Celibacy does strange things to a man. The notion occurs to Keeler, about half a second before Encke graces his cock with the wet heat of his mouth, that no one's paid him this attention in well over six years. Six years of frigid showers and bitter denial, insistence that he didn't need this, that it's too distracting to bear consideration. There's some faint and palpable fear that he'll lose considerable ground over this; that all his hard-won battles had gone to his favor, owed solely to a clear mind borne of abstinence. I won't be like them, he'd promised himself. I won't bend over for a fighter. I won't reduce myself to a plaything. I won't preoccupy myself with hedonism.

But then he's between Encke's lips, and every single protest falls dead in his mind. Contrariness falls away, fades in the wake of a soft whimper as his knees buckle, and he nearly sinks under the pressure of his own weight. A skilled mouth doesn't much matter when it's around a man who hasn't known carnal pleasure since time untold. Keeler's undoing is the debauchery of his cock cradled against a burning tongue, lashing pleasure straight through to the base of his spine, failing him for common sense and reason.

And, unlike some people, Keeler's not going to complain about his good fortune.

I won't be like them, he repeats to himself, as he presses his fingertips across Encke's scalp. I won't bend over for a fighter, as he resolves to do just that, at Encke's whim and want. I won't reduce myself to a plaything, as he pushes himself deeper into the fighter's mouth. I won't preoccupy myself with hedonism, as he completely abandons himself to blissful excess.

As if it's not entirely too late already.