fooling around
Jul. 4th, 2019 01:16 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bellepeppertronix….or they could just make out and then have a cry session and a nap…idk…they didn’t want to do what I asked…
Claville, however, was wearing a long bliaut robe of fine, slubbed black wool, which shifted and fell in very distracting folds from his hips, and parted remarkably high up the thigh; he was wearing VERY tight dark blue hose beneath it, and soft low-ankled boots of black suede. The bliaut was snugly fitted across his chest, with a keyhole-shaped collar bearing a white band of black embroidery. The sleeves, too, were fitted close to his arms, terminating in embroidered cuffs. Over one shoulder he wore a steel-gray short mantle, folded back to expose the squirrel-fur lining, and clipped at his throat with a gold brooch shaped like a leaf. Around his waist he had a tooled leather belt looped twice, tied in a decorative knot; his sword, at this point, seemed almost an afterthought.
The matte black of the robe against the pale plaster wall of the staircase drew Dismas’s eye to the line of his shoulders and his back like a bee to a yellow rose.
He passed him, exhaling a vaguely medicinal perfume and smelling also of kitchen spices and gillyflowers.
Dismas had to stop on the steps and catch his breath; the other man paused a few steps above him, glanced back once and tipped up his mask.
And smirked.
He continued padding up the stairs, and Dismas figured that if he was going to walk around looking like a monk from a steamy chapbook, he might as well play the part of the ‘corrupting, lascivious’ rogue chasing him.
~
It took Dismas’s wits a moment to catch up with him before he could talk again. Even then, he only managed, “Where on earth--?”
“I thought I was going to die, and with my savings had some things prepared. When I lived, I had them altered.” Claville said simply. He had by then removed his mask, and stood regarding Dismas with something between amusement and--something else. A sort of soft, nervous eagerness seemed to fill his face; his posture, though perfect and upright as always, wavered slightly--a willow tree disturbed by a faint, but persistent wind.
Dismas took a step closer, his eyes traveling up and over the man’s form again: a figure from a stained-glass window brought to life, standing before him. When he shifted his weight the heavy wool of the robes shifted, as well, exposing his magnificent, sculpted leg again.
Dismas flicked his eyes quickly up to his face, before his mind could wander too far.
“Dismas,” Claville murmured softly.
He took one of Dismas’s hands in his, and raised it to the side of his face--where Dismas found the cloth tucked tightly.
This came loose with a gentle tug, and then Dismas was carefully unwinding the cloth. Every pass brought more and more of the man’s scent to his nose, and standing close like ths, he could feel the heat from the material, so recently warmed by Clavile’s skin, seeping thrugh his gloves.
When he’d unwound the last length and held the long strip in his hands, he folded it like a pennant and set it carefully aside.
Claville had drawn his hair back into a long braid, but it was parted down the center and had been compressed into glossy black waves by the many folds of cloth. The clove smell was stronger, now, and Dismas realized with a bloom of pleasure that it was hair oil he’d used.
Claville blinked a few times, and parted his lips once as if about to speak; but instead he inclined his head slightly, and Dismas, without thinking, leaned forward and kissed him on his unmarred cheek.
When he stepped back, Claville was blinking very rapidly, and still somehow at a loss for words.
Dismas’s glibness, mercifully, caught up with him.
“Thought leprosy was s’posed to make your hair drop out, but you’ve got enough hangin’ down your back to open a wig shop.”
Then Claville’s brow furrowed; his lips quirked in amusement and he had to step back and laugh.
“You have already seen my hair,” he finally said. And then, after a moment, “And if I were bald as an egg, would you see me any differently?”
Dismas reached up and smoothed one hand down the side of Claville’s head, and pretended to consider something. He shrugged. “Would’ve meant we’d have to get you a hat before fooling around. Nobody likes cold ears.”
Claville laughed again, this time until he almost doubled over, and Dismas stood smiling, a little awkwardly, until he caught his breath.
“I was--I was so anxious that this would turn into some--I do not know, some ritual, or somesuch, or that you would--have expectations of me…” he said.
Dismas stared, his mouth agape, before finally blurting into laughter, as well.
“So you thought--you were tryin’ to seduce ME?” he said. The tables were so turned that he did not even know where to begin addressing them--the very idea of a prince putting on his best robes and getting all perfumed up to catch the attention of a common horse-thief--was finally too much for him.
“Well, well…yes and no. I would have worn this bliaut anyway.” he paused, then his lips quirked. “Perhaps not with the slit quite so high…”
“Ahh, yes, that,” Dismas said, skating one hand down the man’s shoulder, down his side. His fingers brushed only briefly at the top of the slit, and Claville chuckled, the sound a soft escape of air.
“Rather figured someone as devout as yourself would think such a show unseemly,” he said.
Claville snorted a little laugh. “I should tell you stories about the fashious currently in vogue in the lands I recently quitted. The heads of the Church have driven themselves into a frenzy, trying to pass and enforce laws requiring young men’s tunics be long enough to at least cover their asses.”
Dismas managed to be surprised more by the swearing than the statement. “And you swear now?”
“There is not a soldier alive in any land who can keep a perfectly clean tongue,” he said, with a sgnificant glance at Dismas’s lips. “I shall go tomorrow, upon my knees, and say a rosary, to cleanse my mouth…”
The image was a very pretty one--Claville’s shapely legs exposed by the raised hem of the robe as he knelt down, and bent his head…
Claville closed the arm’s-length between them, his arms sliding around Dismas. With a breath he was crading the back of Dsmas’s head between his palms. Returnig the embrace, Dismas spread hs hands over the broad planes of the man’s back, feeling muscle dimple and shift beneath his hands.
“Dismas,” he said again, this time more a moan than anything, and Dismas reached and slid a hand up and into the hot, heavy mass of his hair, feeling him shiver against him.
Then--likely when he felt the evidence of Dismas’s excitement pressing against his thigh--he made a soft, frantic noise, and Dismas pulled him closer and pressed their lips together.
They went at it like a pair of teenage boys for a while--wet and sloppy, chasing each other’s tongues back and forth in one another’s mouths, grabbing handfuls of one another’s clothes.
When finally the parted, they were both breathing hard.
Claville was the first one to laugh.
“Glad yuo think it’s funny,” Dismas said, pretending to be affronted. “Nearly poked a hole in me trousers, would’ve had to stop an’ patch ‘em up.”
“That is a problem I, most fortunately, do not have,” Claville said.
They both looked down, Claville with a pleased smirk and Dismas with growing excitement.
“Oh, no, mate, I’m sure it’s better to just pitch a tent visible from thirty paces off,” Dismas said, grinning crookedly. He looked between Claville’s face and the erection currently poking at the front of his robes, and then cast a very signficant glance at the bed.
They stopped a moment to take off their shoes--Claville making short work of hs soft boots, and Dismas fumbling for several accursed seconds with the buckles on his, his hands trembling and almost useless with excitement.
By the time he finished, the other man was standing there, almost idly rubbing the shape of his manhood through the material of the robe, watching him with an apparently hungry interest.
HE managed to get his second boot off and almost kicked it across the room in his haste; but Claville only wet his bottom lip with his tongue, very slowly.
From where he was kneeling, the angle would be perfect--all he’d have to do was brush aside the folds of the robe, maybe unbutton some things, and he could have a mouthful of cock. Would Claville cradle his head there, and fuck his mouth? Or was he one of the fellows who turned to marble, who Dismas could play with until he spent?
But he coudn’t help himself.
Aloud, he said, “You say these tunics are HOW short?”
By way of answer, Claville took his hand and pressed it against the outside of his thigh--just at the swell a hand’s-breadth beneath his hip. He raised one eyebrow.
Dismas had an image of Claville in skintight white silk hose, under a tunic barely longer than a shirt, and the pleasure sang sharp and electric under his skin; his breath came short.
“Take off your gloves,” Claville murmured, after a moment. “I am eager to hear what you think of the quality of the silk.”
And then Dismas’s mouth really WAS watering; he peeled the gloves from his sweating hands, considered wiping them on his trousers or his shirt to avoid getting his sweat on the other man’s finery, then realized the absurdity of the fear.
Might as well do it up proper, he figured--pressing his nose to the soft cloth over Claville’s belly and feeling his erection prod him in the chest, sliding one hand over the firm, bunching swell of muscle encased in hot, sliding silk.
If he dpped his head he could probably just mouth at the man’s erection from the other side of the cloth; he wanted to see if he could coax moe of those breathy, desperate noises from him.
The image wasn’t lost on him--one hand around the man’s waist and the other slipping up under his clothes, close enough to have wrapped a hand around the stiff, hot flesh of his cock.
But he was in no mood to rush things, for once. He intended to savor every secnd of this--to see tha Claville did, as well.
His hands skimmed up and over the tops of the hose, finding girdle-strings, a soft cloth under-belt, and--
He leaned back enough to suck in a huge breath, his face blazing and his cock now throbbing in his trousers. If he went on like this, he’d cream his pants like some kid touching another dick for the first time in his life, and the night might be over before it even started.
“Are you--do you not wear underwear?” Dismas asked hoarsely.
Claville chuckled. “Not unless the occasion calls for it.” then he paused and looked him up and down. “Would you prefer I put some on, so you could take them off?”
“What! You cheeky--!” Dismas said, grabbing him around the knees and lunging forward.
Claville went over backwards onto the bed with a shout of laughter.
This turned into more petting. Claville got his coat off, and Dismas fussed with the buttons on his new vest until Claville kissed him to quiet him and then eased them off, one by one.
“Do you know,” he said, when he’d pushed the garment back off Dismas’s shoulders, “Why I wanted to wait?”
Dismas was panting, kneading the man’s thigh with one hand and trying to loosen his belt with the other. He paused a moment, tried and failed to catch his breath, and shrugged. “Was worried at first you meant to pursue one of those ‘courtly’ romances.”
Claville made a face of bemusement.
Dismas amended his statement, “Well--well, don’t get me wrong! If you’d never wanted anything physical, I’d have taken care of meself. D’you know, all those months ago, down in the Cove, all I wanted was to get back to see you. To tell you how I felt. I just wanted to be with you, an’ sit with yo, an’ talk about poetry and mythology, and…”
Claville gave him a look of such naked affection that Dismas felt he’d been plunged into a warm bath.
He kissed Dismas on the lips, chastely, and then sat up.
“I wanted to wait,” Claville said, “To see how much of the sensation in my body I would regain. I--I have not felt the touch of so many things, in so long, I feared I never would again. And then,” he said, and looked away almost guilitily, “Let me only say that you have already seen my face. So. You must know what to expect, upon the rest of my body.”
He’d half-turned away, and Dismas, kneeling now beside him, put a gentle hand on his knee and his cheek on his shoulder.
“So how much came back?” he asked.
Claville looked at him, his eyebrows raised.
“What?”
“How much? How much can you feel?” he asked.
And now he DID feel like a churl--groping and pawing at a man for whom such touches may have done no more than a handshake, if that.
Almost shyly, Claville murmured, “I can feel things with my hands again. You--I wanted you to be the first person I touched, barehanded.” then he laughed, a little ruefully. “The Doctor shook my hands to test the cure, and performed pin-sticks upon the backs of them, though.”
Dismas lifted one of Claville’s hands and kissed the scarred back, and then the rougher palm. “First time someone’s kissed your hand recent that you can feel, ain’t it?” he asked. “Though, seein’ as you’re a prince an’ all, you’re probably used to people slobberin’ all over your ring fingers anyway, hey? Maybe I ought’ve kissed something else.”
This startled a laugh out of Claville; Claville gave him a look that as hopeful, sad, and affectionate all in one.
“What else?” Dismas prompted.
“I never lost the sensation in my legs,” Claville said. “Nor in the unscarred portion of my face, and part of my neck. Sections of my chest/breast (more accurately used term? But awkward here?) have regained the sensation, my right side…” he trailed off.
Dismas hummed, leaning forward a little, and sliding his hand down and back under the man’s robe, and this tie he DID palm his dick, pressing so close that he felt the man’s sharp intake of breath as much as he felt it.
“Well, THAT’S sensitive,” he said.
“Please, do not tease me,” Claville said, and the honest, plaintive tone in his voice made Dismas abandon his own joking tone immediately.
He removed his hand, dropped them into his lap where Claville could see them. They both sat a moment, cross-legged, facing each other, and then he said, “I won’t. I’m sorry, mate, I didn’t mean it to be cruel. Only it’s just…I’m happy to be with you. I ain’t gonna lose patience now, for there’s few worse things than rushin’ to do somethin’ you ain’t even sure you want to to in the first place. I’ll not rush you.”
“I want it--to be intimate with you. I want it so badly it makes my entire being quaver like an aspen tree in the wind. Sometimes I would wonder what you tasted like, and sounded like, and the thought of you touching me was enough to bring me off,” Claville confessed. “And then I would feel ashamed, for I was certain there was no way you could reciprocate the feelings of a diseased, disfigured wretch such as myself.”
Dismas hesitated, then said, “I had a dream I was lying in bed and you came to me dressed in a black suit with silver embroideries. You wanted to say something to me, but instead held my hand. I woke up harder than I’d been in months, feelin’ about as guilty as a body could.”
Claville looked at him quizzically, and Dismas clarified, “You’re a prince. Far as I know, you’ve lain down with other princes and lords and other nobs and whatnot. What have I got to offer? A filthy mouth and some tricks I learned from some sailors?”
“Is that a joke or an advertisement?” Claville asked. He sonded both weary and amused.
Claville, however, was wearing a long bliaut robe of fine, slubbed black wool, which shifted and fell in very distracting folds from his hips, and parted remarkably high up the thigh; he was wearing VERY tight dark blue hose beneath it, and soft low-ankled boots of black suede. The bliaut was snugly fitted across his chest, with a keyhole-shaped collar bearing a white band of black embroidery. The sleeves, too, were fitted close to his arms, terminating in embroidered cuffs. Over one shoulder he wore a steel-gray short mantle, folded back to expose the squirrel-fur lining, and clipped at his throat with a gold brooch shaped like a leaf. Around his waist he had a tooled leather belt looped twice, tied in a decorative knot; his sword, at this point, seemed almost an afterthought.
The matte black of the robe against the pale plaster wall of the staircase drew Dismas’s eye to the line of his shoulders and his back like a bee to a yellow rose.
He passed him, exhaling a vaguely medicinal perfume and smelling also of kitchen spices and gillyflowers.
Dismas had to stop on the steps and catch his breath; the other man paused a few steps above him, glanced back once and tipped up his mask.
And smirked.
He continued padding up the stairs, and Dismas figured that if he was going to walk around looking like a monk from a steamy chapbook, he might as well play the part of the ‘corrupting, lascivious’ rogue chasing him.
~
It took Dismas’s wits a moment to catch up with him before he could talk again. Even then, he only managed, “Where on earth--?”
“I thought I was going to die, and with my savings had some things prepared. When I lived, I had them altered.” Claville said simply. He had by then removed his mask, and stood regarding Dismas with something between amusement and--something else. A sort of soft, nervous eagerness seemed to fill his face; his posture, though perfect and upright as always, wavered slightly--a willow tree disturbed by a faint, but persistent wind.
Dismas took a step closer, his eyes traveling up and over the man’s form again: a figure from a stained-glass window brought to life, standing before him. When he shifted his weight the heavy wool of the robes shifted, as well, exposing his magnificent, sculpted leg again.
Dismas flicked his eyes quickly up to his face, before his mind could wander too far.
“Dismas,” Claville murmured softly.
He took one of Dismas’s hands in his, and raised it to the side of his face--where Dismas found the cloth tucked tightly.
This came loose with a gentle tug, and then Dismas was carefully unwinding the cloth. Every pass brought more and more of the man’s scent to his nose, and standing close like ths, he could feel the heat from the material, so recently warmed by Clavile’s skin, seeping thrugh his gloves.
When he’d unwound the last length and held the long strip in his hands, he folded it like a pennant and set it carefully aside.
Claville had drawn his hair back into a long braid, but it was parted down the center and had been compressed into glossy black waves by the many folds of cloth. The clove smell was stronger, now, and Dismas realized with a bloom of pleasure that it was hair oil he’d used.
Claville blinked a few times, and parted his lips once as if about to speak; but instead he inclined his head slightly, and Dismas, without thinking, leaned forward and kissed him on his unmarred cheek.
When he stepped back, Claville was blinking very rapidly, and still somehow at a loss for words.
Dismas’s glibness, mercifully, caught up with him.
“Thought leprosy was s’posed to make your hair drop out, but you’ve got enough hangin’ down your back to open a wig shop.”
Then Claville’s brow furrowed; his lips quirked in amusement and he had to step back and laugh.
“You have already seen my hair,” he finally said. And then, after a moment, “And if I were bald as an egg, would you see me any differently?”
Dismas reached up and smoothed one hand down the side of Claville’s head, and pretended to consider something. He shrugged. “Would’ve meant we’d have to get you a hat before fooling around. Nobody likes cold ears.”
Claville laughed again, this time until he almost doubled over, and Dismas stood smiling, a little awkwardly, until he caught his breath.
“I was--I was so anxious that this would turn into some--I do not know, some ritual, or somesuch, or that you would--have expectations of me…” he said.
Dismas stared, his mouth agape, before finally blurting into laughter, as well.
“So you thought--you were tryin’ to seduce ME?” he said. The tables were so turned that he did not even know where to begin addressing them--the very idea of a prince putting on his best robes and getting all perfumed up to catch the attention of a common horse-thief--was finally too much for him.
“Well, well…yes and no. I would have worn this bliaut anyway.” he paused, then his lips quirked. “Perhaps not with the slit quite so high…”
“Ahh, yes, that,” Dismas said, skating one hand down the man’s shoulder, down his side. His fingers brushed only briefly at the top of the slit, and Claville chuckled, the sound a soft escape of air.
“Rather figured someone as devout as yourself would think such a show unseemly,” he said.
Claville snorted a little laugh. “I should tell you stories about the fashious currently in vogue in the lands I recently quitted. The heads of the Church have driven themselves into a frenzy, trying to pass and enforce laws requiring young men’s tunics be long enough to at least cover their asses.”
Dismas managed to be surprised more by the swearing than the statement. “And you swear now?”
“There is not a soldier alive in any land who can keep a perfectly clean tongue,” he said, with a sgnificant glance at Dismas’s lips. “I shall go tomorrow, upon my knees, and say a rosary, to cleanse my mouth…”
The image was a very pretty one--Claville’s shapely legs exposed by the raised hem of the robe as he knelt down, and bent his head…
Claville closed the arm’s-length between them, his arms sliding around Dismas. With a breath he was crading the back of Dsmas’s head between his palms. Returnig the embrace, Dismas spread hs hands over the broad planes of the man’s back, feeling muscle dimple and shift beneath his hands.
“Dismas,” he said again, this time more a moan than anything, and Dismas reached and slid a hand up and into the hot, heavy mass of his hair, feeling him shiver against him.
Then--likely when he felt the evidence of Dismas’s excitement pressing against his thigh--he made a soft, frantic noise, and Dismas pulled him closer and pressed their lips together.
They went at it like a pair of teenage boys for a while--wet and sloppy, chasing each other’s tongues back and forth in one another’s mouths, grabbing handfuls of one another’s clothes.
When finally the parted, they were both breathing hard.
Claville was the first one to laugh.
“Glad yuo think it’s funny,” Dismas said, pretending to be affronted. “Nearly poked a hole in me trousers, would’ve had to stop an’ patch ‘em up.”
“That is a problem I, most fortunately, do not have,” Claville said.
They both looked down, Claville with a pleased smirk and Dismas with growing excitement.
“Oh, no, mate, I’m sure it’s better to just pitch a tent visible from thirty paces off,” Dismas said, grinning crookedly. He looked between Claville’s face and the erection currently poking at the front of his robes, and then cast a very signficant glance at the bed.
They stopped a moment to take off their shoes--Claville making short work of hs soft boots, and Dismas fumbling for several accursed seconds with the buckles on his, his hands trembling and almost useless with excitement.
By the time he finished, the other man was standing there, almost idly rubbing the shape of his manhood through the material of the robe, watching him with an apparently hungry interest.
HE managed to get his second boot off and almost kicked it across the room in his haste; but Claville only wet his bottom lip with his tongue, very slowly.
From where he was kneeling, the angle would be perfect--all he’d have to do was brush aside the folds of the robe, maybe unbutton some things, and he could have a mouthful of cock. Would Claville cradle his head there, and fuck his mouth? Or was he one of the fellows who turned to marble, who Dismas could play with until he spent?
But he coudn’t help himself.
Aloud, he said, “You say these tunics are HOW short?”
By way of answer, Claville took his hand and pressed it against the outside of his thigh--just at the swell a hand’s-breadth beneath his hip. He raised one eyebrow.
Dismas had an image of Claville in skintight white silk hose, under a tunic barely longer than a shirt, and the pleasure sang sharp and electric under his skin; his breath came short.
“Take off your gloves,” Claville murmured, after a moment. “I am eager to hear what you think of the quality of the silk.”
And then Dismas’s mouth really WAS watering; he peeled the gloves from his sweating hands, considered wiping them on his trousers or his shirt to avoid getting his sweat on the other man’s finery, then realized the absurdity of the fear.
Might as well do it up proper, he figured--pressing his nose to the soft cloth over Claville’s belly and feeling his erection prod him in the chest, sliding one hand over the firm, bunching swell of muscle encased in hot, sliding silk.
If he dpped his head he could probably just mouth at the man’s erection from the other side of the cloth; he wanted to see if he could coax moe of those breathy, desperate noises from him.
The image wasn’t lost on him--one hand around the man’s waist and the other slipping up under his clothes, close enough to have wrapped a hand around the stiff, hot flesh of his cock.
But he was in no mood to rush things, for once. He intended to savor every secnd of this--to see tha Claville did, as well.
His hands skimmed up and over the tops of the hose, finding girdle-strings, a soft cloth under-belt, and--
He leaned back enough to suck in a huge breath, his face blazing and his cock now throbbing in his trousers. If he went on like this, he’d cream his pants like some kid touching another dick for the first time in his life, and the night might be over before it even started.
“Are you--do you not wear underwear?” Dismas asked hoarsely.
Claville chuckled. “Not unless the occasion calls for it.” then he paused and looked him up and down. “Would you prefer I put some on, so you could take them off?”
“What! You cheeky--!” Dismas said, grabbing him around the knees and lunging forward.
Claville went over backwards onto the bed with a shout of laughter.
This turned into more petting. Claville got his coat off, and Dismas fussed with the buttons on his new vest until Claville kissed him to quiet him and then eased them off, one by one.
“Do you know,” he said, when he’d pushed the garment back off Dismas’s shoulders, “Why I wanted to wait?”
Dismas was panting, kneading the man’s thigh with one hand and trying to loosen his belt with the other. He paused a moment, tried and failed to catch his breath, and shrugged. “Was worried at first you meant to pursue one of those ‘courtly’ romances.”
Claville made a face of bemusement.
Dismas amended his statement, “Well--well, don’t get me wrong! If you’d never wanted anything physical, I’d have taken care of meself. D’you know, all those months ago, down in the Cove, all I wanted was to get back to see you. To tell you how I felt. I just wanted to be with you, an’ sit with yo, an’ talk about poetry and mythology, and…”
Claville gave him a look of such naked affection that Dismas felt he’d been plunged into a warm bath.
He kissed Dismas on the lips, chastely, and then sat up.
“I wanted to wait,” Claville said, “To see how much of the sensation in my body I would regain. I--I have not felt the touch of so many things, in so long, I feared I never would again. And then,” he said, and looked away almost guilitily, “Let me only say that you have already seen my face. So. You must know what to expect, upon the rest of my body.”
He’d half-turned away, and Dismas, kneeling now beside him, put a gentle hand on his knee and his cheek on his shoulder.
“So how much came back?” he asked.
Claville looked at him, his eyebrows raised.
“What?”
“How much? How much can you feel?” he asked.
And now he DID feel like a churl--groping and pawing at a man for whom such touches may have done no more than a handshake, if that.
Almost shyly, Claville murmured, “I can feel things with my hands again. You--I wanted you to be the first person I touched, barehanded.” then he laughed, a little ruefully. “The Doctor shook my hands to test the cure, and performed pin-sticks upon the backs of them, though.”
Dismas lifted one of Claville’s hands and kissed the scarred back, and then the rougher palm. “First time someone’s kissed your hand recent that you can feel, ain’t it?” he asked. “Though, seein’ as you’re a prince an’ all, you’re probably used to people slobberin’ all over your ring fingers anyway, hey? Maybe I ought’ve kissed something else.”
This startled a laugh out of Claville; Claville gave him a look that as hopeful, sad, and affectionate all in one.
“What else?” Dismas prompted.
“I never lost the sensation in my legs,” Claville said. “Nor in the unscarred portion of my face, and part of my neck. Sections of my chest/breast (more accurately used term? But awkward here?) have regained the sensation, my right side…” he trailed off.
Dismas hummed, leaning forward a little, and sliding his hand down and back under the man’s robe, and this tie he DID palm his dick, pressing so close that he felt the man’s sharp intake of breath as much as he felt it.
“Well, THAT’S sensitive,” he said.
“Please, do not tease me,” Claville said, and the honest, plaintive tone in his voice made Dismas abandon his own joking tone immediately.
He removed his hand, dropped them into his lap where Claville could see them. They both sat a moment, cross-legged, facing each other, and then he said, “I won’t. I’m sorry, mate, I didn’t mean it to be cruel. Only it’s just…I’m happy to be with you. I ain’t gonna lose patience now, for there’s few worse things than rushin’ to do somethin’ you ain’t even sure you want to to in the first place. I’ll not rush you.”
“I want it--to be intimate with you. I want it so badly it makes my entire being quaver like an aspen tree in the wind. Sometimes I would wonder what you tasted like, and sounded like, and the thought of you touching me was enough to bring me off,” Claville confessed. “And then I would feel ashamed, for I was certain there was no way you could reciprocate the feelings of a diseased, disfigured wretch such as myself.”
Dismas hesitated, then said, “I had a dream I was lying in bed and you came to me dressed in a black suit with silver embroideries. You wanted to say something to me, but instead held my hand. I woke up harder than I’d been in months, feelin’ about as guilty as a body could.”
Claville looked at him quizzically, and Dismas clarified, “You’re a prince. Far as I know, you’ve lain down with other princes and lords and other nobs and whatnot. What have I got to offer? A filthy mouth and some tricks I learned from some sailors?”
“Is that a joke or an advertisement?” Claville asked. He sonded both weary and amused.
