Illya Kuryakin gritted his teeth against the unyielding sensation that was blasting across his nervous system. He took a deep breath, telling himself he could take it; hold out against it, that he had taken much worse many times over.

Blinking away moisture from his eyes, he concentrated on his center, pushing back the invading stimuli and willing himself to slow, slow, slow his response and save his energy.

Nearly in command of his faculties again, he looked at his surroundings, trying to use the screaming banality of the room to distract him from his torment. Dingy gray walls with pockmarked plaster looked back at him, daring him to find any help from their quarter. The floor was industrial grade indoor-outdoor carpet, the original kelly-green faded and worn down into something approaching the color of used toothpaste.

He sighed, looking at the sagging mattress beneath him, its once firm spine having given up the ghost long since as it tried to mold itself along his sweating body. Illya knew it was a losing battle, had known it from the start, but the Russian aristocrat in him had needed to try.

The peasant, however, was always closer to the surface and made an appearance even now. "Govno," he whispered as he gave up resisting entirely and let the stimulation hit his system like a wildfire.

His entire body tensed and arched off the bed, the traitorous nerve endings firing despite his mind's efforts to quell them. His concentration was abruptly and completely shattered by the squat black phone on the particle-board nightstand jumping to deafening life scant inches from his ear.

Too-cool spy or not, he nearly came out of his skin at the intrusion as he wiped his hand on the sheets before picking up the receiver. He was sweating bullets and felt the hard plastic nearly slip from his grip as he spoke. "Hello?" This had better be damned important...

"Illya?" The butter-smooth voice of his partner purred across the telephone connection to him. "It's me. I just got back from the post office."

Kuryakin's addled brain tried to remember the code. Ah, yes, that meant Solo's mission was over and he'd finished his report to Waverly. "Uh, all right." There was little or no threat that their lines were bugged but old habits died hard. "Did you pay for insurance?" he remembered to ask.

"No need." Good. That meant Napoleon was safe and sound, no injuries this time. He let a long breath escape him, the sound carrying over the phone and giving Solo too much information as to his current mindset.

He heard a soft chuckle from the earpiece and tensed. "Illya, did I interrupt something?"

He played affronted a bit too earnestly and replied, "No, Napoleon." But the sound of his lover's voice made him swallow audibly as his hand snaked down his body for the second time that night.

Napoleon cleared his throat softly and sighed. "Are you sure? You sound...very relaxed, milii moy."

The Russian closed his eyes against the eroticism of that endearment. Not now, he thought. But Napoleon could arouse him with a touch or a word or just a look. He was growing hard again just thinking of what the inventive American would do to him the next time they met.

"Where are you, Napoleon?" He kept his voice low, trying not to let his growing excitement give him away.

"Too far away from you, dushka," Napoleon growled softly. "But, then, I can be in the same room with you and be too far away."

Illya sighed softly, loud enough for Napoleon to hear. "Oh, Polya..."

The dark agent heard the longing in his lover's sigh and asked gently, "Do you miss me?"

Illya's hand ran along his thigh, fingertips teasing the soft skin at the juncture of hip and groin. He stifled the moan trying to escape and bit his lip.

"Don't do that." Napoleon shifted the phone in his hand and settled back more comfortably against the headboard of the bed, as comfortably as he could, anyway, in his less than Four Star accommodations.

"Don't do what?" Illya parroted.

"Bite your lip."

Illya smiled against the mouthpiece as he shook his head.

"Save that for me to do to you when I get back." Napoleon grinned when he heard the groan that Illya didn't try to hide this time. "Did you say something, my pet?"

Illya covered the mouthpiece and swore in vilest Russian before returning to the conversation. "No, I just had a cramp."

"A cramp? Well, my goodness, whatever are you doing that could be that strenuous?"

"Stroking your ego, for one thing," he countered, hearing the catch in Solo's voice that told him he'd scored.

A quiet chuckle from the other side of the line caused his lips to twitch in return. "Very good, Illya. I think you drew blood on that one."

"I'd prefer to draw something else entirely from you, caro mio."

Now it was the American who squirmed on his worn mattress, feeling how tight his trousers had become. He ran a manicured hand across the thickening bulge of his crotch and thought of his partner doing the same thing so far away. "Illya..." he whispered.

"Da, lyubov?"

"Talk to me..." His voice was low and rough with desire. He needed to hear the softly accented voice now more than ever.

"Da, lyubov."

Napoleon sighed as he drew down the zipper on his impeccably tailored slacks, feeling his erection surge free from the restrictive fabric. Impatiently, he pulled the pants and underclothes off in one motion and spread his legs, waiting for his lover to touch him with his voice and his words.

"Polya. Are you comfortable?"

"Mmm..."

Illya smiled and thought of his partner lying naked on his bed, caressing himself just as he was doing at this very moment. He stroked his cock slowly, not wanting to rush the pleasure.

"Are you hard, caro? As hard as I am?"

Napoleon panted, sweat breaking over his skin as he shut his eyes and imagined Illya's hand closing over his turgid flesh, rubbing the hot skin and tugging gently. "Illya," he moaned.

"I'm here, Napoleone. Feel me. You can feel my hand on you, can't you, mi amore?"

"Yes, yes..." Napoleon hurriedly placed the phone on his shoulder, cupping it next to his chin and used his other hand to fondle his sac, rolling the heavy balls around and causing him to groan with desire.

"That's right, Polya. Enjoy what I'm doing to you. Doing to myself..."

Illya gasped as pre-come dribbled from his shaft, dripping down to coat his hand. He panted as well, trying to calm his need for release. He wanted to make this last, listen to his lover moan and plead and be in his complete control.

"Illyusha, I need..." Napoleon gasped as his hand tightened on his cock and milked faster, his hips beginning to thrust and settle into a rhythm that matched his partner's cadence and breath.

Illya chuckled into the phone. "I know what you need, Napoleon; what you want more than your next breath." Illya stroked his own cock faster, responding to the raw desire and to the power Solo had over his body. Sweat ran down his sides despite the chill in the room, but it wasn't perspiration that made him shiver.

"What would you let me do to you, Polya? If I were in that bed next to you?" Now Illya closed his eyes, picturing the body he loved aroused and sweaty and rampant with need.

"Anything, Illya, anything...ahhh..." Napoleon was close, the desire in Illya's voice overpowering him.

"No, Napoleone, not yet. Not yet." The Russian clamped down on the base of his cock, trying not to let Napoleon's passion overwhelm him. He heard the strangled whimper that told him his lover was employing the same technique. He waited a few beats until his own control was back and heard Solo taking deep breaths as well.

He sighed, and began stroking himself leisurely, determined to last longer than his deeply sensual partner.

Solo was desperate for release now but would not let Illya know it. Part of it was pride, part one-upmanship, but mostly it was because he wanted to outlast the damnably sexy blond and not give him the satisfaction. He relaxed his grip on his manhood and tried to calm his raging heartbeat.

Illya crooned into the phone, "Would you let me stroke you, Napoleone? Let my long fingers run up and down your beautiful cock, teasing you and making you so hard you hurt?"

Napoleon squirmed but did not answer. He was biting his lip...

"Answer me, Polya. Don't bite your lip." Illya laughed softly at the muffled reply.

"Yes. Oh, yes, Illyusha."

Illya was pleased. "Would you let me taste you, Napoleone? Lick and kiss and take that thick head in my mouth and love every inch of you?"

"Yes, dushka, yes!" Solo was lost in the fantasy and the music of Illya's voice as it drowned out the roar in his ears.

Almost gone, Illya managed to take one more breath and whisper, "Would you let me take you, Napoleone? Bury myself in your willing body and lose control?"

"Ahh...ahhh, Illya!" Napoleon thrust once more into his hand and came with a wail, crying into the phone as hot semen spasmed out of him, covering his hand and abdomen in white. He groaned his release to his lover, hoping he could hear the pleasure he had wrung from him.

Illya heard the guttural grunts and nearly dropped the phone as his body went rigid, his cock spurting harder than his first release, Napoleon's pleasure magnifying his own many fold. "Polya!" he cried and then was still. His orgasm roared out of him causing him to sob in delight.

Napoleon came back to earth slowly, breathing like a bellows and twitching with aftershocks. He heard a sharp noise on the other end and tried not to laugh.

Illya reached down and picked up the phone, embarrassed his lack of control had allowed it to fall. Panting, he managed to say, "You there?"

Solo grinned at his discomfort. "Barely..."

Illya grinned back. "I know what you mean."

Napoleon sobered and said gently, "Ya tyebya lyublyu, Illyushka."

Illya sighed and said, "Ti amo, Napoleone mio."

A moment later Illya said, "I don't want to hang up."

"Then don't."

"But this will cost you a fortune."

A quick cough. "Not really."

Illya frowned. "Napoleon, where are you?" He glanced at the phone with Room Number 325 on the dial plate.

"Room 327. Next door."

Illya looked at the gray pockmarked plaster wall again and picked up the phone. He heaved it with all his strength and was gratified to see it bounce off the wall and shatter in a dozen pieces. He sat back down on the lumpy bed and stretched out again, trying to get comfortable.

Ten seconds later his communicator went off...