...like opening a self-aware Christmas present whose that whimpers and moans whenever you breach its folds. There's an erotic metaphor there, something about flesh and invasion and the act of subjugation and all the cheap social studies bullshit they shove down their throats during officer school, which ultimately amount to nothing when he has Keeler here, pretty and poised and melting in his arms with no need for literary artifice.

He laughs lowly, enjoying the enthusiasm of his navi - his, because Keeler's head just turned to attend to his belt, and Encke could please-and-thank-you spot his mark in all its red and recent glory. Good ol' Keeler, applying himself with such heart and great conviction.

They sync in all of a moment, battle ease lending bedroom finesse, and Encke finds himself lowering what cloth Keeler unties, discarding the belt, and moving on to trousers. They're thin, Keeler's twigs of thighs when they make their late appearance, too thin and due a breaking. Encke catches them between his hands, unimpressed with the fit.

"Barely put anything in that damned mouth of yours during dinner, did you." A click of the tongue, scolding. "How do you want me to fuck you, when you're all skin and bones, hmm?"

Hands slide up briefly, and he's caressing Keeler's ass again, more thin muscle than comfortable fat there too.

"Needs some padding, sweetheart. Something nice and soft to get a hold of..."