"Plokhoy malchik! Bad boy, Mulder, you've been a VERY bad boy."
Mulder couldn't help whimpering, not so much at the pain, but at the rich
dark smell of the boot that claimed his submission. Leather, motorcycle
oil, beer and smoke, dust and alley muck and a faint chemical taint that
might be the trace of an alien's green death-goo, with a sweeter edge that
was definitely blood.
The boot lifted and drew back. Mulder braced himself.
"Mulder, just what the hell did you think you were doing posting to the
wrong newsgroup? What's next, hunting down CancerMan so you can ask after
his podiatrist? Greeting the alien invasion with your highschool yearbook?
Seducing Scully into your bed and then discoursing on the different merits
of wood-based and cotton-based paper?"
Mulder's eyes winced shut as the boot came in, but Krycek only brushed the
hard leather over the bridge of Mulder's nose as a warning.
"And then, I suppose, you'll hold me at gunpoint, scowl into my eyes, and
show me your Mickey Mouse postcards."
Krycek spat as accurately as he used any other weapon; Mulder felt the
faint brush of moisture against his eyelashes, nothing more, before the
drop hit the floor beside his face.
"I've had it with you, Foxy Willy."
Mulder cowered, but knew his arousal betrayed him.
"Kiss the boot and apologize."
The thought seemed so overwhelmingly physical that it paralyzed him for a
moment, long enough for his tormentor to lose his patience.
"NOW, Mulder! You wanna act like a kid, I'll treat you like one. You have
until the count of five. Ras! Dva! Tri! Chetire!—"
Sheer terror broke the spell, even as his arousal grew harder. He kissed
the boot desperately, his mouth opening against his will, and then he could
stand it no longer and he rubbed his face all over the boot as far as his
bondage permitted, taking Krycek's marking scent into his forehead, his
cheeks, his nose and brow, his hungry, hungry jaw.
"And?"
"And I'm very sorry and I'll never do it again and O my god I'm going to
come right now—"
Krycek's voice snapped like a whip. "No you won't. Not until I tell you to!"
And the boot pulled away, despite Mulder's desperate attempt to trap it
against the floor with his cheek. Behind him, he heard the rustle of cloth
and the welcome rasp of a zipper. And then, to his surprise, he felt
well-lubed fingers on his ass.
He was too off-balance to keep himself from blurting, "You mean, you're
gonna do me now? I thought you'd punish me by, you know, coming all over me
or making me suck you off."
This time, the chuckle was almost indulgent. "Mulder, you know I cook
better than you do?"
Mulder just blinked, unable to make that make better sense than—well, than
the offense he was being punished for. But Krycek turned out to be making a
different point.
"Mulder, I've got you perfectly trussed up like a Christmas turkey. And
turkeys definitely should be stuffed before they're basted."—-
Turkey
by Nonie Rider
Face down on the floor, wrists lashed to ankles behind his back, Mulder
caught his breath helplessly as Krycek's boot came down harder on the back
of his neck.
