Of a sort!

As he nears, Boris looms over me and sneers. He's taller than me, taller than Amy, but height isn't everything in life, even if Boris Fandorin thinks it is. I look up at him, utterly unimpressed, and he sneers with irritation that tells me he's failing.

“You know, I've spoken with literally everyone our age in the entire community over the last day,” Boris growls, irritably, mostly at me, “You two act like you're all tolerant and shit, but you won't even show me the faintest little lick of respect!”

“Dude, you beat him up in high school three times because he told you to stop making a huge issue out of me having a penis,” Amy replies, seething, her muscles tensing. She's been taking classes, and while he cornered me in the past, that's over.

“Look, I grew up in a different household, okay?” Boris says defensively, even his smooth brain registering her posture, and responding to it, “Nobody told me, you know, Hey, Boris, girls usually have cylinders but some have pistons. It's common.”

“Here's a hint, asshole,” Amy snapped incisively, “Good men don't gotta be told don't be a dick to other people, don't gotta be told not to punch the gay kid in the face for sayin' 'is best friend's normal an' her havin' a dick doesn't fuckin' matter.”

“Good boys don't even have to be taught that if you want people to be kind to you, you gotta be willing to be kind, too,” Amy continued, stepping forward with a fierceness that made Boris tense. He didn't step back, but he tensed up at her.

“What, you thought you'd walk up to us, despite the permanent restraining order telling you to stay your ass at least 20 full-ass metres away from him?” Amy's words cut the air, “Oh, hey, I'm sorry I tried to break your face on three occasions ...”

“I'm sorry I called your best friend nasty names and made your lives miserable for ten years,” she continued, then froze. Not at Boris, but at the telltale, real specific, sound of a very particular engine, one belonging to an Aston Martin DB12.

Boris froze, too, as my eyes flicked from him to the street we were alongside. I watched the dark silver car come around the corner. Boris' eyes slowly eased toward the street, looking sideward, as the engine slowed, and the car rolled closer.

The driver's side door opened, and a tall man stepped out. Gruff, with a salt-and-pepper beard and a mane that matched, and a solid moustache, to boot. Not thick, not bushy, but there, under a short-cropped hairstyle, which made him distinct.

He turned, wearing his clean, pressed black suit jacket, over a dark blue button-up shirt. “Boris. Dmitrievich. Fandorin.”

Amy blinked, and her eyes widened faintly. I didn't freeze, per se, so much as I made myself intentionally very, very still. Boris swallowed, looking sideward as his father walked slowly around the front of the parked Aston Martin, to join us.

“I thought I told you to leave them alone, eh?” Dmitri Abramovich Fandorin demanded, “Did I not tell you to leave both of them alone? I distinctly recall telling you to leave both of them alone. You want to go to Poland, to your grandmother?”

“No!” Boris jerked into reaction, “No, I do not want to go to Poland!”

“Then you apologise to this boy, right now, and you apologise to this young lady, right now!” Dmitri commanded. It didn't escape my notice that I was boy and Amy was young lady, but I wasn't about to comment or ask why he called me a boy.

“Father, I am not go-” SMACK! Boris' face met the back of Dmitri's hand with a sharp sound of skin against skin.

“Did you just say no to me, boy? Did you just refuse to do as I told you?” he demanded, “That's it, I am sending you to your grandmother in Poland. You do not listen to me, you leave to me no choice but to send you to your grandmother, boy.”

“Wait!” Boris exclaimed, and it occurred to me that he was more afraid of his grandmother, or of going to Poland, than he was of being slapped. Given his face wasn't going to have so much as a bruise from a mere slap, I don't really blame him.

“Wait? Wait, what, what wait? Are you going to do what I say now?” Dmitri demanded, “I am your father. If I tell you to jump, you jump. If I tell you to dance, you dance. If I tell you to run around block, you run around block. Am I clear, boy?”

“If I tell you to apologise to these nice people, you apologise to these nice people,” his father continued, “If I tell you to kiss his ass, you get down on one knee, and you kiss his ass. If I tell you to kiss her dick, you get down on both knees ...”

“I get it!” Boris shouted back, his cheeks red with humiliation at being not only dressed down, but dressed down in view of us, and anyone who might be home in any of the nearby houses. Granted, the fences made seeing the street a little hard.

Someone home and on the second floor, though, could easily be watching. Dmitri's face was the grimace of a grown man in his latter fifties, who had escaped Russia, and not to see his son turn into a dick. “You. Boy. Step forward, here, please.”

First time the man's said please in my living memory, but my eyes widened. I swallow involuntarily, but I step forward to where the man points, out of respect. I'm not the one in trouble here. Dmitri nods. “My son requires a lesson in humility.”

“Father, please, don't ...” Dmitri lifts his hand, and Boris flinches visibly.

“Boy. Turn around, and pull down your shorts, my son is in need of humbling,” Dmitri said firmly. I swallow, but I turn and face Amy. I shimmy my hips a little, sliding my jean shorts down over my hips. I wince when I lose hold and they just drop.

“Sir, I don't think this is necessary,” I look over my shoulder at him, “If Boris apologises for being inconsiderate, that's ...” Dmitri lifts one hand to me, but not with the motion to strike. This motion is permissive, even courteous, but requesting.

“I am afraid it is necessary, boy,” Dmitri says firmly, “He has had many chances to apologise. He has had too many chances to apologise. He must learn there are consequences to his actions. Boris!” I glance over my shoulder at Boris, who jumps.

“... yes, father?” he asks, staring at my exposed frame, bare from my ankles to my sacrum. He swallows, glancing up at my eyes. There's the tiniest hint of thankfulness, the faintest spark, that I at least tried to give his father a different damn out.

“You will get on your knees and you will kiss his ass, right now, Boris Dmitrievich Fandorin,” Dmitri commands.

“Fuck no, I wo-” he starts, jerking backward when his father's hand raises, and falling very silent, very fast, again.

“Do you want to go to Poland? This is the choice I give to you, Boris!” Dmitri commands. “You will either kneel down and kiss his ass, and lick his hole for giving me so much trouble over it, or I will send you to Poland with your grandmother.”

“You know what your grandmother thinks of troublemakers.” The stone-cold tone of that line is what made me freeze. My eyes flicked over my shoulder at Dmitri, who sounded like he'd been on the receiving end of that same grandmother.

The Iron Maiden of Poland, evidently. Boris swallowed hard, staring at me, looking straight into my eyes, then back at his father. Slowly, mechanically, Boris stepped forward and slowly sank down behind me. I turned my head and shut my eyes.

Rough lips touched my ass, first one side, then the other. Similarly rough hands slide up my calves, and then my thighs. I shivered at Boris touching me, as his hands slid up to my ass, and tugged. I forced myself to relax, to get this all over with.

“Please, father ... I'll behave, I promise!” Boris whined, a sound I'd never heard him make before.

“Yes. You will. Do it.” I took a deep breath, the last hope of a gentle out snuffed out like a candle under whatever those little metal caps are called. Then, I felt Boris' nose against the crease, and his tongue sliding up as he licked slowly upward.

“Good. Now. Pull his shorts up, it's your fault they're on the ground.” Boris breathed heavy against my ass as his hands slid down, but he didn't dare move absent command. I could near sense the existential dread of being sent to his grandmother.

Boris drew my shorts up with the kind of exaggerated care of a man who did not want me prompted to turn around and to have my dick in his face. Once my shorts were back where they belonged, Dmitri huffed. “Good. Now get in the car, Boris.”

I could track Boris scrambling away from me by the movements of Amy's eyes. Our former classmate was humiliated and shamed, horrified and aghast. He'd either learn a lesson, or he'd murder his father and then run away to join some circus.

The sound of a car door opening, then shutting hard. The last petulant gasp of childhood, or fear of his father getting the belt when they got home, I don't dare guess. Dmitri Abramovich Fandorin, however, is a man of old world disciplinarians.

“Ahem,” Dmitri cleared his throat, and I turned. “My son has the mistaken belief that size equates to character. I apologise for the inconvenience and discomfort he has caused you. The boy direly needed a mother, but ...” Dmitri shakes his head.

“Good day, young mister Grennan, young lady Goodheart,” he said, abruptly formally, then returned to his car, and drove off. Amy and I simply looked at each other, and she shook her head, a shimmer of mischief coming into her eyes, again.

“Well,” she said, “At least Boris learned how to show someone else a lick of respect.”

I choked as she turned and resumed walking toward my parents' house.

And then I hurriedly followed after her and returned to being at her side.