12 comments/ 29714 views/ 21 favorites Taming the Tsarevich Ch. 01-02 By: Nameless_Rose Prologue The action of this story takes place in a fictional time period in 18th century Russian history, after the reign of Peter the Great but before the reign of Catherine ends in 1796. * Tsarevich Nikolai Danilavich sat at his desk in the drafty schoolroom, pretending to listen to the insectile drone of his history tutor while he daydreamed about what he would do when his lessons were finally over for the day. He was bored, had been bored ever since this academic vulture had started speaking. His father hardly even knew how to read, and he was Tsar of all Russia. Why should a Tsar's son have to spend hours and hours in a freezing little room trying to memorize names and dates that seemed as inconsequential to him as the countless white snowflakes skirling down outside the window? "And in which year was Moscow burned by the Tatars, Tsarevich?" The tutor had suddenly focused his beady black eyes on Nikolai. "What?" "I asked, Tsarevich, if you could tell me the year in which our great city was sacked by the Tatars." Nikolai sat silent for a few moments, struggling to recall the sequence of numbers which was the correct date among all the others floating in his head. Finally, he said, "Fourteen seventy-six?" "Obviously, his Highness chose to neglect his studies last night." The Tutor's voice was brittle with suppressed annoyance, and Nikolai felt his face heating with embarrassment. So he hadn't spent the entire night poring over dusty old papers, what of it? He had better things to do then remember the dates for events that had happened hundreds of years ago. Then the hateful man spoke again, gesturing to a spot over Nikolai's shoulder. "Maxim, could you perhaps supply me with the correct answer?" The Prince scowled and balled his hands into fists beneath his desk. He had been trying to forget about Maxim. Scrawny little Maxim with his girlish, soft voice and his blunt, peasant's hands. He had been the son of the British ambassador and one of the Tsarina's ladies in waiting, but his parents had both taken sick and died a few months previously of a fever. That was when the Tsar, Nikolai's father, had left to see to his holdings on the Southern border. He would be absent from court for the better part of three years and it was decided that in deference to the Tsar's only begotten son's disobedient temperament, a quaint English custom learned from the former ambassador would be instituted in during the his absence. Maxim Ivanovich was appointed to the position of whipping boy at the moment of the Tsar's departure, the designated target of any punishment the Tsarevich brought upon himself. The idea behind this was that while profane hands would be prevented from touching the heir to the throne, he would at the same time be chastised by witnessing the pain he had brought upon another. This plan would have been more successful if Prince Nikolai were the kind of boy who could be persuaded to care for other human beings as much as he cared for himself. He was the treasured son and only heir of an aging monarch, destined in a few short years to be Tsar of all the Russias. He could not be persuaded to feel sorry for a runt of a boy like Maxim, someone who spent most of his time studying and reading books. It had become something of a game for him to misbehave just so that he could have the pleasure of watching his tutor or the gardener or the head chef beat the stupid little bookworm for doing nothing whatsoever. Everyone in the palace knew that having a whipping boy was completely useless and Nikolai knew that they all felt sorry for the boy. He was an orphan after all, he had nowhere else to go, no other way of feeding and clothing himself. In exchange for accepting punishments which he had not earned, Maxim was given a good life, a warm bed and plenty of food. There was also a promise by the Tsar that in the distant future, when the Prince had come of age, Maxim would be granted the title of Boyar. But none of this mattered to Nikolai now. What mattered to him was that his tutor thought more of Maxim than he did of him, he the heir to the throne of Russia. "Moscow was burned in the year fifteen seventy-one, tutor," Maxim said, his high-pitched voice grating against Nikolai's nerves like breaking glass. One of the things that most infuriated Nikolai when it came to the whipping boy was his refusal to fight back or even cry out when he was beaten or teased. He took his punishments silently and seemingly without bitterness, and he was always unfailingly polite to the Prince. Just once, Nikolai would like to get Maxim to lose his composure, just once he wanted to see him cry, as he knew he himself would cry were he to be beaten so often and so thoroughly as Maxim. "Correct, Maxim," the tutor said, shooting Nikolai a dark look. The Prince had yet to answer a single question correctly today. "Perhaps His Majesty should go to Maxim in the future for assistance with his studies." Nikolai flinched as if he had been struck. He glared at the tutor, who glared right back and crossed his arms over his chest, daring the Prince to throw one of the tantrums for which he was known so well. Nikolai was happy to oblige him. He shot up from his desk and turned it over, relishing the loud thud and the crack of splintering wood. Then he picked up a bottle of ink from the desk across from him and uncorking it, began to run about the room, spattering all of the drapes and tapestries with black ink. He made sure to give an ample libation to his tutor, who had taken shelter behind his own desk. As the crowning gesture to his tantrum Nikolai ran to Maxim, who was still sitting calmly behind his desk, and upended the bottle over his head. Ink splashed down onto the top of the whipping boy's head in torrents, dying his hair jet and turning his face into a black mask. He sat perfectly still, letting the ink drip down onto his shirt collar, and Nikolai began to laugh. Maxim turned to him then and the look in his eyes was one that the Prince had never experienced before. It was plain, naked hatred. His giggles abruptly ceased, and as the tutor crawled out from behind his desk, Maxim rose and walked to the schoolroom door, his eyes now downcast. "Punish him," Nikolai suddenly said, angry that he had allowed Maxim's hatred to shake him, "I deserve to be punished so you have to punish him. You can't let me get away with spraying ink all over the place, Tutor." The tutor narrowed his eyes and looked at Nikolai for a long moment, making no effort to conceal his dislike for the Prince. Nikolai stuck out his tongue at him and the tutor sighed, dropping his gaze. Maxim had stopped in the doorway with his back to them, waiting. "Come here, Maxim," the man said, reaching to pick up a heavy wooden staff which had been leaning against the wall. "His majesty needs to be punished," And Maxim went, saying nothing, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground. He bent over, presenting himself for the cane and grasping the edge of a desk to keep himself steady. "Watch well, Tsarevich," the tutor said as he brought the cane down for the first time on Maxim's waiting backside, "This is how a true Prince should behave." He delivered a volley of blows, hard and fast, each smack echoing through the silent room. But Maxim never cried out, never shed a tear. When the beating was over, he stood up, winced ever so slightly and then limped out of the room without saying a word, his face still covered with black ink. Chapter One Maxim Ivanovich entered the throne room for the first time in six years. It hadn't changed much since he had left, but his status within it certainly had. Gone were the days when he had been forced to submit to the whims of a spoiled princeling, and gone too were the pitying, condescending stares of the Boyars who populated the court. He was now among their number, elevated into the nobility by the grace of the Tsar upon the occasion of Tsarevich Nikolai's coming of age. He had spent eight years, eight miserable years, from the time of his parents' death until Nikolai's eighteenth birthday, serving as the plaything for a cruel and spoiled little brat whose greatest pleasure seemed to be watching Maxim suffer punishments for crimes which he had not committed. The very day after the Tsar had granted him the privileges of the Boyar, Maxim had left Moscow, traveling to England and installing himself in a townhouse in the most fashionable district in London. The Tsar's monetary recompense for Maxim's years of slavery had been quite substantial; the man had known what type of boy his son was and had not been unsympathetic when all was said and done. Maxim could have spent the rest of his life living quite comfortably without ever making any money of his own, but he soon discovered that the idle life did not suit him. He bought shares in an English shipping company, and accompanied his vessels to many of their destinations. He had sailed the Mediterranean and journeyed to the Far East. He had even been on expedition to Africa and his ship had come back loaded with enough merchandise to make every man in the crew rich. For six years he had lived the life of a sailor, had tasted so much of what the world had to offer, but it had all come to an end less than a month ago. He had been in London when he had received a letter from the Tsar. His Majesty wrote to Maxim that he had been diagnosed with a wasting sickness and had not long to live. His son would soon become Tsar of Russia and his father was now, in his final extremity, wracked with doubts about Tsarevich Nikolai's ability to rule the country. The Prince had predictably grown from a thoughtless, selfish boy into a thoughtless, selfish man, caring more for sport and drink than for other people and the affairs of Mother Russia. The Tsar was certain that if Nikolai were to inherit the throne as he was now, Russia would crumble and fall into a state of irreparable neglect. Maxim, the Tsar explained, was the only man capable of bringing his son to heel. The prince was a man now and the Tsar had grown old; it was now far too late for the Tsar to curb his son's behavior with the rod. Nikolai's hold over court was unshakeable. He was feared for his temper and cruel sense of humor, and his sway had grown large since the old Tsar's confinement to his final sick bed. No, only Maxim, the Tsar was certain, only Maxim who had grown up alongside the prince, who had dealt so unflinchingly with Nikolai's cruelty, would be able to mold him into a man who was capable of running an empire. Maxim must return to court and re-establish ties to the Prince. He must, through hints, threats, reasoned argument and entreaty, mold the Tsarevich into a Tsar, and he had been granted full immunity to do so. As long as the old Tsar remained alive, Prince Nikolai would have no power over him. Maxim had thought about refusing, about sailing away on another journey and pretending that he had never gotten the Tsar's letter, but something stopped him. It was more than just patriotism; he did not have much cause to love Russia after all. Russia had not been kind to him, but the Tsar had kept him fed and provided him with an education. It was perhaps this last thing which had made him answer the Tsar's letter. It was his love of books of adventure which had first driven him to the sea, and if it had not been for the tutors which he had shared with Nikolai, Maxim may never have had the wit or desire to discover them. Another thing which crossed his mind when he answered the letter was that he would quite like to see Nikolai again. He was no longer the whipping boy, the hated slave. He was Boyar, and he had been granted immunity by the Tsar. He had captained half a dozen voyages to the most savage corners of the world. Prince Nikolai could no longer command him. In fact, Maxim intended things to be quite the other way around. He had learned much in his travels about how to curb the behavior of men like Nikolai, and he intended to practice them upon the Prince as soon as the opportunity arose. The Tsarevich would not be swayed by reasoned argument or academic entreaties to his better judgment. The only thing which would cure Nikolai of his dangerous arrogance was for him to learn what it is like to be truly humble, and that was something at which Maxim was very, very accomplished. He tried to spot Nikolai now among the crush of courtiers, but didn't see him. It had been six years since they had last laid eyes on each other. The Tsarevich had been eighteen, and Maxim twenty when he had been granted his title by the Tsar and had left Russia for England. Nikolai had perhaps changed a great deal since then. Maxim may not even recognize him. A flurry of mutters suddenly when through the crowd of Boyars and heads began to swivel towards the door. Maxim turned himself and saw, for the first time in six years, Tsarevich Nikolai Danilavich sweeping into the room clad in clothes of immaculate cut and costly style. He looked just as Maxim remembered him at their last meeting, tall and lean with high, prominent cheekbones, gray-blue eyes and long hair so blond that it was almost white. The perpetual expression of haughty superiority which he wore upon his face had also not changed since their schooldays and Maxim smiled slightly to himself, anticipating what it would be like to wipe that self-satisfied smirk from the Prince's lips. Nikolai was almost level with him now, and Maxim stepped deliberately forward, placing himself in plain view of the Tsarevich and his retinue. He saw the Prince's face first freeze and then grow dark with anger when he caught sight of Maxim. His Majesty stumbled ever so slightly, and Maxim allowed his smile to widen. He cocked an eyebrow at Nikolai and then turned away, going to find a servant who could lead him to the Tsar's sick room. ********************** Nikolai had at first been unable to believe his eyes when he had seen Maxim standing among the throng of courtiers in the palace's antechamber. At first he had been unsure that it was him, the whipping boy, because Maxim was certainly a boy no longer. When they had parted six years ago, Maxim had been rail thin and pale with lank brown hair, a slumped posture and dark circles perpetually smudged beneath his eyes. Now he stood tall and haughty, no longer thin, but leanly muscular, with a thick mane of brown hair the color of mahogany. What in God's name was he doing here? He had expected never to see the little runt again, and now here he was, turning up right in the midst of Nikolai's transition from Prince to King. He would have Maxim thrown out of court immediately, he decided. There was no place here for a former whipping boy, even if he was now a Boyar through the misplaced generosity of the current Tsar. Nikolai glanced around the antechamber to see if he could catch sight of Maxim again, but the man had vanished. Good, he would have a word with one of the guards and they would escort Maxim out of the palace, preferably out of Moscow altogether. He wanted no reminders of his boyhood, and he especially did not want the company of a self-righteous teacher's pet who had always been so much cleverer than he had been with books. He caught the eye of the captain of the palace guards and began to walk towards him, ignoring the flutters of the courtiers who stood around him, bowing and trying to capture his attention. One of the numerous ladies who had been trying for months to slink her way into his bed placed herself in Nikolai's path and he shoved her aside, ignoring her squawk of indignation as she stumbled and almost fell. He had almost reached the edge of the hall when a hand fell lightly upon his arm. Startled, he looked up, wondering who could have dared to touch him in such a familiar manner, and there was Maxim, standing by his side, one hand still resting lightly on Nikolai's arm. He wrenched his arm away. "How dare you touch me?" he spat, one hand creeping down to rest on the hilt of his sword. Maxim made no move to retreat; he only smiled at the Prince and bowed, withdrawing his arm. "It's been quite a long time Your Majesty," He said, his smile now faintly mocking. "I did not think you would so resent the familiarity of a boyhood companion." "You are no companion of mine, whipping boy," Nikolai said. "Whipping boy no longer, Your Majesty. Now I am Boyar, and I am here by your Father's most particular wish." "Get out of my way." Nikolai said, very aware of the fact that everyone in the room had stopped their conversations to listen. "May I request the pleasure of a private audience with you at some point during the night, your majesty?" Maxim made no move to stand aside, and Nikolai saw that his hand too had crept to the hilt of his sword. The Prince hesitated. He would like nothing better than to teach the impudent man better manners at the tip of the sword, but he remembered that Maxim had once been the fencing master's pet. They had only fenced together twice, but on both of those occasions Nikolai had found himself kneeling at Maxim's feet, a sword to his throat. Of course there was no reason to believe that Maxim had anywhere near the skill with the sword to match his own now, not after six years of brawling and lessons from the finest soldiers in all of Russia. Still, the memory was enough to give him pause; a public loss in a sword fight could undo much of what he had been trying to accomplish at court. He loosened his grip on the hilt and a moment later, Maxim did the same. Nikolai gave a curt nod. "Tonight then, at eight o' clock. I'll expect you at my apartment." "Thank you, your Majesty," Maxim said, bowing, that smug, irritating smile still on his face. Then the man turned and without another word, walked away, disappearing among the sea of courtiers. Nikolai stood rigid for a moment, indignation raging within him. He knew that it had been wise to avoid a scene, but he was furious at himself for allowing his memories of Maxim's prowess with the sword in their schooldays to sway his mind. He should have taught the whipping boy better manners, demonstrating to everyone in court that he was not to be approached lightly, and that he would refuse to stand for such impudent treatment. Instead, he had bowed to Maxim's wishes. Why? He was Tsarevich for God's sake; people were supposed to toady to his wishes, not the other way around. And what in God's name could Maxim have to say to him? What was he doing here in the first place? Nikolai had made it quite clear that he never wished to see Maxim again after his eighteenth birthday. Why on Earth would his father have requested Maxim to come back to court? Apprehension began to gnaw at Nikolai's insides, and he glared around him at the silent courtiers. Then he swept out of the antechamber, seeking the solitude of his private rooms. It was only noon, but he knew that he would now spend the rest of the day wondering about and worrying at the prospect of his private meeting with Maxim. His presence at court suddenly struck Nikolai as ominous. Maxim was, after all, the only denizen of court who Nikolai did not have completely under his thumb, excluding his father of course. The old man had a mind like iron. Could his father have summoned Maxim here to work some kind of mischief before Nikolai's coronation? He couldn't conceive of the idea that Maxim would be able to do him any real harm, but he did have the potential to tarnish Nikolai's image. If the man began to reminisce about the days of their youth, when Maxim had been nothing but a whipping boy, Nikolai could be made to look quite foolish, considering his academic performance and the number of times Maxim had been beaten in his stead. Maxim could perhaps turn the tide of court opinion against him. Yes, that sounded like something his father would do. Nikolai could see it now, the whole plan, and he almost laughed out. The old man had brought Maxim here to blackmail him; that had to be it. The Tsar was using Maxim as a way to enforce his control back over his son. Well, Nikolai was not going to allow that to happen. He was twenty-four now, a man, a man destined to be Tsar, and no longer subject to the whims of his doddering old father. He would not allow Maxim to jeopardize the success of his coronation which was looming ever nearer, awaiting only the death of the Tsar to usher it in. Taming the Tsarevich Ch. 01-02 He decided that he would confront Maxim tonight at their meeting, let him know that he was perfectly aware of the Tsar's machinations, and that he, the Tsarevich, would not stand for such disrespect. He would demand that Maxim vacate court immediately or he would challenge him to a duel. Either way he chooses, Nikolai thought, I will win. Either he will leave court forever or he will lose to me at the sword, perhaps even sacrificing his own life for some foolish notion of loyalty to a dying old man. Nikolai did not particularly like the idea of shedding Maxim's blood; he had never killed a man before, but he was prepared to do so if it meant protecting his own reputation and teaching that cursed whipping boy a lesson that he would never forget. Chapter Two Nikolai spent the day just as he had anticipated: worrying away at the prospect of his meeting with Maxim. He had resolved himself to take the course of action upon which he had decided, and he was certain that nothing Maxim could do or say would sway him. Nonetheless, when the soft knock came on his door precisely at eight o' clock, Nikolai could not stop himself from jumping. Now that the time had actually come, he could admit to himself that he was actually a little bit frightened of this impending audience. There was just something about Maxim which made the hairs on the back of Nikolai's neck stand on end. It was the sort of air he had, so different from the dejected one of their childhood, the air of a man who was accustomed to being obeyed without question. Nikolai thought he had been successful in cultivating such an air for himself until he had laid eyes on Maxim earlier today. Despite what he had been trying to tell himself, Maxim intimidated him, made him want to lower his eyes and mumble like he had when he was a boy and he had been caught in some kind of shameful act. Nikolai shook himself. He was a Prince and the man he was dealing with was little more than a peasant. There was no reason for him to be frightened. Straightening his clothes and making sure that his posture projected just the right amount of careless arrogance, Nikolai answered the knock on the door to his sitting room. He had dismissed his servants for the evening; he wanted no witnesses to this duel, should it actually occur. Maxim stood in the doorway, outlined in gold by the light of the candelabrum on the walls. He had changed from what had obviously been his traveling clothes into an outfit of rich black and deep green brocades of an even more stylish cut than Nikolai's own ensemble. He supposed that Maxim must have brought the outfit with him directly from England. It took British fashions a bit longer to get to Moscow. "Good evening, You Majesty," Maxim said, in a deep rich voice, a voice so unlike the weak, effeminate one Nikolai remembered from years before. The sound of it made him want to retreat for some reason. Despite its outward pleasantness he thought he could sense menace, could sense the memories of the years Maxim had spent as the Tsarevich's whipping boy. He began to wonder whether granting Maxim a private audience had been a good idea. "Good evening," he said, gathering himself as best he could. "Come in please. I'm sure we have much to discuss." "Of course," Maxim said, inclining his head. He looked at Nikolai then, and it was shocking to see how deep a brown the man's eyes were. Nikolai stepped aside so that Maxim could pass, and after regarding the Prince for another moment he slipped inside the room. The Prince shut the door and bolted it before following. When he turned he saw that Maxim had seated himself without asking in the high-backed chair directly in front of the fire which was Nikolai's favorite place in the room. He glared at the other man for a moment, but Maxim only smiled placidly back, so he lowered his gaze and took a seat in the chair across from his accustomed spot. Silence fell, and while Maxim seemed perfectly content, it began to tell on Nikolai. Finally, he said, "What are you doing here Maxim? I didn't think you would ever come back to Court." "I'm here at your father's request, Your Majesty." "You're here to ruin my reputation, is that it? You and my father have some kind of scheme put together that will make me bow to his wishes in all things. Well, I'm not your dupe. I am the heir to the throne of Russia and I refuse to be treated as you and my father are treating me. I demand that you leave Moscow at once." Nikolai felt his face growing hot and his voice had begun to shake slightly. He wasn't shouting, but his voice was louder than it should have been. "No," Maxim said. "What do you mean, 'No?' I am your Prince, and you will do as I say." "I'm afraid not, Your Majesty." Maxim replied in that same calm voice. It was as if they were discussing the weather. Nikolai jumped to his feet, his hand traveling once more to the hilt of his sword, but Maxim only reclined back in his chair, watching the Prince with that maddening half-smile on his face. He did not seem to fear Nikolai in the slightest. "How dare you?" Nikolai's voice was trembling with rage. What right had this glorified peasant to refuse a the command of royalty? Maxim would soon learn what it was like to feel a Prince's displeasure. "Stand and fight me, coward," he snarled, drawing his sword from its sheath and pointing it at Maxim's chest. "Put the sword down, Majesty, and let us discuss this like civilized men." Maxim's voice was soft, placating. He made no effort to move. "This is how true men behave, Maxim, something which I'm sure you know nothing about. Now stand and fight." "If you insist, Tsarevich." With a sigh, Maxim stood up, drawing out his own weapon. Then he turned to face Nikolai and their swords were pointing at one another. A second later, Nikolai attacked, a wide arching thrust which Maxim deftly sidestepped and parried. From there the duel became a blur with Nikolai nearly exhausting himself after only a few minutes while Maxim seemed hardly to have broken a sweat. The whipping boy didn't fight like a man, never attacking, only defending himself against Nikolai's increasingly wild thrusts. Sweat began to dampen the Prince's face, and as if he had been waiting for such a sign of tiredness, Maxim came to life. He began to advance on Nikolai, and it was all the Prince could do to parry the seemingly endless thrusts and strokes of the blade. He leapt around a chair, desperate for a second's respite, but Maxim was behind him suddenly, wrapping an arm around his chest so that the blade of his sword hovered an inch away from Nikolai's throat. "Drop your weapon, Your Majesty," Maxim said causally, as if he were asking Nikolai for directions. Nikolai hesitated, fuming, his face blotchy red with rage and exhaustion, but the blade hovered the tiniest bit closer to the tender skin of his throat, so he allowed his fingers to loosen on the hilt of his own sword. The clatter as it fell from his limp hand and hit the stone flagstones reverberated through the chambers of his mind like the beats of some enormous drum. He could feel the heat of the Maxim's body pressing against him, and he shifted, trying to loosen his hold, but it was no good. "Turn around," Maxim said, the sword withdrawing slightly. Nikolai did as he was asked, hoping that Maxim could feel his hatred as he did so. Now he was face to face with the man, so close that their noses were almost touching. Nikolai had never been in such an intimate position with another man, but to his confusion, even through his hatred, he did not find the sensation repugnant. Maxim's body was warm and firm and he smelled cleanly of soap and wood smoke. Nikolai felt his muscles try to go lax, felt his body yearning to melt against the warmth of the man behind him. Some part of his mind was shouting to break away, to push Maxim to the ground and run him through with his own sword. He gathered the will to do so, but then Maxim took Nikolai's head in both hands and began to kiss him with a hungry ferocity that made the Prince's eyes open wide and his knees turn to water. Maxim's mouth sucked at his lips, his tongue probed, and soon Nikolai's mouth was opening of its own accord and Maxim's tongue was inside of it, swirling tasting, devouring him. He shuddered, struggled, tried to break away from the consuming ferocity of the kiss, but Maxim was so strong, too strong to be denied. Nikolai began to thrash in the whipping boy's arms, trying desperately to free himself, unable to believe the jolts of desire which the kiss was sending through his body. Then the kiss ended, moments or hours later, and Maxim released Nikolai from his imprisoning embrace. "Give me back my sword." Nikolai demanded, hating that his voice had begun to tremble and that his knees were shaking. He felt as if all of his nerves were turning to fire and ice by turns. Maxim bent to pick up Nikolai's sword and held it up in front of his own face, examining it and taking in the gold filigree inlaid on the handle, the half a dozen jewels which glimmered on the hilt. "This is a fine blade Your Highness. I would hate to see it damaged," said Maxim, and to Nikolai's utter fury, the man pointed the sword at his throat. "There will be no more swordplay, Tsarevich. Get down on your knees and stay there or I swear to all the Gods that ever were, I will run you through. If you doubt it, then cast your mind back to all of those times when you gave me cause to wish you dead." Nikolai stared into Maxim's face for several long moments, trying to find some kind of weakness there, but he found none; the man's face was as impassive as that of a marble statue. Trembling, his face blotchy red with shame, Nikolai knelt, head bowed, his indignation now tinged with fear and a certain amount of humiliation. It had all been over within minutes. How had such a runt learned to handle the sword so well? "My father will never stand for this," Nikolai mumbled to the ground. He felt the blade withdraw from his throat and Maxim laughed. "It was your father who asked me to come here, Tsarevich. He has given me immunity from you. He thinks that I can teach you how to become a proper Tsar." "You lie." "I'm afraid not. I can do whatever I want to you as long as I leave you intact in the end. Your father is aware that desperate measures must be taken. He cannot allow Russia to be governed by a selfish little boy." Nikolai felt his cheeks sting once more with shame and rage. How had he allowed himself to be maneuvered into this position? He was being forced to suffer the insults of a man who he could once have had beaten black and blue at his slightest whim. Now Nikolai was kneeling at Maxim's feet like a beggar. "You won't get away with this," the Prince said, forcing his voice to remain steady. Maxim threw back his head and laughed. "Even in your extremity, all you can think to say to me is a cliché. Did you gain anything from our schooldays?" Nikolai kept his eyes fixed upon the floor but looked up, startled, when he felt Maxim's hand slip beneath his chin, raising it so that he was forced to look into the face of his former whipping boy. "For all of your arrogance and stupidity, Tsarevich, you certainly are a handsome specimen." Maxim said, his voice losing some of its harshness and acquiring a softer, speculative edge. The hand left his chin and Maxim began to run his fingers lightly over the planes of Nikolai's face, tracing his nose, his eyes, and lingering on the wet bow of his lips. The Prince couldn't stop himself from trembling now, his fear and anguish now overshadowed by his confusion. He was expecting to be badly beaten, perhaps even killed, but that is not what seemed to be happening. And Maxim's caressing fingers made him feel strange. They seemed to leave a trail of glowing embers in their wake, making his skin burn and tingle. Then suddenly Maxim had withdrawn. "Get up," he said, his voice cold once more, "And go lie down across that stool." He pointed and Nikolai followed the gesture with his eyes to a sturdy wooden stool which was sitting, half-forgotten, in a corner of the chamber. The Prince's sword was back in Maxim's hand, and he pointed it at Nikolai now. He had no choice but to obey. ****************** Maxim watched Nikolai stumble over to the stool feeling several different things at once. There was pleasure at seeing the terror of his childhood brought low at last, pity and contempt at the ease with which the Prince had been defeated, and a heady blend of lust and uncertainty at the prospect of beginning the Tsarevich's training. He had tamed many boys since he had first been introduced to the world of Master and Slave, but none of them had been Princes. Neither had any of them been a monster who had turned Maxim's childhood into a nightmare. He knew that he had to pace himself now, to take things slow. He could not allow his feelings from the past to get in the way of the present. No good could be done for either the Prince or himself if he went about treating this as vengeance for a ruined childhood. He focused instead on the lust which had begun to grown within him at the sight of Nikolai Danilavich kneeling helpless at his feet. He had not expected this. Nikolai was of course very handsome, but Maxim had known many handsome men, and the Prince was no more beautiful than any of them. There was something else. Part of it was of course the idea of conquering the one who had once so dominated him all those years ago, but there was also something in Nikolai which had only begun to emerge once he had been rendered helpless. Maxim had felt the Prince responding to his caresses and the knowledge excited him. The boy plainly had no idea what such feelings meant, but the spark was there nonetheless. He would simply have to be taught to embrace his own desires. The stool was the perfect height for his purposes, Maxim saw, when Nikolai had laid himself down upon it. High enough so that the Prince's feet dangled an inch or so from the ground, and with a base wide enough to accommodate his torso comfortably. He was lying face down, compliant for the moment. Maxim observed Nikolai for a second longer and then threw the Prince's sword carelessly over his shoulder. It landed by the chamber door with a reverberant crash. His own sword he kept in its sheath; Nikolai still had the potential to create mischief should he desire it. It would perhaps be best to tie him now while he was still recovering from this most recent blow to his ego. Maxim pulled several lengths of black cloth from an inside pocket of his shirt and bending down he used them to secure the Tsarevich's hands and legs to the legs of the stool. All throughout the process, Nikolai said nothing, holding himself perfectly still with his eyes focused straight ahead, but when Maxim had finished, he said, "What are you going to do to me?" It was a very different voice from the one Maxim had come to expect. The arrogance had vanished and now Nikolai sounded like what he truly was: a frightened young man confused by the new sensations beginning to rise within him. Maxim began to feel the slightest tingle of compassion for the boy, and his smile as he said his next words were gentle. "I'm going to teach you the meaning of humility, Kolya," He savored the way the diminutive felt upon his lips, and he saw the Prince stiffen at the intimacy of the term. He proceeded to run a hand down Nikolai's back, feeling the firmness of the muscles and the dimpled ridges of his spine beneath the layers of the Prince's clothes. These would have to go, he decided. He must see what he had to work with after all, and clothes would be nothing but a hindrance. He considered using his own blade for the purpose, but in the end, he went to retrieve the Nikolai's own sword. "Now, hold still," he said, returning to the bound man and enjoying the immediate stiffening of all of the Prince's muscles. He slipped the blade of the sword inside the collar of Nikolai's fine shirt and slit it down the back, taking the undershirts with it. He did the same thing to the shirtsleeves and the legs of his trousers until the clothes lay in ribbons upon the Prince's pale flesh. "Please, let me go," Nikolai said, his voice low, almost a whisper. "I won't bother you again, I promise you Maxim. Just stop this madness and release me. I am your Prince." "No, Kolya," Maxim said gently, taking a hold of the shreds of the Tsarevich's suit and ripping them away with one swift jerk of his hand. Nikolai winced and cried out softly. "From now on, I am the Prince and you are the whipping boy." He moved his hand to the waistline of Nikolai's trousers. "Please," The Prince whispered, almost moaned, "Please stop." With a wrench, Maxim tore away the remnants of Nikolai's trouser's and undergarments, getting his first unimpeded view of the Prince's body. Nikolai had a slim build, but ropes of muscles curled up his arms and legs, and his back was firm and well-sculpted. His ass was a delight, Maxim was pleased to find, highly rounded but very firm. It seemed to him to be begging for the kiss of the lash or perhaps for another, more invasive caress. Maxim ran a hand down the Prince's exposed flesh, starting at the nape of the neck and moving deliberately down the Tsarevich's spine, relishing the shivers and gooseflesh which arose in his wake. When he reached the cleft of Nikolai's ass and ran a single finger lightly down it, the Prince jerked against the bonds holding him, emitting a small gasp. Maxim ignored Nikolai's squirming and his hands continued their exploration, spreading the Prince's ass so he could inspect the small, puckered opening which lay within. He prodded it gently, and Nikolai gasped, actually crying out softly when Maxim probed an experimental finger into the tight little hole. When his hands began to move still lower, working their way irresistibly towards the Prince's groin, Nikolai began to thrash against his bonds. "Stop, stop," he murmured over and over, but then Maxim's hands had found him and with a sudden gasp, he trailed off into silence. Using one hand, Maxim cupped the Prince's balls and with the other he encircled his shaft. He ran the hand upon Nikolai's shaft slowly up and down, measuring its length, which was not enormous, but substantial nonetheless. What shocked him was that despite the Prince's entreaties for release, his cock was already half-erect. It seemed almost to press against Maxim's hand, begging for his touch. He could do nothing but oblige it, and he began to move his hand gently up and down. The Prince jerked at his bonds once more, crying out desperately deep in his throat, but Maxim paid no attention, only continued to run his hand gently up and down Nikolai's cock. Even as the Prince struggled and thrashed and moaned, his cock was coming to life under Maxim's insistent caress. By the time he took his hand away, Nikolai's breathing had become harsh, and his cock had come fully erect, warm and pulsing with blood. The Prince had begun to weep softly, trying to mask the sound, but unable to disguise the little gasps and hitches of his breath. "What's the matter, Princeling?" Maxim asked, resting a hand on Nikolai's bent head and caressing his soft blond hair. With his other hand, he reached down and gave the Prince's balls a sharp squeeze, making him gasp and struggle against his bonds once more. "It seems to me as if you're enjoying this. Why the tears?" Nikolai did not answer, only shook his head vigorously and bucked against his restraints once more. The movement threw his ass into charming relief, thrusting it forward and flexing the muscles taut so that it looked more inviting than ever. He took the hand that had been cupping Nikolai's balls and used it to deliver a volley of hard ringing slaps to the Prince's ass. Nikolai grunted, obviously only stopping himself from crying out through a great effort of will. Maxim slapped him again, harder this time, enough to leave angry red marks on Nikolai's marble white skin, and this time the Prince could not stop himself from giving a little cry. Maxim began to spank him harder, delivering a series of harsh, rhythmic slaps that soon had Nikolai gasping and spluttering and straining against his restraints. Taming the Tsarevich Ch. 01-02 Soon the Prince's ass had turned the color of ripened apples, and with each successive slap, he cried out helplessly, writhing against the scraps of cloth that held him pinned to the spot. His naked limbs looked quite enchanting as they struggled, the muscles bulging and straining beneath the smooth, white skin. "Stop!" Nikolai gasped suddenly, turning his head as best he could to look back at Maxim, who was taken aback slightly by the fresh tear tracks running down from the Prince's blue, blue eyes. "Stop," Nikolai said again, fighting for breath. "Please stop, Maxim, I'll do anything. This is too much. Challenge me to a duel if you must, but leave off with this." Maxim paused for a moment and then walked so that he stood before Nikolai's bowed head. "Oh Kolya," he murmured, stroking the Prince's hair gently, "Ready to give in already?" "Yes, please, just stop this. I don't—I can't—just please stop and we will never speak of this again. I won't even try to retaliate, you have my word." "But I haven't finished, Tsarevich." Maxim said, still stroking Nikolai's hair. So saying, he picked up the Prince's absurdly ornate sword once more. He held it up to the light, examining the broad, flat blade, and then he bent down, extracted Nikolai's wide leather sheath from the jumble of rags which had once been his clothes, and slid the sword inside of it. Then he held it up once more, showing it to Nikolai before bringing the heavy leather sheath down hard on the Prince's reddened ass. He cried out very loudly this time, positively squirming as if trying to escape the next blow. Maxim brought the sword in its scabbard down over and over again, showering hard, stinging blows down upon Nikolai's ass, thighs and calves. Soon the Prince had begun to cry in earnest, all dignity forgotten as he writhed against the wooden stool, trying to avoid to the relentless blows. Throughout this all, however, Maxim observed through periodic caresses that Nikolai's cock remained quite erect. He had been right. The sparks of submission and humility which he had sensed within the Prince were certainly there, but the boy was refusing to give in to his own desires. They had been buried beneath the layers of arrogance and self-importance which were the products of a childhood spent being spoiled and invincible to punishment. In a way, Nikolai was as much a prisoner as Maxim himself had once been; he was a man who obviously longed to submit, and yet for the Prince's entire life, he had been taught that he was not to bend to the will of any other man. He delivered a dozen more slaps with the scabbard and Nikolai cried out with each one of them, although he no longer fought his bindings. Maxim stopped after delivering one final hard blow, allowing the echoes to die away before he bent and began to untie the knots binding the Prince to the wooden stool. Nikolai lay with his face pressed against the wood, his shoulders shaking as he tried to muffle his sobs. His ass was bright red, crisscrossed with welts and hot to the touch, and his entire body trembled. When the last scrap of cloth fell to the floor, Maxim bent and scooped Nikolai into his arms as if he weighed nothing more than a child. He then began to walk slowly towards the door on the far side of the room, heading for the Prince's bed chamber. ******************* Nikolai was in shock. He lay cradled in Maxim Ivanovich's arms like a ragdoll, trembling and weak, crying like a little girl. But the warmth of Maxim's body was somehow comforting, and Nikolai was too disoriented to question the feeling of security he gained from being in this position. His ass ached and stung, and even the gentle friction as the tender flesh was rubbed against the soft velvet of Maxim's shirt was enough to make him bite his lips against a cry of pain. He tried not to think about how he had acted during his beating, or to wonder why he was so helplessly, undeniably aroused. His cock felt like a live thing, throbbing and pulsing with blood and aching for release. If Maxim were to caress him again as he had done when Nikolai had been tied to that stool, the Prince was afraid that he wouldn't be able to stop himself from coming. It was witchcraft of course; there could be no other explanation for it; for how could he be so aroused by being stripped naked and beaten, and by another man at that? He only realized where Maxim had been carrying him when he felt himself being placed gently upon his own bed. He scrabbled into a sitting position with his back against the headboard and his legs crooked in front of him, watching Maxim through lidded eyes. The man still had a sword buckled around his waist and Nikolai was naked. There was no way that he could defend himself should he try to draw Maxim into another altercation. He closed his eyes, and felt the bed depress as Maxim joined him upon it. When he opened his eyes, Maxim was lying next to him, propped up on one arm, and staring at him with the strangest expression upon his face. Silence spun out, and finally, Nikolai could stand it no longer. "What do you want from me, Maxim?" He asked. Maxim paused for so long that the Prince didn't think that he was going to bother to answer, but then he said, "I want to turn you into a Prince, Kolya." He reached out a hand and stroked Nikolai's hair away from his forehead. "But I'm a Prince already." "You're the son of the Tsar. It is not the same thing." "Then what is a Prince?" "A Prince is a man willing to put the needs of others before the needs of himself. A Prince is the humble servant of his country. You, Kolya, are humble and servile to no one, not even to your father or to the country which gives you your power." "You think that by beating me, you will make me humble?" Fury was beginning to bubble up within Nikolai again. He had the blood of Tsars running through his veins. Did Maxim think that he could push all that away, that he could make a future King into a lapdog, always toadying to the whims of others? "There is more to it than beatings, Nikolai, but certainly, this last spanking has done you some good. You're much more communicative now than you were an hour ago. But enough talk." Maxim reached between Nikolai's legs and took hold of his cock. Nikolai cried out miserably, jolting back against the headboard in a combination of shock and pleasure at the rush of sensations which filled him at the instant of Maxim's touch. "Hush, princeling," Maxim murmured, beginning to work his hand slowly up and down Nikolai's cock, coaxing it back to full and agonizing erection with gentle, insistent friction. It was as if all of the strength in the Prince's body had fled to his cock, which felt as if it had acquired a life of his own, one designed to torment him. His muscles went lax and he slumped back against the pillows. His legs fell open and as if in reward, Maxim quickened his caresses, making Nikolai release a series of fast, broken cries. "See, it isn't so bad is it?" Maxim said, taking his hand away after one last lingering stroke. "Now hold still, Kolya, and just relax." He sat up and Nikolai watched as he pulled a length of black silk from one of his pockets. In one swift motion, Maxim had tied the cloth securely over the Prince's eyes. The world went black, and as it did so, all of Nikolai's other senses seemed to truly come alive. His skin felt hot and sensitive, and his nose could detect all of the aspects of the peculiar perfume which hung about Maxim; that strange mixture of old leather, and wood smoke with the barest hint of exotic spices. He felt hands moving him, stretching his limbs so that his arms were pinned over his head, and then his hands had been tied together with another length of cloth to one of the thick rope tassels of the bed's canopy. Maxim's fingers ran over Nikolai's flesh, making him shiver and jump. His nipples were rolled and pinched, and he gasped when Maxim fastened his mouth over one of them, sucking it hard and then nipping at it with his teeth. Maxim's mouth began to work its way lower, trailing wet, burning kisses down Nikolai's chest and belly, his thighs, his groin. The Prince's hands were balled into tight, almost painful fists. A part of him was shouting that he was a coward and a perverted fool for allowing this travesty to continue, but its voice had grown distant, fuzzy. He felt as if his head had been filled with a warm, perfumed mist, a vapor which clouded thought and made pleasure the imperative. So, when Maxim's lips closed gently around the very tip of Nikolai's cock, he could only groan and thrust his hips forward, begging mutely for a deeper caress. There was a deep, melodic chuckle that made Maxim's lips flutter over Nikolai's tender flesh before he raised his head to speak. The Prince gasped. "I'm glad to see you've had a change of heart, Kolya. That will make things much easier." And then Nikolai was being enfolded by warm, wet lips and bewitched by a dexterous, eager tongue. The Prince cried out, and his hips thrust upwards of their own accord, driving his cock deeper into Maxim's mouth. Hands pushed against his pelvis, holding him still as the mouth went to work, gliding up and down on his shaft, sucking, the tongue circling him over and over again. There was no way he could stop himself from coming under such attentions, he was quite sure. He felt the orgasm coiling up inside of him, like some great sleek jungle cat poised to spring on some helpless prey. He was almost there, just another second—and then Maxim's mouth was gone. Nikolai moaned, trying not squirm in a vain effort to grant himself release. His hands were imprisoned by the scarves and the blindfold kept his world a shadow. He began to force himself to breathe deeply and evenly, willing reason to reassert itself in his brain. His breath caught, however, when he felt the cheeks of his ass being spread by a strong, implacable hand. Gentle fingers began to rub something cool and wet onto Nikolai's anus. He had never even touched himself in such a way before and was shocked not so much by the alien sensation of being so caressed, but at the jolts of pleasure that went through him as Maxim massaged the substance into the puckered ring of his anus. When he slipped a finger inside of Nikolai and began to work it gently in and out, the Prince could not stop himself from trying to jerk away. The sensation was so strange, so intense. Maxim paid no attention to the movement, only guided him back into position with one hand, the other still busily smoothing the ointment into Nikolai's flesh. As Maxim inserted another finger inside of him and began to pump the two of them slowly in and out of his anus, stretching the tight opening almost to the point of pain, a premonition of what was to come next suddenly struck him. Nikolai began to struggle in earnest, trying to free his hands from the scarf. "Hush, Kolya," Maim said, his voice low and gentle. The fingers were removed from his anus, and he relaxed slightly. Nikolai heard the whispered rustle of clothing, felt the bed moving as Maxim positioned himself in front of him, directly between his splayed legs. Hands grasped his ankles and his legs were being hoisted into the air, the cheeks of his ass spread wide. Something prodded at his opening, gently at first, only testing him, and then with more insistence. Maxim's hands clutched him hard, just once, and then the bed gave a creak as he pushed his entire length inside of the Prince's tight, unyielding hole. The pain was intense, but there was pleasure there too, a savage burning pleasure that would have made him scream to the rafters if Maxim had not caught the sound with his own mouth. He kissed Nikolai hard, holding his lower body perfectly still, giving the Prince time to adjust to his presence. Soon the pain of Maxim's entry eased a bit, and Nikolai's body relaxed slightly as the man before him began to thrust gently in and out, in and out. The pain evaporated and now the friction of Maxim's thrusts sent bolts of pleasure lancing through him. "Do you like this Kolya?" Maxim's voice murmured, slightly out of breath. Nikolai didn't answer, and the pace of Maxim's thrusting increased. Now he was being rammed into, the pain returning to mix with the pleasure to form some wholly new sensation. "Answer me princeling!" A hand found Nikolai's cock and began to pump rapidly up and down upon it. The Prince barely stopped himself from screaming aloud. "Yes!" He gasped, hands clutching at one another in their bindings. "Yes what?" "I like this." "You like being fucked by another man, don't you Kolya?" Maxim increased his pace once more, driving into Nikolai at a frenzied speed. It was amazing to the Prince that his body was even able to contain him. The pain was still there, deep, aching, undeniable, but it no longer seemed to matter. Nikolai had begun to pant and gasp, to strain up against Maxim, not in the hope for any sort of reprieve but because he needed more contact, more of Maxim's hard, tormenting cock inside of him. "Yes!" he cried, not feeling shame or anger or disgust but only elation and that all consuming mix of pleasure-pain. He was going to come any second now. He could feel the force of his climax building deep in the pit of his belly. "Maxim," he said, struggling to make his voice understandable through his convulsive gasps and cries. "Maxim..." but he couldn't say it. In the next moment he felt the blindfold ripped from his eyes, and he was staring into Maxim's face. The man's ocher eyes bore into his, seeming to radiate heat, and the sudden eye contact sent a jolt shimmering through Nikolai's body. He cried out and fluid began to leak from the tip of his cock, the precursor to his final eruption. Maxim's sensuous lips curved into a smile as he said, "Are you ready to come Kolya?" "Yes," Nikolai gasped, "Yes, yes—" Maxim suddenly froze. Nikolai looked at him, and saw that his eyes were far away. Then animation roared back into him and he gave a single ramming thrust pushing the Prince so far forward that his head bumped against the headboard. Nikolai felt it begin to happen then. Coils of heat began to ripple in his abdomen, growing hotter and hotter until they finally exploded in a burst of maddening, all-consuming pleasure. He screamed as his seed shot out of him and his body began to convulse helplessly with the force of his orgasm. Dimly, he was aware that Maxim too had reached climax, and that he was being ridden in a series of hard, erratic thrusts. Finally, the last ripple of sensation died and Nikolai slumped to the bed, panting and utterly exhausted, eyes closed, Maxim still sheathed inside of him. He felt himself being emptied. He opened his eyes and saw Maxim, still fully clothed, reaching up to untie his hands. Nikolai could not bring himself to meet the man's eyes, so he looked down at his lap, trying to ignore the fact that his cock was still half-erect even though he had just come harder than he had ever done in his life. Silence spun out between the two of them. Maxim was rearranging his clothes and tidying his hair. After a moment, he turned to Nikolai and said, "Well done Tsarevich." He leaned forward and kissed the Prince then, a hard, hot crushing of the lips. His tongue slipped briefly into Nikolai's mouth, giving just a single flick before Maxim broke away. The Prince could only stare at him. His muscles all felt lax and his head felt as if it had been stuffed with cotton wool. His ass was beginning to hurt quite badly now, both from his earlier beating and the more recent ravishing, but the pain seemed insignificant next to the torrent of emotions which were fighting for purchase inside of him. He should be feeling disgusted, defiled, should be shouting for the guards to have Maxim killed upon the spot, but he wasn't. It was as if Maxim had awoken another Nikolai, a man who cared nothing for prestige or power, but one who would be perfectly content to become a whipping boy. "Maxim..." Nikolai said, his voice hoarse. "What just happened?" "You know perfectly well what happened, Kolya, you're not naïve." "I still don't understand—" "You don't have to, Kolya. It's already working." Maxim smiled wryly. "Do you think you would have been able to speak to me with even a modicum of politeness earlier this afternoon? You are already much more amiable a man than you were, Tsarevich." "But—" Nikolai began, but Maxim hushed him by giving him another of those scalding kisses. Then he turned, and leaving Nikolai sitting sprawled naked on the bed, walked to the bedchamber door. "I'll be back to see you again tomorrow night at ten o' clock, Kolya," said Maxim, his voice devoid of inflection, and then he had gone, leaving Nikolai alone in his bed with only his tender, aching body and his conflicted thoughts for company. To be continued...