Ohhh, he is magnificent. It's a rare thing, for a man to know so explicitly, so immediately, what degradation he needs, deserves, but Johnny Truant barely needs hesitate. Just look at him, all empty eyes and wet, parted lips, begging to be used and broken. Doctor Unthank feels his hand spasm briefly, tightening on Johnny's throat, the sheer, exquisite utterness of it for a moment overwhelming his customary restraint.
'Ohhh,' he breathes, voice so soft. 'Cry, boy, do.' He leans in again, just barely, enough to curl his tongue up and under, to catch on the upper row of Johnny's teeth and his lip. 'They say it's good for you, don't they?' he breathes, smiling a mockery of consideration, 'Your modern doctors.'
And then, just to confuse the senses, he slides his hand down between them, palming the taut, shivering plane of Johnny's belly before sliding under the waistband of his trousers. His other hand pops the button, and the pressure of his wrist is sufficient to part the teeth of the zipper, whereupon he draws his prick out without ceremony, fingers curling around the hot length of it.
The shadows he's conjured all around them are cold, unnaturally dense, and his grip will feel an unnatural-- or perhaps a too natural-- counterpoint to the clutching at Johnny's calves and arms. Pulling back enough to get a good view of Johnny's face, he twists with his wrist, starting a slow, tortuous jerk, eyes always on Johnny's face, not bothering to watch what his hand is doing. His knees and thighs are still pressed to Johnny's.
no subject
'Ohhh,' he breathes, voice so soft. 'Cry, boy, do.' He leans in again, just barely, enough to curl his tongue up and under, to catch on the upper row of Johnny's teeth and his lip. 'They say it's good for you, don't they?' he breathes, smiling a mockery of consideration, 'Your modern doctors.'
And then, just to confuse the senses, he slides his hand down between them, palming the taut, shivering plane of Johnny's belly before sliding under the waistband of his trousers. His other hand pops the button, and the pressure of his wrist is sufficient to part the teeth of the zipper, whereupon he draws his prick out without ceremony, fingers curling around the hot length of it.
The shadows he's conjured all around them are cold, unnaturally dense, and his grip will feel an unnatural-- or perhaps a too natural-- counterpoint to the clutching at Johnny's calves and arms. Pulling back enough to get a good view of Johnny's face, he twists with his wrist, starting a slow, tortuous jerk, eyes always on Johnny's face, not bothering to watch what his hand is doing. His knees and thighs are still pressed to Johnny's.
'And what will you give me, if I do?'