orangetoughguy | log post II

[Age does not grant a man so many accesses. Seduction adapts and changes to suit other tastes. Yet Lawrence has never been such an ally of time outside of work. Youth flocks to youth as bees to fragrant flowers. Blanc has become more earnest and cunning.]

Perhaps I can wield it as it is meant to be.

[Spoken carefully still. His hands however are making good work of his trousers now.]

Maybe I am worthy.

[Blanc lowers his mouth to Orange's knees as he touches the man's sword with care. The better to watch emotions play on his face.]

[A kiss to his knee brightens the flushing in his cheeks. He ought to be glowing in the darkness of the room by now. Orange is careful with the way he brushes his fingers through Blanc's hair. No mattedness here, no warmth from being under a wig all day. The way he wears it signifies his station certainly, and also his freedom. There are no constraints here (there are but that's why he's a thief, right?)]

You are worthy, Blanc.

[Alfred's breath hitches. A single touch makes his eyes shut with rapture. That it is Lawrence doing the touching multiplies his pleasure a dozen times.] More.

[He can't bring himself to actually say he wishes to be buggered.]

[Another kiss to his knee lightly suckling a moment before pulling away.]

More you shall have.

[His clenched hands move up and down the shaft sometimes in the same direction, sometimes in opposites. Blanc leans forward to have a taste at the end of his tongue. Just a taste for some this is the end.

Perhaps Orange cannot bring himself to express his want, Blanc lifts his head. His companion's face is a lantern in this room. Burning so brightly and youthful for a moment Lawrence feels he too is burning at the sight of it as one would seeing the face of a god. Sheathed in the man or crossing swords he knows this shall be pleasurable.

He licks once more before sitting beside him on the bed now guiding his hands to handle his own blade.]

Lord. [Almighty, not Blanc, although Blanc may as well be a god to him too.] You are beautiful.

[The younger man moves easily under his hands, thrusting at a tentative pace into his palms, into his...mouth? Just the very sight of his tongue on his most personal affect makes Orange feel overcome with something far stronger than any spirit. It threatens to destroy his restraint in expressing his want.]

We cannot let you...do all the work.

[Orange pants. At first his hands need the guiding, but once they're upon Blanc's blade they move on their own. Up and down, tight and smooth, twisting in different directions as the brightly youthful face becomes a little more predatory. For this, Alfred Newendyke does know how to do.]

If I am a beauty I don't think there are any words for what you would be.

[Cheek cannot be helped, it is a part of Blanc. Though it is happily over looked for the parts within Orange's touch. He knows how best to wield a blade. It makes his blood rush and body move. Steady, hands. Return the favor.]

For a noble man you work well with your hands.

[When he can speak words and not grunt like an animal. This is only the beginning of what he dreamed it would be.]

You are also a flatterer.

[He says this with much affection and equal cheek. Orange feels bold enough now to lean inward and press his mouth to the crook of Blanc's neck. He purses and pulls his lips here, drawing upon the strength of the man himself. If Blanc can do it then so to can Orange.]

I am not so noble a beast...

[He breathes into his neck before gasping low at the touch of his heavy hands. Is this what it's like to be with other men? Hands and mouths upon each other, roughness and no curve in sight? He is intoxicated.]

You say [his breath catches at the feeling of lips at his neck perhaps feeling the rapid pulse there] that as though you do not encourage it.

[But a noble beast he is, not a brute lion but a more crafty, cunning thing. A fox perhaps.]

True, for you are tame. [Blanc swallows and pulls Orange to lay on his side so that his hand may grip him backside.]

I don't protest it...

[Orange concedes with a small near cocky grin, but the way Blanc pulls at him makes it falter just a bit. Can't be too cocky after all, especially when his large paws are now on his rear. Just having them there arouses thoughts of doing other things. They say it makes men squeal like little boys but few ever say if they squeal in pain or in pleasure. His grip has loosened from his thoughts so he curls them tighter again.]

You think wrongly if you believe there's nothing left in me to be broken in.

Is that so, beast? Has any man mounted you?

[Jest and honest question, that is for Monsieur Orange to answer. Monsieur Blanc's clutching hand at his arse kneads as though working dough. A short move closer and he is about able to cross swords to frot.]

What a steed you are.

[What a question that is. Again Orange begins to flush a brighter rouge. Quell that lest he think you a blushing virgin maiden. He is none of that as his sword proclaims by its very existence, but he is setting out on a maiden voyage with one Monsieur Blanc.]

No.

[He breathes, a sincere answer as his hips move forward to further frot, further feel like a beast being stroked pleasurably.] Do you wish to be the first to saddle me?

[Hot, hard flesh one against the other makes Blanc pant. The admission itself takes the very breath out of his lungs. Monsieur Orange's eyes show no fear and the changeable nature of the flush to his skin now makes more sense. Such a steady handed touch and words mean that he is ready.]

Yes, I greatly desire to.

[Again he meets his mouth and is certain to heighten every pleasure now. Blanc's very esteem of himself relies upon it like a captain guiding a maiden vessel out to open waters. Cock to cock he moves for a moment removing a hand to keep one sensitive head touching against the other for the duration of the kiss.]

[His eyes may show no fear but his skin feels a slight tingle of trepidation on top of warmth and the heat of wanting. On the surface it may seem he hesitates because of what it means for two men to lie with each other, neither one is a boy after all although Orange is much younger than Blanc. No, his hesitation is rooted in what he truly is, something Lawrence Dimick does not and cannot know. Surely this makes Alfred Newendyke a monster, a kind worse than a thief. But he wants this, he wants this and him.]

Then do it. [He parts his mouth again, this time allowing his own tongue to push into Blanc's mouth. Another thrust and another groan escape his careful dance. Almost he feels possibly damp but not enough to consider himself ready for that little death.] Mount me.

[Blanc nods and pulls away only a moment to cast off any other restricting articles of clothing for himself and for Orange. Bare to this man he steps to produce a small glass jar of lotion to be used shortly. He kneels now on the bed looking down at the man, eyes dark with desire and sword ready.]

I shall take you on your hands and knees, sir. That will suit you best.

[He'll do better than that, Blanc aids Orange it positioning. The better to touch all over from his wirey muscled arms to his chest then hips and thighs as he positions them apart. How can it be that no man has ever been allowed this pleasure?]

[When Blanc leaves his side Orange moves to sit up and watch him, bare as the day they were born. The jar is a curiosity.]

You're well-versed in this.

[Orange remarks, it's both a teasing observation and veiled assurance that Blanc knows what he's doing. Blanc will saddle him well without harm. Right? When he talks of putting the younger man into position he can practically feel his loins jump at the prospect. On his hands and knees, the way of beasts and harlots.] Yes sir.

[Alfred takes to being put into the position easily. It helps those hands feel damnably warm on him while still making his skin jump from anticipation. What he must look like, Orange wonders with his thighs spread. What others would think of him if they saw him this way. But Blanc sees beauty, does he not? Blanc sees something no one else seems to ever notice in Alfred Newendyke, if anyone ever notices him at all.]

That I cannot deny though not without a leave of absence from the sport.

[Orange looks exquisite. The lines and shapes of his body should be preserved in marble or oil paints. Though greedily, Blanc would not care for so many eyes see what he does, as he does. He opens the small jar and makes sure his hands are moist.]

I will make ready your body, in the meantime I bid you relax and breathe. All will be well.

[For now his fingers will ready where he will bury his sword, one at a time.]

You may as well have a line waiting all the way out to port.

[Orange quips even though he's yet to fully experience the way Blanc wields his weapon that would give credibility to his own remark. It's the way he disguises his shyness, his newness to this activity, with bravado.]

My body is ready.

[He counters only to suck in a breath when he feels Blanc inside him. It's surprisingly less painful that he imagined...except lo, that isn't even his prick yet.]

My services, if we shall call it that, are not for the rabble.

[All senses are alert for any cues to aid the navigation of this voyage.]

Is it now? Well, best take extra precautions.

[One finger in motion. Blanc's cock rests close to Orange's hip. His mouth dipping now and then to the man's back. Are those freckles? Another finger is eased with the first.]

[That weight on his thigh he is certain is the old man's prick. This is going to be an eye-opening voyage. And yes those are in fact freckles. Alfred bows his back upon feeling the second finger. It's less frightening than he thought, he wonders why he was so wary of this in his youth. If maybe his youth was misspent.]

You're most kind to consider it. [Orange breathes softly, giving a nod for truly appreciating how careful Blanc is without being delicate.] And I will not be rabble to you.

[It's no easy feat to keep controlled and calm in his actions. Monsieur Orange is so willing. To be certain he readies a third finger to go with the rest, they thrust and curl, spread then come together.]

Without trying you are no commoner at all.

[Freckles are a wonderful surprise. Youthful even. He cannot be more than nine and twenty.]

[For some men that's considered too old, too old to be beautiful and too old to be bent. Not for Blanc it seems, and if pushed to answer Orange couldn't say he'd want the attentions of a boy either. Maybe one just graduated from seminary though, that might be acceptable. He groans over the way those fingers seem to work magic in him. That's quite literal too as he can feel the slip and smoothness of cream.]

It pleases me to please you, good sir...but I'll have to be brusque with you when I say...my pleasure will wane if you don't saddle and put me to gallop soon. [.....Was that a growl Orange just made? He is feeling fully lustful by now.]

You are truly ready then.

[Blanc uses his free hand to spread a portion of lotion to his cock. He draws a breath and slowly removes his other hand. The pace may be glacial but he will not harm him at all.]

So I shall allow you to truly please me.

[Orange may feel his breath at his neck. He is falling into position.]

Be a still and obedient beast.

[He wets his lips over a stifled moan for the loss of those fingers. Orange even shuffles back a few hands wanting this other man against him, inside him, anything to be touching.]

Was all pleasure beforehand merely a farce to get me on my hands and knees then?

[It's not a serious question even if Blanc's answer might be a 'yes' because Orange does not mind. His body wants this, a piece of him that was not allowed to be true to itself wants this. Alfred stills himself as ordered, tilting his head only to partake in the warm breath at his neck. He would be lying though if he said he wasn't a little nervous.]

No, no. [Lover lingers on his tongue but makes no sound. It is too soon for such sentiments. There is no promise of what tomorrow holds.] All pleasure before hand was the beginning. There is more.

[Moist hands trace down his sides, down his back to rest at his thighs. Blanc slowly enters the other man.]

Ah!

[Forgive him for crying out, he cannot help it.]

Don't race away now.

Oh God.

[He ought to shut his mouth for taking the Lord's name in vain, and in this sort of situation at that, but Orange doesn't care. He can't put his mind to right or wrong when he can feel himself spreading only to become full. Blanc has impaled him and he hungers for it.] I cannot...

[It's a small utterance that he won't race away as his body adjusts. He feels tight enough to be wrenched in two, but Blanc will do no such thing will he? Only make him feel like he could, to put his fate in his strong working hands.]

Good, beautiful fellow.

[A man could hear such things spoken to an unruly horse except Blanc means this with his whole heart. Impaling the man in this way is remarkable. This is not the body of a boy. What is a boy in comparison to a man? There are muscles and flesh and a whole body that can tangle blow for blow.]

I am still fitting. Snug as any scabbard should be.

[To occupy Orange and distract from any possibly pain he handles his blade.]

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