Friday Hot Flash

photo credit: Mr. Last Minute via photopin cc



Heloise West

 A monastery somewhere in Tuscany-1400

Emilio admitted Maestro Agostino into his chambers, two tiny rooms, one for study and one for sleep. He checked the corridor with eyes narrowed at the shadows lurking between the hanging oil lamps and shut the door.

Agostino said, “No one saw me.”

Emilio leaned his back against the door and smiled at the movement in Agostino’s throat, his gaze on Emilio’s naked legs beneath the linen undertunic. “I have news. After a year of exile, I’m called home.”

The maestro approached him, placed hands on his shoulders, light but firm. “You’re really leaving?”

“You and I are done, Agostino.”

He said these words with both relief and sadness. He did not want Agostino’s purported love, yet he did not want Agostino to take his hands from him. There was carnal promise to the night. He had to balance on the fine edge of his own desires and
Agostino’s feelings in order to fulfill it. The pleasure lay in how far he could press the maestro, to bring out the tiger and his claws without ending up rent to pieces beneath him, or alone, stone cold alone in his narrow monk’s cot.

Agostino’s fingers grasped Emilio’s undertunic and dug into the flesh beneath. He bent his head to kiss him, and Emilio pushed him away.

“That’s your game?” Agostino pulled him closer.

Agostino was surprisingly strong for a bookish man. He brought gravitas and depth of knowledge to discussions on the classic philosophers. Beneath his dour brown tunic, the blonde curls, elevated manner, and the wife he yearly got with child, beat the heart of a man whose loving vice was Emilio. Agostino spoke this with his lips, hands, mouth, and cock, and with a slim crop if he was in the mood. “Playing the shy virgin? Or the disobedient truant?”

“I have been bad. Please?” Emilio’s words, silky in his throat, whispered into Agostino’s waiting ear.

“I’ll turn you over my knee, like the first time, little knight? Is that what you want?”

His big peasant’s hands ripped the undertunic as he pulled it over Emilio’s head. Emilio hadn’t bothered to dress further and so stood naked, wanting, waiting, another shiver of desire taking him.

“Yes, just like the first time, this last time.”

Agostino was always rough, on his mind and his flesh. Emilio’s play against the mature man sometimes blundered into the place of wounded pride. This would send Agostino, the bastard of a wandering cleric and a peasant woman, off in a temper, leaving Emilio to make dolorous do with his own hands.

There was no next time to tempt him. There was only now to keep him. The first strike of the crop against his thighs brought a hiss from Emilio and harsh words from Agostino.

The first time he had baited Agostino, three months ago, he’d known what Agostino was vainly trying to hide from him–his strong carnal feelings for men and especially for Emilio. He did not know the depth of Agostino’s desires, only that he wanted to plumb them. His own deeper desires, not just for men, but certain cravings, were a secret revealed to him by a duke of Florence, who sent him on this exile. Did Agostino run true to himself and embrace his vice or run away from it, like the duke, and make a mockery of the objects of his love?

Emilio gambled, however cautiously, to learn more, and he’d stoked the fires of Agostino’s, at first, hidden desires with practiced looks of sulky, sultry recalcitrance and deep sighs of moody docility.

Agostino had slapped him lightly on the cheek that afternoon and called him spoiled and lazy.

“You have a good mind, but why do you waste my time?” He sat down in the opposite chair, assessing Emilio’s practiced slouch. Thus his duke had fallen, also.

Emilio had lifted his chin, his heart singing. “Why do you waste our time together with Aristotle between us? You and I are made of flesh and blood. Let that be between us now.”

Agostino had pulled in a deep, startled breath. “Spend more time at swordplay, if you are in need of exercise.” Deliberate in his misunderstanding; in his eyes the smoldering coal of desire leaped to flame.

Emilio ran his hands down his own thighs. “You stand by me with your breath hard and quick, as if your cock spoke for you, yet never touch me unless to strike me.”

“Emilio, do you know what you are saying?”

“Maestro Agostino, I live for your slaps, your skin against mine, your hands on me, rough and hard–why do you sit there like an owl, all big-eyed innocence?” He tossed a stolen crop now on the low table between them. “I’m going out of my mind thinking on what you want to do to me.

Agostino blew out his pent breath. He stood with a jerk and his chair fell over. His hands combed through his hair as his gaze fell on Emilio, who now removed his tunic with a practiced ease. Emilio trailed a hand across his own breastbone, flat tight belly, and under his linen smalls. His cock rose at the touch of his hand, and he laughed at the maestro’s expression.

Agostino appeared frozen in place. “Dear God in His Heaven.”

“This is the Devil’s playground.” Emilio handed the maestro the crop. “And I have been desperately bad.”

Agostino stepped forward, leaned over him, and grabbed him by the hair. “But desperately good at bad, my dark angelus. And if they catch us? They’ll put me to death, but your duke will find a way to save you.”

“I haven’t been caught yet and neither have you.” Emilio licked his lips. “You chose a very fertile wife.”

Agostino took up the crop. “When I fuck her, I close my eyes and think of you.”

Emilio let his eyes speak for him, his body eloquent with need as he rubbed his swollen prick. Agostino stood and put his hand to his cheek, and Emilio pressed his lips to the hard palm.

“Come kneel beside me then, and let’s have our devil’s dance. I hope you’re worth it.”

Now Agostino’s tears fell on Emilio’s shoulder blades–his skin so sensitive from the bruising, he felt every burning drop. Agostino sobbed almost silently; his cock thrust deep and the crop goaded the maestro and servant to a punishing pace. Emilio bit back a scream. It did not serve them if the monks found them thus. Oh, but the tiger was here. Emilio groaned once as Agostino wrapped his hand around Emilio’s cock and stroked him in rhythm to the drive of his hips.

Agostino sobbed. “I love you.”

Emilio smiled at Agostino’s passionate tears.

“Look what you have made of me, my dark angelus. Come now for me.”

In Agostino’s practiced hands, the tide of surrender to the pleasure in pain drew him under and drowned him in tears and seed. Agostino withdrew from his body and shoved Emilio into the rushes. He straightened his clothing in silence, and the door slammed shut behind him.

Emilio, disheveled, undone, and at peace, smiled.

“Now the servant is the master, my duke, and your servant is coming home.”




photo credit: e-codices via photopin cc


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