Pretty, perfect, pristine navi begging for cock, destitute Madonna turning tricks for fighter favours. Keeler's never looked better than this.
He plays the part as if he belongs to it, bashfully 'celibate' and soft-spoken til the covers're cast aside, with the kind of face old school church painters and veteran porno producers hold in high regard. Fuck med school: five minutes on his knees, and some senator'd pony up his card, carte blanche; ten, and Keeler'd be made for life.
Encke doesn't tell him so - doesn't, because Keeler's every bit an alley tail, paws and tail and scratches, and he'll scuttle away in hair-risen indignation no later than he's called out for it. Two words out, and he'd claw Encke's eyes off, then rub himself against his man's thigh and God damned purr.
No, there're better way to communicate, and they involve manhandling Keeler into tenuous positions, long lean legs spread so very wide, then locked tight around Encke's waist, when the fighter rams in-out; like this, there isn't a patch of Keeler's limbs that he hasn't tattooed with the print of his ownership, hot hands or hotter glances. The wet slap of skin on skin spurs him on obscenely, like the drill drum beat they sometimes play during fake marches, and if his hold on Keeler's waist tightens, if the darling, caring strokes he gives to coax the man's length along turn rough - well, who the fuck can blame Encke? Look at Keeler (Encke tries, desperately, not to, not when each move sends him to a shudder, not when he's fighting his navi's lure and himself). Fucking look at him.
"So just - " Just breathe, breathe like Encke can't - "Just... let it go, baby. Nothing... holding you back."
He's teeth-in by the time he realises he's molesting the same spot within the hour, and if Keeler'd prized his earlier restraint, he'll throw a fucking fit in the morning when he sees the kind of butchery Encke's made of the skin beneath his ear.
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He plays the part as if he belongs to it, bashfully 'celibate' and soft-spoken til the covers're cast aside, with the kind of face old school church painters and veteran porno producers hold in high regard. Fuck med school: five minutes on his knees, and some senator'd pony up his card, carte blanche; ten, and Keeler'd be made for life.
Encke doesn't tell him so - doesn't, because Keeler's every bit an alley tail, paws and tail and scratches, and he'll scuttle away in hair-risen indignation no later than he's called out for it. Two words out, and he'd claw Encke's eyes off, then rub himself against his man's thigh and God damned purr.
No, there're better way to communicate, and they involve manhandling Keeler into tenuous positions, long lean legs spread so very wide, then locked tight around Encke's waist, when the fighter rams in-out; like this, there isn't a patch of Keeler's limbs that he hasn't tattooed with the print of his ownership, hot hands or hotter glances. The wet slap of skin on skin spurs him on obscenely, like the drill drum beat they sometimes play during fake marches, and if his hold on Keeler's waist tightens, if the darling, caring strokes he gives to coax the man's length along turn rough - well, who the fuck can blame Encke? Look at Keeler (Encke tries, desperately, not to, not when each move sends him to a shudder, not when he's fighting his navi's lure and himself). Fucking look at him.
"So just - " Just breathe, breathe like Encke can't - "Just... let it go, baby. Nothing... holding you back."
He's teeth-in by the time he realises he's molesting the same spot within the hour, and if Keeler'd prized his earlier restraint, he'll throw a fucking fit in the morning when he sees the kind of butchery Encke's made of the skin beneath his ear.