Any possibility that he might have misgivings in the moment, about whether he had mistepped, his performance in the task he was given, if the Dark Urge's lack of reaction should give him pause -- all of that was gone in a simple read of the man's body language, the feel of him under him. He's enjoying this. He's enjoying him, and there very well might be power in that. He just has to refine how to use it.

I don't waste anything.

He lifts himself off of him with a wince, a breath just short of a moan. There's enough room on the bed for him to reposition himself and bend to his new task. There is a lingering moment of eye contact that would be more pointed, but it's not as though his keeper lusts after him and he's neutral in return.

It's still -- quite far outside what he's been permitted in a long time. And he would feel differently if he had been scolded.

Which had been expected. Yes, apparently his leash had gotten tight enough that normal, physical reactions were something you expected to be seen as lesser for.

But without that, it leaves him more open to the idea. There is interest in it, want for it, and his own body turning traitor on him does not rob him now of marking the full gammot of the half-drow's reaction to him as his tongue lashes out in its first full stroke against his skin.

The salt of sweat intermingles with seed. He takes it up in several passes, leaving cool, clear trails behind to dry in the air. Clean and diligent, a final caress of his tongue, the only part of him that touches the man until he ends that last contact with a kiss.