[ No words are exchanged beyond Claude's senseless begging and somehow that helps the worry, the last remnants of anxiety to disperse, disappear. If he wasn't afraid of Rainier who made his reality truly fearsome at times, then he doesn't need to fear what's in the end just an unproven idea he has about Jean Louis, something that sure fits his view of liberals, fits his view - on the darkest of days - about politicians in general, but is never the whole, full truth. There are nuances to everything. Shades. Shadows. He knows.
He looks at Jean Louis, placing his hand soothingly over his abdomen and leaving him to move as he pleases, and knows. There's more to it as there should be, as there must. Would he honestly have it any differently? Would he want this moment any different?
Than what it is; Jean Louis angling himself over his crotch and lowering himself down over his cock, taking it in inch by inch until Claude can tell, he's going beyond the back of his mouth, beyond the roof, beyond the narrow opening to his throat. He whimpers loudly, shifting restlessly but trying not to move too much, not to push, not to force. He knows what it feels like taking the cock of someone who doesn't care and fuck, Claude wants to care, he wants to care so much...
How far can he really take him, though? There's a natural stop. There's a natural stop to everything.
Except, Claude isn't sure Jean Louis truly believes that and he certainly doesn't stop swallowing him down until his whole fucking length is lodged in his throat, everything narrow and tight and there's glide, there's heat. Claude is gasping now, incoherent sounds as his whole body's working with the flow. He could, like this. He could give himself over.
And Jean Louis proceeds to do it again, pushing Claude down into the narrowest part of him, where the walls are working around his shaft, around his head and Claude pants, hard, leaning up on one elbow again to see, to fucking watch, careful not to jostle anything. There's his crotch and there's Jean Louis' nose in it, buried. He whimpers, reaching down with his free hand to cradle the side of Jean Louis' face, rubbing a stray tear away from his eye with his thumb before - more selfishly - running his hand down to his throat, feeling for the bulge of himself, where he sits, where he is taking up space.
A loud moan and his hips actually try burying him deeper yet when his orgasm washes over him, warm and huge and numbing, all his muscles tensing, working, pushing, he's pushing, he wants, he wants, he wants.
Claude is quiet, words eluding him right now, but his body is loud. It is crying out. Against Jean Louis' throat, his fingers are spread out, feeling himself, pulsing. It's like a double feedback loop, like feeling it twice over, as if it's happening times two.
At the end, he more or less collapses onto his back. ]
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He looks at Jean Louis, placing his hand soothingly over his abdomen and leaving him to move as he pleases, and knows. There's more to it as there should be, as there must. Would he honestly have it any differently? Would he want this moment any different?
Than what it is; Jean Louis angling himself over his crotch and lowering himself down over his cock, taking it in inch by inch until Claude can tell, he's going beyond the back of his mouth, beyond the roof, beyond the narrow opening to his throat. He whimpers loudly, shifting restlessly but trying not to move too much, not to push, not to force. He knows what it feels like taking the cock of someone who doesn't care and fuck, Claude wants to care, he wants to care so much...
How far can he really take him, though? There's a natural stop. There's a natural stop to everything.
Except, Claude isn't sure Jean Louis truly believes that and he certainly doesn't stop swallowing him down until his whole fucking length is lodged in his throat, everything narrow and tight and there's glide, there's heat. Claude is gasping now, incoherent sounds as his whole body's working with the flow. He could, like this. He could give himself over.
And Jean Louis proceeds to do it again, pushing Claude down into the narrowest part of him, where the walls are working around his shaft, around his head and Claude pants, hard, leaning up on one elbow again to see, to fucking watch, careful not to jostle anything. There's his crotch and there's Jean Louis' nose in it, buried. He whimpers, reaching down with his free hand to cradle the side of Jean Louis' face, rubbing a stray tear away from his eye with his thumb before - more selfishly - running his hand down to his throat, feeling for the bulge of himself, where he sits, where he is taking up space.
A loud moan and his hips actually try burying him deeper yet when his orgasm washes over him, warm and huge and numbing, all his muscles tensing, working, pushing, he's pushing, he wants, he wants, he wants.
Claude is quiet, words eluding him right now, but his body is loud. It is crying out. Against Jean Louis' throat, his fingers are spread out, feeling himself, pulsing. It's like a double feedback loop, like feeling it twice over, as if it's happening times two.
At the end, he more or less collapses onto his back. ]