Seated more comfortably now (though, never as comfortably as having your cock sucked, of course), Claude observes Vincent in silence for a long moment, letting the inevitable drowsiness settle in his entire system. His muscles feel like jelly and he's not certain he'd trust his legs to carry his weight, were he to stand up. Thus, he doesn't. He lies down on his side, facing Vincent completely and opening up his arms slowly, slowly. The man looks desperate, more than anything. Desperate to run away from the reality of what they've just done and desperate to do it all over again, if one is to judge by the hardness of his cock, a long and by all definitions incredibly beautiful rise over pelvis and abdomen. Claude follows its lines with his eyes, the length and the spread of darker blues and purples beneath the sweaty skin where veins are running along the shaft. Yes, beautiful...
Waving one hand without too much insistence, he lets his head fall back onto the sheepskins, the hairs tickling the left side of his face gently, like a caress. A deep breath and he speaks, softly: "Come here." It's not an order. It's not much of anything, truly, because Claude feels completely worn out and he can't remember when the aftermath was this welcome last. This good. Vincent does something to him and it's quite spectacular, admiration and flowers aside. And, if nothing else, Claude has always been a man of the spectacular, it's the world he lives in, isn't it?
Currently, though, Vincent is staring emptily down at the mess they've made of everything around them, perhaps especially in the figurative sense. Claude has seen it before. This post-coital regret. The doubts and the guilt. Some men are simply more prone to it than others, Claude (for example) has never been one to nurture it, not really. Even as he has had as much to lose as anyone, he's never regretted a single cock sucked, a single arse buggered, a single man loved. Vincent, it seems, might be of a different mould. Might live in a milieu where -- Well. Don't they all? Others just placed further from the centre of it than the unfortunate majority.
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Waving one hand without too much insistence, he lets his head fall back onto the sheepskins, the hairs tickling the left side of his face gently, like a caress. A deep breath and he speaks, softly: "Come here." It's not an order. It's not much of anything, truly, because Claude feels completely worn out and he can't remember when the aftermath was this welcome last. This good. Vincent does something to him and it's quite spectacular, admiration and flowers aside. And, if nothing else, Claude has always been a man of the spectacular, it's the world he lives in, isn't it?
Currently, though, Vincent is staring emptily down at the mess they've made of everything around them, perhaps especially in the figurative sense. Claude has seen it before. This post-coital regret. The doubts and the guilt. Some men are simply more prone to it than others, Claude (for example) has never been one to nurture it, not really. Even as he has had as much to lose as anyone, he's never regretted a single cock sucked, a single arse buggered, a single man loved. Vincent, it seems, might be of a different mould. Might live in a milieu where -- Well. Don't they all? Others just placed further from the centre of it than the unfortunate majority.