downplaying | (( LOG : les amants d'un jour ))

It's an expensive neighbourhood, this part of the city. Vincent knows because he's browsed apartments here when he moved from Berlin, though at that point affording something like this... Well. He probably could have, if Monsieur Peeters didn't pay him in much the same way he'd pay a rat. He watches with barely concealed impatience as Claude searches for his keys, the sudden darkness making him feel all the more... energetic. Horny, more likely. He'll take what he gets.

"Hey," he says, stepping close enough for the other man to feel his breath ghosting over his neck. Sure, Vincent can be subtle when he wants to. Right now, he doesn't. "Want me to help you look?"

He runs a hand up Claude's leg towards his pocket, the soft, somewhat expensive fabric of his trousers a sharp contrast to the feel of muscle underneath.

In the darkness, his other senses sharpen and it’s a stark sensation – the feel of Vincent’s hand running up his leg, his body reacting promptly in response. The tingling that runs down his spine a familiar feeling. Well, considering their headway so far, they will probably not take the time to enjoy a cup of coffee, before… With a deep intake of breath, he turns around enough to meet Vincent’s eyes, finally locating his keys and blindly shoving them into the keyhole. Twist, twist, turn. It’s an old keyhole, but he’s lived here a couple of years now, he knows the exact mechanisms. Opening the door, he steps to the side to let the other man in first, politely. He might be getting hard both quickly and quite effectively, but he can be a gentleman despite his hard-on. He’s not a teenager. Anymore. Not even with the heat of Vincent’s breath still ghosting over the back of his neck.

The door opens almost on cue, their eyes meeting just as the lock slides away with a click. He steps away a bit, incapable - and unwilling - to keep the smirk off his face. It's been a lovely evening, truth be told. The food has been acceptable (French cuisine isn't his favourite, but neither is it ever a wrong choice), the company quite better than anything he's had for at least a good couple of years. Maybe more. He doesn't want to think too carefully about that, though, or he may end up feeling like a loser. Won't do.

Instead, he steps into the still-dark apartment and starts slipping out of his coat, trying to gauge the outline of the interior despite the shadows leaving everything pretty much neutral. White walls, he thinks, looking around. Clearly. Frames - pictures on the walls. He takes a moment to guess whether or not it'll be art when the light comes on. For some reason, he doesn't think Claude would be the type to have a Goya or whatever the fuck hanging in the hallway as the first thing you see, stepping inside. But he's been surprised before.

“Let me take that,” he says after having turned on the light in the hallway, reaching for Vincent’s coat as soon as the front door has closed behind them, granting them some privacy that he’s convinced they’ll need as much as they’ll make good use of it. Hanging the coat up along with his own on the hatstand, Claude turns towards Vincent, regarding him with slightly raised eyebrows. He could ask if he’d be interested in a cup of coffee, if he wants a tour of the apartment – hell, if he’d like to see Claude’s photos from West Africa, but he’s pretty sure he already knows what Vincent wants and to be completely honest, he hasn’t got much else on his mind himself.

After all, it’s been an... inspiring evening. Vincent makes for interesting company, his attitude problems aside. Or perhaps because of them. So rather than asking any of the conventional questions when you’re showing someone around your apartment for the first time, Claude accepts that he’s currently within touching distance of a highly attractive man whom he wants to fuck and who, most likely, wants to fuck him. Fuck him silly. And so the invitation all but extends itself.

“Make yourself at home.”

Claude takes his coat while he looks around quickly. Ah. Those can only be family pictures. Always keen on implications, he notes that, aside from a couple of pictures where Claude is present, every single photograph shows a woman. Not the same, mind you, but clearly siblings and, probably, his mother. None of his father, geographically estranged as he may be. Mildly interesting. At his words, Vincent returns his attention to Claude, smirk stretching into a wide, predatory smile.

"Fucking perfect."

He says. After which he chooses to follow his cock as opposed to, well, probably all traces of actual manners and closes the distance between them, pulling Claude backwards with him to the only wall in the hallway free of pictures. No need to cause destruction on the first date, right? He doesn't expect the other man to put up much resistance here, what with that open invitation and everything. But still, he's using only a hint of force, making it easy to halt the movement. Just in case Claude's been off the dating market for a while and has forgotten how to speak the language properly, amidst all that exotic, foreign baggage.

Vincent doesn’t make any efforts to hold back, doesn’t exhibit any sense of patience as he drags him with him back up against the wall between the front door and the door leading to the living room, Claude reaching up with both hands and pressing them to Vincent’s midriff, less to lessen the impact and more for the chance to touch. Now that they’re standing front to front, Vincent’s back against the wall – caught between that and Claude’s body. Several advantages to this arrangement, considering that Vincent is the taller of the two of them. As it is, Claude isn’t easily intimidated (not by height, not by girth – he has dated a couple of large, African men during his time) and the open invitation itself is enough to make him lean in and press his mouth to the other man’s. Greedily. Hot, moist breath ghosting over his lips before his tongue runs over his bottom lip. A demand, not a request. It's been a while since Jean-Baptiste was part of his life, but he’s pretty sure they’re past that point by now.

Vincent's been on several dates in his life. Ascribing this quantity any actual number would probably serve to create little but an understatement; safe to say, he's seen a lot of action in his time. As such, there's nothing inherently novel in this situation, apart from the fact that their relation - this particular combination of people - is still new. When Claude leans in and kisses him, the feeling is both very familiar and completely strange; it's an odd duality, pretty unique to one-night-stands. Vincent has never thought much further than that. He just knows it's the same across weekends and nights and that he never fails to take notice of it, from person to person.

Mouth opening more or less by automatics, he pushes his tongue between Claude's lips, sensations of wetness and heat mixing and sending sparks of arousal flaring down his spine, right into his cock. His trousers are starting to feel tight, alright. Nothing wrong with that - if they're fucking here, against the wall, he's not gonna complain. Apropos. Reaching down between them, he cups one hand over the slightly visible bulge in Claude's trousers, giving his cock a light squeeze. Just enough to make a point.

Claude has… a good idea about Vincent, so to speak. He doesn’t make assumptions, but he has met enough gay men in his life to know very well what’s the general and the usual approach to sex in that milieu – a milieu he hasn’t as such ever frequented himself, because unlike most of his peers he doesn’t do one-night stands. Doesn’t appreciate that kind of superficiality. Something he might ought to tell Vincent before they get too far in their action. Vincent pushes his tongue in between his lips, however, and Claude’s focus quickly shifts from his internal train of thought to the sensation of slickness, of muscle against muscle… Breath catching in his throat, he pushes his hands beneath Vincent’s white shirt, the material crisp against the back of his hands as he runs his fingers up his chest. The light tickle of hairs, the rise of nipples, the firmness of the male chest. He loves it.

Then, Vincent reaches down between them and cups his cock, giving it a squeeze that makes Claude give up entirely on the idea of putting up any kind of restrictions tonight, as he normally does. He can state his demands afterwards. Right now his body has demands of its own and his cock is telling him to listen carefully. To the sound of Vincent’s breathing, palpable against his lips and to the sound of rustling fabric, betraying their actions even in the dark. Yes, it’s obvious that if this were a contest in sexual experience, Claude would come out the loser – but really, in this he’ll come out the winner, no matter what.

The feel of Claude's hands, running up over his stomach and chest makes his breathing quicken, his skin feeling overheated at the physical contact. Vincent has a problem, actually, in that he's horrendously ticklish. All over. He's learned to control it over the years after much practice, so to speak. But there's a level of sensitivity in his body all the same, a quick response to touch that makes stimulation just a bit more poignant. He doesn't remove his hand from between Claude's legs, more than reluctant to let go. Of his claim. And what a well-sized claim it is, from what he can tell by this superficial touch alone. Excellent, excellent.

He slips his other hand upwards, fingers curling into Claude's brown hair. It's surprisingly coarse, isn't it? Must be all that African savannah or whatever. Vincent has never been to Africa (or indeed, very far outside of Europe in general) but he kind of likes the way Claude makes it sound when he talks about it. And there's something original to it as well - something that reminds you of exploration, adventure... All things Vincent hasn't really made much time for during his life, either for practical reasons or for lack of effort. Motivation. He rubs his palm over Claude's trousers, following the outline of his stiff cock with expert precision. Mm. All his motivation's simply gone into different areas. Obviously.

It’s a sloppy, wet snog, a drawn-out kiss that lasts as long as Vincent’s hand running up the length of his cock, through his trousers which stifle the sensation somewhat. Not enough, though, for him not to feel light-headed and horny, caring very little about anything besides the urge to either fuck or be fucked, whatever succession it will be in. Dominance has never mattered to him, neither in general nor in any sexual context. In all meanings of the sentence, Claude can take it and he doesn’t mind giving up control anymore than he minds being in charge. It’s all a matter of respecting his partner’s preferences, something he’s very adamant about. You can call it a personal moral codex. A principle, along with the use of condoms.

Withdrawing his hands enough to begin undoing the buttons on Vincent’s shirt, Claude draws back from the kiss to breathe – his breathing more like panting at this point. Vincent clearly knows how to use his hands and if there is one thing Claude has never been able to resist, it’s the unspoken promise of a great handjob. His cock hardening just that bit more in his trousers from the thought alone.

The rest of the evening seems at a distance like this, although they wouldn’t be in this position in the first place, hadn’t Claude found Vincent attractive on more levels than one. Truth be told, his main turn-on is wit – something Vincent has already proven to possess in spades. The nice touch is only just that. A nice touch.

He doesn’t look down when Claude starts unbuttoning his shirt, much more focused on the way he breaks the kiss, feeling just a bit bereft. Well, alright. They do need to move beyond snogging but he just. Really fucking likes kissing. Actually no, he’s not gonna give it up just yet. Quenching down a smirk, he reaches out and pulls Claude in for another kiss, pressing his tongue in between his lips hungrily, uncaring that Claude’s still-working hands gets trapped between their bodies. There’s room. He’ll just have to get nimble and won’t that be lovely.

Slipping his hand from the front of Claude’s trousers and back (simultaneously losing his hold on what has got to be the greatest cock he’s touched for a long while), he grabs onto his arse. Firmly. He doesn’t truly think ahead right now, not when he’s on the verge of having sex. Actually, sex is one of those few things in life where words mean preciously little, unless you’re fatally stupid and ridiculous. As such, he doesn’t guard his words at all when he breaks the kiss, quickly and sloppily, voice entirely breathless and hoarse:

“You’ve got a great fucking arse, Claude. A great fucking everything.” Fingers slipping upwards, he gives a quick tug on the trouser hem because who the hell even cares about shirt buttons at this point?

Vincent pulls him in for another kiss, trapping his hands between their bodies, though it doesn’t really matter since he got halfway down the row and halfway is more than enough to roam. Then, Vincent’s hand shifts its attention from Claude’s cock to his arse and the feeling of pressure in all the right places makes him react instinctively. Between the two of them, Vincent is quickly proving the most aggressive one and Claude doesn’t mind leaving him the reins for the night, if it continues along these lines. It isn’t a desperate move, even if he hasn’t actually had sex in a couple of months, it’s simply a response to the situation as it’s playing out. So at Vincent’s touch, he stops his groping of the other man’s chest and reaches down to begin unzipping his own trousers. The sound of the zipper drowning in heavy breathing and sloppy kissing. And the sound of Vincent’s voice when he speaks, his words making Claude raise an eyebrow slightly. No presumptions yet, but if Vincent proves to be a dirty-talker, fucking will just be that much hotter. Besides, it would fit him. It would fit what Claude knows about him so far…

Swallowing, he manages a smile, voice no less hoarse than Vincent’s. “When we’re about to fuck, flatter rings hollow.” A pause as he focuses on pushing his trousers down over his hips, leaving Vincent plenty of freedom to explore. When he leans in again, he runs his hands up Vincent’s thighs, following the bulge in his pants and cupping it with one hand, the other coming to a rest against his hip. “You should tell me something else.”

He mirrors Claude’s expression, raising his eyebrows at the sound of the zipper sliding down. He takes some time to actually look, however, too focused on the lines of Claude’s face, the way his expression seems calm even now, with heat turning his voice audibly raw. It’s really fucking hot. Vincent is used to drama queens – true ones, not posers like himself - and excessively macho bulls with disappointingly (and thus, logically) tiny cocks. He very rarely stumbles across the sort of guys who induce balance in their relation to him; and on top of Claude having a really great body and an interesting mind, that’s a massive plus in Vincent’s book. Then, Claude presses a hand against his cock through the front of his trousers and he stops thinking about anything but the increasing urgency to get laid.

“Okay,” he says, looking down finally as Claude’s trousers slip down his thighs. Perfect timing, that. Turns out his first instinct wasn’t wrong, too. That’s definitely a decent sized cock. He can feel himself growing harder, like that’s even possible at this point – it’s starting to feel uncomfortable and in a second, he’ll have to do something about that. But for now, he slips his hand beneath the hem of Claude’s briefs, over his buttocks and around to his front. “I really want to suck your cock.”

To punctuate the statement a bit, he reaches down underneath the cotton fabric, fingers closing over the length of Claude’s cock. It’s incredibly hot against his hand and for a moment, he keeps his hand very still, simply letting the heat of his own fingers translate to his touch as thoroughly as possible.

Then… Vincent wraps his fingers around his cock and Claude couldn’t hold a meaningful thought even if he tried. He doesn’t. Doesn’t fight the sensation of heat and pressure. His breath catching in his throat, he lets his head fall forward, forehead coming to a rest against Vincent’s shoulder. Their difference in heights making it a rather comfortable position, everything considered. He manages something like a strangled groan, his hips pushing into the touch automatically. Physically, he’s at a stage now where he wouldn’t be able to refuse himself the release, neither if he had the need nor the inclination to do so. Fortunately there’s no need to deny himself anything. Vincent just told him he wants to suck him off, how bloody lucky can a man get?

Blindly, his fingers follow the outline of Vincent’s cock through the fabric of his trousers, squeezing slightly near the base before following the entire length up. The hardness of it is evident even through the multiple layers and Claude imagines it in his mouth, on his tongue. The taste of it. The feel when he deep-throats… This time it’s a full moan, rather than a groan and his voice is halfway muffled against the bared skin of Vincent’s shoulder blade.

“I would force your head the entire way.”

Oh, fuck. The combination of Claude’s touch against his trousers, the motion of his fingers and his words almost make Vincent want to go back on his word (that moan in particular is just hot). A few more strokes to his cock and he’s pretty sure he’d come all over his good intentions soon, with or without Claude’s assistance. But in any case – this is a date, not a masturbation session. The weight of Claude’s forehead against his shoulder feels good, too, if he must focus on something else. It’s a sweet distraction. Kind of impractical, though, seeing as Vincent’s going on his knees in about ten seconds from now. He slips his hand away a bit reluctantly.

Shifting, he slides down to the floor nimbly (he’s passed forty, that’s some damn incredible flexibility!), leaving it to Claude to find a comfortable position. He considers turning them around for a moment but dismisses the thought – with Claude’s trousers that far down his legs, who knows what sort of mess that might result in. That’s what happens when you have sex with enough partners in enough, different settings and contexts. You just don’t bother with all of the impractical shit. Let it all work itself out. That’s what makes sex such a fucking easy activity.

Like this, he’s on eye-level with the bulge in Claude’s briefs, the outline of his cock clearly visible through the navy-blue fabric. That’s a spectacular view, isn’t it? He’s more than ready to take advantage of it, too. Reaching forward with both hands this time, he works the elastic hem over Claude’s lower body swiftly, pulling the briefs down far enough to let them slide to the floor by force of gravity. Then, without much pause, he takes hold of his cock again, fingers closing firmly around its base.

Edited 2014-01-01 00:10 (UTC)

When Vincent takes hold of his cock, fingers wrapping around the base of it, Claude has to support himself against the wall, both hands coming up for balance. It’s not the most comfortable of positions, but who even cares in a situation like this? With the feeling of hot fingers working your cock like a masterpiece. Spreading his legs just a bit more, to gain a better posture, he can’t help thrusting forward slightly – into Vincent’s grip. His hand is so damn warm, the added pressure enough to drive him temporarily around the bend. Despite the voluntary pauses in his sex life, Claude never forgets that this is what a good fuck does to you. Functions as a momentary escape from everything that’s decidedly less important than scratching the itch.

However… Breathing ragged, he looks down at Vincent. On his knees, about to suck his cock – the sight arousing enough that words fail him for a moment, his eyes narrowing slightly in the darkness, limiting his vision to the most important details. Like the lack of a condom. They are in serious need of a condom right now and the ones Claude brought with him are in his trousers’ pocket, his trousers pooling around his feet. It’s one of those things Claude insists on, even for blowjobs – and something that has cost him quite a few sexual partners, but when your first serious boyfriend died of AIDS and you have travelled in any given part of Africa, it’s just not a question anymore.

Taking a deep breath, his voice sounding no less horny than he feels, he finally manages: “If you’re going to blow me, you’ll need a condom.” It’s not stated as a request and his body is feeling too heated for his usual politeness to shine through. It’s just a plain demand, but he suspects that Vincent, if anyone, can take it.

He’s had partners before who insisted that they’d almost never heard of STDs, let alone had them and that going on without protection would be perfect, thank you honey. It’s never worked. He’ll fuck them alright, but he’ll use a condom while doing so or they can fuck right off instead. As such, Claude’s command – because that’s what it is, plainly – is superfluous. But he smiles nevertheless, stroking his cock once, lightly. It’s rock hard; no reason to drag this out.

“Relax,” he says, looking up at Claude and meeting his gaze easily, not even a trace of a flinch. “Just leave it to me.” He reaches into his pocket quickly and pulls out a small package, surface a sleek, shiny black. It takes him seconds – getting the condom unpacked and positioned, losing the wrapping on the floor amidst Claude’s trousers. He’s learned to be fast about it. No one likes unnecessary fumbling around when there’s a blowjob on the horizon. He rolls the condom onto Claude’s cock as smoothly as if he’s done this shit his whole life, which, granted… yeah. Anyway.

Taking hold of his cock near the base again, fingertips pressing against the edges of the condom to keep it stretched and in place, his smile widens. Shit, he feels like a cat about to punch on a bowl of cream. Not the worst metaphor, when you think about it. Without looking up, he leans in, lips closing over the head wetly, sucking it into his mouth.

… Fuck. Fuck. Drawing in a sharp breath as Vincent closes his lips over the head of his cock and sucks it into his mouth, Claude’s fingers curl into fists against the wall. The fact alone that Vincent caused no problems (in any form, rolling it on so smoothly you should think he had practice – which he probably does) out of the condom issue is enough to have made Claude gladly forgive him, had he proven to be a bad blower. Two seconds have passed and Claude is already more than convinced that he’s anything but. You could call it a blessing, currently, with how hard he is – how ready he feels to just jam his cock down the other man’s throat, though he holds back like a proper gentleman. Reaching down, shakily, with one hand to run it through Vincent’s hair. The strands of his hair silky between his fingers and his fingertips running over his scalp. Too bad he didn’t get to emphasize that he generally doesn’t do one-night stands, because he sure could get used to this kind of royal treatment. But hell, if this is just for tonight, that’s fine, too. That’s -- great. More than great. That’s… fuck.

The muscles in his thighs are quivering from the exertion of standing still, not thrusting forward too vigorously. Claude can feel sweat trickling down his temples, his breathing loud enough to pass for moaning now. Probably just the sex talking, but isn't this man highly lovable? Highly.

The main downside to condoms, in Vincent’s opinion, is the taste. Or rather, the lack of taste really, unless you consider ‘rubber’ a flavor. He rather likes the taste of cock on his tongue and with a condom, sadly, all you get is the taste of… whatever it says on the package, presumably. In this case, it’s liquorice. So long as it isn’t something ridiculous, like fruits, he can deal with it though. It’s not just about the taste, after all. There are other benefits to blowjobs, none of them the least bit downplayed by the use of a condom. He’s long since learned to pay attention to the good bits because fuck it, what’s the use?

Ignoring Claude’s slight thrusts for now, he traces a wet circle around the tip of his cock, pressing firmly with his tongue to counteract the protective layer of the condom. He slides his free hand up Claude’s bare leg, feeling the muscles in his thigh quivering, the first traces of sweat sticking to his skin.

“Yeah,” he breathes, pulling away enough for his words not to get stuck in his throat. “That’s right, leave it all to me. Fucking good.”

He reaches between Claude’s legs, cupping his balls carefully, not quite a grip. But definitely more than just a touch. Then he takes a deep breath and leans in again, sucking half of his length down his throat. He’s heavy in his mouth, the taste of the condom drowned out somewhat by the rush of arousal, leaving Vincent feeling almost lightheaded. He really, really loves sex. There’s nothing like it.

Edited 2014-01-01 12:56 (UTC)

Vincent adds stimuli to stimuli, simultaneously cupping Claude’s balls and sucking half of his length down his throat. The feeling of it is overwhelmingly good, Claude’s head falling forward slightly and his eyes falling shut at the same time, cutting off the sight of his cock disappearing into Vincent’s mouth. Though, it’s burned onto his retina, playing over and over in his mind. Damn, the man has a mouth that could win him prizes – in more ways than one. It seems he was right, too. That he is a dirty-talker. Letting out a groan, Claude tightens his hold in his hair, making sure neither to push nor to pull, leaving Vincent to his own pace. He trusts him to give him a good time. If he didn’t know it, he wouldn’t think anything more of the condom he’s currently wearing, Vincent’s just that good. Quite the feat, Claude knows. Knows it well. Intimately.

“You’re going to make me come embarrassingly fast if you continue like this,” he says, voice raw, more like a deep rumble in his throat. Truth be told, he wouldn’t be all that embarrassed, even if he came right now. He’s past that point in his life where duration mattered as a show of virility. Hell, they could go for another round later, if that’s the case. He wouldn’t be opposed to that at all, even if the time in between fucking sessions has gotten considerably longer as he’s grown older. Things take time when you’ve passed forty. Except coming, apparently, because with the warmth of Vincent’s hand engulfing his balls and the warmth of his mouth engulfing his cock… Dear God, he can’t recall when he last had sex this good.

He’d answer, but to do that, he’d have to pull away. And he doesn’t want to because there’s a cock in his mouth and he’s pretty much having a fantastic time with it. There’s no credit associated with a man who can last forever, not in Vincent’s mind. Perhaps, fifteen years ago it would have mattered to someone, somewhere, but this is now and sex is sex, whether it lasts twenty minutes or five. That’s why he sets a pace now, a rhythm of a sort, moving his mouth up and down the shaft of Claude’s cock, lips sliding easily against the smooth surface of the condom. He considers deep-throating him, then decides not to. There’s a time and a place for everything and to be honest, this is a very big cock to swallow. He might just end up gagging and let’s face it, no one would be the better for it.

Eyes falling shut, he ignores the slight ache in his knees and enjoys the feeling of having his mouth filled all the way to his throat, tongue wet with saliva. Shit, this is good. He does enjoy getting fucked to some extent, but this kind of sex is infinitely superior to taking it up the arse. In his opinion. He can’t quite put his finger on why and really, who gives a fuck? Everyone’s got a kink or two – he particularly likes giving handjobs and blowjobs, equal preference for either.

He curves his hand around Claude’s balls more fully, massaging gently with his fingers. No need to go overboard with that; it’s mostly experimentation as he doesn’t know what Claude might be partial to, over all. Yet. Another great thing about one-night-stands, that. Leaving the details for later, if ever.

The only response Vincent gives, despite his dirty mouth – or perhaps because of it, is to pick up a rhythm. Set a pace, his head bobbing up and down as his lips slide along Claude’s shaft, the skin sensitive even through the protective layer of the condom. Moaning, Claude feels the familiar sensation of pleasure shooting down his spine, the heat in his groin intensifying as Vincent begins massaging his balls – gently, more gently than is his usual preference. He has sensitive balls, yes, but he likes the fact taken advantage of to its fullest rather than the opposite. Nothing better than having a good blowjob emphasised, after all. And this is a good blowjob, if anything ever was.

He runs his hand down to the back of Vincent’s head, fingers still curled in his hair, but his palm mostly flat against his skull. Then, he pushes, slightly – only with enough strength to indicate, not to force. He never expects his partners to deep-throat and naturally never forces them, well aware that he’s larger than the majority, but God knows it would do wonders right now, to feel his cock swallowed to the base.

“You look so good, down there on your knees,” he manages, finally, most of the words pressed out through gritted teeth. His release isn’t the only thing he has to hold back by now, a vast selection of more or less flattering nicknames lining up in his mind. Later. Honey will have to wait until later.

Oh, well, would you look at that. The slight feel of pressure against the back of his neck forces a moan from his throat, the sound little more than a choked breath. Claude’s words mesh together in his head and if asked, he couldn’t repeat them even second’s later – but the general sense of them goes straight to his cock. He has to concentrate to breath regularly now, so aroused he almost can’t think straight. He does register the message though, politely implied as it may be. Re-thinking his prior decision to stick to the basics, he looks up at Claude and smiles around his mouthful as clearly as he can.

Then, he swallows him to the hilt.

Shit, deep-throating is always a little bit of a big deal. It takes concentration for him, especially when the cock is this large. His grip on Claude’s balls tightens somewhat as he keeps still, gag reflex still far, far from kicking in. So long as he doesn’t start thrusting down his throat like some do – jesus, those fuckers should be shot.

And Vincent deep-throats him without any pause, without any choking, without problems of any kind. His grip on his balls tightening at the same time, just the right amount of pressure, just right. It’s so good, Claude loses all coherent thought, his breathing harsh and loud, even over the wet (sloppy) sound of Vincent sucking his cock. There’s something very satisfactory about knowing that he hasn’t forced any of this, that it’s a voluntary act. That Vincent wants his cock all but rammed down his throat. The thought only adds to his arousal. Feeling the pleasure build in his groin now, deceptively fast, he still manages not to thrust into Vincent’s mouth. It’s a rush – a rush of pleasure burning its way from the tip of his cock, pressed against the back of Vincent’s throat to the base, still firmly engulfed by his lips. It’s… so good. So good. Which is all he manages to think, before his body takes over, hips jerking as his orgasm hits. The next few seconds nothing but white light behind his closed eyelids and a deep moan in the back of his throat. He couldn’t manage to speak, even if he tried. He doesn’t. There’s no need when his body is speaking in such clear terms by itself.

Claude comes in his mouth and Vincent knows enough to expect those slight jerks of his hips, forcing himself not to choke despite his throat feeling stretched to maximum capacity. He waits for a few breaths, looking up at Claude, watching his face change from concentration over pure ecstasy and finally, relief. Lovely. He pulls back, finally, breathing still labored and jaws feeling somewhat sore. The good kind of sore. Mmm.

“Orgasm looks great on you, Claude.” He keeps a firm hand on the base of his cock, mostly to stop the condom from slipping off and landing on Claude’s pretty, wooden floor. Really, fucking wooden floor that. His knees are going to kill him when he tries to stand up in a minute. “Better do that as often as possible.”

He shifts, uncomfortably aware of his cock straining against his trousers, every move of his body bordering on painful. Slipping the condom off Claude’s cock one-handedly, he crumbles it up a bit and puts it away. It’ll be there tomorrow if he needs a souvenir to remember him by, right? Hah, whatever. He lets go of Claude and sits back against the wall, legs spread and face reddened slightly from effort. Oh yeah.

He’s forty-four years old, he needs a moment to recover, the orgasm lingering like a dull, pleasurable warmth in his body and his breathing only slowing down gradually – though, the sound of it not in any way overriding Vincent’s words. As Vincent rolls off the condom and puts it away only to sit back against the wall with a hard-on visible in his trousers and his face red, Claude raises both eyebrows slightly, looking down at him with a half-smile. Managing to answer, somewhat amused: “I bet you want to know the way to my bedroom right now, Vincent.”

Then, he straightens up and holds a hand out for the other man to take, to help him to his feet. It’s the least he can do as a show of gratitude. He can think of something much better, but he’d really prefer for them to move into bedroom territory first. He appreciates Vincent’s willingness to get on his knees on the unforgiving wooden floors of his apartment, but a quickie up the wall would ruin Claude’s back something terrible. Right now, he’d much rather continue to feel comfortable.

Let the heaviness of his orgasm stay in his system, since he can.

Vincent stares at Claude’s out-stretched hand for a moment. Sure, he can appreciate the help here, especially since he pretty much can’t feel his knees anymore. But he’s in no mood to walk around; his cock is so hard in his trousers, he may as well stick it in a meat-grinder. Shit.

“Fuck you.” The lightness of his voice takes the edge off the harsh words, for the most part. Come on, this is not the way to repay him for what has got to be a fabulous blowjob. He does see the logic in moving away from this floor, though, getting a more comfortable place to continue. He does. It just annoys him, having to make the effort. “Better be worth it.”

And with that, he grabs onto Claude’s hand and staggers to his feet none too elegantly. The thing with having long legs, combined with a very stiff crotch and sore knees is that you’ll look like a broken wildebeest, trying to go anywhere at all. It could be worse, though. He could be drunk. Or on LSD! Shit, that was a trip worth forgetting.

Edited 2014-01-01 16:55 (UTC)

The crankiness that is evident in Vincent’s voice doesn’t deter Claude at all. It’s a show of attitude, nothing more and it’s pretty obvious to him that at this point Vincent is mainly just desperate to have some relief. Which he will get, if he’s patient enough to follow Claude’s lead this time. Claude isn’t as such a tease – he would never even consider walking out on a partner whom he’d promised sex, but he doesn’t mind dragging things out a bit. No one ever died from waiting on their handjob to work its magic. Besides, patience is a virtue in the journalistic world. He’s sure Vincent’s got traces of it somewhere.

Helping Vincent to his feet, he nods towards the door at the end of the hallway. The door is closed, but not because he has anything to hide. He expected Vincent’s visit and as such, everything in his apartment is as clean as a gay bachelor’s apartment ever gets. Letting go of Vincent's hand slowly, he crosses the floor and opens the door for him, welcoming him in with some familiar words.

“Like I said, make yourself at home.”

Straightening, he winces at the pressure of his trousers against his cock. This won’t do. Sure, the door’s only about five feet away and the bed’s probably not much farther. But ugh, no, he’s not gonna stand for it. Giving Claude an even look, he unzips his trousers quickly, dropping them to the floor without further ado. Aah. Relief of some sort, even if his underwear is still very much in the way. It’s better, though. It’s definitely better.

Stepping out of his trousers (and leaving them on the floor, sort of like a tiny trail of destruction), he follows Claude carefully into the bedroom. Despite the darkness, he spots the bed quickly enough, its large, metal frame lit up partially by the light shining in from the hallway. Aside from the bed, the room is sparsely decorated. Something in the corner that looks like a closet, not much else that he can see amidst the shadows. Vincent’s apartment is cluttered in comparison, though his style isn’t exactly one of idle accessories. He can’t help but wonder what this place would look like in daylight, though he knows he might very well never find out. Not like it matters, either. He’d just. Like to know.

Walking to the bed gingerly, he sits down on its edge and looks back at Claude. Not insecure, really, because he never is – rather, leaving the initiative to him now that he’s chosen a different venue entirely for the next chapter. And truth be told... it’s been a while since he’s had sex in a bedroom that isn’t his own.

After having dropped his trousers on Claude’s floor, Vincent walks past him into the bedroom and sits down on the bed, the greyness of his briefs clashing with the whiteness of his shirt, even in the dimness of the room. Claude leaves the door ajar behind him as he walks over to the bed, seating himself next to Vincent while casually taking off his socks and correcting his underwear, in the aftermath of this – their first round. There’s a calm to him now, having achieved his orgasm already, but he can easily sense Vincent’s restlessness. His impatience. It’s almost as obvious as the outline of his hard cock in his underpants. Well, they’re in the perfect venue to take care of that, aren’t they? Looking up, finally, he meets Vincent’s eyes. Holds his gaze in silence for a moment, then leans in – reaching down and slipping his fingers beneath the waistband of his briefs without any hesitation, fingertips following the length of his hot cock down. His breath ghosts over Vincent’s lips, but he doesn’t speak, his actions speaking in clearer terms than he thinks he could achieve himself. In words. It’s a myth, really, that men can’t multitask. Most of the time, they just choose to focus instead. So, he does. Focus. On closing the remaining distance between them, kissing Vincent on the mouth while his fingers wrap around his cock near the base.

The sudden change – from bodily and physical distance to contact - makes his spine tingle, mouth opening to meet Claude’s kiss. He responds with his tongue just as hot fingers close around his cock, pleasure exploding through his lower body. He gasps, momentarily forgetting how to make his tongue continue the kiss, his mind more or less settling in for the ride south of his stomach. He manages to raise a hand and pull away his briefs as much as possible, easing Claude’s access to his cock; they’re going for easing the pressure here, after all, not for making things… harder.

He breaks away from the kiss, his breathing quickening from a blend of impatience and anticipation. Oh, and arousal. A very poignant sort of arousal. He reaches up, fingers coiling in Claude’s hair again, though this time the grip is anything but shallow or light; rather, he’s on the verge of pulling at it. Wanting more, preferably as fast as possible. He doesn’t give a shit about dignity, he just wants release.

"Come on," he says, voice raspy and breathless. "Fuck, come on, don't you fucking make me wait..."

Claude doesn’t smile, doesn’t laugh at what seems to be another good example of Vincent’s dirty mouth. Rather, he reaches up wordlessly and presses his free hand against the naked expanse of Vincent’s chest, urging him to lie down. To relax. Enjoy. It’s Claude’s turn to perform now and it’s not a challenge that faces him – whether or not Vincent will be pulling hairs from his head in the process.

The briefs are not exactly comfortable, digging into his hand, but he can’t be bothered to stop what he’s doing in favour of pushing them further down Vincent’s thighs. It simply doesn’t matter at this point. With a slow movement of his hand, he runs his palm from the base of Vincent’s cock all the way up to the head, making sure to add just the slightest amount of pressure to the glans before beginning his downward motion once again. It’s not a rhythm yet, he hasn’t set any pace worth of notice, but it’s the promise of full satisfaction or so he’d like to think. His handjobs aren’t as epic as his blowjobs, but they’re pretty good. Decent. Will do. He’s sure.

Besides, with all the sound Vincent is making, he’ll probably know.

He takes the push against his chest for what it is and lies down on his back, shutting up for a moment simply on account of the situation… changing somewhat. Yes, one-night-stands are very much alike; present many similarities from bed to bed and man to man – but this is different. This is Claude, imposing the inherent calm of his personality on the situation itself and Vincent seeing no need to discourage it. He’s pretty sure it’s unique to Claude because under normal circumstances, sex doesn’t tend to be relaxing for him. It tends to be hot, messy, dirty, frantic. Certainly not… this.

He looks up at the ceiling, incapable of making out any details, colours or structures in the darkness. It’s mostly just a black surface, shutting the room away, like a lid on a box. Claude starts jerking him off, no rhythm or pace in his touch yet, but the act is there in any case, impossible to mistake for anything else. He doesn’t bother keeping his hips still, jerking slightly in response as every nerve in his lower body respond, pleasure shooting through his body and making his head spin.

“Shit, this is good.” His voice sounds distant now, to his own ears. Then again, his brain probably isn’t doing his thinking for him at the moment. That’s gotta be possible; sometimes, the male brain just takes it all to a floor below. “Fuck yes, don’t stop, don’t stop…”

He is holding himself up with one arm, positioned over Vincent’s torso while he jerks him off with his other hand, falling into a careful rhythm after a few moments. His own breathing isn’t unaffected, not by Vincent’s words nor the feeling of his cock between his fingers, heavy and hot. Probably the best feeling in the world, second to none – the feeling of another man’s cock in your grip. Or in your mouth. Or in your arse, if it comes down to that. It was a realisation that came to him early on, that he just… likes cock. Maybe not enough to seek it out every weekend, in any possible context, but enough to seek it out like this – with men who catch his interest. Men like Vincent, though, Vincent isn’t exactly his usual type at all. It’s not something Claude questions. Attraction is attraction and damn, the sex has been great so far.

Running his thumb over the exposed head of Vincent’s cock, he watches the other man’s face in the dim light falling in through the bedroom window. A square of light on the bed, cutting his body into halves. Dividing him on the middle. His expression is the same, however – one of intense pleasure. Claude debates whether to kiss him, the pros and cons of equal weight in his mind. It would cut off all his dirty talking which would be a shame, but at the same time… Claude would be kissing him. It would be good.

So, he does. Leans down and presses his mouth to Vincent’s, pushing his tongue in between his lips. Again. No need to apologise for not being able to get enough of a good thing.

Claude pushes his thumb against the head of his cock and for a moment, Vincent forgets to breathe again, managing a somewhat croaked gasp, hands curling into fists and uncurling again against the sheets. Christ, this is good. He’s not in a hurry to climax, not exactly, but there’s a pretty singular focus settling in his muscles and beneath his skin all the same. Feeling almost overheated, he’s just about to tell Claude to get a move on (please - maybe) when there’s a shadow of movement just outside his vision. Then, Claude is kissing him again and he can’t object to something like that, can he, anymore than he can push his hand away from his cock. He presses his tongue against Claude’s, the kiss wet and sloppy and perfect. They aren’t trying to be pretty, after all. God forbid.

He reaches up again, fingers running through Claude’s hair before settling by the back of his neck. Pulls him closer, deepening the kiss while he jerks his hips again, just a bit pointedly. He’s not here to be fondled all pleasantly and quietly, is he? He’s here for action and he’s got a right to demand some.

To emphasise his impatience, he bites down on Claude’s bottom lip, hard enough that it won’t go unnoticed amidst the rush of pleasure flooding their heads. Plural.

It’s a tell-tale bite, the one Vincent delivers to his bottom lip. Smiling, Claude draws back from the kiss, his own breathing no less laboured than Vincent’s as he obligingly begins stroking him more fully – longer, harder strokes. Faster. Friction to the base, pressure to the glans, a thumb running over the exposed head. It all falls into an even rhythm, to meet the recognisable demands of Vincent’s body. It’s obvious that he’s getting impatient now, that he just wants to come already and despite his own initial slowness, Claude isn’t actually the type to tease his partner beyond capacity. There’s a limit to everything, after all, and he won’t overdo it tonight, when he doesn’t know Vincent better than ten minutes’ professional discussion and a pleasant dinner in its aftermath.

Looking down Vincent’s body, Claude observes the motion of his own hand, stroking up and down his cock. It’s a glorious sight, isn’t it? The slickness of precome making the head glisten slightly and easing his movements, making his strokes more even. The thought alone, of watching sperm leak out his cock when he comes is enough to make a tingling sensation of arousal run down his spine, even if he – at this point in his life – really can’t be expected to present a hard-on again so quickly after orgasm. The mental image lingers, however, and Claude savours it.

Shit, yes. Claude breaks the kiss and ups the pace and Vincent’s breathing goes from fast to flat-out panting, his muscles working with an almost frantic energy. To get off. He shuts his eyes, shadows dancing beneath his eyelids to the wet, slick sound of Claude’s hand working his cock. He can’t think anymore; he just wants to come. Claude’s touch no longer feels like a touch – instead, everything blends together around his cock and upwards, a kind of heated weightlessness flooding through his body.

“… so close, oh Christ this is… so good, don’t… stop…”

There’s little coherency left in him at this point. Who gives a fuck about that, who gives a shit about words or language or talk or fucking communication, he’s going to orgasm in… just about… yes. Breath catching in his throat, he jerks upwards as release washes over him, balls tightening and sperm leaking wetly from his cock. Muscles contracting and toes curling against the sheets, he simply disappears for the next seconds (minutes, hours?) while Claude’s bedroom is drowned out by pleasure. Perfection.

Vincent comes and Claude watches, eyes shifting from his cock to his face (his expression heated from what can only be described as pure bliss), then back to his cock where jizz is leaking out over his fingers in a white trickle, a few spurts of his sperm leaving stains on the hem of his shirt. It doesn’t matter, not at the moment. He’s sure Vincent will survive – all that matters are the words that the other man is rattling off, without any coherence or logic. Just like sex. Sex when it is best. Breathing in rather harshly through his nose, he waits for Vincent’s hips to stop jerking against his touch before removing his hand, carelessly wiping it off in the sheets. Part of him regrets that they don’t know each other better, that Vincent’s sexual history is still nothing but a blank to him, or he’d have sucked his fingers clean. He likes the taste of come and he’s pretty sure he’d have liked Vincent’s in particular. No such luck. He got lucky in other regards instead.

“Do you feel like spending the night?” he asks, casually – while sitting up, beginning to undo his tie, button down his shirt buttons. He knows he’s basically left Vincent in a sprawl next to him, but if he does want to stay, it’s really just a matter of crawling half a meter to the right.

After an orgasm, his body never returns to status quo – of course not. It’s like things digress to an even slower point where all his energy seems drained from his muscles. He feels almost incapable of opening his eyes to look up at Claude. What’s he talking about now? Shit, what a practical leap – into an abyss, as far as Vincent’s concerned. Even if it would be smarter to go home (and in all honesty, it might very well be) he can’t fathom moving as much as an inch from this bed presently. He reaches down blindly, pulling his briefs over his cock again as much as he can stand, ignoring the mess it generates all over the fabric. Ugh, whatever.

“Sure, why not.” Spoken in a lazy drawl, his French almost slumping together. Forming words, you say? Tomorrow, probably. If his boss actually bothers calling in on a Saturday. Going by the orderliness of his business and his complete inability to go above and beyond in any context, Vincent highly doubts that he’ll even touch his phone on a weekend. At least, it won’t be to call his communication manager. No way in Hell.

He rolls sideways somewhat, almost like an afterthought. He doesn’t know what side of the bed Claude wants to sleep on and he doesn’t care, either. This way, they can both just. Lie down. And go to sleep. Oh, sleep sounds like a lovely idea right now. He yawns, stretching out on the sheets and feeling completely, wonderfully spent. Begins unbuttoning the rest of his shirt, seeing as he hates sleeping in his clothes.

One eyebrow going up slightly, Claude observes Vincent as he begins unbuttoning his shirt all the way down and while still in his reclining position, too. He doesn’t offer to do it for him, doesn’t regard it as an invitation for another round. His tiredness is catching up with him now, twofold and he knows that this may very well be the last he sees of Vincent before morning comes and he leaves. His usual speech about one-night stands and in particular, how he doesn’t do them got lost somewhere in the mess of sex and want and climaxing in a spent condom left on his hallway floor. He could add it as an afterthought (and by the way, I don’t do one-night stands), but it doesn’t seem fair to him. He’ll just have to swallow the bitter pill and see Vincent off, if the other man doesn’t have any interest in establishing something of their one night together. If nothing else, Claude got the sweet end of the deal and had a wholly good time. Yes, he’s really enjoyed himself. Sometimes that has just got to take precedence over principles.

The tie ends up on the floor after a few moments. He shrugs out of his shirt and lets it follow suit, feeling suddenly too lazy to walk over to the laundry basket or, even worse, put it away in the closet. Then, he toes out of his socks and stripped down to his briefs, he crawls back onto the bed – lying down next to Vincent who’s still thrashing about to get out of his clothes. Claude yawns. Turns his head slightly, to watch the other man in the light falling in through the window. The shadows are back to being black queens all around them.

With his eyes still closed, he doesn’t actually see Claude taking off the rest of his clothes. But the rustling of fabric and general sense of movement aren’t hard to place. The mattress dips slightly as Claude settles down next to him, Vincent battling with the last few remnants of stubborn fabric before managing to toe off his socks without using his hands. Fuck yes, he’s a pro.

As he throws his clothes to the floor (knowing full well that he’ll look terrible upon leaving tomorrow morning and giving zero fucks), he lies down fully on his back, falling back into that sort of almost over-powering sense of physical relief – leftovers from his orgasm, still lingering under his skin. It takes him a long moment to realise that Claude is watching him in the darkness and for the first time tonght, he wonders what sort of thing the other man’s expecting. From this. He just doesn’t seem like the type to really want meaningless sex. Vincent, in contrast, has never wanted anything else, a philosophy of life that he’s in no mood nor mind to question right now.

The last thing he manages to think is: if I leave too early to say goodbye tomorrow, he’ll probably be upset. He’s got no clue why he’d even imagine that; they don’t know each other at all. Not after one night’s conversation and some (pretty awesome) sex. But the thought lingers all the same as he drops off to sleep.

(( LOG : les amants d'un jour ))

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