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It was dead on 9AM in the big, cold office and East Germany hadn’t been to bed yet.
Despite the cool expression of the man seated at the desk across from him East Germany was rocking on the balls of his feet – or, at least he was until he was acknowledged with a chilly glare.
The Soviet Union sat behind his big desk. Big desk for a big man, the language of intimidation implicit in how it dominated the otherwise sparsely furnished office. East Germany was unmoved.
“You must know why I have called you to me today, East Germany,” Russia said with what sounded like disappointment. He looked hungover, dark circles beneath his icy eyes and hair hanging limply.
“You’re going to tell me anyway, aren’t you,” he replied offhandedly, rubbing his nose with a gloved hand and scanning the room: Besides the desk there was an array of military grey-green filing cabinets. Two uncomfortable-looking chairs in front of the desk, neither of which he had been invited to sit in.
Russia looked very tired, glaring at him from beneath heavy lids. When he spoke, his mouth curled as if he had a cigar held in it. If East Germany could smell anything he suspected the office would probably stink of nicotine and tar.
“...I understand that it is too much for me to expect you to be wholly obedient, given your deficiencies ,” he started, and East Germany rolled his eyes dismissively, “but I find myself expecting discretion from my satellites when they are illegally smuggling–”
Russia glanced down to the folder sitting spread across his desk and his eyes narrowed into a deadly squint.
“–Three and a half thousand cassette copies of–” He leaned in as if to decipher the hieroglyphics printed on the paper. “–’Funkytown’ into their country. Explain yourself.”
East Germany sniffed and shrugged.
“Say what you will about the capitalist dogs, comrade, their tunes are groovy.”
“East Germany, ‘grooviness’ is not an acceptable metric by which contraband media is deemed acceptab– Are you high.”
He paused in the middle of furiously rubbing his nose to try and ease some of the irritation making his sinuses itch, aware of the full force of Russia’s glare. He made a face and forced himself to return to parade rest.
“Fucking barely. Feliks puts too much fucking sweetener in his coke.”
He could see the pulse of a vein in Russia’s temple.
“Gilbert.”
They’re doing personal names now? It made him squint back at Russia.
“Ivan.”
“Lock the door.”
Gilbert was moving before he even really registered the order, and he was flipping the lock and sliding the deadbolts on the big office door when he heard Ivan shifting in his chair and the sound of him reaching beneath his desk: Going for a gun? Going to shoot him dead?
No. That would get brains on the carpet and the cleaners wouldn’t have access because he’d just locked the door. God knew Ivan didn’t like to clean up his own messes.
It could still be a gun. Ivan sometimes liked to have him beneath the desk alternating between sucking his cock and sucking his gun while he gave orders.
He turned once the door was locked securely, and found he was wrong: Ivan was drawing a small mirror from a drawer as well as a discreet little plastic bag of white powder.
He set the mirror at the edge of the desk and poured the powder out before he pulled a razor from within his heavy coat and used it to break up any little lumps, then using it to order it into nice little lines– Gilbert became aware he was staring, unblinking, when Ivan looked up at him, unamused.
“This is what this is about, no? Why you are here. Come.”
Gilbert swallowed thickly, in anticipation. He obeyed and was over by Ivan’s desk far quicker than he might have been otherwise, feeling the prickle of want in his bones as he tried and failed to not seem too eager about the entire arrangement. He stood at ease next to Ivan’s desk and this close he could see that Ivan hadn’t shaved yet, and probably hadn’t showered since the morning previous. He looked like shit.
“Get on with it before I change my mind,” Ivan said drolly, gesturing loosely at the lines by way of invitation.
Groovy.
Gilbert grinned at him, shit-eating. Dressed in his drab grey uniform it felt only right to give a snappy salute and obediently bend over and press a nostril shut and snort up a line in a single go–
It burned so beautifully it was like a shot of pure fire into his veins and made lights cascade behind his eyeballs.
Fucking excellent.
It was enough to make him moan aloud, but when Gilbert made to try and stand up there was suddenly a huge hand fisted in his hair and forcing his face against the glass, smearing the residue against his skin. He could see the red of his own eyes, and the inky black of his pupils reflected back in the mirror: huge and dark and surprised, somehow.
“Finish it.”
He felt the creak of leather gloves as Ivan’s grip tightened and he shoved Gilbert’s face harder against the mirror as he rose to his feet and rounded the desk.
He would have snapped back something witty if his throat wasn’t full of phlegm, but far be it for him to defy such a generous offer. Gilbert swallowed back gunk he’d nearly choked on and inhaled another line with a cough and a full-body tremble that felt like someone was plucking his nervous system like harp chords and it burned like divinity.
Ivan’s hands were on his hips like twinned anchors and it took a moment for Gilbert to stop gasping from system overload to recognise the presence standing behind him.
Of course. This was the other half of the arrangement. He shouldn’t have been expecting anything else.
“Present.”
Ivan ordered him like he was a dog. He might as well have been, in the way he inched his boots apart and arched his back compliantly, the fire spreading through his brainstem and into his veins and limbs and filling him with hot hot hot pleasure– The mirror beneath his face was fogged up from his breath.
Ivan’s hands were no-nonsense as they shoved up his shirt and jacket to rumple around his waist and unbuckled his belt. It was easy for him to wrench the pants down around his knees, leaving him bare-assed in the cold room because it wasn’t like Gilbert had had the time to put on underwear before he changed from his club clothes into his uniform that morning–
His hips were swaying a bit, and he found himself appreciating the purity of the coke Ivan always managed to get his hands on. Everything felt hot and melty and sharp and intense all at once. He wanted to fight, he wanted to fuck, he wanted someone to peel his skin off. Maybe Ivan could be convinced.
The big hands returned and the texture of the gloves made him shiver a bit when they gripped the junction of his ass and thighs and parted it to better expose his cunt to the cool air.
“Do you expect me to reward you for this behaviour?”
It’s a rhetorical question, and Gilbert’s brain was a bit too close to the consistency of boiling soup to give a reply anyway. There’s a sharp slap to his flank, enough to jolt him into focus. It felt something like the sting of a glancing flogger with how the coke heightened everything into sensations of sharp light. Whip or hand, it was probably hard enough to leave a mark.
“I do not reward indiscretion.”
There was the sound of leather on leather, something being folded.
“...And yet here we ar–”
The snarky reply turned into a yelp as the folded belt lashed him across his ass, turning his words into a cry of surprise.
Ivan’s hand on his hip stopped him from jumping, and the sting of the first strike didn’t have time to fade before another followed, and another in quick succession.
One on each side: one, two, one two. Ivan wasn’t using his full strength but each snap and bite was enough to slowly break him down, turn the peaks of hot snapping kisses of pain into a murky quivering mess. He could feel his ass burning, red and radiating. It felt like the inside of his skull.
The strikes paused. Ivan had taken off his gloves and now his cool hands were groping his ass, firm and strangely massaging, working the burn and ache deep into the muscle. Gilbert found himself moaning and rocking back into it, even though it offered him precious little relief.
“How many,” Ivan asked.
“...What.” Gilbert was too high for this, he decided. He had been drooling onto the mirror and turned his head to try and lick up some of the lingering coke residue.
“How many strikes?”
That was just unfair. Gilbert tried to glare at the hulking mass behind him over his shoulder.
“Fuck you.”
Ivan grunted and Gilbert cringed as the hands left him and he felt the presence behind him step away. He supposed he knew this was going to happen at some point. He used his nose to push the mirror away and gripped the edge of the desk to brace himself.
He hung in the moment there for what felt like far too long: Buzzing out of his skin and trembling with vibrations he felt at the base of his spine and inside his skull all at once.
He almost thought Ivan had left him and abandoned him bare-assed on the desk when the snap-crack of the belt’s full length lashed him across the ass, the full length with the buckle and it bit, bit into him and made him scream aloud.
But he counted.
Each stroke was accounted for and Gilbert felt the buckle of the belt bite into his flesh with every strike.
When the blows finally stopped he knew he was a ruined mess, snotty and weepy and hiccuping and shaking like a leaf. The coke still buzzing in his nose made him feel melted, reduced to hot gore that shook with intensity. Every lash had felt new and fresh and searing and now the sudden absence of it made him moan thickly.
He couldn’t tell if the drops of liquid running down the inside of his thighs was blood or from where his cunt ached with wet, aching want..
Ivan was touching him all a sudden and it made him make wretched noises of pain as the big hands worked against his broken, bruised, ruined skin, massaging the pain into the muscle.
“Better.”
Gilbert wanted to laugh. He was screwing his eyes shut and felt the press of Ivan against his ass, still clothed. Don’t do that, you’ll get blood on your uniform, he thought to himself, because he had something more relevant to try and verbalise once the hiccuping sobs had eased:
“D’you want my thighs?”
He hadn’t been prepped. Ivan rarely offered that kind of service, and when he did he didn’t offer. That was not usually how they played. Tolys got that kind of treatment, because Tolys was the good little wife who didn’t get fucked over his boss’ desk after snorting his coke.
Fucking Tolys. Gilbert made a mental note to inflict himself on him later, after. It’d been a while and he couldn’t let Tolys forget what he was. What they were, both.
“Mm.” Ivan sounded unconvinced, rocking his clothed bulge against the wall of pain that was Gilbert’s ass. “Do you deserve that?”
Right. This was supposed to be a punishment. Allegedly. Gilbert’s cheek was smushed against the hard grain of the desk and he rolled his eyes.
“Do I?”
“Shut up.”
The metallic sound of a zipper being brought down made his ears prickle and suddenly there was flesh being thwapped against his ass. Ivan’s cock was warmer than his hands but it still felt cool against the raging burn of where he’d been flogged bloody and the coiling heat of the coke in his veins.
Ivan was angling his hips up, manhandling him into position like he was a dog being forced to present and maybe he was. Ivan was lining up, angling himself in and there was always that moment of disbelief when Gilbert wasn’t sure if he was even going to fit in or just split him open–
He fit and he’s fucking huge.
Gilbert didn’t care about the noises he made, the ones that weren’t flogged out of him were getting fucked out. There was precious little pleasure in this exercise because Ivan never bothered touching his clit but it was there in the agonising drag of his cock as he withdrew and then thrusted forward all at once.
Their hips made a wet noise when they met and Gilbert was sure he was going to be getting blood all over the carpet, but it didn’t really matter. Ivan’s hands were like iron around his waist and his breath was loud in the office, almost as loud as the thick noises each fuck inwards forced from Gilbert’s throat.
He couldn’t fight back like this. Can’t even squirm or wiggle his way out with how he’s locked, pinned, skewered down.
His nails were digging into the desk and he wanted them to leave gouges like he wanted to leave gouges in Ivan’s skin to match those flogged into his rear–
Ivan grunted and a harsh thrust made him yell– He’d managed to fuck up against something that made the inside of Gilbert’s eyelids flash and his toes curl in his boots. Yes. There it is.
It’s hard but it’s finally good. He rose onto his toes to try and get the angle right and Ivan grunted and smacked him roughly on the side.
“Whore.”
“Ye-e-s,” Gilbert hissed out, forgoing the grip on the desk to instead fist his fingers into his own hair to tangle and tug and– Ivan’s fingers brushed against his own in what might have been a tender moment if he wasn’t shoving his face against the desk with enough force to make him see stars.
His nose ached but at least it wasn’t broken. Ivan was holding him there and pinning him like a butterfly while he took him, like a dog. The fingers wrapped in his hair were tight and unforgiving like the line of a leash pulled taught, pressing him down to be used for Ivan’s own pleasure.
His fingers scratched at the cool skin and he felt the tendons in Ivan’s wrist flex as he dragged Gilbert’s head back only to slam his face down again, and again, in time with his ragged thrusts and it felt like a frag grenade and it was perfect.
The last one broke his nose and filled his throat with blood that burbled with his stuttering moans.
Ivan was gripping his waist so hard it was going to leave bruises, he knew. Hand-shaped purple prints embedded into him and Gilbert will later press his fingers into it and shiver at the memory.
He’s dizzy, a bit. Too high, too sore, too fucked. He’s a lot dizzy.
Ivan pressed himself to his hilt and the depth of it took Gilbert’s breath away– He pressed deep and leaned over to encompass Gilbert in his entirety while he grunted like an animal and shivered and came into him.
There was no relief. Ivan’s hips crushed against his as he milked out the last few thrusts of his orgasm and Gilbert felt the weight of him pressing down against him. If his skull cavities weren’t full of blood and coke and Ivan wasn’t more inclined to break his neck Gilbert might have opened an overture for something as grotesque as cuddles, but.
Maybe he had come somewhere between having his face smashed open and his insides assaulted, he wasn’t entirely sure. He was shaking and wet, though. From the comedown.
Ivan grunted something that might have been a complaint of annoyance and when he finally gathered the strength to remove his weight from Gilbert’s back it felt awful. Also awful was the sick, wet slide of his cock as he tucked himself back into his trousers: Of course he hadn’t used a condom. Gilbert was going to have to clean himself out later.
But, then and there he was quite comfortable splayed over the table as he was, cheek grinding against the grain of the desk. Grinding his blood and drool into the wood. Ivan would make him clean it with his tongue later, undoubtedly. His cunt clenched uselessly, reflexively at the thought.
The metallic sound of a lighter being flicked open made his ears prickle. He could taste acrid smoke in the air and his eyes shifted to try and look at Ivan.
Ivan was looking at him, squinting and sneering around his shitty cigarette. His belt had been dropped onto the carpet next to him, blood clinging to the metal buckle.
“Are you pleased with yourself.”
Gilbert rolled his eyes and reached back to try and pull his trousers up without jostling his head too much. Concussions were a bitch and he could already feel one setting in.
“Mm. Are you?”
“Don’t push it.”
Gilbert’s laugh was thick and clogged from the hunk of blood he snorted back and he drew up the strength to unpeel himself from the desk in order to do up his belt, and tuck his shirt back in. His entire rear end felt bruised and ablaze but it was already beginning to scab up, at least. Slower than it might have some decades ago, but still beyond the capabilities of the human body.
He straightened himself out as best he could and wiped his face clear of the worst of the blood and snorted back the rest. He was nasal and pitchy, but far more composed than he had been just minutes earlier when he turned to address Ivan properly, returning to parade rest:
“Sir.”
Ivan took a long drag of his smoke, eyeing him up and down like a lizard considering the effort needed to take down prey. Lazy, hazy, deeply hungover. His hair was limp with drying sweat and his eyes were hollowed. Gilbert wanted to run his tongue up his unshaven cheek to taste him.
He blew a cloud of smoke from his nostrils and waved a hand dismissively.
“You know what I require of you.”
Service. Obedience. A hot mouth.
Gilbert gave him a smile with teeth.
“Discretion. Noted.”
Ivan did not look entirely convinced. His arms were crossed in front of his broad chest and the cigarette, now half-burned, swiveled from one side of his thin lips to the other.
“You look like shit. Come here.”
It almost took Gilbert off guard. He stepped closer, cautiously. He was not a small man, but he still had to tilt his head back to meet Ivan’s gaze. It was colder than the room and even through his ruined nose Gilbert could smell his unshowered musk in the back of his throat.
Ivan’s eyes narrowed in laser focus and his hands were suddenly at Gilbert’s throat but it wasn’t to choke the life from him for once– Rather, he was redoing his tie and tucking it neatly back into his uniform, and then straightening his lapels. For such delicate work his hands seemed unsuited for it. Usually Ivan left such things to his underlings or his favourites.
He considered commenting as such, but was intimately aware of how vulnerable his throat was, so his mouth opened and uselessly closed instead.
“...I need you to do better,” Ivan eventually rumbled, around a mouth full of smoke, “Than whatever this was about. I am not unreasonable. You are not incompetent.”
Any suggestion otherwise about his competency would have him lunging for Ivan’s throat with his teeth. He suspected Ivan knew that. Ivan was smoothing out the wrinkles of his uniform jacket with the repetition of a man who had had not nearly as much sleep as he needed.
Gilbert almost felt sorry for him and wisely kept his mouth shut. Ivan’s hands were cupping his jaw and trapping him in place with the icy grip of a bear trap.
“I need better. Less of this shit. Do you understand me, East Germany?”
Gilbert blinked up at him, and opened his mouth to reply only to get two broad fingers shoved past his lips to gag him.
“I did not ask for one of your shitty little replies. Try again.”
This was not very groovy at all.
Gilbert’s lashes fluttered and his tongue curled around the intruding digits and East Germany eventually nodded, eyes breaking from Ivan’s gaze.
Russia held him in the iron jaws of his hands for a moment or two longer. Making sure he was backing down and submitting.
“Good boy. Don’t let it come to my attention again,” he said with a note of finality, retrieving his fingers from East Germany’s mouth and patting his cheek like he would a dog. “You’re dismissed. Get out before I make you clean my desk with your tongue.”
There it was. Russia was ever so predictable.
East Germany took the opportunity to step away. His lower half felt like fire and his trousers were sticking to his rear. He gave Russia a smirk and a smart salute.
“Yessir.”
“Get out.”
Russia did not need to raise his voice for it to be a shout and East Germany wasted no time in clicking his heels together and backing away to unlock the door and escape.
Better to leave the old man to his misery than stick around and be subject to it for longer than necessary. East Germany had gotten what he wanted: A fresh bump of coke, a flogging, a nasty fuck. His blood still sang with the buzz just as his body sang with the lingering pain of the belt buckle having stripped his ass raw. It was good. He would work with this.
He would go visit his comrades and inflict himself on them, and then later he’d go speak to his people and make sure the second shipment of bootlegged cassettes didn’t end up in the wrong hands, and then he’d go out after dark and refresh his hit and come in the next day for the all the same shit.
All was as it ever was, and it would ever be in that shitty little cold room with the big desk.