orangetoughguy | log post II

[Say something you dolt.]

You speak for yourself, Monsieur Blanc.

[Was that the right thing to say? The wrong thing to say? Alfred doesn't know but it's what comes to him because Lawrence is just that, robust, strong, self-assured. He can and will get things done. The question is what does he mean to do?]

You may. [Orange nods then tilts his head down just a pinch to grant him privilege.]

I insist you enjoy yourself as my guest. I should hope that any sport we entertain is of equal interest and not a fancy I choose to sweep you up into.

[The hat is held with care and set aside beside his own. Once again his hands touch Monsieur Orange's face except this time there are no gloves. His hands must feel rough to the touch each finger feeling along his jaw.]

Speak plainly, friend.

[Blanc's question strikes him deeply because Orange isn't sure which it is. He has interest but he knows he shouldn't partake. Why he shouldn't partake ranges far and wide from the church to his own identity. Blanc does not deserve his duplicity.]

A fancy? No.

[But he is feeling swept up, faster than he could have ever anticipated. He swears when he looks at Monsieur Dimick's brown eyes he is seeing right through him, under the finery and the wig. His fingertips on his face already make him feel undressed. Orange still has his gloves on. His heart is beating faster than a stallion at full gallop.] I don't know your intentions, Blanc. I'd be a cruel man to invite you to them so that I might absolve myself of accountability through ignorance.

I seek to partake of the riches of this moment and share them with you. [Standing here, breathing in his breath like this is whittling reason away. Too much talk.] Allow me to absolve you of accountability and ignorance and make my intentions known.

[And Blanc stills any reply with a press of his mouth. The black magic spell cannot be denied. One of his hands come down to sit at Orange's waist while the other remains at his cheek.]

You've a way about you...

[Orange says nothing more when their mouths meet. You disgusting creature. You would dare allow him this? Remember your place, Newendyke. Remember who and what you are. He cares not in this moment as other feelings and urgings take precedent. Orange reaches up not to touch Blanc but to remove his wig. He'll not partake in this as a fake nobleman. If there is anything more beyond a kiss he'll indulge outside of his presented character.]

[A way about him. That is a start of an answer. As far as Blanc can see and hear a positive one. The removing of his wig is a surprise. He stills and pulls back a fraction to watch the piece be set aside. It is one of the trappings that separates them in class, one worth noting. Blanc's own tresses are his own, arranged to a befitting fashion. Tis the best any man can do. Seeing his hair closely barbered and showing more of Orange's youth does nothing to persuade him to stand down from his desires.]

Should my actions be disagreeable, I implore you to object.

[For now he is fixating on how best to remove Monsieur Orange's trousers without causing harm to the important fabrics. His eyes look from his hair to eyes and then mouth once more.]

[Without the wig he looks less like a foppish lapdog to the powers that rule the court. Certainly Alfred acknowledges that if he is to be a musketeer he must continue to serve under those who dress exactly in this manner, but at least he'll be able to serve with his natural locks. He enjoys the arrangement Blanc has for his own, braids suggesting he actually cares for his appearance but not enough to constitute vanity. It's a remarkable balance.]

I do not object.

[How can a man bereft of his status symbol, that damnable wig, appear with more conviction without it? Perhaps it's the sincerity in him uncapped. Orange's pulse is rapid.] Will you mind not the ridiculous costume and lay with me?

Good.

[No objections so there will be no more questioning of motives one can hope. Blanc presses another kiss growing more bold to seek passage to his tongue and teeth.]

As you wish.

[To answer that request. Lawrence leads them into step as though in a newer dance toward a bed. This apartment is more lavish than he recalled, then again he is spending a fortunate gamble. What is price. What is anything that is not of Monsieur Orange. His hands are steady as they pull away fabric to press against the flesh of the man's belly.]

[The speed at which he parts his own lips is slow, tentative, nervous as if Blanc couldn't tell. Can he also tell perhaps Orange has never done this before? Or if he has it hasn't been since he was just a boy. How often does Blanc partake in the pleasures of manhood over maidenhood? Alfred is passive, possibly to the point of irritating, but then he reaches out to rest his own hands on those rougher ones. His fingers curl around thick wrists to guide his palms higher.]

Then divest as you will.

[Is this savored passion or a wordless admission of experience. Blanc slows and allows his hands to be arranged.]

Piece by piece.

[Slow then, easy. Not the rough colliding like a flit to another stone.]

I have rapidly developed taste for you.

[Words may end up suiting them after all. He swallows thickly. Vest first button by button.]

And I a palate for you.

[Is it for the man himself or what he represents in Orange's mind? He is strong and robust, seemingly self-assured where Alfred is not. He is a man who knows he wishes to ramble, knows he doesn't belong in any one place or to any one heart, and he seems at peace with it. When will Alfred find his own peace? Don't be daft, this isn't how Orange would behave. Don't show your hand, Newendyke.]

I want to see you.

[How so? Undressed? On top of him? Thrusting as he would into a harlot? All of the above? Orange shrugs his waistcoat off after the last button is undone. Now his own hands work at Blanc's coat to remove it quickly. This he can do, go through the motions and don't think about what the mind seeks to quell in the loin.]

[Why deny a man who asks so earnestly? Lawrence divests himself until he is naked from the waist upward.]

And I you, sir. I fancy you have no need of silk or satin when with your own skin.

[Flattery? Could be. Though he is trying every angle to make the man feel best at ease. It is no lie that the older gentleman finds him attractive. He is eagerly awaiting the moment when neither of them have anything but their flesh upon their bones. A careful use of force positions Monsieur Orange to sit at the bed nearby. Lawrence kneels and seeks to cross tongues in a duel of sorts. His hands--officer's hands, theif hands-- perch atop his knees and slide upward then downward to remove hose and shoes.]

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.]

[Still slowed by nerves? Monsieur Orange speaks as though he has had a want for working man's hands upon him. Perhaps a reflection of times prior? Or this may be a whim he has harbored privately. It thrills Blanc to think that he would be the first. His large working hands handle his hose and shoes with care. Fine feet he has. How often are they bare before a common man? ...or a man at all. Being a master of his own passions and wishes Blanc gives no direction of how or where to be touched, it is all for the other man to decide.]

I dare say that it feels as though your pinnings are genuine. [And feel he does with both hands against his bare calves brushing over hair with then against, rising upward. The better to eventually feel his desire exactly between those two legs.] I suspect you carry a fine sword, sir.

[Oh he has wanted and he has had time prior, but at the prior time he was not with a man so much as a wretched boy who harbored no care for the other boy in his hands. This is different. Yes Blanc is older, much older than himself compared to his prior time, but with Blanc's age there is also experience and a certain kindness padding his seemingly predatory nature. He wishes to ravish Orange, that is obvious, he doesn't hide it in the least, but he waits for it and he works for his permission. Alfred Newendyke grants it two fold.]

I do. Few men have seen it. No one has ever known how to wield it properly.

[Alfred says, waxing a little poetic for his rising cock. In his defense those hands working his muscles are draping him in euphoria. The higher they go the faster his pulse and the harder his excalibur.] You have your chance to prove your worthiness now.

[Might that be too cocksure, he wonders.]

[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?

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