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“Now let me have mine.”
Above you, Xavier tracks the expanse of your bare skin, cold in the evening air. Your clothes and his lay rumpled on the floor, splayed over the neglected props set up by him, your one and only lovely bunny butler. The irises of his eyes jump to different directions, as if indecisive with where to land his molten gaze; the slow and deliberate breaths blanketing your attention.
The room smells of sweat and sex, tangy-salty and slightly sharp under your nose, but Xavier lowers his head a little more and you forget everything else except the careful parting of his lips, still shiny from the kiss and his taste of you.
“My lady should help me decide,” he says, partially distracted. A hand descends on your face, sweeping the stray hairs clinging to your temples. His touch is warm, light, like a brush of a cat’s tail. The action carries Xavier’s half-lidded stare. “I’d like to savor you, inch by inch—but I’d also like to rile you up. Which should I choose?”
You can picture the two scenarios: Xavier’s lips on your skin, exploring the breadth of your flesh until that ache in your belly overflows and you beg him for release. The other: Xavier, overwhelming you with his weight and heat—pushing into you at angles that would make you scream and disrupt the neighbors’ peace. If you have to be honest, either option sounds tantalizing; you know how Xavier gets intense and competitive at things he deems valuable.
“That’s a tough choice.” A corner of your lips quirk up when one of his fingers glides past. “Can’t it be both? Oh well, you should just follow your heart.”
He echoes your words. “Follow my heart, huh …” Silence stretches as he considers your response. His brows dip, he bites his lip in thought, no doubt simulating them within his mind. Bracketed by his legs, your thighs rub themselves together.
That snags his focus. He is startled into looking down, and then back up. The bunny ears flop on his head. That and the necktie ribbon are still on his person; you’re not sure if he deliberately left them on or if he’s just forgotten them.
The expectant way he returns to you gives the impression that he’s made a decision.
“I’ve got an idea,” he says. He repositions himself so he’s lowered further, his body heat mingling with yours, his arms braced on the sides of your head.
Xavier’s face is mere centimeters away from yours. Nose to nose, lips to lips—just a small movement from either of you can bridge the space between. He’s waiting for your reaction, his quietened breaths noticeable from this proximity, hot and heavy on your rapidly heating skin. When you lift your eyes to gauge his expression, his own gaze—blue, blue, blue in this closeness—meets yours. Dilated pupils, burning with anticipation, the relish of a predator about to pounce on a prey.
He blinks, and control returns.
“Since I’m still thinking of my lady’s sake, I should choose the option that would bring you the best experience.”
You don’t know where this is going. “Okay?”
Those eyes gain a mischievous edge; narrowed into slits brought forth by a smile.
“Just stay like this, my lady. You don’t have to do anything. I’ll take care of you.” He plants a kiss on the tip of your nose. “This bunny butler will do his utmost to make you feel good.”
After that declaration, Xavier kisses you. He presses onto you for a second or two before prying your mouth open with his tongue. A soft sigh flows between your locked lips, and his tongue follows.
A knee pries your thighs open and settles there. His thigh is a firm muscled weight against your mound, but it doesn’t move, doesn’t rouse you. It’s just there—a solid reminder, a future promise.
The kiss lasts a while. All you can hear at this moment are the wet sounds of your mouths and your tongues interlocking and intertwining. When you take a peek, you find his eyes open, shard-thin and unfocused. Your left hand seeks the back of his head, tangles through his hair, and tugs.
His cock nestled between him and your belly jumps, and you can feel it harden again. Xavier moans.
When you finally separate—a string of saliva still connecting you—Xavier makes a show of dragging his tongue over his lower lip, end to end, then his upper lip, provocative and sensual.
Your thigh reflexively presses against his in response.
“I can finally touch you however I want,” he murmurs, a low rumble on his chest that you can feel. His mouth relocates to your forehead, and Xavier begins his conquest. “I’m going to make the most of it.”
The pillow-soft pressure on your forehead continues to trail down: your brows, the corners of your eyes, your eyelids, the bridge of your nose. Then to the bones of your cheek until he lands on the tragus of your ear. It’s there that Xavier pauses, and just lets himself stay, breathing in and out. Because he’s too close, the air tickles you. You squirm away, but you’re held down by his weight and his puppy dog eyes.
You’re always weak for those eyes.
Then: something hot, something slick, glides across the helix of your ear. A jerky sound loosens from your throat. Then it is followed by the nibbling of your antihelix.
Xavier’s playing with your ear. He sucks at the lobe, licks the conch, wets your ear like he’s claiming it for his own. And you’re just laying there, fighting the ticklish feeling that dances down your neck, echoes on your hips, the side of your thighs, as if an invisible finger charts a line teasingly just underneath the outer layer of skin.
As he showers loving attention on your ear, one of his hands wanders down, cups your breast. Squeezes. Your back arches, your legs shift. His thigh remains between you. He makes kneading motions on your breast, rubs his thumb over your nipple. Pinches.
The combination of sensations eventually becomes too much, and you find yourself grinding against his thigh. Xavier has positioned himself in such a convenient manner—who are you to let the opportunity slip?
A low chuckle penetrates the fog of pleasure, and Xavier finally frees your ear. He evaluates your state, a halfway grin on his lips. The hand on your breast is gone as well, but it turns out that he’s only switching sides. Hovering at your other ear, Xavier blows a light puff of air.
To your mortification, you whimper.
Laughter, this time.
“Does that tickle, my lady?” He blows air again, and you smack him on his bicep. He laughs again. “I’ll remember this in the future.”
And before you can scold him, he resumes his work.
Night has truly come, the slits of light between the window blinds faded into a dull glow of city lights. It affords the new, temporary setup of the room a more intimate feel, despite the elements of silliness brought by the stacks of gift-wrapped boxes scattered all over the place. Beyond the apartment building, the faint roar of vehicles and the murmurs of people still outside. But inside here, confined in the dim, yellow-warm burn of the desklamp, the only noise one can hear is your shallow breaths, alit by Xavier’s hot press of mouth on your feverish skin.
He starts on the patch behind your earlobe. Inhales. Sighs. Then meanders down your neck. The hand on your breast slides upward, careful fingers pressing on the length of your column as if playing a lullaby on a piano. He sucks a red bruise on the junction between neck and shoulder, then soothes it with tongue. It’s not the act itself that sends a shiver down your spine—it’s the sounds that he makes during it, low and husky that originate from inside his ribcage and reverberates outward. If there’s a sound you love, it’s Xavier’s voice.
And this voice vibrates your skin when he asks you, “Does this feel good, Master?”
“You’re really good at this, Xavier.”
“That’s because I want to be good for my master.”
He then moves on to your shoulder. Nipping at the blade; followed by a flutter of kisses down your upper arm. Teeth graze at the soft flesh of your inner arm, after which he tests a firm bite. Your arm flings away and hits the pillows at your side.
“Sorry, sorry,” he says, exhaling a laugh. An apologetic press of lips lands on the bitten spot, soothing and tender. Then Xavier proceeds further down to your forearms, your wrist, and, finally, your hand.
He brings it up close to his face, studies it intently, turning it here and there. Counts the freckles on the skin. Traces the lines on its palm. The curiosity is almost childlike, almost as though he’s committing the details to indelible memory, with how his eyes glint severely in their scrutiny. Once he’s satisfied, he places a reverent kiss at the center of your palm, eyes closed, brows smoothened flat as if he’s savoring the moment and the feeling. Like he has partaken in something divine.
When he opens his eyes, Xavier’s gaze is trained directly at yours. And slowly, deliberately, he parts his lips and slides one of your fingers in.
The lips close around it, and inside his mouth, his tongue plays with your finger, sliding and licking and coating it with his saliva.
It’s hot—what he’s doing. It’s propounded by his choice to hold your gaze as he feasts on your finger, his thumb rubbing circles on your palm. Your belly aches with something heavy, and you feel a swelling between your bodies.
One finger is not enough—he takes another one, doubles his efforts. A streak of drool trickles down his chin, but he doesn’t care.
A third finger—lather, rinse, repeat.
The focus prolongs, stretches into a silken glaze, accented by his breathy moans. He’s enjoying what he’s doing, you realize, and you have an inkling that he’d be fine with just doing this for the rest of the night.
“Does my lady want more?” he murmurs around three fingers, the words sounding garbled as a result. The idea of pressing his tongue down strikes you, and you give in to the urge. Xavier groans, and takes it as an affirmative. He frees your hand and moves on to new lands.
One kiss right below the indent of your collarbone. Then a trail of it down your sternum before he climbs the swell of your left breast. He stops just where the areola is to catch your gaze. The promise scorched in his hooded eyes steals your breath, and he makes use of his talented tongue before enclosing his lips around your nipple.
The first contact is wet-sharp, strong, catapulting your back off the mattress.
“X-Xavier!” you cry, but he lays an arm across your torso to prevent you from jumping like that again.
A moment later, that arm repositions itself so it can give your other breast attention.
A minute passes and Xavier employs his teeth, graduates from sucking and licking and is now playfully biting your nipple, tugging at it like a toy; rewards you with a soothing kiss when you can’t swallow down your moans.
“Xavier—!” you sob when he does something expertly through the combination of teeth and tongue, followed by the waterfall touch of his fingers.
“I can’t help it, my lady.” His tone is very unapologetic. “They’re so pert, I must give them my mercy.”
“Mercy? More like the opposi—oh.”
Your right leg folds, tangling with his; calf nudging his ass so you can rub against his thigh more firmly. This also affects his now-fully erect member, which pulses every time you slide your thigh against his.
“My lady is so cruel,” Xavier declares, putting a fraction of distance. He glances at his cock and sighs, as if he doesn’t want it to be completely hard yet. “Don’t you want me to take my time pleasuring you? Are you not enjoying this as much as I do?”
But then he pauses, re-taking stock of your current state. A pleased grin emerges from his wicked mouth.
“My lady,” he marvels, “you’re flushed. Your breathing’s labored—and I haven’t even made it halfway through. What more when I finally bring my lips down there again—this time with my fingers?”
You whimper at his words. Xavier has this way, sometimes, with words that make you stop whatever you’re doing and look at him under a different light. All the times you’ve had to recalibrate your assessment of him—it’s not the first time the idea of his treating this like a challenge occurred to you. What a menace of a man, truly.
It’s when he’s detached himself from you, crawling backwards as a string of kisses tumble down your side, his attentive fingers over the other—followed by the brush of bunny ears tickling your skin—that he begins.
“To find a kiss of yours / what would I give,” Xavier recites against your skin. He kisses the area below your navel, and continues: “A kiss that strayed from your lips / dead to love.”
You could have come right then and there. You’re no stranger to Xavier’s tendency to recite poetry—be it yours (mortifying) or others’ (attractive). This is one good use of his eidetic memory and his love of literature. Occasionally you’ve bullied him into orating T.S. Eliot when you couldn’t fall asleep. He has the best voice, after all.
The way he looks at you right now—he knows. He knows your weakness and he’s exploiting it to the fullest.
He goes on: “To gaze at your dark eyes”—a kiss at the line of your pubes—“what would I give / Dawns of rainbow garnet”—another kiss each at the beginning of both your thighs—“fanning open before God—”
He slips his hands around your thighs and spreads them, his head situating in between. Then he closes his eyes and draws invisible geometries across the skin with his lips.
The arch of your back is a prominent curve, and your cunt aches. You can feel the reverb of his voice through your flesh, his hot breaths that grow shallower and shallower by the second.
His gaze is a blade that cuts you when he says, “And to kiss your pure thighs”—loudly sucks on a particular soft patch of your inner thigh—“what would I give.”
He continues like this, scattering love bites and bruises down your legs: the entirety of your thighs, the back of your knees, your calves. He sits up when he reaches your feet, raises one, and plants a lingering kiss on your instep.
Another set of kisses on the tips of your toes, punctuated by a light tug with his teeth. He does the same with the other foot, and then makes his way back up until his mouth hovers at your mons. The puffs of his breath causes you to squirm, but Xavier spreads a palm across your stomach, rendering you rooted to the spot.
He lets you glimpse his smile and his “Raw rose crystal / sediment of the sun,” before he descends.
It’s no less intense than the first one he gave earlier. The position affords you a new set of degrees of pleasure, and Xavier’s competent and competitive enough to untangle from you another host of reactions and sounds.
“Ngh—oh, Xavier—” One of your hands smacks the forearm atop your belly and clamps it like a vise. Xavier ignores it, and does something with his tongue that jolts you into yelping.
“That’s a nice sound, my lady,” Xavier comments to himself, “I want to hear it again.”
Your other hand bunches up the blanket with your straining fist, and when Xavier’s tongue flattens over the hard nub of your clit and drags it upward, then wrapping his lips around it to suck intently, that hand yanks the blanket towards you out of startled reflex.
“Another nice reaction.” His voice reeks of smugness, and you slap his now-bruised forearm again.
Your clit throbs, heavy and utterly aching, and you know it will only take a couple more of Xavier’s provocations before you burst. He took so much sweet time mapping every inch of your body that the pleasure from it had built and built until you’re an edifice teetering on collapse.
So you begin to say, “Xavier, I’m—”
But you don’t finish, because Xavier slides a finger inside you and crooks it, at the same time giving your clit one particularly long and enthusiastic suck.
The flood-rush of pleasure mutes your senses. Distantly you’re aware that you’re thrashing from the climax, screaming his name, Xavier drinking the streams gushing out of you. And when you come to, he’s still slurping what remains dripping between your thighs.
“Xavier?” A rasp, as if you’ve been parched for days.
“My lady.”
“I want to kiss you.”
“Of course.”
His mouth tastes of yourself—a little salty, a little tangy, but with an underlying layer of sweetness—when you entwine. His hands roam over you until you feel them settle on your waist. And then they nudge you.
“I don’t think I can wait any longer,” he tells the corner of your lips. “May I?”
“Yes—yes.”
You follow his lead, turning around so you’re laying on your stomach. The pillows cushion your arms above your head, wrists gripped by one of his hands, the other on your hip. He aligns the length of his body over yours. You can hear his stuttering breaths just above you, harsh and fraying, and you help him position himself by adjusting your hips and opening your legs wider.
His mouth is right by your ear once again, and he seemingly waits for something—inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale—before the drenched sound of his mouth opening and the words flow out:
“Full woman, fleshly apple, hot moon—”
His cock enters you.
Oh, this is not fair. This is so not fair. What right does he have to do this to you. The scratch of his voice, uneven from pleasure, heating your body even further as he slowly pushes himself inside you, inch by inch by inch.
You can feel his girth open you up inside. Despite being the second time that his cock has penetrated you tonight, everything feels new, and the electricity that crackles through your nerves sparks a different kind of thrill—one that has you burying your face into the blanket and moaning open-mouthed into it.
Xavier disapproves your reaction, because he follows you down and shoves his face against the side of your head and presses on with his attack:
“—what obscure brilliance opens—ah, you’re tight—between your columns?”
A low growl immediately climbs up his throat.
“What ancient night—ngh—does a man touch with his senses?”
He’s sheathed completely, and from this position—his body curved over your prone form—his cock reaches something inside that makes you push yourself up at him.
You can’t see his face, but from his tightrope voice you can surmise that he, too, is driven crazy by this surge of stimulation.
He retreats slowly, until the tip of his cock remains, and then slams himself back inside.
“Loving is a journey with water and with stars,” he resumes the poetry as he pounds into you with a force absent from your earlier exploit. His mouth is directly right by your ear, so you can count the hitches of his breath every time he thrusts. He pants like he’s overwhelmed, the broken snatches of his voice heightening your already-peaking arousal.
If you could bottle Xavier’s voice, then this moment is the perfect sample that you’d capture.
“—loving is a clash of lightning-bolts / and two bodies defeated by a single drop of honey.”
He jerks your hip up and a new angle unfastens, introduces another flavor of thrill that has you throwing your head back, jaw loose and mouth agape.
Xavier seizes that opportunity to latch onto your neck and suck an additional bruise on top of the others.
Against the underside of your jaw, he carries on, “Kiss by kiss I move across your small infinity”—a kiss, a sigh, a thrust—“your borders, your rivers, your tiny villages—”
The momentum breaks, the rhythm of his breaths stutters into irregularity. Xavier grunts, and he slides out of you. It takes seconds before you realize that he’s off you completely, but before you can even protest, you’re flipped over, and your hips leave the mattress. Xavier folds you in half, your legs slung over his shoulders, and slams back down with a groan so wanton that it has you coming on the spot.
“W-Wait, Master—”
It’s admirable how he still soldiers on with the poetry. Sweat cascades his body, drops onto and mingling with yours. His face down to his chest burn red from the exertion and stimulation, his eyes on the edge of being lost in the mist of pleasure.
But still he soldiers on.
“—and the genital fire transformed into delight—”
Amidst the haze of your orgasm and the acute sensitivity brought by overstimulation, you lift a trembling hand to his lips, tracing them as he recites the rest of the poem.
“—the n-narrow pathways of the blood / until it p-plunges down—”
His pace quickens, intensifies—
“—like a d-dark carnation—haa, haa—until it is—”
His expression cracks and crumbles—
“—and is n-no more than a—”
His grip on you quakes, quivers, falters—
“—than a—than a—”
He swallows, and sneaks a kiss on one of your fingers—
“—than a—ah, fuck, Master, I’m coming—”
He fails to end the poem, because the next thrust has him doubling over, coming relentlessly inside you, hot and thick just like his staccato moans.
His hips are still moving, but they gradually slow to a stop. One deep breath later, Xavier extricates himself from you and gently sets you down, caressing the length of your body, a soothing gesture.
You watch him as he’s still sat next to you, the expression on his face scrunched up inexplicably. You have half a mind to ask about it, but he answers already right before you speak.
“—than a flash in the night.” He sighs. “I couldn’t finish the poem.”
You blink. And blink. And blink some more. Laughter bubbles up inside you and bursts. Xavier starts, owlish surprise crossing over his face.
“Better luck next time?” you offer.
He shakes his head, smiling. There’s a rustle of fabric, and the soft press of foot on the floor.
“Let me clean you up, my lady,” he says, retrieving the discarded clothes and setting them aside. His sustained use of honorifics registers in your mind, but you don’t mention it. “I’ll get some towels.”
Your eyes follow his moving form, but something about Xavier makes you pause. You can’t help it—you get up.
“Oh!”
Xavier stops. Turns to look at you, curious. “Hm?”
You point somewhere above him. “I guess I was too occupied to notice that you still have them on.”
“What are you talking abou—” His eyes widen when he feels the bunny ears still attached to his head. “I didn’t…?”
“Your necktie too.”
Another hand flies to the makeshift ribbon tied around his neck.
“Ah …”
Red blooms across his cheeks. It’s honestly cute how he’s embarrassed by that, of all things. Not from what you just did, no—but from this. You want to kiss him for it.
“Well, if it makes you feel better, you look good in them.”
A sigh, and the bunny ears and the necktie come off. Xavier leaves the room and returns a moment later with a washcloth. When he climbs back on the bed, he catches your sleepy gaze and promises:
“I’ll let you rest for a bit, Master, but don’t think we’re done yet.” He gets closer to you, to your ear. “I am not finished serving you.”