[ The fucking itself would've been enough on its own, really, the sensation of being full (not empty), close (and not alone), all empty spaces filled with cock and company. It would've been enough to make him come, the way Jean Louis drives into him, hitting his prostate on every other stroke. It would've been enough, if he'd just jerked himself off to that, feeling that, not empty, not alone. It would've been enough, for sure.
But then, Jean Louis clamps his hand over his mouth, leaning in enough to kiss his face gently, more gently than his hand, whispering against him, be as loud as you want. Meaning, I'll take the rest, I'll deal with it, you don't have to worry. You don't have to worry anymore.
It goes both ways, Claude thinks hazily, his vision blurring at this point, as he starts jerking himself off harshly, chasing his climax with desperate zeal. Right back at you, Jean Louis. But that's all he has time to think, because Jean Louis is building it up like a piece of art, taking him there, taking him beyond and there's a moment when he hits his prostate again, when Claude thinks he might either die or fly and he can't decide which it'll be and both would be fine, right now. Right now, it's all good.
At this point, he's sobbing out words without meaning, basic sounds, fuck, fuck, fuck, and when he feels Jean Louis come, first, in him, inside his body, condom notwithstanding, it rises in pitch to something louder and clearer and yet, Jean Louis' hand takes most of it, so when he shouts out his own orgasm, a desperate, broken sound that sounds like a victory cry anyway, because it is, he did it and he did it without Rainier, it sounds more like a muffled hmph. Audible, sure, but not alarming. Not alarming.
Dripping cum all over the mattress, Claude eventually - more or less - collapses onto the bed, knees giving out, arm, shoulders slumping, he's breathing hard into Jean Louis' now very wet and overheated palm and he smells like Claude himself, but also like him and Claude is surrounded by him on all sides. Inside and out. His vision is dark around the edges, probably a lack of oxygen, so he wrestles his face free from Jean Louis' hand, which is easily done, it wasn't forced like that, and turns it towards the other man, where he's pressing in against Claude's shoulder. ]
You're -- [ His breathing is still a little too fast, a little too shallow. His voice sounds raw. ] -- precious, Jean Louis. You're invaluable.
[ You're not your riches or your accomplishments, what you are is mine, it means. ]
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But then, Jean Louis clamps his hand over his mouth, leaning in enough to kiss his face gently, more gently than his hand, whispering against him, be as loud as you want. Meaning, I'll take the rest, I'll deal with it, you don't have to worry. You don't have to worry anymore.
It goes both ways, Claude thinks hazily, his vision blurring at this point, as he starts jerking himself off harshly, chasing his climax with desperate zeal. Right back at you, Jean Louis. But that's all he has time to think, because Jean Louis is building it up like a piece of art, taking him there, taking him beyond and there's a moment when he hits his prostate again, when Claude thinks he might either die or fly and he can't decide which it'll be and both would be fine, right now. Right now, it's all good.
At this point, he's sobbing out words without meaning, basic sounds, fuck, fuck, fuck, and when he feels Jean Louis come, first, in him, inside his body, condom notwithstanding, it rises in pitch to something louder and clearer and yet, Jean Louis' hand takes most of it, so when he shouts out his own orgasm, a desperate, broken sound that sounds like a victory cry anyway, because it is, he did it and he did it without Rainier, it sounds more like a muffled hmph. Audible, sure, but not alarming. Not alarming.
Dripping cum all over the mattress, Claude eventually - more or less - collapses onto the bed, knees giving out, arm, shoulders slumping, he's breathing hard into Jean Louis' now very wet and overheated palm and he smells like Claude himself, but also like him and Claude is surrounded by him on all sides. Inside and out. His vision is dark around the edges, probably a lack of oxygen, so he wrestles his face free from Jean Louis' hand, which is easily done, it wasn't forced like that, and turns it towards the other man, where he's pressing in against Claude's shoulder. ]
You're -- [ His breathing is still a little too fast, a little too shallow. His voice sounds raw. ] -- precious, Jean Louis. You're invaluable.
[ You're not your riches or your accomplishments, what you are is mine, it means. ]