[ He slides in easily. Claude isn't a novice, after all, and it's obvious from the way he makes himself relax, meeting Jean Louis' inward stroke with openness. He tenses at intervals, relaxing immediately after and Jean Louis simply stays like that for a moment, allowing him time to get himself reacquainted with the mechanics of it. He can feel the other man's shoulders rising and falling beneath him as he pants, his scent strong, heavy with both his own, natural colours and arousal. Sweat. Musk. Sex. Jean Louis pulls his finger out, halfway first, crooking it slightly to brush over his prostate on the way. ]
It'll feel better.
[ It's a fact, not a promise. Again, he doesn't care for the latter; it reeks of uncertainty, of illusions - a trick that relies too heavily on the whims and wills of the person who makes the offering. Promises are, as they say, cheap. They mean nothing (and he knows nothing, perhaps better than many). He kisses a path from Claude's nape to his shoulder before flattening his tongue against his skin, tasting him fully. Salt and something a little warmer, something complex.
He pulls his finger out of Claude's arse, nearly all the way and adds his middle finger next to it, probing his arsehole for a few seconds just to give him a signal before pushing in. He works both fingers in deep once more, past the tightness of his rim. He's all soft walls and heat on the inside as he buries his fingers to the last knuckles and pulls out only partially before going back inside. He takes care to get his prostate on every outstroke, too - if the other man isn't leaking onto the bed already, he definitely will be now.
A lovely mental image. His cock twitches pitifully but it'll have to wait - the more he wants it, the better. Maybe some other time, they can fuck for an hour, if Claude wants, if he doesn't mind that raw feeling that comes after, the reminder every single time you try to sit. To Jean Louis, it depends. That's how he knows it's not tonight. ]
no subject
It'll feel better.
[ It's a fact, not a promise. Again, he doesn't care for the latter; it reeks of uncertainty, of illusions - a trick that relies too heavily on the whims and wills of the person who makes the offering. Promises are, as they say, cheap. They mean nothing (and he knows nothing, perhaps better than many). He kisses a path from Claude's nape to his shoulder before flattening his tongue against his skin, tasting him fully. Salt and something a little warmer, something complex.
He pulls his finger out of Claude's arse, nearly all the way and adds his middle finger next to it, probing his arsehole for a few seconds just to give him a signal before pushing in. He works both fingers in deep once more, past the tightness of his rim. He's all soft walls and heat on the inside as he buries his fingers to the last knuckles and pulls out only partially before going back inside. He takes care to get his prostate on every outstroke, too - if the other man isn't leaking onto the bed already, he definitely will be now.
A lovely mental image. His cock twitches pitifully but it'll have to wait - the more he wants it, the better. Maybe some other time, they can fuck for an hour, if Claude wants, if he doesn't mind that raw feeling that comes after, the reminder every single time you try to sit. To Jean Louis, it depends. That's how he knows it's not tonight. ]