Easy, boy. Easy does it. Like starting up a new bird that can break your neck and end the joy ride just as smoothly as it can keep you on the saddle.
There's no art to splaying your tongue flat beneath weight, swiping and folding on the sides, licking in short strokes, taking slow breaths and slower suckle; there's no ambitions. Just sheer enjoyment, when he receives Keeler full on and lets the short twitches of his navi's body set their pace, lets everything around them translate through the filter of the unique taste of Keeler's flesh, the despicably all-seeping scent of his lover's body.
Above his hand, he can feel the sturdy presence of Keeler's pretty round balls, remembers to fondle them gratefully. Somewhere, way far beyond, there's the staggered tune of - damn, cafe jazz, and some poor fuck's going to get the reaming of his lifetime in a little bit for disturbing the brass' orgy. Meanwhile, the vent's started slipping in incense, because nothing spells bedtime for the upper class like lab-worked lavender. Small stimuli, appreciated but unnecessary, nothing compared to being this helplessly subordinate to another man, to taking his pleasure from it.
A pleasure - he aims a glance above - he can't tell whether Keeler's also enjoying, or forcing himself to fake.
He breaks away from his little debut to fold his arm beneath Keeler's thighs in a makeshift seat, nudging the navigator's other leg over his shoulders, because, You weigh less than a rag, and you and I'll be having words over it again later, and he trusts a wall and himself more with keeping a man steady than he does Keeler's own two legs.
"You're thinking too much," he says, guttural and strained, eyes bright with warmth, "You suppose your boy can't tell?"
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There's no art to splaying your tongue flat beneath weight, swiping and folding on the sides, licking in short strokes, taking slow breaths and slower suckle; there's no ambitions. Just sheer enjoyment, when he receives Keeler full on and lets the short twitches of his navi's body set their pace, lets everything around them translate through the filter of the unique taste of Keeler's flesh, the despicably all-seeping scent of his lover's body.
Above his hand, he can feel the sturdy presence of Keeler's pretty round balls, remembers to fondle them gratefully. Somewhere, way far beyond, there's the staggered tune of - damn, cafe jazz, and some poor fuck's going to get the reaming of his lifetime in a little bit for disturbing the brass' orgy. Meanwhile, the vent's started slipping in incense, because nothing spells bedtime for the upper class like lab-worked lavender. Small stimuli, appreciated but unnecessary, nothing compared to being this helplessly subordinate to another man, to taking his pleasure from it.
A pleasure - he aims a glance above - he can't tell whether Keeler's also enjoying, or forcing himself to fake.
He breaks away from his little debut to fold his arm beneath Keeler's thighs in a makeshift seat, nudging the navigator's other leg over his shoulders, because, You weigh less than a rag, and you and I'll be having words over it again later, and he trusts a wall and himself more with keeping a man steady than he does Keeler's own two legs.
"You're thinking too much," he says, guttural and strained, eyes bright with warmth, "You suppose your boy can't tell?"