[ Gods, how does this man know exactly how much to give him to edge him further but leave him aching for more? He almost wants to protest, almost wants to be made to protest, but he's too good a dog, too amazed to be getting this attention twice in one day to even dream about asking for more.
That, and he's sure he'll be made to.
He's not expecting to be released to abruptly, though, and he lands against the wall with an audible thud, panting heavily as he does. come back threatens its way to his lips. did I do something to displease you?
No. An order. He rights himself, turning around so Sylvain can see, his pants already a mess and his face flushed. He holds the other man's gaze, steady, as his hands go first to his remaining shirt buttons. ]
You should know I am not beautiful. [ He was in those reflections, but it was just this place. He'd seen himself in a mirror. Too thin, a patchwork of scars. ] If you find the sight unappealing, I will redress.
[ His heart hammers, and he loses what conviction he had, but he undresses steadily, tossing the shirt to the ground. Sure enough, scars. But golden hair, freckles and moles, the shape of ribs and muscle, too -- the history of a soldier.
He crouches down, buying himself a moment while he removes his shoes, then he stands again to remove the too-tight breeches, all but peeling them off himself.
And so here he is. The only one naked, save that collar clearly marking him. Scarred and aroused and cold and completely at Sylvain's mercy. Aware he's going to be led through the garden like this.
And aching for when the other man undresses, and their skin touches, and they are both marked and wanting. It's so huge, so strong. How does anyone tolerate this much want filling them up? ]
no subject
That, and he's sure he'll be made to.
He's not expecting to be released to abruptly, though, and he lands against the wall with an audible thud, panting heavily as he does. come back threatens its way to his lips. did I do something to displease you?
No. An order. He rights himself, turning around so Sylvain can see, his pants already a mess and his face flushed. He holds the other man's gaze, steady, as his hands go first to his remaining shirt buttons. ]
You should know I am not beautiful. [ He was in those reflections, but it was just this place. He'd seen himself in a mirror. Too thin, a patchwork of scars. ] If you find the sight unappealing, I will redress.
[ His heart hammers, and he loses what conviction he had, but he undresses steadily, tossing the shirt to the ground. Sure enough, scars. But golden hair, freckles and moles, the shape of ribs and muscle, too -- the history of a soldier.
He crouches down, buying himself a moment while he removes his shoes, then he stands again to remove the too-tight breeches, all but peeling them off himself.
And so here he is. The only one naked, save that collar clearly marking him. Scarred and aroused and cold and completely at Sylvain's mercy. Aware he's going to be led through the garden like this.
And aching for when the other man undresses, and their skin touches, and they are both marked and wanting. It's so huge, so strong. How does anyone tolerate this much want filling them up? ]