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.