When Vincent accepts the invitation and seats himself in the armchair, he comes face to face with Claude. Across a distance bridged by the wool of dead sheep and the expanding heat of the fire, Claude looks him over. Meets his eyes first and then, lets his gaze drop all the way down his front. From his loosened collar, no longer held together by his bow tie, to his crotch where the outline of his hard cock is visible enough that Claude's own responds in kind. He manages a single, hard inhalation - one eyebrow rising slightly, he then catches a glimpse of Vincent's feet working off his shoes and with the curve of a smile, he mirrors him. Wriggles his feet out of the tight restraints of the leather, his toes throbbing in gratitude, still sore from a month and a half of constant work. You won't hear him complain, naturally, but the sheepskins are there for a reason, don't be fooled. Ouch.
Pushing his shoes out of the way rather unceremoniously, his woolen socks soon follow. The thick cotton of his shirt feels cool to the touch as he starts unbuttoning the long row of buttons, but the motions are so ritualised by now that he can do it blindly, his attention still clinging to Vincent's long frame, on perfect display in front of him. He'd really love for Vincent to shed his shirt as well, but he won't pressure him. Claude's patient and he'd much rather that the other man follows at whatever pace suits him. All Claude can really do is show the way and hope.
Thus, he shrugs out of his shirt, the coming of April having caused him to finally part with his singlet. Although he may look it, judging by his smooth chest, Claude isn't a hairless person - he can't go a day without shaving unless he wants to look unfittingly rugged and slovenly, but stage life requires certain sacrifices. The girls offer their toes. Claude, instead, has had to rid himself of some of his body hair. Throwing the shirt onto the bed where it joins Vincent's dinner jacket like a juxtaposed exposition of contrasts, he proceeds to work the front of his trousers open, too many layers weighing down on the sensitive length of his cock. Breeches, thick velvet and distance...
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Pushing his shoes out of the way rather unceremoniously, his woolen socks soon follow. The thick cotton of his shirt feels cool to the touch as he starts unbuttoning the long row of buttons, but the motions are so ritualised by now that he can do it blindly, his attention still clinging to Vincent's long frame, on perfect display in front of him. He'd really love for Vincent to shed his shirt as well, but he won't pressure him. Claude's patient and he'd much rather that the other man follows at whatever pace suits him. All Claude can really do is show the way and hope.
Thus, he shrugs out of his shirt, the coming of April having caused him to finally part with his singlet. Although he may look it, judging by his smooth chest, Claude isn't a hairless person - he can't go a day without shaving unless he wants to look unfittingly rugged and slovenly, but stage life requires certain sacrifices. The girls offer their toes. Claude, instead, has had to rid himself of some of his body hair. Throwing the shirt onto the bed where it joins Vincent's dinner jacket like a juxtaposed exposition of contrasts, he proceeds to work the front of his trousers open, too many layers weighing down on the sensitive length of his cock. Breeches, thick velvet and distance...