The din of the party beyond, where even the rustle of a curtain casts light in the corridor just down the way from them but never reveals someone arriving, leaving, or just looking in. But it could. The wet, warm perfection of the Dark Urge's hands as they manipulate, setting his hips moving unbidden. The tantalizing, scandalous air against the crook of his hips and the fall of his stomach, the curve of his ass, all mixing with the terrible, constraining prison and protection of his clothes everywhere else. Even his mask that stops the coolness of the wall he's against from fully penetrating.
There is the ever-present demand of his mind to maintain appearances, to only be perceived certain ways, and it is coming up hard against a body embracing the fear of the opposite and a little too eager to be delivered there by the man taking him apart bit by bit. A purr of approval over the sound of him, acknowledgement to him that if their last time was any indication, his anonymity may very well be a lost cause by the end of this. Humiliation blooms into something at the pit of his gut that makes his mouth water.
"I shouldn't," he manages around a gulp of a breath. It doesn't have the weight of a command, any signal to slow. The words say preserve some of my dignity but the squirm of his hips, the repeated pull against the cloth keeping him in place, the headiness in his tone all counter with I can be talked into it.
no subject
The din of the party beyond, where even the rustle of a curtain casts light in the corridor just down the way from them but never reveals someone arriving, leaving, or just looking in. But it could. The wet, warm perfection of the Dark Urge's hands as they manipulate, setting his hips moving unbidden. The tantalizing, scandalous air against the crook of his hips and the fall of his stomach, the curve of his ass, all mixing with the terrible, constraining prison and protection of his clothes everywhere else. Even his mask that stops the coolness of the wall he's against from fully penetrating.
There is the ever-present demand of his mind to maintain appearances, to only be perceived certain ways, and it is coming up hard against a body embracing the fear of the opposite and a little too eager to be delivered there by the man taking him apart bit by bit. A purr of approval over the sound of him, acknowledgement to him that if their last time was any indication, his anonymity may very well be a lost cause by the end of this. Humiliation blooms into something at the pit of his gut that makes his mouth water.
"I shouldn't," he manages around a gulp of a breath. It doesn't have the weight of a command, any signal to slow. The words say preserve some of my dignity but the squirm of his hips, the repeated pull against the cloth keeping him in place, the headiness in his tone all counter with I can be talked into it.