “demain il fera jour” and just groaned. The man is a fucking fortune cookie when we lose. I can’t handle it. Sykie, sitting nearby looked over and laughed. “What did he say?”
I rolled my eyes and shook my head. “Nothing worth repeating.” Sykora grinned and nodded, turning his attention back to his equipment. I like that about him. He doesn’t press for talk when people want nothing to do with it. He looked up again, catching me spacing out, and grinned again. He moved his mouth like he might ask a question but decided better of it and just looked away.
Fleury didn’t let anything stop him. I’m pretty sure when I made my way to the parking lot with Sykora he was still sitting there talking like nothing ever happened. We looked up to the wall and saw the usual gathering of a few fans. We gave a small wave, all they ever really wanted from us, and started towards our cars. I told him I’d see him in the morning, and he looked me over for a second and started laughing.
“No, you can follow me.” He walked to his car before I could even figure out what the fuck he meant. I stutter stepped in the middle of the aisles in which our cars were parked across from one another. He didn’t look back to give me any idea of what I was supposed to be doing. I went for my car. I knew I had been right when I saw him grinning from his driver’s seat. He pulled out. I followed.
We ended up at some bar towards Canonsburg. I half wondered if I was following him home for some reason, and then started to doubt that he had really meant for me to follow him at all, but then we pull into this place and everything was normal again. Nothing unusual about wanting to drink away an early season loss, and Sykie wasn’t one to party with us all. It could be fun. Was I even fooling myself?
He bought me my first drink, which is really what you should do when you take someone to a bar in the middle of nowhere. He bought my second and my third, too. The bartop was sticky. The vinyl stools were ripped. The wooden boards of the floor had too much space between them and I tried to figure out if it was dirt in between them or some sort of…something else. We talked about the game and about practice and about gas prices and the newest episode of nip/tuck which he apparently doesn’t watch.
By my fourth drink I realized he was still on his first. I knew better, but I didn’t say anything. I guess this is where it becomes partially my fault. Drink five and six I hardly tasted. I just knew I had better keep drinking. Seven, I don’t even know if I finished it. The bar is a film strip with panels missing from there on out. And all I can see in the flickering is him staring at me with that stupid fucking grin plastered on his face, because he knew that I knew what was happening. What an asshole.
Somehow I got into his car. If I walked there by myself I’ll take the blame for that part too, but I get the feeling he shoved me along a little. Not that I would notice if he left a bruise or anything. Who the fuck is to say where all of my bruises come from? I’m a hockey player.
The guilty get used to making excuses.
The drive might as well have not happened. I remember swaying in the driveway to his house, sticky hot from the mid-fall heat wave and the alcohol surging through my body. At some point I yelled something about the Minnesota Wild being motherless fucks and how they’d never see the cup on my watch. I remember this specifically because I’ve said it sober quite a few times since. I slurred something about no other cars being at the house, mostly to myself, because I knew long before we left the bar that this would be the case. I just confirmed it by saying it out loud.
I followed him helplessly into the house. He stopped in the hallway and looked me over like he was trying to remember something he had forgotten. I leaned forward, or maybe lurched forward because my motor skills weren’t as finely tuned as they could have been. That close, I could smell myself more than I could smell him; my heavy breath hung between us and I could pretend that I didn’t know he was completely sober. I didn’t think he’d let me kiss him there, like that, but he did. His lips were softer than I’d predicted they would be, but the prickling of the small hairs on his face was exactly as I had imagined. I caught his lips slightly as I pulled away, drawing it out for a second. I had started the kiss and I had ended it.
We stood there for a moment, me trying to pretend I was suave and in control, taking charge after the man had lured me into an unknown bar and gotten me drunk and then taken me home without so much as a question as to what I wanted to do. I knew I wasn’t in control. I knew the illusion was going to end. I was just surprised he’d let me act like it was possible. At that moment my jumbled thoughts considered he wanted my dignity to remain intact.
There’s a lesson I learned the hard way.
He walked away from me, leaving the air in front of me strangely cool. I stupidly looked after him and then followed him up the stairs without so much as a moment’s hesitation. Every step was a question, but I knew the answer to each one. I wasn’t wearing a leash but I was forced to follow just the same. There was nothing enigmatic about the situation. It wasn’t a discovery. At this point it was just the inevitable.
In the bedroom I thought he might let me kiss him again but when I leaned in he firmly told me to stop. I could never take Sykie seriously when he tried to act all stone faced in the locker room, but he wasn’t trying that now. It was that fucking grin again. I grinned a little as well, unsure if I should be finding something funny. He arched an eyebrow at me. My grin faded. He walked slowly behind me and put his face into the nape of my neck. I felt his beard scratching at my skin, his lips trailing down my shoulder, his hands running along my arms. I didn’t dare move, only breathing heavily into the quiet room as he touched me.
His hands ran down my arms slowly and stayed at my wrists this time, which he had slowly drawn together without my noticing, or maybe without my caring. He held them there together as he kissed my neck, bit me lightly, nuzzled me with a tenderness I didn’t imagine could last much longer. When I instinctively went to move my arms, just to feel for something to hold onto, he drew my wrists more tightly together his hands, making me wince as bone pushed on bone. He pressed his forehead into my shoulder, looking down while still restraining me. I knew it was coming, but couldn’t tell exactly what it was that he was weaving through my wrists. A scarf maybe, something soft. With a solid, jerking tug, he returned his mouth to the other side of my neck, releasing his hands from my wrists, no longer needing to hold them together himself.
I felt suddenly unbalanced when he moved away from me. He had to expect that one, my level of drunkenness not lending to balance to begin with. I was starting to get anxious, even apprehensive about the situation. I guess I expected him to lead me to the bed at that point, but mind you, this is back before I understood a lot of things about what was happening. I still thought it was some sort of exciting game. That illusion probably started to fade about the time he planted a hand firmly on my back and pushed.
With your hands tied behind your back you’re helpless to do anything when you fall. I could swear I felt my skull crack against the hardwood flooring. “What the fuck, Petr, what the fu-“ I couldn’t finish with a hand over my mouth. He had straddled me, knees pressing into my sides to stop my thrashing. He easily subdued me, not only having the advantage in size but also sobriety. My hands made my body arch uncomfortably, especially with our combined weight pressing down on them. He took away his hand, laughing. It wasn’t insane or maniacal, just his normal laugh, which makes it all the more unnerving in the grander scheme of these things. Once you know he laughs like that in these moments you can’t help but imagine it any other time.
“You got yourself into this. You’re not getting out now.” I tried to rifle through my thoughts for evidence that he was right, that it was my fault, but didn’t come up with much. A few stray glances over the weeks, maybe an inappropriate joke or two. And then of course downstairs, in the hallway…still, I hadn’t asked for anything. I hadn’t asked for this, my head throbbing in pain from the impact of the floor, my wrists being crushed beneath me as he looked down at me deviously and drew his belt out from his pants, tossing it to the side. That stupid, stupid fucking grin as he unfastened his slacks. No, I hadn’t asked for it, but that last one sure as fuck reached down into me and made me want it.
He leaned down and kissed me forcefully, balancing on one hand and using the other to twist through my hair. His mouth was hot and inviting and his kiss commanding and all I wanted was more. I raised myself up to get closer, invite him further, but he pulled my head back down. I found myself wishing against my better judgment that I had left my hair long for the season, giving him something more to grab onto as he bit along my collar bone and ground his hips into mine.
I wasn’t sure where we were going with this even still, but any care I had about it was wiped away when I felt the pressure of his hardened cock against mine, even through the layers of fabric. He didn’t allow me to arch up further to meet him, but made no attempts to stop the noises coming from me, the short gasps and groans that I couldn’t stop myself from making. Even his breath would catch when he pressed down harder than he had anticipated letting himself, short breaths between jumbled words of approval, lustful ramblings I didn’t care to catch as I thought too much about my own ability to get off.
Without warning, he swung his leg over me, leaving my wrists beneath me relieved but my body feeling desperately abandoned. He stood, kicking his shoes and slacks to the side, and I scrambled behind, trying to stand alongside him. I didn’t know what he wanted from me exactly, but I was in a hurry to give it to him. I had made it to my knees and was struggling to get any further when I realized that maybe I was exactly how I should be. He looked at me, confused by my sudden lack of movement, and smiled in a disconcertingly sweet way. “You look fucking hot on your knees, Max.” His face told me he had meant it, an expression of bemused appreciation, maybe even desire, lighting up his eyes. He stared at me like that for what seemed like minutes. “But not tonight. Stand up.” He didn’t offer to help.
When I had finally managed to my feet, he stepped closer and kissed me softly, wrapping his arms around me, his hands loosening the knots around my wrists. When they finally came free, I tentatively put my own arms loosely around his waist, afraid to do anything too sudden, lest he see it as a reason to bind me again.
He gently guided me over to the bed where I willingly laid down and he crawled over me, leaning in to kiss me lightly several times. He slid his hands up my sides, pulling my shirt off and throwing it to the side of the bed. “I didn’t hurt you too badly, did I?” He smiled, lightly rubbing my forearm. I shook my head, reaching up for another kiss. He kissed me back softly, almost lovingly, and I reached my hands up slowly to unbutton his shirt, not sure if he would allow it. When I saw that he would, I continued, and gently slid it off of his shoulders, hardly breathing. I heard it crumple somewhere on the floor as he tossed it out of the way.
“I’m going to tie you again,” he whispered in my ear as I ran my hands across his broad back, relishing the feeling.
“No, come on…just a little bit-“
“I wasn’t asking.” He drew my hands above my head, which was almost a relief, as I was worried he would tie them behind my back again. He threaded the fabric through the bars of the wrought iron headboard and drew it tightly. I whimpered slightly in pain and he paused to loosen it a little. “Not so tightly then,” he whispered, mostly to himself. He slid back down to face me and stared at me for a minute, smiling like I had just told one of my hilarious jokes. I didn’t know why he was looking at me like that, had never seen anyone look at me like that when sex was breathing down our necks. He kissed me softly again and then followed up with something deeper, resuming his position on top of me, this time my hands not digging into my back. The inability to grab onto him was unnerving, and I could only lay there helpless as he stripped me of my remaining clothes, only parting his mouth from mine occasionally to look down and see that he was unfastening something correctly.
He trailed his mouth down my neck, stopping at all of the places he had already memorized to make me writhe in pleasure. He absentmindedly kicked off his own boxers while his face was buried in my neck, settling between my legs like we had done this a hundred times before and would do it countless more. Feeling him pressed against me like that I could only pray that the latter became the truth.
He was taking too long, running his hands along my skin, kissing my neck. I wanted something, anything to happen. I raised my body towards him and he looked up to meet my eyes. “I’m sorry, am I taking too long?” I raised my eyebrows, not willing to say anything to anger him. He didn’t care that I hadn’t responded, only thrust upwards to press himself into me. I screamed. I hadn’t meant to, but I hadn’t expected the sudden rush of liquid pain as he entered me, didn’t know that it would be like that.
“I can go slower, but I know you’re just so impatient.” He said through grit teeth, thrusting again to punctuate the word. My eyes watered as he dug his fingernails into my hips. “So, maybe you can appreciate me taking my fucking time?” I nodded, biting my lip in pain. He kissed me almost sweetly, forgiving me my flaw, and began thrusting slowly, his breaths heavy with effort and my small whimpers of pain filling the silence. Eventually the pain subsided and my whimpers turned to other noises, noises that let Petr know he could increase his pace. Suddenly it became effortless, shameless, even, in our cries and groaning. In the midst of things I couldn’t take it, freed my hands from the loose bindings, clutched onto him. I worried he would stop me, but he didn’t seem to care, just continued mumbling things into my mouth, my shoulder, my chest. The language barrier left me guessing, and I supposed it was no different for him listening to my scattered French. It was only when we reached the end that we understood one another clearly, when meaningless words were replaced by one another’s name, before he collapsed into me and I could do nothing but stare at the ceiling as I held him, for once feeling the slightest in control.
I woke up before he did, the thickness in my mouth caused by too much alcohol and too little water making me uncomfortable. I shook Petr, who was still asleep, half on me. “Uh…Sykie?” he squinted his eyes up at me and then closed them again. “I need to get some water, okay?” He groaned lazily and rolled off of me, laying face down next to me, not moving a muscle. I slid out of bed and headed to the bathroom where I drank straight from the faucet.
When I returned, he was sitting on the edge of the bed, rubbing his eyes. “I need to drive you back to your car.” I sat down next to him on the bed and he leaned his head against my shoulder. “Practice won’t be fun.” I kissed his hair, and it smelled like smoke and sweat.
“Shower?” I asked, looking at the alarm clock. We had plenty of time. He nodded sleepily and stood to gather his clothes.
With the steam billowing around us it almost felt for a second as though everything that had transpired was entirely normal. I knew it wasn’t, I knew something was wrong, but I’d have preferred to believe otherwise. He kissed me softly, lovingly, and I gently stroked the hair at his neck with my thumb while I tried to consider what had happened. I didn’t walk into anything blindly, there were plenty of ways out and I had used none. I had wanted it. He kissed away the water pooling in the grooves of my collar bone and I sighed deeply, pulling him close, his body awkwardly slick with the remnants of soap that hadn’t rinsed off. It wasn’t about the taboo of fucking another man, or even a teammate. Everything else made those things seem insignificant. I just couldn’t shake a feeling of shame.
Petr stopped my thoughts in their tracks by looking at me, suddenly confused. “How did you get free?”
I shrugged. “They were loose.” I examined my wrists, both worn red and puffy, color exaggerated from the steam.
He frowned. “Next time we’ll just have to use metal.” He seemed to think it over, and I shivered in response to the thought. I wasn’t sure until that very moment that there would be a next time. And I wasn’t sure if I wanted there to be, either.