6. Raphael
CHAPTER 6
RAPHAEL
I savor the memory of Kit’s flushed face, the way his breath hitched when I touched him. His defiance is a delicious game, a performance designed to mask the desire I see flickering in his eyes. He thinks he can hide it, but I see the truth in the tremble of his muscles, the unconscious sway of his hips towards me when I draw near.
The studio is my canvas, and Kit is my masterpiece in progress. Each touch, each carefully orchestrated lesson, strips away another layer of his carefully constructed defenses. He fights me, verbally sparring with a bravado that both amuses and excites me. But his body tells a different story, responding with a raw, undeniable eagerness that fuels my obsession.
I pour myself a glass of scotch, the amber liquid a reflection of the fire burning in my gut. I’ve always appreciated discipline, control, the precise execution of a well-laid plan. But Kit introduces a new element into my meticulously ordered world—a thrilling unpredictability that both challenges and captivates me.
He’s a wild thing, all sharp angles and untamed energy. He thinks he craves freedom, but I see the yearning for submission in his eyes, the unconscious plea for a strong hand to guide him. He just doesn’t realize it yet.
I replay our last encounter in the studio, the way he moved under my direction, his body mimicking mine with an instinctive grace that borders on preternatural. He’s a natural submissive, despite his protests. It's in the arch of his back, the way his breath catches when I give him an order, the subtle tilt of his head that invites my touch.
He thinks he hates my control, but I see the truth in the way his pupils dilate when I assert my dominance, the flush that creeps up his neck when I whisper a praise in his ear. He’s fighting it, desperately clinging to the illusion of independence. But I’m patient. I can wait for him to break, to surrender to the inevitable.
I swirl the scotch in my glass, watching the light play across the surface. I’ve built my empire on calculated risks, strategic maneuvers, and unwavering control. But Kit is a different kind of gamble—a risk I’m willing to take, a game I intend to win.
He thinks he’s a prisoner in my gilded cage, but I’m building him a sanctuary, a space where he can finally shed the burden of his carefully crafted defiance and embrace the exquisite freedom of submission. He just doesn't know it yet.
I set down the glass, the ice clinking softly. It's time to introduce him to new lessons, new forms of discipline. The silk ropes are waiting, a beautiful testament to the exquisite vulnerability I intend to coax from him. I envision him bound, his lean, toned body exposed to my gaze, his defiant spirit finally broken by the intoxicating blend of pleasure and pain I’m about to inflict.
I pick up my phone, dialing Marcus’s number. “Have Kit brought to the studio,” I instruct, my voice low and commanding. “And bring the ropes.”
I hang up, a slow smile spreading across my face. Tonight, our dance takes a new turn. Tonight, he takes his first real step towards surrender.
I wait for him in the studio, the soft glow of the dimmed lights casting long shadows across the polished floor. The silence is heavy with anticipation, broken only by the soft click of the door as Marcus enters, Kit following close behind.
He’s wearing the same black pants and white shirt as before, the simple clothing emphasizing the elegant lines of his dancer's body. His eyes are wary, darting around the room, searching for escape routes that don’t exist. He still clings to defiance, but I see the underlying tremor of fear, the subtle flicker of anticipation that he can’t quite conceal.
“Good evening, Kit,” I say softly, my voice a deliberate contrast to the tension crackling in the air.
He lifts his chin. “What do you want?”
“To teach you a new dance,” I reply, stepping closer. “A dance of trust and surrender.”
He scoffs, crossing his arms. “I don’t dance for you.”
“You will,” I murmur, my hand reaching out to trace the line of his jaw. He flinches, but doesn’t pull away. “You already are.”
I turn him around, my hands settling on his hips. “Tonight, you learn the beauty of restraint.” I pick up the silk ropes, their texture smooth and luxurious. “Tonight, you discover the exquisite pleasure of vulnerability.”
His breath hitches as I begin to bind his wrists, looping the ropes around the ballet barre above his head. He tenses, his muscles coiling beneath my touch. “What are you doing?” he asks, his voice strained.
“Showing you the true meaning of control,” I reply, tightening the knots, securing his arms above his head. His lean, toned body is exposed, a beautiful canvas awaiting my artistry.
He struggles against the restraints, his movements futile but captivating. “Let me go,” he demands, his voice a mixture of fear and anger.
“Not yet,” I murmur, stepping back to admire my handiwork. He’s a breathtaking sight, his defiant spirit struggling against the undeniable vulnerability of his position.
“You can’t keep me like this,” he insists. The rise and fall of his chest, the rapid pulse fluttering at the base of his throat—these small betrayals of his fear excite me.
“I can do whatever I please with you, little dancer,” I remind him, my voice low and dangerous. “And tonight, I please to teach you a lesson you won’t soon forget.”
I trail a finger down his chest, the light touch eliciting a shiver that ripples through his body. His skin is warm and smooth beneath my fingertips, a stark contrast to the cool silk biting into his wrists. He tries to pull away, but the ropes hold him fast, his struggles only serving to tighten the bonds.
"Stop it," he hisses, his eyes flashing with defiance. But the words lack their usual bite, tinged with an undercurrent of something else—a nervous anticipation that I recognize and savor.
I lean closer, my breath ghosting over his lips. “Why, Kit?” I murmur, my voice a silken caress. “Does the feeling of restraint frighten you? Or excite you?”
He turns his head away, refusing to meet my gaze. A small victory. He still clings to his pride, but I see the cracks forming in his carefully constructed facade.
I run my hand down his side, feeling the taut muscles beneath his shirt. He flinches again, his body betraying him even as his mind resists. "Don't touch me," he whispers, the words barely audible.
"Why not?" I ask, my fingers tracing the line of his hip. "Are you afraid of what you might feel?"
He remains silent, his body rigid with tension. I smile, knowing that his silence is a more potent answer than any words he could utter.
I step back, taking another slow circle around him, appreciating the way the ropes accentuate the lines of his body, the subtle shift in his posture that speaks of both defiance and surrender. He’s a beautiful contradiction, a captivating blend of strength and vulnerability.
“You’re so beautiful like this, Kit,” I murmur, my voice laced with genuine admiration. “So exposed. So utterly at my mercy.”
His head snaps up, his eyes finally meeting mine. “I’m not at anyone’s mercy,” he insists, his voice trembling slightly.
“Aren’t you?” I ask, stepping closer again. I reach out, my fingers brushing against his cheek. He flinches, but this time, the movement is almost imperceptible, a subtle yielding that sends a thrill through me.
I lean in, my lips brushing against his ear. “Tell me, Kit,” I whisper, my voice a low growl. “What does it feel like to be completely mine? To have no control, no escape?”
He closes his eyes, his breath catching in his throat. He doesn’t answer, but I see the answer written in the flush of his skin, the rapid beat of his pulse against my fingertips.
I trail my fingers down his neck, pausing at the hollow of his throat. He shivers again, his body jerking instinctively towards my touch. He’s so close to breaking, to surrendering to the inevitable.
“You want this, Kit,” I murmur, my voice a statement of fact. “You crave it. Admit it.”
He opens his eyes, which are filled with a mixture of defiance and something else—a flicker of desperate longing that makes my heart pound.
"I don't..." he begins, but the words trail off, lost in a soft moan as I press my lips against his.
The kiss is a clash of wills, a battle between his resistance and my dominance. He tries to push me away, but his struggles are weak, his body already betraying him. I deepen the kiss, my tongue exploring the sweet depths of his mouth, tasting the surrender he’s so desperately trying to deny.
I break the kiss, leaving him breathless and trembling. He looks at me, his eyes wide and dark, his lips slightly parted. He’s so close to breaking, to admitting the truth he’s been fighting for so long.
“Tell me you want it, Kit,” I command, my voice rough with desire. “Tell me you’re mine.”
He closes his eyes, his chest heaving. He doesn’t answer, but the subtle shift in his body, the almost imperceptible relaxation of his muscles, signals his defeat. A whimper escapes his lips—protest and plea intertwined.
A dark smile spreads across my face. He’s mine. Body and soul. And I will savor every moment of his surrender.
I lower my head, my lips brushing against his neck, tracing the delicate curve of his ear with my tongue. He shivers, arching involuntarily against the ropes.
“Such a sensitive boy,” I murmur, nipping at the skin beneath his ear. He gasps, his head falling back against the barre.
My hand trails down his chest, toying with the buttons of his shirt. Impatience flares. I yank the fabric, ripping the buttons free, the sound sharp in the quiet studio. His startled gasp is music to my ears. I tear the remnants of his shirt away, discarding it on the floor. His chest is bare now, smooth and pale in the dim light, his nipples already hardening in response to my touch.
His pants follow suit, ripped away with a growl of impatience, leaving him clad only in his dance tights. The ropes binding his wrists above his head accentuate the exquisite vulnerability of his position. He’s a breathtaking sight—a perfect blend of strength and submission.
He tries to cover himself, his hands straining against the ropes. A futile gesture that only serves to heighten his arousal—and mine.
“Don’t be shy, little dancer,” I murmur, my voice a low caress laced with steel. “You have nothing to hide from me.”
I kneel before him, my gaze devouring his body. The thin fabric of his tights does little to conceal the hard lines of his dancer’s physique. He’s a work of art, a masterpiece waiting to be claimed.
My hand slides beneath the waistband of his tights, cupping him through the thin material. He gasps, arching against my touch. The combination of his defiance and his involuntary surrender is intoxicating.
“Does that feel good, Kit?” I growl, my voice rough with desire.
He remains silent, but his hips buck against my hand, betraying him. A thrill shoots through me, hardening my cock with a fierce urgency.
I stroke him slowly, deliberately, teasing him with the promise of pleasure. He moans, his head falling back against the barre, his body writhing against the ropes.
“Tell me you want it, Kit,” I command, my voice thick with need. “Tell me you need my touch.”
“I… I…” he stammers, his words lost in a gasp as I increase the pressure of my touch.
“Say it,” I growl, my patience wearing thin.
“Please,” he whispers, his voice barely audible. “Please touch me.”
The words are a surrender, a delicious admission of his need. I rip his tights away, discarding them with the rest of his clothing. He’s completely naked now, exposed to my gaze, utterly at my mercy.
I position myself between his legs, my erection straining against my pants. I reach out, stroking him slowly, deliberately, drawing out his pleasure. He moans, his hands clenching into fists. He’s a beautiful mess of frustrated desire, and the knowledge that I’m the one causing it sends a wave of possessive heat through me.
I lean down, my lips brushing against his ear. “You’re mine, Kit,” I whisper, my voice rough with possession. “All mine.”
I continue to stroke him, building the pressure, teasing him to the brink of orgasm. He pleads, he begs, his words a mixture of defiance and desperate need. Each protest, each involuntary cry of pleasure, only fuels my desire.
I bring him to the edge, then pull back, leaving him aching and unsatisfied. He whimpers, his body still thrumming with need.
“Please,” he begs, his voice a broken whisper. “Please, Raphael…”
I smirk, savoring his desperation. “Beg me, Kit,” I command, my voice a low growl. “Beg me to fuck you.”
He hesitates, his pride still clinging on by a thread. I lean in, my lips brushing against his. “Say it,” I whisper, my voice a silken threat.
“Please,” he whispers, his voice barely audible. “Please… fuck me.”
The words are barely out of his mouth before I’m pushing into him, the feel of his tight heat consuming me, sending a jolt of raw pleasure through my body. He cries out, his body arching against the ropes, his hands clenching into fists.
“Fuck, you’re tight,” I growl, savoring the feeling of him stretched around me.
He whimpers, his eyes squeezed shut, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. The ropes bite into his wrists, a stark reminder of his helplessness, his complete surrender to my control.
I begin to thrust, slowly at first, deliberately drawing out his pleasure, his pain. He moans, his body writhing beneath me, his cries echoing through the quiet studio.
“Raphael…” he gasps, his voice a mixture of pain and pleasure.
“Yes, Kit?” I murmur, my voice a low growl. “Do you like it? Do you like being used like this?”
He doesn’t answer, but his hips buck against mine, a silent plea for more.
I increase my pace, the rhythm of our bodies building, the sounds of our mingled breaths and moans filling the air. He’s a beautiful mess beneath me, his skin flushed, his hair damp with sweat, his eyes glazed with a mixture of fear and desire.
I reach up, my hand closing around his throat, my thumb pressing lightly against his windpipe. He gasps again, his eyes widening with a mixture of fear and excitement.
“Look at you,” I murmur, my voice thick with desire. “So beautiful. So broken. So utterly mine.”
I tighten my grip, just enough to restrict his airflow, to heighten his senses, to make him even more acutely aware of my control. He struggles against my hand, his movements futile but captivating.
“Breathe, Kit,” I command, my voice a low growl. “Breathe for me.”
He obeys, his chest heaving. The feeling of his pulse fluttering beneath my thumb is intoxicating, a tangible reminder of his vulnerability, his complete dependence on me.
I continue to thrust, harder, faster, driving him towards the edge. He’s a symphony of moans and gasps, his body a canvas of raw, untamed desire. The ropes bite into his wrists, his struggles growing weaker, his surrender more complete with each thrust.
“I’m going to come, Kit,” I growl, my voice thick with pleasure. “Am I going to make you come with me?”
He cries out. He’s so close, I can feel it in the way his body tenses, in the frantic rhythm of his pulse against my thumb.
I increase my pace, my thrusts becoming deeper, more forceful, pushing him over the edge. He screams, his body convulsing around me, his orgasm ripping through him like a tidal wave.
I follow close behind, my own orgasm a powerful release, a culmination of desire and dominance. I collapse against him, my breath coming in ragged gasps, my body still thrumming with the aftershocks of pleasure.
We remain entwined, our bodies slick with sweat, our breaths mingled in the quiet studio. The ropes still bind his wrists, a tangible reminder of his surrender, his complete submission to my control.
I loosen my grip on his throat, allowing him to breathe freely again. He coughs, his body still trembling, his eyes closed.
I brush a stray strand of hair from his forehead, my touch gentle now, almost tender. His eyes flutter open. The raw vulnerability in his gaze makes my chest ache.
“Mine,” I whisper, my voice a low growl of possession.
I roll off him, shuddering with pleasure. He lies beneath me, his chest heaving, his eyes closed, the ropes still binding his wrists above his head. A beautiful, broken thing.
I reach for a nearby towel, roughly wiping the sweat from his body, my movements brusque, almost careless. I don’t want him to see the tenderness I feel, the unexpected surge of protectiveness that’s warring with my need for control.
He opens his eyes, his gaze meeting mine with a raw vulnerability that makes me want to both protect him and possess him even further. I quickly avert my gaze, my hand tightening around the towel.
“Get dressed,” I say, my voice curt, devoid of any warmth.
He doesn’t move, his body still trembling slightly. I reach down, untying the ropes that bind his wrists, my movements rough, almost impatient.
He sits up, slowly, his movements stiff and awkward. I toss him his clothes, avoiding his gaze.
“Get out,” I say, my voice cold, dismissive.
He hesitates, his eyes searching mine for something I refuse to give him. Then he stands, gathering his clothes, his movements slow and deliberate. He walks towards the door, his back straight, his head held high, his pride somehow still intact despite everything I’ve just done to him.
He reaches the door, then pauses, turning back to look at me. “Raphael…” he whispers, his voice barely audible.
I don’t answer, my gaze fixed on the wall behind him. He hesitates for a moment longer, then turns and walks out, closing the door softly behind him.
I stand there for a moment, the silence of the studio suddenly heavy, oppressive. I close my eyes, taking a deep breath, trying to regain control of my emotions. I can’t afford to be soft, to be vulnerable. Not with him. Not with anyone.
I turn and walk towards the bank of security monitors that line one wall of the studio. I flick through the various feeds, searching for him. I find him in his room, sitting on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands. He looks small, lost, vulnerable. And the sight of him like that, so utterly broken and yet somehow still defiant, sends a wave of heat through my body.
I reach down, unzipping my pants, my hand closing around my already hardening cock. I watch him on the monitor, my imagination filling in the blanks, picturing him naked, bound, begging for my touch. I stroke myself, the rhythm of my hand echoing the rhythm of our earlier encounter, the memory of his cries, his pleas, his surrender fueling my desire.
I imagine him kneeling before me, his eyes wide with adoration, his lips parted in anticipation. I imagine him whispering my name, his voice thick with desire, begging me to take him, to use him, to own him completely.
The thought sends a jolt of pleasure through me, and I close my eyes, surrendering to the fantasy, the image of his willing submission consuming me. I stroke myself faster, harder, the pressure building, the pleasure intensifying.
“Kit,” I groan, my voice a low growl of possession. “Mine.”
I come with a guttural cry, the image of his beautiful, broken body seared into my mind. I collapse against the wall, my body still trembling with the aftershocks of pleasure, my mind filled with the intoxicating fantasy of his complete and utter surrender.