After drying us off, I pulled back the comforter on Xavier’s bed and ushered you into it. Once there, you slowly dragged your hand up and down your erection while eyeing me with a mischievous grin. I paused to watch you pet yourself in a lazy rhythm. You spread your thighs wider to give me a proper showing. I wanted to put my mouth on your genitals, but there was another area of your anatomy I wanted to explore first.
“Roll over,” I instructed and placed a soft, satin pillow under your hips. You ground against it, seeking heat and friction, and I dragged you back by your thighs so that your knees were spread wide on the bed. I started at the top of your body, lapping at one side of your neck and then the other. My lips pulled back in an unintentional snarl, and I reminded myself not to bite. Instead, I rubbed the lateral muscles of your back and slowly kissed your spine, one ridge at a time. Your hips raised a little off the pillow, and you bumped into my erection. I grabbed some oil Xavier had so generously provided and rubbed it on my hands so that I could properly massage your muscles. Your skin was smoother than silk and warm to the touch.
“Your hands feel so good,” you said, undulating beneath me.
“You worked hard tonight. Now I want you to relax and let me take care of you.”
I massaged your back until your muscles loosened and your knees sunk deeper into your posture. The tension from your performance slowly melted away, and I was left with a blank canvas. Or rather, a mound of clay to sculpt to my liking. What a lovely medium it was. I kissed your tailbone while digging into the meat of your buttocks with my oiled hands. I spread your cheeks wide and dragged my nose along your exposed cleft, inhaling deeply. Your back tensed, and I put a comforting hand at the base of your spine.
“Have you had enough?” I asked.
You hesitated only a little. “No, keep going.”
I lifted your hips and slowly drew one testicle into my mouth and then the other. Every bit of you was tight, trembling, and begging to be discovered. I tugged a little at your scrotum and you moaned in pleasure, using your knees to gain traction and thrust lightly against the pillow. I gripped your upper thighs and licked from your perineum to the top of your cleft, leaving behind a wet trail of saliva.
“Unnngh,” you groaned with your face buried in a pillow. Your elbows were at an obtuse angle, cradling your head.
“I can’t hear you,” I said. My tongue took another leisurely lap around your hole.
“Yes, Henri, please keep doing it.” You moaned again. “Just… like… that.”
“Lift up, cucciolo.”
You quickly complied, drawing your knees up under you so that you were bent entirely in half with the pillow sandwiched between your stomach and the tops of your thighs. I gripped your hair, nesting my fingers deep in your curls, and dragged my tongue along the valley of your spine. Your back quivered, taut as a bowstring, as I returned to my prize. After a few more slow swirls of my tongue, your back bowed, and you presented to me in a posture of trust and submission. Your bud, now moistened and relaxed, pulsed against my lips as I darted in and out of you like the forked tongue of a snake.
“Keep that up and you’re going to make me come,” you warned.
Not yet, I thought as I lapped at your entrance with the flat part of my tongue, then curled it inside your pulsing heat. Your hip bones dug into the pillow and your hand reached between your legs to stroke yourself.
“Hands on the bed,” I said, and you obeyed, arching your back and offering your virginal hole to me. With one hand I spread your glutes and imagined thrusting into that pink, pulsing heat. Driving into your tight muscle and being squeezed so exquisitely by your supple body.
If I were a less patient man, I’d take what you were offering then and there. But I wanted your body to blossom under my touch, not shrink away or freeze up and endure. One day, I hoped you would submit to me—body, mind, and soul—but we weren’t there yet.
I rose up and tugged on your hair until you were sitting securely in my lap. Your buttocks rested on my thighs, knees spread wider than seemed humanly possible. Your chest presented like a sacrifice. In a different context, this would be the best position in which to slit your throat.
I banished such morbid thoughts from my mind and hooked an arm around your chest while my other hand took over pleasuring you. One stroke at a time.
“Faster,” you whined with abject need. You were an impatient little thing.
“Don’t you want this to last?” I taunted and tugged on your ear with my teeth.
“Yesss,” you rasped.
“Then you must learn patience, Orlando.”
I let go for only a moment to drizzle more oil on your chest. Your body was a feast as my palm skated down your slick torso. My other hand sought the heat of your erection, and you propelled yourself against my fist with fury.
“Slowly,” I whispered in your ear and you all but stopped. You were so sweetly obedient, even in your eagerness to peak. Your arms slung around my neck, and your blunt fingernails dug into the skin of my nape while my oiled hand gripped your swollen, slippery shaft. It pulsed in my fist as I dragged my hand up and down, slowing your pace, loving the way you squirmed against me as my own throbbing erection slid up and down your wet cleft.
“Henri,” you begged. You sounded as if you were on the verge of tears. “Please, make me come.”
“All those times in your bedroom, Orlando, in the bathtub, this is all I ever wanted. To hold you like this, to give you this pleasure.”
Your erection surged against my fist as your hips rolled in a slow sensual dance. You made love to my hand like an erotic pleasure-seeking nymph in my lap. I pinched one of your taut nipples and tightened my grip on your phallus, squeezing you to the point of pain. You hissed and pumped harder, faster, until I thought you might break free from my grip entirely. You cried out in rapture as you went up on your knees, back arched, hips thrust forward, and shot your seed so far it splashed the headboard.
“Beautiful,” I said with pride in what we’d accomplished.
No sooner had you rounded the height of your climax than you spun on the bed with dark, lusting eyes. “Now you, Henri. Tell me what to do.” You dropped down to your hands and knees, still panting and sweaty, with your mouth hanging open like a rutting, feral animal.
