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Spice & Vanilla

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Hugh watched him stroking away with great contentment. He was totally worn out after a crazy day at work, and it was not always easy to find the energy to satisfy such an enthusiastic masochist. There were days when he wished Raphael were a bit less fond of being spanked and whipped, but he always did his best to oblige him. The thought of his Raphael going out there looking for release from God-only-knows-whom, and getting hurt for real by some less scrupulous or talented Dom was just unbearable. Still, tonight he would lie back and relax. Mostly. I will have to help him eventually, he thought with a slightly evil grin, but I can take a breather first.

Raphael stroked in perfect tempo. He was one of the most technically exact musicians Hugh had ever played with, after all. Too exact, in fact.

It would do him so much good to let go a bit, to just go with the flow, be wild and imprecise and purely passionate. Then he would not need so much of this.

Tick—tock—tick—tock—tick—tock, went the metronome, and Raphael stroked and stroked. It was a good while before Hugh could tell, from a small furrow between those blond eyebrows, that the unchanging, slow rhythm was beginning to frustrate him. He smiled a bit wider and said nothing, devouring his beautiful quarry with his eyes. He watched, entranced the fluid play of flesh and skin as Raphael’s long pale cock, a nice ruddy purple by now, sank and reemerged into and from his fist, the velvet-like foreskin lapping beautifully over the shinier, silky glans, the testicles bouncing softly to the rhythm as the scrotum was pulled up and released. It was hard to resist the temptation to throw the whole scene to the devil and just take that cock in his mouth and suck it empty.

This is without exception the best use a metronome was ever put to.

Raphael’s body was developing a number of small, charming tics and twitches. He briefly lifted his left knee from the mattress then relaxed again. His right wrist was pulling on the strap from time to time, and his breath was coming in slightly ragged bursts.

Still it took a long time. Too much control, thought Hugh, smiling. Tsk-tsk.


He slowly unfolded his hands and moved to sit between Raphael’s legs. He spit on his middle finger and watched Raphael’s face, half hopeful, half anxious, as he slowly approached his anus. He didn’t hurry. He let Raphael wait for it. He would beg, in time, Hugh knew, but there was no need for that, not yet. He finally pressed his fingertip to the twitching, tight, live rose of flesh and felt it jolt and spasm. He massaged it in circles, with relish, and didn’t even try to penetrate it. Raphael was shaking all over, trying to press down on his finger, but there was just so far he could stretch, tied as he was. His belly muscles went taut. They were contracting in random, jerky convulsions. Hugh had never seen anything so beautiful.

Then Raphael missed a beat. His hand had picked up pace, ignoring all orders. Raphael whimpered, trying to compensate to get back in the right tempo. The double change of pace made him squirm all over. He swallowed twice and missed the beat again. This time Hugh slapped the inside of his thigh, very hard. Raphael could take a long regular series of well-spaced blows with relative ease, but a single hard slap coming down out of the blue like that drew a ragged cry from him.

“You do know what tempo means, I asked?” Hugh said, in a plain chatty voice. He had never had any taste whatsoever for histrionics. He was not, he had never been, a theatrical Dom. He wasn’t in it for setting up a show. He just got the job done.

“Yes. Yes!” said Raphael, a bit frantic. He managed to stick to the rhythm for a minute longer, until Hugh gently stuck his finger just within the ring of his anus. All of Raphael’s body twisted, and he lost all track of the cold, mechanical rhythm of the metronome.

And that is exactly what you need, my love . Too much playing by the rules, too much fucking control. You need to find your own tempo, and just let go.

Five or six fast hard strokes followed. Hugh slapped him twice, on his thigh, and, when he turned suddenly, on his butt. And then Raphael came, on the third slap, as he flopped flat on his back again, crying out in pleasure or pain, or both. It was hard to tell. Semen spurted out in beautiful, long, arched white streamers, splattering over Raphael’s belly, chest, and even his face.

It is difficult to aim while being spanked hard.

Hugh watched him coming, avidly.

He was so naked. So vulnerable, so unguarded. Hugh, who felt, every day, that he might shatter like glass on Raphael’s unearthly, impossibly graceful, self-possessed beauty, lived for these moments, to watch him released of all self-consciousness and all bonds. Strange, how it took a bunch of leather straps to get him to do that.

“Ah, oh, shit. That hurt,” Raphael whispered after a minute. “Not complaining, mind,” he added, with a small edgy laugh, wiping some drops of sperm from his lips and eyebrow.

“Good,” said Hugh, quite composed, despite the erection straining in his pants. Watching Raphael twitching and jolting while covered in glistening semen was not a sight to leave him unmoved. He reached out for the metronome, stopped it and lowered the weight a tad, then started it again.

This was a faster, business-like tempo.

“There you go, hot lips,” he said to Raphael, who was still breathing hard from his orgasm.

“What? Wh—but…”

Hugh gave him a small devilish smile. Raphael was perfectly capable of coming two or three times in one night, but, like most men, he needed a while to recuperate in between. Well, tonight, he wasn’t getting it.

“You didn’t think it would be that easy, did you?”



Raphael put his arms around her and held her close while he lay back on the mattress, drawing her down with him. He had been so tired, earlier on the sofa, but it was all forgotten now. They smiled again, lips on lips, as they landed on their sides, facing each other, the length of their bodies pressed together. She hooked her right leg around his hip and held him a bit tighter, and he caressed her head, running his fingers through her soft short hair, from the nape of her neck, up, to the top of her skull, cupping her head and holding her to another kiss, and another and another. Finally, he ran a hand down her back to pull on the edge of her jumper, and she pulled back a little to take it off, wriggling about a bit awkwardly on the bed.

And then she froze.

She fidgeted with the edge of her t-shirt, and blushed, then went deadly white.

“What is it?” murmured Raphael, cupping her cheek in his hand.

“You promise not to freak out?”

Raphael frowned, and caressed the back of her head, and put his forehead against hers.

“Why would I freak out?”

“Because. There’s scars everywhere. It’s horrible.”

He held her head to his and kneaded the nape of her neck, softly.

“Don’t let it bother you. Don’t think about it at all.”

He put his hand under her t-shirt and ran his palms along her back. He felt her softening in the warmth, the tenderness, the closeness.

When he gently tugged at her t-shirt she lifted her arms over her head and let him pull it off her. Then she lay back on the bed, unbuttoned her jeans and allowed him to pull those away too.

There were scars everywhere. He forced himself not to look, not to linger. He kissed and rubbed her neck, which always seemed to hypnotize her, and then moved to kiss downwards, along her breastbone. The first scar started there, a fine line of ashen, almost translucent skin that dived between her breasts and reappeared under the edge of her bra. It was pale and yet alive with a bruised tinge when touched, as if something fluid, something not quite settled still lurked under it in the depths, ready to gush. He wanted to run his fingers on it, lightly, to assuage a vague fear that she might still hurt there, that she might still split apart. He didn’t. He must not draw her attention to it. He just kissed a trail down to her belly, and only stopped to push the tip of his tongue in her navel while his hands caressed her sides, from her hips to her armpits and back again. He felt a faint quiver in her skin, and chased it, running his fingernails lightly where his fingertips had just been. She shivered, harder, and twisted a little with a small moan.

It was worse further down. Long surgical scars spanned the width of her pelvis and followed the length of her thighs, thin livid welts and parallel lines of dots where countless staples had left trails of millipede footprints. He felt slightly sick, at the images that rose in his mind, and almost a whine escaped his lips. Don’t, he told himself, don’t say a thing. He gathered her lower body to his chest, kissing her belly, her thighs, her hips, again and again, and again, in random patterns, circles, and lines and hearts, until his queasiness subsided and he was able to look up at her and smile.

She returned the smile shyly and then put her hands on his back to pull at his clothes. He kneeled up on the bed to take it all off, first his pullover, then his shirt, and heard her intake of breath when he dropped it on the floor.

She sat up to hug him, and rubbed her cheek on his chest, ecstatic.

“Like a pussy in a bush of catnip,” he said, by way of restoring a more cheerful tone to the proceedings. His voice was still choked, but she smiled and then laughed.

“You are so absurdly beautiful,” she whispered, looking up at him, and he kissed her mouth, as deep, and hard as he could.



Di forgot everything about the scars in that kiss. It was impossible to feel like damaged goods while being kissed like that. It was not a tender, she-might-break kiss. It was the real thing. His tongue was pointy, muscular, and searching. It explored the depths of her mouth and her throat, commanding and demanding, full of invention and initiative.

What couldn’t he do with that tongue… she thought dreamily.

“Oh, God,” she sighed when he finally released her.

“Just Raphael, please. I insist,” he said with that sideways grin of his, and she laughed, absolutely at ease in his arms, filled to the brim and drunk with pure, supreme happiness. She realized, with delight, surprise and a sort of luminous terror that she had never, ever felt like this about anybody else in her life.

She lay back on the bed, pulling him down beside her. She felt no apprehension about him seeing her naked anymore. She was too busy taking stock of what she was seeing.

Quiet, tame, nice Raphael, with his square glasses and his fine tailored jackets and cardigans, Raphael, with his responsible office job, his classical music and his cello, this Raphael, had a barbell piercing in his left nipple.

She barely grazed it with her fingertips, uncertain if it would hurt him.

He grinned. “You weren’t expecting that, were you?”

 “No. No, I wasn’t.”

“Nobody ever does. It’s a mystery.”

“It’s that you look like such a good boy,” she said, grinning.

“And I am. I am a good boy. But not as boring as that makes me sound.”

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