A House of Cards
He couldn't go on like this.
When he had seen the photograph for the first time, his blood had immediately rushed from his brain and shot into his penis, leaving him feeling dizzy and very, very horny. He had felt an urge to thrust mindlessly. Just thinking of it now made his groin tingle again. He moaned under his breath.
This was unhealthy. He knew he was already looking sick because he had lost a considerable amount of weight. The other agents gave him strange glances in the commissary when he shovelled heaps of food onto his plate as usual, but then didn't eat half of it. All he could think of was the photograph and it made him lose his appetite.
The nights were bad, too. In fact they were even worse. In his dreams the photograph came alive with a handsome, dark-haired man lying on a bed, naked. The man was looking at him provocatively from under half-closed eyelids while lazily drawing on his cigarette. Sheets of black silk were embracing his lean body, framing it. One of the sheets covered the man's penis and half of his thigh. In the dream that sheet sometimes moved a little and one knew that the penis underneath it was twitching, anticipating either that a hot mouth or a tight anus.
It was sick. He had to stop it.
But how do you stop something that has made its way around all your means of defence already?
Illya Kuryakin had first learned that he was abnormal when his classmates at the KGB boarding school for gifted boys started talking about girls and their usage. He found that he wasn't interested in that subject at all. And whenever he and another bunch of 15-year-olds got together in the shower room to compare their genitals with one another's he was much laughed at and ridiculed when his penis hardened at the sight of all the naked young boys. Needless to say that he soon learned to avoid such gatherings. He also tried to shower alone whenever possible.
A thorough search of the school's library resulted in the realisation that he was a homosexual. A pervert. Illya seriously considered suicide then.
There was hope, though. According to the books this disease could be brought under control, if not healed. All he had to do was refrain from thinking obscene thoughts about other males and get married as soon as possible.
The latter was out of the question for now, but the first was easier said than done as well. There were many times when he woke up with wet and sticky underpants and knew he had been dreaming of Sasha, who sat next to him in class. But he knew from the books that there could be relapses and vowed to overcome his deficiency.
When Illya turned eighteen his KGB masters had a surprise in stock for him. Because he was so good-looking he had been chosen to work as a "honey-trap". There were obviously lots of men who were perverts (like himself, he couldn't help thinking) and belonged to the enemy. He was to seduce them in order to tease information out of them or to compromise them.
He did the job for two years and in a way it was the happiest time of his life. Sleeping with men was still considered unhealthy, he knew that. But if one did it for Mother Russia it was accepted. Finally there was a way to deal with his sexual tension, even if his targets were sometimes less than handsome.
Unfortunately after two years the KGB suddenly decided they were wasting his talents. That was when they sent him to the Sorbonne, then Cambridge and then U.N.C.L.E.
Once in the West Illya read books again. He learned that maybe homosexuality wasn't a disease after all. And that in Western Europe and the U.S. you wouldn't necessarily be shot when caught indulging in it, although it did sometimes happen. Still, it was considered antisocial behaviour and it was excellent blackmail material (didn't he know all about it?) so you'd better not let on.
Consequently when Illya became an agent with U.N.C.L.E. he decided that his inclination would remain his secret.
And it seemed to work. By speaking little and smiling rarely, if ever, he created a mysterious aura for himself that made him appear untouchable to his colleagues at U.N.C.L.E. And he tried not to be the sociable type when it came to people outside of U.N.C.L.E. either.
Once in a while he took out one of the innocent girls he met on assignments, as much for keeping up appearances as for getting a little of the physical contact with another human being that he so often had to do without.
It never really satisfied him though, so most of the times when he felt a sexual urge he retreated to his apartment where nobody could spy on him and made love to himself. He couldn't claim to be happy with the situation but at least he could think of himself as a good agent and a useful member of society, someone his employer and above all the Russian people could be proud of. And, of course, he was safe from blackmail. He also found that overcoming this animalistic drive of his gave him a feeling of superiority. All in all, Illya thought his life tolerable.
But all the time deep down inside he knew that he had merely built a house of cards that could tumble down with the slightest breeze if the wind came from the right direction. And he dreaded the day when the inevitable would happen.
Apparently that day had come.
Ever since they had been partnered he knew that Napoleon Solo would be the breeze it took to destroy his house of cards. And he had been right. For almost two years he had withstood Napoleon's charm, his teasing and touching, but this was way too much. He was only human, after all.
Illya shook his head, trying to concentrate, and looked at the photograph again. Napoleon was missing and this picture, which had been delivered by courier in a plain envelope, was the only clue U.N.C.L.E. had as to his whereabouts. Illya was expected to analyse it, find out where it had been taken, then go to that place and rescue Napoleon. He would do that. After the mission he would ask for a transfer. Preferably to Siberia where there was no Napoleon but lots of ice and snow to cool him down.
Now, about that photograph: Judging from the look in his eyes Napoleon was obviously drugged. Was he being used as a sex slave? At that thought Illya's penis twitched again. How could his body do this to him?, he thought, annoyed with himself. His partner might be in mortal danger and all he could think about was fucking him.
For a moment Illya considered tearing the ominous photograph to shreds, but who was he fooling? Of course he would keep the damned thing, take it home and drool over it while trying to bring himself to another pathetic orgasm.
Illya was pulled out of his gloom by the sound of the office door swishing open. He looked up and couldn't believe his eyes. In sauntered his partner, nonchalant as ever, that typical smug smile on his face.
The smile died in an instant when Napoleon took a closer look at him. "Illya, you look like hell," he said. "What's wrong with you?"
As he could hardly give the real reason for his unhealthy looks, Illya replied gruffly, "Has it occurred to you that I might have been worried? You've been missing for a week!"
"Oh. Well, yes," Napoleon didn't seem to feel guilty at all. "I've been doing a little undercover investigating. Sorry I couldn't contact you."
"But," Illya interjected, "Mr. Waverly wanted to send me on a rescue mission. Why would he do that if you weren't really missing?"
"He knew that you would get worried at some point," Napoleon explained. "But he couldn't tell you about my assignment, as it was top secret. So he sent you after me, hoping that you wouldn't find any clues as to my whereabouts before my mission was accomplished. By the way, Mr. Waverly says you have something that I should take a look at. Is that it?" He stepped closer.
Belatedly Illya remembered that he was still holding the photograph in his hand. No use trying to make it disappear now as Napoleon was already standing close behind him, looking over his shoulder. Illya tried not to physically show how much he wanted Napoleon. Of course his treacherous penis had other ideas and started to harden again. He took a step forward to break the physical contact and handed Napoleon the photograph over his shoulder.
"Hmm, apparently Angelique is a talented photographer," Napoleon said. "She probably thought this picture would compromise me. Or at least be the talk of the day at U.N.C.L.E. Little does she know. Maybe I should have it blown up and hang it on my bedroom wall."
Illya spun around. "Are... are you saying you spent a week in bed with Angelique?" he spluttered.
"No, I'm afraid not," Napoleon said, looking regretful. "She was only a time filler for when I had a break. A good one, though, I have to admit."
Illya was seething now. It was so unfair! That bitch Angelique had all the fun with his partner and all he had was his own hands and an occasional fling with...Alice Baldwin or that girl from the honey shop, what was her name again?
This was more than he could take. He would go to Mr. Waverly and demand the transfer to Siberia right now! Illya ran to the door, trying not to lose his dignity but knowing he already had.
As he looked back over his shoulder before the doors swished closed, he caught a glimpse of Napoleon, who appeared to be deep in thought.
"Transfer request? Mr. Kuryakin, as you know we're encountering increased THRUSH activity, I am trying to guide our new agents in China and Nepal and Mrs. Waverly wants me to go on holiday to the south of France. Do you really think I could deal with such an insignificant concern right now? Do be so kind as to see me about that next month, will you?
"Um, yes sir," Illya stammered.
"And while you're here," Mr. Waverly continued, "Mr. Solo has done a remarkable undercover job, so I gave him three days off. He is probably home by now. I forgot that I need to get some documents to him, though. If I am not mistaken you will be heading in that direction after work. Would you mind...? "
"Yes sir, um, no sir, of course not."
Illya had a key to Napoleon's apartment but he didn't really want to use it. To be honest, he didn't want to enter his partner's apartment at all. But he couldn't disappoint Mr. Waverly, either. So he rang the bell, then knocked, then shouted his partner's name and finally sighed and fumbled for the key in his pocket.
The apartment was dark and Illya congratulated himself. He would just leave the documents on the kitchen table and run.
As he was just about to leave the apartment a weak voice came from behind what Illya knew to be the bedroom's door. "Illya? In here!"
It was a trap. It had to be. He would not walk into it. Except...
If Napoleon really needed help and Illya ignored it, he knew he would never forgive himself. He sighed again and opened the bedroom door.
It was both his worst nightmare and his best dream come true. The photograph had come alive once again and he was not asleep this time. Napoleon was lying naked on his bed. He was looking at Illya provocatively from under half-closed eyelids while lazily drawing on his cigarette. Sheets of black silk were embracing his lean body, framing it. One of the sheets covered his penis and half of his thigh. Illya noticed that the sheet moved a little and he knew that the penis underneath it was twitching, anticipating either a hot mouth or a tight anus. He closed his eyes.
"Are you coming to bed?" Napoleon said as if it was the most ordinary thing to say. He stubbed out his cigarette.
"I...no, I..." Illya felt himself drawn to that bed by an irresistible force. He was so hard it hurt, but he just couldn't give in to that animal urge. "Napoleon, you don't know what you're doing to me," he whispered.
"On the contrary, partner, I know exactly what I'm doing. And even if I didn't, a look at your crotch would tell me."
Illya shivered. He wanted out of this. No he didn't. He wanted to turn around and run away but instead he found himself hesitatingly moving towards the bed.
Napoleon continued, "Did you really think I wouldn't notice the way you were looking at that picture? How hard it made you? How you were jealous of Angelique? I thought that was sweet, by the way."
Illya was desperately trying to assume one of his patented icy looks but he knew he was doing a lousy job. "Napoleon," he said. "Please don't make me do something I will regret."
"I wouldn't dream of it," Napoleon said. "In fact, I'll make you do something you won't regret at all." He took Illya's hand and started stroking the inside of the wrist with his thumb. "Now do I really have to tie you to the bed with strips of black silk? Come on, Illya, we both know this is what you want."
It was too much. His longing became unbearable. He was only human after all. At long last his house of cards collapsed. "Yes", he whispered and sank down on the bed.
Napoleon caught him by his shoulders and gently pulled until Illya was lying on his back. Then he kissed him.
The first touch of Napoleon's lips worked like a spark igniting a fuse. An extremely short fuse. Illya exploded in an instant. He pushed his tongue into Napoleon's mouth and when he felt his partner responding, started sucking on Napoleon's tongue.
How he had missed this! Illya felt like a famished man who suddenly had food in abundance. He wanted it all and he wanted it now! He pulled Napoleon down on top of him and pressed against him, thrusting wildly.
Napoleon pulled back, panting. "Illya," he gasped. "Can we slow down a little? Let me at least undress you!"
"I... I'm sorry," Illya stammered. He needed to control himself!
He tried to keep still as Napoleon slowly unbuttoned his shirt but couldn't help whimpering every time his friend's fingers touched his bare skin underneath. When finally his pants and shorts were pulled down and cool air touched his hot erection, Illya moaned loudly.
"Please, Napoleon," he begged. "Please, I can't stand it any longer!"
Napoleon smiled indulgently. He took Illya's penis in a firm grip and started moving his hand up and down. It didn't take more than a few strokes until Illya arched upward and shouted out his rapture, his hands clutching the silken sheets. When he felt his semen spurt out, he knew he would never regret what they were doing.
Slowly Illya's orgasm ebbed away and he opened his eyes. Napoleon was kneeling next to him, softly stroking his hair and still smiling at him. A wave of affection for Napoleon overwhelmed him. His friend had been so understanding and generous. He wanted to give something in return.
"Napoleon, would you like to..." he hesitated, "...um, have real intercourse?"
Napoleon's penis twitched and this time it wasn't covered in sheets. It was Illya's turn to smile.
"Illya, are you sure?" Napoleon asked, swallowing hard. When Illya nodded, he rose from the bed. "I'll get some...uh, Vaseline, I guess."
Illya turned around on his belly and spread his legs a little, waiting for Napoleon to return. He knew he presented a very arousing sight with his pale skin in contrast with the black silk. He hadn't forgotten how to seduce a man.
When Napoleon came back to the bed, he gasped at the view and his breathing became erratic. He knelt down between Illya's legs and began stroking his back from the shoulders down to his ass, and back up.
Illya was getting impatient again. "Come, Napoleon," he whispered. "I want to feel you inside me!"
Something cold and slippery was spread around and inside his anus and he rose to his knees expectantly. Finally, with a loud groan Napoleon slid into him. Illya groaned right back. He had indeed forgotten how good this felt.
Napoleon started thrusting slowly and Illya followed his rhythm. Every now and then he pushed back a little harder and every time Napoleon let out a whimper.
It didn't take long until they were close to climax, both pushing hard now.
"Oh, oh, oh, Illya," Napoleon moaned. "Yes, yes, yes, now Napoleon!" Illya hissed in return.
And then Illya felt Napoleon shooting his semen into him in the same instant that he himself ejaculated for the second time.
Drenched in sweat they collapsed on the bed.
They were lying in each other's arms, Illya's head resting comfortably on Napoleon's chest. For the first time in years Illya felt relaxed and thoroughly satisfied, thanks to his partner.
"You know, Illya," Napoleon said, "it's not good for you to suppress your needs. Had I known about your little problem we could have done something about it much earlier."
"Well I could hardly tell you, could I? How was I to know that you are a connoisseur in this regard?"
"I guess you couldn't." Napoleon kissed Illya on the top of his head. "But now that you know, will you come to me when you feel a certain desire?"
"Yes, Napoleon, I promise I will come to you." Illya thought for a moment, then looked at his friend with a twinkle in his eyes and added: "And then we can come together."