You fancy correctly. I care not for silk or satin. Cotton, leathers, dirtied by working hands, they're more sincere than the pinnings of an aristocrat.

[Does that run far too close to the truth? Does it matter when Monsieur Blanc does not know the truth about Monsieur Orange? Alfred's behind settles on the bed not only because he's been lead but also because he wishes to be spread. How filthy his mind words. He cannot control a subtle gleam to his eye when he sees Blanc's bare torso in front of him, hardened working muscles and dark nipples. There's no soft curve of feminine flesh here and Alfred Newendyke prefers it that way. His mouth parts willingly as his fingers brush against these braids, toying with them gently while he raise left foot first then right for Blanc to make them bare.]