1. Other Colors -- Ch. 18


    Date: 9/12/2015, Categories: BDSM, Author: mascodagama, Rating: 4, Source: LushStories

    that, Penny?” Render unto to Caesar… I shuddered. “You,” I breathed, biting my lip. “I was imagining what you were like when you were younger.” “Younger,” he repeated. “When you were my age,” I murmured, “back at Trinity.” “Ah,” he chuckled darkly. “I hate to play the marplot, Penny. But I doubt young Dmitri would have measured up to your imagination.” He sniffed, “That boy. He was a bit of a basket case.” My ears pricked. Slowly, I raised my head up from the desktop, “Come again?” He growled at me, playfully, “you first." I flushed, and clutched the phone harder, “you said you wouldn't tease.” “Yes. It seems I'm not to be trusted.” My brow furrowed. Maybe the most honest thing you’ve ever said, sir. Apart from the old photograph I’d unearthed from his desk drawer—in which he'd looked almost innocent—I had a hard time picturing Dmitri Caine as anything other than the handsome, lupine monster I'd met at the gallery. There’s no way that he was always like this. But a ‘basket case’? My eyes narrowed, “You're evading, Dmitri.” “Peut-être , ” he answered, I thought, a little tensely, and sighed, “would you really like to know?" “There’s not a mystery in this world that intrigues me more, Monsieur.” He chuckled again, but stiffly. “Fine,” he began. “For one, your young Dmitri may have looked clean-shaven. In truth, he couldn't grow a whisker until he turned twenty-five.” I smiled warily. I’m not sure I’d ever heard him say something self-effacing before. ‘Cet outrage de son image ...
    à jamais trop pure.’ I suppose over-compensation could explain his perpetual stubble, but frustrated facial hair was hardly what I was after. And he knew it. “Plus,” I implored, “s’il te plait, Monsieur.” “More?” ever so slightly, he sounded almost amused. “Let’s see. He owned not a single painting, but had a very impressive collection of Velvet Underground bootlegs.” For real? I cupped my hand to my mouth, and sniggered. “Something funny, Miss Foster?” “No,” I wiped my eyes, “No, I’m sorry. It’s just—hard to imagine it.” But then again… I steadied my breath, still grinning. Warhol. Venus in Furs. Leopold von Sacher-Masoch. Peut-être pas si étrange, no? “Please,” I coaxed. I could almost feel his eyes, flashing at me through the fiber optics of the phone, “more, sir. I’ll keep quiet.” “Mon criss. She's insatiable,” once more, he needled me; but continued all the same. “He was penniless, of course.” I blushed, “Another pun?” “Adianoeta,” his tone cooled. “He made thirty pounds a week shelving books at the Trinity Library. He spent it all on coffee and smoked herring, and his cold, little room on the North quay.” My eyebrows arched. It was strange enough to imagine ‘young Monsieur Caine’ kicking back to the ostrich guitar, but envisioning him as indigent was nigh impossible. I tried to cut the increasing tension, “...I’ll bet his breath was just lovely.” “Hard to say. He rarely spoke," his words were sharp, "Your young Dmitri was silent, and serious. Glasnost. Goethe. God. It ...
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