It's a challenge as much as a tease. Encke's already reduced him to whimpers and an arched writhe, how much harder will it be for him to steal himself a scream or two instead? But scream -- Keeler has always thought -- is such a misnomer. Because it's never a scream so much as it is a cry, a soft shout of encouragement, of appreciation, the exalted exclamations of a tongue too tangled in pleasure to form the proper praise. They taste sweet and pressing at the back of his throat, all but a plea in and of themselves. If they can't find release, they'll tear him apart from within; and Encke's lips are the heated grave of every blissful breath that shudders free of Keeler's lungs.
Encke's flesh yields to the press of Keeler's teeth, welts beneath the drag of his nails, and both sensations are intoxicating. Sinking through soft skin and firm muscle the likes of which Keeler can only comprehend on a theoretical level. It's equal parts attraction and jealousy. Because his heart beats faster and his face flushes hotly, and he can't say exactly why the man's physique has become such a fixation, except perhaps active admiration of that which he'll never really have.
Because he certainly won't be bodily pinning Encke to a wall any time soon, pretty decoration though he'd be.
Keeler kisses his way through half his sanity, until his breath allows for closed lips no longer. And from there, the labored gasps weave themselves into gentle cries, and the pleasure knots itself into maddening intricacies within his stomach. He won't be long for it; after six years without, he's impressed that he's made it this far, and it's so close he can practically taste it. He wants it like he wants each staggered breath, and--
"Encke, come on," Keeler pleads, his gaze the agonized picture of mercy. "Please, I'm so close--"
no subject
It's a challenge as much as a tease. Encke's already reduced him to whimpers and an arched writhe, how much harder will it be for him to steal himself a scream or two instead? But scream -- Keeler has always thought -- is such a misnomer. Because it's never a scream so much as it is a cry, a soft shout of encouragement, of appreciation, the exalted exclamations of a tongue too tangled in pleasure to form the proper praise. They taste sweet and pressing at the back of his throat, all but a plea in and of themselves. If they can't find release, they'll tear him apart from within; and Encke's lips are the heated grave of every blissful breath that shudders free of Keeler's lungs.
Encke's flesh yields to the press of Keeler's teeth, welts beneath the drag of his nails, and both sensations are intoxicating. Sinking through soft skin and firm muscle the likes of which Keeler can only comprehend on a theoretical level. It's equal parts attraction and jealousy. Because his heart beats faster and his face flushes hotly, and he can't say exactly why the man's physique has become such a fixation, except perhaps active admiration of that which he'll never really have.
Because he certainly won't be bodily pinning Encke to a wall any time soon, pretty decoration though he'd be.
Keeler kisses his way through half his sanity, until his breath allows for closed lips no longer. And from there, the labored gasps weave themselves into gentle cries, and the pleasure knots itself into maddening intricacies within his stomach. He won't be long for it; after six years without, he's impressed that he's made it this far, and it's so close he can practically taste it. He wants it like he wants each staggered breath, and--
"Encke, come on," Keeler pleads, his gaze the agonized picture of mercy. "Please, I'm so close--"