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Mussed curls, wild and midnight rich stain his face like spilled ink. Pupils blown wide, they eclipse the wet and glittering irises of pitch beneath.
Victor's chest heaves. His body bow-string taut and trembling. Lithe arrogance in old, worn velvet, the layers of finery strewn and half-shucked. Plastered to his dampness, his muscles screaming as he holds them still and steady. Poised to lash forth like a viper coiled in brush. Wound too tight. Cool black and warm ivory, and the blood red cravat around his neck you hold firm.
"My darling," his honeyed timbre stricken rasping, he swallows against the hoarseness, anticipation burning a hole through him. "Surely by now you find yourself merciful."
Your cocky stallion reigned in, chomping at the bit. Muzzled and broken. A minute buck of sturdy hips from his seat then draws your attention. His sizable bulge, swollen and twitching against his seam, greets you there. Anguished in the face of your continued negligence. His dark slacks concealing the breadth of dampness, wept into the fabric by his swollen head trapped beneath.
Simpering, you brush a single curl from his forehead, fingers tracing down his gaunt cheek.
"You poor thing." You tsk, sweeter than the sirens song. His eyes shut in a flutter of thick lashes and ecstasy, nuzzled into your touch. He melts to the suggestion of your attentiveness. The hint of praise for his obedience. "You must ache something awful, do you not?"
Victor winces against your cupped hand, burying his face in the heel of your palm. He tries to swallow his whine, but it smothers his words tinny nonetheless.
"Y-yes, yes." He nods his assent. Voice thin and quavering, and watery like his eyes before he screws them tighter. "I cannot take much more of this, I beg of you."
Your thumb strokes along the sharp plane of a high cheekbone. His hungry mouth hot and wet as it gives chase, planting sloppy kisses and nips of teeth to the base of the joint. Desperate for your contact, even stolen as it is.
He's not to touch you, or himself, mind. Red gloved hands, slender in their elegance and width, a clinicians finesse in the length of digit, they now claw at his writing desk as if to splinter the wood with sheer will. Grasping at either side of your hips, the leather creaking with his knuckles. Seated before him on the edge, you raise your leg up slowly between his, dragging your toe up his tensed calf in tantalization. You feel him shudder as you climb higher.
"I am inclined to reward you, Victor. You've behaved beautifully." You coo, arriving at the stiff mass straining like a rabid hound between his thighs. The ball of your foot strokes upward along the ridge of him. The only sort of contact you've deigned him with since the start. A promise dangled, then undelivered. His breath hitches, caught stuck in his throat before tumbling out in cry of frustration.
"I have- I've been good!" His voice breaks, and he sifts through the wreckage, rambling as he does. "So good for you, obedient, chaste - all that you have asked of me." A half-sobbed plea twisted and tripping over itself, he stutters into the slight amount of pressure you nudge against his clothed cock in answer. The barest hint of friction snaps his eyes back open, and rolls them white.
"How lovely you look like this. How prettily you beg." Your grip on his cravat tightens, tugging at the severe protrusion of his adams apple as it bobs frantic against the vibrant silk. Each and every compliment doled like scraps from the table, he consumes them readily and to excess. Unrestrained by petty shame, or contriteness. He licks the crumbs from your fingers, and still he looks for more.
Your foot continues its taunting trail back and forth against his crotch, hypnotic to devastation. His breath becomes choppy, his face flushed a roseate tinge. A gaze that's ordinarily razor sharp and exacting, now clouds glassy, and far away.
"Although..." hesitation feigned, it's enough to claw away the gossamer haze of his reverie, a climax so near he can all but taste its euphoria. His clenched hands rattle the desk, as well as the various ink pots and quills that litter its surface. He strains against your hold of his leash. "Prettily enough to earn your release, I wonder?"
"Oh, God above." His cadence wobbles, man at the end of his rope. Victor's mere seconds from plunging headlong into swearing his fealty to the patron saint he's crowned of you. He swallows thick. His effort to keep from rocking his hips into your stilled foot valiant, even as it wanes. "I'll do anything - give you anything -,"
He falls silent mid bargain as your index finger comes to rest at his cupids bow. The contact of your bare flesh bleeds a sigh from his lips. An audible ache in the breathlessness that suggests he'd get on his hands and knees and bark like a dog for you upon request.
"You're a clever man, Victor." Your purred compliment goes straight to his sore cock. Molten heat rushes his loins at a dizzying speed, simmering just beneath his surface, threatening to boil over. "You are well aware of what it is I wish to hear from you."
The moment holds as your eyes lock. The tip of his tongue swipes between his lips to wet them. Warm, limber muscle laps your finger in the process.
The breath he expels is as long and heavy as one the lungs are no longer able to hold. He blinks his dark eyes wide and doe-like. Pleading just as much on their own as he does for you aloud.
"Please." The edge of his tone whimpers. A boyish need that reveals itself when you have him at his most vulnerable. "Please... maman."
The visible skin at his chest splotches bright pink at his own utterance, and crawls upward the column of his throat to feed the blush that's stained his cheeks.
The finger hovering at his pout crooks for him to come hither, and he follows, moth to your flame compliant. Bending forward until he's crowding your lap with his upper upper body, hunched and shaking. You release the collar of his cravat, the fabric wrinkled from the pinch of your fingers. It falls limp against his clavicle. Scandalously bare, a sheen of sweat caught in the hearths glow.
"Good boy." You pet the damp curls at his temples with both hands, and he leans into your stroke, touch-starved and grateful for the comfort.
Allowing him to soak up your attention for but a moment longer, he's then guided back upright by your wordless insistence. Your eyes sparkling benevolent. Releasing him and slipping from the desk in the same motion, you fold your knees beneath you while you settle to the ground between his spread thighs. He watches en-rapt. Gloved hands raised above your shoulders, they hover there in a silent bid to touch you back at long last. Your head shakes, voice dripping from your lips as sweet as honey from the comb.
"Ah-ah." Chiding kept measured and gentle, you skim your hands up his legs from his ankles, over the knees and to the opening of his trousers. Feeling his enthusiasm hot and pulsing beneath the fabric. "You've been so good for me, Victor. You must let me take care of you now."
A snide tongue that he wields as his signature, now utterly at your mercy, it's subdued to naught but his raw truth. "Woman, hear me when I say; you will be my ultimate undoing." A confession that slithers out from deep behind his ribs, his only offense now is how egregiously he is reverential.
"And I will be there, in the end, to remake you." A gentle push at his inner thighs and they widen for you further still. The fingertips of both your hands walk a simultaneous trail up towards his groin. His breath stalls. Expectancy locking him rigid beneath you. Precious hope forcing him to wait. To heel. "Piece. By piece."
You slip each of his buttons through their respective slits with the utmost care before you're faced with the brunt of him. Slick and bloated. Golden olive puckered in a blush so fierce he nearly glows. A delicate network of blood vessels like veins through marble. The heady warmth of his musk enhanced by cedar wood and amber, undercut with a chemical astringency you're unable to place. Severe and unforgiving, and so uniquely him.
"Oh, Victor." Maneuvering him out from his expensive fabric confines, a delicate grip on his shaft tugs a sharp gasp to loosen from the tightness in his chest. "You are exquisite."
Red hands clutch the arms of his chair. He stutters and writhes, as though the very act of handling him is no different than an exorcism, and you've already begun to cleave his soul from his body. An excess of precum that continues to leak at your behest, you shore up your grasp and begin to pump him. Steady, even pressure in an affectionate rhythm, your speed unhurried. Stroking his girth with the pace of one who has nothing but time. One who wishes to savor the heat of him slotted in your palm, throbbing in your clutch.
As foretold by his own admission, this undoes him.
First with the yowl of a tomcat in heat, his hips cant in a powerful upward jerk. A futile effort to spur you quicker, harder, messier.
"Oh, s'il vous plaît! S'il vous plaît," he slips back into his boyhood tongue unawares. Begging you, both earnestly and without direction. A feverish pleasure heightened by how long you kept him balanced on the edge. "S'il vous plaît, maman, donnez-m'en encore."
Even as tattered and raw as over-stimulation grates his sounds, his fluency whispers across the snags of gravel like silk. Harmonious, he sings for you with a nightingales trill.
"Such a gorgeous creature you are, Victor." Your unoccupied hand dips below his thick root, through the unkempt matting of dark curls he sprouts from, to tend his neglected sack. Rolling him between your fingertips, you massage along the stitch that runs down the middle, and the whimper he chokes on belongs to a sick dog, as opposed to the human man falling apart in your hands.
"I-I-I'm, I-," full-body tremors begin to wrack through him in powerful, tell-tale undulation. The arms of his chair groan in protest of the strength in which he uses to anchor himself. "I'll n-not last much longer-,"
"It's alright, Victor." You urge, voice melted caramel adoration, dissolving from your lips syrupy sweet. "You've been so, so good for me. You may finish."
He tosses his head back in a blur of raven black, the fire-light outlining his profile with etheriality, even as pleasured pain sees it mangled ferocious. His chiseled jaw as it pops and clamps. A handsome, hawkish nose scrunched in the throes of his impending crescendo. Both of your hands work him in tandem; your underhand light and coaxing, while your wrist flicks up and down with practiced ease. Your pressure increases, wringing his groans into proper, melodic whimpers.
"If only you could see yourself as you are now." A dreaminess to your sigh, your ministrations persist at your leisure. "You might then finally accept when I say you're as seraphic as I truly believe you to be. Surely a man of your beauty is not of this mortal plane."
Candied poeticism is what proves to be too much. His lower belly clenches hard as the first of the waves lap the base of his spine, liquid fire inevitability that scorches through his veins. White hot and blistering. Stilted keening then shatters to the full-bodied howl of a release that borders rapturous. You ease him through as he finishes, yelping and stuttering something unintelligible through grit teeth, as every subsequent twist of your palm, and stroke of your thumb, rubs unbearably against the fresh-blossomed tenderness.
Spurts of his seed pools in his lap, painting your continued hold of him glistening with pearlescence. From the rumpled folds of his trousers, to his loosened shirt tails and vest, a similar stickiness has soiled him. Disheveled and debauched and so very yours.
Victor fights to regain breath like a man held beneath water. Stars erupt behind his lids in a chain reaction. His vision dotted and swirling when next they open, and you swim back into view. A red gloved hand rubs across his face, leather fingers carding through his unruly mane of curls.
Pacification has claimed him now. Leaving him pliant and meek. Primed for coiling around your body, head cradled by the pillowy flesh of your bosom. To be soothed with dulcet murmurs of gentler, more digestible praise, and a glass of warm milk.
Care he is owed for his deference, though care that is to be saved for later, as you're unable to resist him as he slumps before you now. Sweat-slicked and shaking, his prick only half softened as it gives kicks of persevering endurance. Little sparks of fight left, despite how lax bliss has rendered him. How thoroughly he's been milked of stamina and strength.
"You're such a good boy, Victor." Your fingers, without hurry, pick at the knot in his cravat until it falls undone. A single scrap of brilliant red hung around his neck. Plucking it free by one tail, you test its length, its give, before turning your full attention back to him. To his scrutiny, though tame and tired as it presents, you respond with an encouraging smile. Cloying and sugary as your tone.
Victor grunts back to life as the red silk constricts around the base of him, and knots into a pretty bow.
"I don't believe I'm finished playing with you just yet."