[ He stays like that, keeps it a little bit easy to begin with, letting Claude's cock hit the back of his mouth before easing back, feeling the heavy slide of the shaft between his lips. Back and forth. Back and forth. Beneath him, Claude shifts, grasping his hair and moaning prettily, telling him how he likes it (like this) and it's been a while since he managed to give someone exactly what they want without losing something in return. In that aspect, sex is different from other things, from mostly everything else in his life. There are no debts racked up from what they're doing now, not at this very moment. Before, after, whatever happens there - that's when you lose yourself in bits and pieces. That's something to think about, perhaps, when they get there.
Not now.
Claude runs his hand down the back of his head, past his neck and over his shoulder. He flattens his palm against the heavy scar tissue, gently, holding, and though the wrong kind of pressure does still hurt, this most definitely doesn't. He closes his eyes, Claude's cock sliding to the back of his mouth once more and then, this time, he holds it there, keeping still. Pressing down on Claude's hip firmly (stay, it means, and just take), he hollows his cheeks and sucks, hard. He pauses to breath, pulling back only half an inch, and repeats. He wants to hear him moan as loud as he wants to, as loud as he dares, and then he'll push him further ahead of himself and catch up to him, again and again, until they can't be bothered to travel any further.
That kind of road is potentially endless, isn't it. He likes the thought of that, even if there's no inherent promise to the idea. In general, things tend to end, he's well aware.
He stays like that, sucking Claude's cock at intervals, keeping him on his tongue all throughout. The feeling of being filled doesn't bother him; it's just another way to stay as close as possible. At some point, certainly, Claude's going to want more friction around the length but there's a time and a place for everything and the other man gave him leave to do as he wants. He wants to go slow tonight.
no subject
Not now.
Claude runs his hand down the back of his head, past his neck and over his shoulder. He flattens his palm against the heavy scar tissue, gently, holding, and though the wrong kind of pressure does still hurt, this most definitely doesn't. He closes his eyes, Claude's cock sliding to the back of his mouth once more and then, this time, he holds it there, keeping still. Pressing down on Claude's hip firmly (stay, it means, and just take), he hollows his cheeks and sucks, hard. He pauses to breath, pulling back only half an inch, and repeats. He wants to hear him moan as loud as he wants to, as loud as he dares, and then he'll push him further ahead of himself and catch up to him, again and again, until they can't be bothered to travel any further.
That kind of road is potentially endless, isn't it. He likes the thought of that, even if there's no inherent promise to the idea. In general, things tend to end, he's well aware.
He stays like that, sucking Claude's cock at intervals, keeping him on his tongue all throughout. The feeling of being filled doesn't bother him; it's just another way to stay as close as possible. At some point, certainly, Claude's going to want more friction around the length but there's a time and a place for everything and the other man gave him leave to do as he wants. He wants to go slow tonight.
After all, it's some kind of beginning. ]