Everything changes, the world going topsy-turvy as Claude flips them around, pulling at his hair in the process with enough force to make him gasp. If it’s a whimper, he doesn’t particularly want to admit to it, though his voice is certainly high-pitched enough to merit the accusation. His hand falls away to grip Claude’s shoulder instead, wholly instinctual, his body following Claude’s lead with an obedience owing not only to their differences in strength. After all, one thing he’s always been told: Vincent is not the obedient type. It takes more; such as the way Claude keeps steering them about in the safest way imaginable, as mindful as he’s attractive. Leaning back his head, the sheepskins soft and pleasant, Vincent leaves his hand trailing down Claude’s broad shoulders instead, fingers digging into his back, drawing mindless, circular patterns without beginnings or ends.
“Yes.” He almost can’t recognise himself, his voice harsh and throaty, every sound infused by the pleasure building in his body as Claude licks his way down his body. “Oh, please… please don’t stop, you mustn’t…” His words degenerate into a moan, long and basic, as Claude tongues his nipple into hardness, pleasure rippling down his upper body. Without quite knowing why, he entangles one hand in Claude’s hair, a grip this time with enough force to leave the strands straining between his fingers. Holding on for dear life, one might say. His hand’s warm and heavy against his thigh and he can’t stop himself from shifting upwards, trying in vain to regain some sort of stimulation against his cock. He should probably be embarrassed by his own desperation but then again, why start now? Why indeed?
Hand trailing down the side of Claude’s face slowly, fingers splayed out against his cheek, he opens his eyes and looks down. The sight of him leaning in over his body, all golden-tinted skin and muscles shining from sweat – it’s better than anything he’s ever imagined. Awake or asleep. Even the dreams Claude keeps providing him with from performance to performance… they’ve always been restricted by Vincent’s own limitations, haven’t they? For once, reality simply stands without comparison.
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“Yes.” He almost can’t recognise himself, his voice harsh and throaty, every sound infused by the pleasure building in his body as Claude licks his way down his body. “Oh, please… please don’t stop, you mustn’t…” His words degenerate into a moan, long and basic, as Claude tongues his nipple into hardness, pleasure rippling down his upper body. Without quite knowing why, he entangles one hand in Claude’s hair, a grip this time with enough force to leave the strands straining between his fingers. Holding on for dear life, one might say. His hand’s warm and heavy against his thigh and he can’t stop himself from shifting upwards, trying in vain to regain some sort of stimulation against his cock. He should probably be embarrassed by his own desperation but then again, why start now? Why indeed?
Hand trailing down the side of Claude’s face slowly, fingers splayed out against his cheek, he opens his eyes and looks down. The sight of him leaning in over his body, all golden-tinted skin and muscles shining from sweat – it’s better than anything he’s ever imagined. Awake or asleep. Even the dreams Claude keeps providing him with from performance to performance… they’ve always been restricted by Vincent’s own limitations, haven’t they? For once, reality simply stands without comparison.