Claude sounds amazing, gasping against his neck. He’s losing his mind in all of this and it’s utter bliss, a way beyond his dark and dreary life that he’s never truly dared to hope that he’d find. Hips jerking forward as Claude meets his thrust, he’s already feeling the hindrance of his breeches when Claude pushes a hand down his stomach. And further. Breath leaving his throat like a moan this time, low and raspy, he keeps still for a second as Claude’s fingers close around the shaft of his cock. He’s got nothing to compare to, except for his own hand and that certainly can’t compare in any shape or form. Claude’s hand is steady still and so hot, almost overwhelmingly so, and instinctually he wants to thrust into his palm, to… to get more, much more.
Then, Claude’s words break through the haze of pleasure threatening to permanently cloud up his judgment. He’s speaking into his neck, basically, lips moving across his skin and it’s another sort of touch, yet another. He exhales shakily, drawing back enough to reach down with his other hand, fumbling with the hem for a second or two before figuring out the angle. With a sharp jerk, he pulls his breaches away from his hips, his cock springing free, head pressed up against his abdomen. Sitting back (Claude’s hand slipping away from his cock and what a terrible lack, what torture), he manages to get them off the rest of the way, completely unimpressed with his own athletics and very much beyond caring, too.
Refusing to allow his brain to catch up with him now, he leaves his breeches lying in a pile on the floor out of sight and shifts right back. Too caught up in his body, he’s almost shocked at the feel of Claude’s naked body against his bared legs and lower body, every sensation tripled in intensity and his cock positively hard as a rock. God. It’s… It’s… Gaze searching out Claude’s, he pauses, arms keeping his body hovering at least some inches above his. Enough to leave the head of Vincent’s cock brushing against his, a mere implication of what it could be. What it’s going to be.
“Is this…” He pauses. Reaches up with one hand slowly, fingers slipping into Claude’s hair once more. “Is this right?”
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Then, Claude’s words break through the haze of pleasure threatening to permanently cloud up his judgment. He’s speaking into his neck, basically, lips moving across his skin and it’s another sort of touch, yet another. He exhales shakily, drawing back enough to reach down with his other hand, fumbling with the hem for a second or two before figuring out the angle. With a sharp jerk, he pulls his breaches away from his hips, his cock springing free, head pressed up against his abdomen. Sitting back (Claude’s hand slipping away from his cock and what a terrible lack, what torture), he manages to get them off the rest of the way, completely unimpressed with his own athletics and very much beyond caring, too.
Refusing to allow his brain to catch up with him now, he leaves his breeches lying in a pile on the floor out of sight and shifts right back. Too caught up in his body, he’s almost shocked at the feel of Claude’s naked body against his bared legs and lower body, every sensation tripled in intensity and his cock positively hard as a rock. God. It’s… It’s… Gaze searching out Claude’s, he pauses, arms keeping his body hovering at least some inches above his. Enough to leave the head of Vincent’s cock brushing against his, a mere implication of what it could be. What it’s going to be.
“Is this…” He pauses. Reaches up with one hand slowly, fingers slipping into Claude’s hair once more. “Is this right?”