downplaying | (( LOG : milord ))

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(( LOG : milord ))

[Characters:] Vincent & Claude
[Date:] 07.03.2009
[Summary:] And time for leftovers.
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He got up at six. To shower. Check his emails. Write a few notes on the newest announcements from French Parliament – nothing interesting today, not as of yet, but it’s still early and the French are quick. It can change in a matter of hours. For now, though, he’s off duty, cooking eggs and making coffee in the kitchen that’s really too tiny for proper food preparation. He isn’t expecting Vincent to stay forever, of course, but if the man wants a cup of coffee and a slice of baguette with scrambled eggs for breakfast before leaving, Claude can provide. If he doesn’t… Well, that’s his choice and his loss. Claude’s baguettes are homemade and his scrambled eggs are Michelin star-material. All of it his mom’s recipe, after all.

It’s eight, now. So, dressed in a bathrobe, he brings a simple tray with him into the bedroom, turning on the radio as he passes it on the shelf – some soulless pop music filling the silence and drowning out the sound of Vincent’s breathing. “I’d have picked you for an early riser,” Claude says, putting the tray down on his own side of the bed. Two cups of coffee, one basket of bread and a plate of eggs. He’s not particularly hungry himself, but he might grab a bite. For the sake of Vincent’s company, more than anything. If Vincent’s willing to provide that in return.

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It’s not the music on the radio that wakes him up – it’s the sound of activity from the kitchen, signaling calm and quiet movements as well as the unfamiliar scent of hot breakfast cooking. Vincent is somewhat slow, waking up properly. Especially on a Saturday, after a night of hot sex. But he’s man enough to know when there’s food in the air, especially since his usual breakfast consists mostly of a double-latte with cream. He’s not the least bit disorientated either, being very much used to waking up in different beds.

At Claude’s comment, he smiles sleepily, eyes still partly shut. “I wish.” Because he does. He’d love a job that requires him to be up at the break of dawn, keeping an eye on all the important news sites. Like, a meaningful job. Really. Any day. “No one expects me to do anything before, I don’t know, fucking lunch break.”

He stretches lazily before sitting up, pushing the pillow behind his back and leaning against the headboard. Looking up at Claude, finally, completely unsurprised to find the man dressed in a bathrobe. It goes with his casual style, doesn’t it?

“Hey.” He glances at the tray. “Looks delicious. You and the tray.”

Shrugging out of his bathrobe, Claude smiles and sits down on the bed – next to the tray, the coffee slopping around the cups with wet splashing noises. He looks over at Vincent who has progressed into a sitting position, a pillow popped up against the headboard. He, then, nods towards the baguette. “Eat the eggs first, they’re quicker to go cold.” Than him. Truth be told, after last night… He’s pretty sure he could keep going a good few hours, if those hours featured more sex of the same kind. They’re not talking sex right now, though, a pity as it may be, so… Reaching out, he grabs a plate, slings a few spoonful egg onto it along with a slice of bread, holding it out for Vincent to take. “Bon appétit.”

Claude picks up a cup for himself, sipping his coffee (black, the way he needs it in the morning – and one of the only times that he touches the stuff), sitting in silence for a while. Butt naked. There’s something comfortable to it, even if he won’t call it an intimate air at this point. It’s just pleasant, to be without restrictions as you can only ever be with other men. If you have to reflect on it. Now is the time. Right after good sex. And maybe right before it, too.

He takes a moment to accept the proffered piece of baguette, eyes running up and down Claude’s now-naked body. Delicious, like he said. He should probably check his phone for messages or e-mails but truth be told, knowing what he knows about his current job, he’d rather just stay here. With Claude’s naked arse right in his line of vision. Mmm.

Taking the bread (typical French eggs, by the way – been a while since he had those), he shifts backwards a little, the sheet covering his hips slipping down a fraction or two. Or three. “Haven’t had real breakfast in ages,” he says and bites into the bread. Shit, it’s all warm. And the eggs are soft and squishy. This man’s a good cook – and a good cock, now he’s at it. He rarely meets men who care about quality over quantity when it comes to food; not enough, at least, to serve home-made breakfast for their latest weekend-fuck. “You’ve gone to some trouble, Claude.”

“No worries, I have ulterior motives,” Claude answers, eyes running down Vincent’s chest – down to his lap, no longer covered by the sheets that are instead pooling around his thighs. He doesn’t care overly much about appearing strange or even novel, making an effort over something as simple as a one-night stand, but he imagines that Vincent will understand it better if Claude reveals that he holds every intention of fucking him one last time before letting him go. Get him off, then let him off. With a smile, he takes another couple of mouthfuls of his coffee, savouring the taste of strong, dark beans. An African blend that Didier sends his way on a regular basis. His favourite.

Looking at Vincent over the rim of his cup, he watches him dig into his food with the same vigour he dug into other things last night. And he seems to be enjoying it just as much, too. It’s a pleasure to watch. Claude puts the coffee cup back on its saucer, ignoring both the bread and the eggs. To be honest, he’s hungry for something else entirely. “Slinking off quietly at dawn isn’t how I want to see you.”

He swallows, eyes following Claude’s gaze. Down and up. Doesn’t take a genius to figure out what he’s got in mind, really. Vincent isn’t used to giving da capo, so to speak, at least not within 24 hours. Under normal circumstances, though, he also leaves before breakfast. He takes another bite, feeling suddenly a lot less interested in the food; instead, he watches as Claude puts away his cup, the strong scent of black coffee beans clear in the air.

“It’s how I usually go,” he says, always preferring blunt honesty to faulty, romantic notions. Especially in these situations when things can get mixed up so easily; the line between physical and emotional affection too easily blurred and the mind helplessly caught up. With sex. “Then again, I don’t usually get breakfast.” He throws out his hand, the other still holding the remains of his baguette. “Guess you’ve thrown me for a loop here.”

With that, he smiles. Eats the last bit of baguette, barely tasting the eggs this time, thoughts already headed in an altogether different direction.

The smile Vincent sends him while he eats his last bit of baguette makes him send back one of his own. Well, clearly they’re on the same page, at least. Not that he really doubted that they would be, but confirmation is something he values highly – call it a work-related injury, too many articles requiring proper research. The confirmation of facts. Time and place. But none of that… They’re here, now. That’s all that matters. Since he won’t expect any promises of tomorrow at this point. He does expect the sex that’s obviously looming on the horizon to be as good as it was last night, though.

It better be, if he isn’t going to have any of it again at any time soon.

Without even bothering to ask whether Vincent is done, Claude puts the tray away – down on the floor, with its half-full coffee cup and its emptier bread basket. Turning back towards Vincent, he moves closer to him with obvious aim. “I’ll make it up to you.”

Away goes the tasty bread and the coffee – Vincent follows Claude’s movements with his eyes, dusting crumbs away from his lap (and onto the floor; cleaning is a bitch, right?). Smile growing just a bit sharper, he reaches out a hand, fingers brushing up the side of his neck. He’s had good sex more times than he can count but with Claude, there’s an underlying calmness – a hint of something very grounded and hot – that he can’t place, nor compare with anything else he’s had. It’s pretty fantastic.

“I bet you will.”

He leans in the rest of the way, having already figured out that between the two of them, this isn’t about speed or initiative. It’s just that Claude happens to be more patient than him and right now, Vincent can’t wait to kiss him. So he does. It’s kind of like last night, only there’s a tiny fragment of familiarity mixed up between them now, too. Something recognisable about the way their bodies share the same space, about the scents associated with Claude's skin. Vincent presses his tongue lightly against Claude’s lips, waiting for response only out of stranger’s courtesy.

It’s a shared initiative, isn’t it? As he moves closer and Vincent leans in, to kiss him. The feeling of his tongue against his mouth is heated and moist, the taste of eggs and morning lingering when Claude parts his lips and cocks his head, to get them at a better angle. He won’t say that they know each other better now, after a night’s worth of sex, but they at least know each other – which is always a plus when it comes to fucking, in his experience.

Deepening the kiss, not impatiently – because he rarely is, Claude reaches down to push the sheets further down Vincent’s legs, baring his thighs. Vincent’s thigh is strong and muscular as he runs his hand up it, the sign of a man who takes good care of himself. Probably a biker. Hell, if that isn’t attractive – the thought of him cycling in those skimpy tights bikers wear. With a great view of his arse…

A slight hum of enjoyment and he draws back from the kiss to glance down Vincent’s body. His chest, his flat stomach, his narrow hips, his cock… He can feel his own cock reacting as is to be expected, really, the well-known warmth coiling in his loins as it hardens slightly. Not there yet, but well on the way. Well on the way.

Claude breaks the kiss, his hand warm and heavy against his thigh. His touch makes Vincent’s spine tingle. It goes straight to his cock though obviously, he isn’t hard within seconds because he’s not fifteen anymore. Thank God for that. Instead, his body warms up gradually, steadily, and it matters only in so far as he needs to fill out the time the best he can. Oh yeah.

He looks Claude’s upper body over blatantly. He’s got some very broad shoulders – goes well with the rest of him, of course, but it definitely adds an extra ounce of masculinity to the overall… impression. Not bad, not bad at all. Vincent reaches out, placing his hand flatly against Claude’s chest, the short, dark hairs on his skin tickling his palm. He’s hot in more ways than one, is Claude. For some reason, it’s really easy picturing him on some harsh, African outskirts, writing articles, breathing and living his life. Soft as his personality may seem, it’s all just fitting.

He runs his hand downwards, slipping over one, dark nipple and lingering just a bit before going further, fingers spreading out over his stomach. Mmm. He can definitely stand another round of this. No fucking problem at all.

Vincent presses his hand to his chest and the tingling that begins running down Claude’s spine quickly intensifies when his fingers brush over his nipple. His nipples are almost overly sensitive and he has a tendency to react to touch strongly, like he does now. His cock hardening further and his breath catching in his throat. Eyes narrowed slightly from pleasure, he meets Vincent’s gaze – although it’s an unusual feeling for him, he can’t actually find it in him to mind, just being one night out of (presumably) many to this man. Still, part of him wonders how they would fare, as a couple. After all… So far it seems to be going… well. Very well.

Since Vincent seems to enjoy stimulation – complaining about an unstimulating job as he has done a couple of times already, enjoying stimulating conversation as he appears to do and on a more physical level, apparently liking initiative, no matter who takes it – Claude slips his hand down between his legs, running his fingers over his balls before cupping them gently. They’re warm and heavy against his palm, a double weight that he could play with if he wanted, but for now he’ll allow Vincent a moment to adjust to the sensation.

... shit. Breath rushing out of his nose, partly in pleasure and partly in surprise, his movements freeze as the feel of Claude’s hand cupping his balls settles in his body. It’s not the most sensitive part of his body, to be honest, but it definitely feels good and that’s all he cares about right now. More than that, it’s an intimate gesture, isn’t it. A man’s balls tend to be pretty well-guarded territory.

Spreading his legs a bit in approval, he bends forward slightly and lets his hand continue downwards, fingers sliding over Claude’s cock before closing around its shaft. He’s not aiming for a quickie here, but as a way of showing appreciation… Because there’s a lot of that happening in his body, at least. Appreciation. His cock is definitely getting harder. He pulls his hand upwards slowly, conscious of every inch of hard-on slipping by underneath his fingertips. The skin is very soft and smooth; fuck, he’s always liked the feel of cock.

His cock hardens quickly now, hardens fully as Vincent closes his fingers around the shaft of it, running his hand up its length. Besides the genuine sense of relief, there’s the just as genuine sensation of pleasure and Claude manages a slight moan, hips jerking against Vincent’s touch. He reaches out with his other hand, mirroring Vincent and closing his fingers around the base of his cock, stroking upwards while at the same time continuing to fondle his balls. Like this, they’re pretty much just jerking each other off, though there’s none of the haste and need to rush that had coloured their sex the night before. It’s a slow start – call it foreplay, if you need to label it. Claude likes it this way. It’s the kind of sex one-night stands rarely (never) manages to result in. Even if this, their second go, will also be their last… At least, it’ll be a fuck of a certain quality. He can tell. Because Vincent is falling into step next to him.

Leaning forward, feeling overheated and sweaty already, Claude presses his forehead to Vincent’s – mostly in place of a kiss, his breathing too erratic for one right now. It’d be a mess and although that has its merits as well, a certain string of words is all but burning on his tongue, waiting to be spoken.

Voice raw and the sentence somewhat rushed, he says: “I want to fuck you.”

He feels Claude grow harder against his palm, feels his own body mirror his arousal – and then, Claude presses his forehead against his and speaks and it’s the goddamn hottest thing he’s heard in a long while. For the next few seconds, he’s choking on his breath, a rush of heat leaving him as hard as rock and his hand pausing, mid-jerk.

“Who’s holding you back?” he says when he finds his voice, drawing back just a bit to look at Claude, eyes hooded and lips curved upwards in something too loaded with sexual intentions to be an earnest smile. Slowly, he presses his thumb against the exposed head of Claude’s cock, drawing sloppy circles and loving the way his skin grows gradually slicker from it.

Vincent has never been opposed to getting fucked. In the arse. It just so happens that most people tend to be crap at it; either they enjoy it too much and he gets nothing or they can’t figure out how to show it in without going overboard. Maybe he’s slightly biased by too many one-night-stands without sufficient familiarity; but in any case, he only rarely says no, even if he ends up exasperated as opposed to exhilarated. With Claude, he’s fairly sure things will be interesting, though. There’s something about him that screams ‘competent’ – in the general sense. It’s incredibly attractive and if it’s just a mask for incompetence (which he very much doubts), at least he can enjoy the illusion while it lasts.

“Not you, obviously,” Claude answers, a laugh audible in his voice, even if he doesn’t have the breath for it, because Vincent is running his thumb in circles around the head of his cock – slow, sloppy movements that are making precome leak. In gradually increasing amounts. Fuck, if he doesn’t need this fuck to progress sooner rather than later. It’s been a while since he’s been this attracted to someone and on so many different levels, too. When it comes to relationships rather than sex, Claude has always been an opportunist, but he can make an exception in this case. Let one factor switch places with the other and pursue something he knows won’t last, because he knows it will be good anyway. Letting go of Vincent’s cock, he reaches up with both hands and grabs hold of the rails of the headboard, leaning in closer to the other man. Breathes through his nose. Long, harsh exhalations.

“I’m going to fuck you so hard you can’t walk away from here.” Wishful thinking, of course, but the sound of his voice fits the words and the look in Vincent’s eyes.

With that, he pushes himself away from Vincent’s touch, moves over to the edge of the bed and roams through the top drawer of the bedside table. Even if he doesn’t go chasing one-night stands every weekend, he likes to be prepared. He’s still a man, after all. Sex is always an option.

Jesus Christ. Vincent meets his gaze without blinking, the smile on his face widening. Challenge accepted, hot stuff.

Watching Claude search the drawer for whatever – lube and condoms, hopefully – he pushes off the rest of the sheet, his cock stiff between his legs. He’s been known to fuck with (and get fucked by) strangers, sure, but under normal circumstances it happens in the dark, up against a wall or somewhere equally anonymous and casual. It’s been years since his last relationship and really, ‘random extended fuck’ might be a better term for it. Moreover, it’s usually quick and frantic; once again, the rules are different with Claude. This is everything but, the way Claude calmly looks through his drawer, his movements direct, matter-of-fact. The way he jerked him off before, too. Solid. Predictable? Nah. Trustworthy, he thinks, but shit that’s a big word for someone he’s known for 24 hours.

He doesn’t wipe his hand against the sheets, fingers and palm damp from precome and sweat. Instead, he shifts sideways, onto the middle of the bed, mattress giving only minimal way beneath him. Of course, Claude would be the type to sleep on a hard bed. Vincent is much the same and funnily enough, the thought arouses him further. The thought of… having something in common with his newest, random one-night-stand? Who’s turning into something more like a date instead, admittedly.

His drawer is not exactly the most neatly organized of systems, so it takes Claude a few moments to locate lube and a pack of condoms – the first, the best within reach. Right now, he really isn’t going to be picky. Hand scrambling across socks and underwear, his fingers finally make contact with a small tube, cooler and harder to the touch than the rest of the drawer’s contents. Easily identifiable. Leaning back, he looks at Vincent again, enjoying the naked display of chest and cock. Dropping the tube of lube and the condoms next to the pillow, he moves to the side – straddling Vincent’s thighs and leaning in over him slowly. Their cocks inches from rubbing against each other. The thought in itself is exciting. Frotting is one of the most familiar types of sex to him, one he associates with the heat of West Africa and the lack of worry. Relaxation. Enjoyment. The two first not necessarily aspects that are applicable right here, right now, but the association is welcome anyway. Always.

Claude closes the last distance between them and kisses Vincent again, a messy excuse of a kiss, really, but it’s part of the charm and he’s definitely feeling overheated now, his cock so hard it’s beginning to feel physically unpleasant. The tightness in his balls beginning to control the pace of his motions, adding speed and a frantic air to how he raises one hand to run it through Vincent’s hair, still tousled from sleep.

It’s a messy kiss, proximate more than anything else – the sort that leaves you gasping for air and with no room for intermissions. He runs his tongue across Claude’s lips and reaches down between them, hand closing around their cocks and pressing them close. Vincent isn’t a stranger to most things so long as they aren’t extreme and while this particular type of sex – masturbation, really, in a different form – is something he rarely does, he does enjoy it. Especially with Claude’s body a steady, unapologetic weight across his thighs, his hand running through his hair and sending shivers down his spine. He hasn’t felt this grounded during sex for years and years; even a simple thing like frot is making him feel dizzy from arousal. Shit.

“So you want to fuck me, huh.” Drawing his hand slowly upwards, he breathes out shakily at the feel of hot skin sliding against his, cock against cock. The stimulation is pushing him quickly beyond the state of warm-up. Starting to make him feel increasingly desperate for relief. “Better treat you nice, then, right? How does it feel?”

He’s not a moron; the question is wholly rhetorical, what with Claude’s breathing having grown as erratic as his own, his cock completely hard in his grip. Vincent has never known how to shut up, though. It's just a thing. He jerks them off, rhythm uneven, without much purpose except the addition of touch. Multiplying sensations. More.

It’s a rhetorical question, obviously, but Claude answers it anyway, once the moan rising in his throat has died out, passing over his lips as a low, growling sound. “Good. God, it feels so good,” he manages, breathing uneven and the words much the same. Hips jerking frantically against Vincent’s hand, pushing forward, into his touch. Against his cock. Slick skin against slick skin. Fuck, they should probably have used a condom, but he honestly can’t find it in him to care right now. The condom can wait. It’ll be more important later, as is. Whatever history Vincent carries with him, and Claude still suspects there’s quite the history to tell, his precome won’t tell the whole of it. So, it isn’t the safest of sex, but neither is it the unsafest. Right now, the happy medium is very happy indeed.

The pressure building in his balls is beginning to feel overwhelming, though. Frottage just won’t cut it anymore, not with the promise of anal at the horizon. Drawing back, away from the stroking of Vincent’s hand, Claude can hear himself panting like an animal in a frenzy. You could say that the hunt’s over now, but there’s still that last distance to go before it’s a kill. It isn’t a problem to him that the pace is slower, because he's fully aware that he isn’t twenty anymore – isn’t a cheetah, but other (slower) predators get their bite of flesh, too.

“You should turn over,” he says, therefore. Simply. Moving off Vincent as swiftly as his stiff cock and even stiffer knees will allow him.

Claude moves off him, the loss of friction almost painfully abrupt, pleasure still lingering in his nerves. His cock is feeling smoother now, a coating of precome making everything slippery and somewhat sticky. He doesn’t remove his hand right away, the heat against his cock a slight relief in the absence of better stimulation. At Claude’s words, he raises an eyebrow at him, lips curving upwards lightly. For once, however, he doesn’t comment on it because there’s nothing of value to say – instead, he rolls over onto his stomach, shifting his hips a bit to get comfortable. With his hard cock trapped against the mattress and all.

Folding his arms beneath his head on top of the pillow, he glances sideways at Claude. He doesn’t have to ask, clearly, if he knows where to stick it. That’s a plus. On the other hand, there’s always an element of excitement about having penetrative sex with someone you don’t know the least thing about; and so far, this date is the best investment he’s made for months. He’s confident that it’ll be good. If nothing else, he knows how to make it work. For the both of them.

He reaches for one of the condoms, holding it out for Claude. He appreciates that he doesn’t have to insist on using protection; for some reason, over the past decade people have become more lax about it, as if going bare-back is something to strive for. Fucking nasty amateurs.

Claude isn’t what you’d call a regular top. If he had to label himself, he’d say he was a versatile one, but having been mainly in relationships to men who preferred to play tops themselves, it’s not the role he’s most familiar with. For the most part, he topped Jean-Baptiste and back in the day, the few times Gilbert had agreed to anal sex, Claude had been the top, too. Besides that, it’s mostly been the odd time when his steady partners have said yes. It’s not something he reads anything into, the top/bottom division. He doesn’t mind being the bottom himself and he definitely isn’t going to shove Vincent into some stereotype because he’s agreed to be one now. They’re going with the flow, aren’t they? This is just where they ended up.

Taking the condom that Vincent hands him, he manages to send him a somewhat strained smile. He’s so turned on that it hurts. It’s been a long time, since anything or anyone last got him this worked up, so the feeling is somewhat foreign. He breathes through his nose, forcing himself into a calmer state while he unwraps the condom and rolls it on with the ease of many years’ practice. Leaning in to take the tube of lube, he meets Vincent’s eyes, pausing for a moment to ask: “How much prep do you need?”

It differs, after all. Some men like to take it with more preparation, some with less. Generally, when it’s left up to him, Claude takes his time, considering the size of his cock, but he wouldn’t be surprised if Vincent turns out to be one of those men who like it hard and rough.

He takes his time to answer, gaze running up and down Claude’s body blatantly. Lingering for a long moment on his cock, the whole, hard length of it. He’s not the type of person to get desperately nervous about big cocks – after all, it’s really not about size when everything’s added up. He assumes Claude isn’t a virgin when it comes to fucking other men up the arse and with that, he’s not going to be hysterical. About prep. Had he been inexperienced, on the other hand, he would have probably – well, he probably wouldn’t have bottomed, truth be told. He hates when people get awkward about it. It makes him want to take charge and move them the fuck onwards.

“As much as you like,” he says and adds, smile widening: “Or as little.”

He’s had anal sex without lube, sure. Without much more than spit, sweat and precome which, granted, wasn’t in any way a pleasant experience. It was hot, though. Hot, kind of painful and almost frantically fast – one of the few fucks he hasn’t completely forgotten about. Taught him that you can have one thing without the other and still walk away without (much of) a limp. However, in this context – with this type of setting, including soft sheets and a considerate bed partner – he’s not going to insist on a pace that won’t fit.

Dangerous business. Leaving prepping entirely up to a partner you’ve known for little more than 24 hours and whose bedroom habits you’re less than familiar with. Yet, it doesn’t surprise him. Vincent comes off as somewhat of a sexual gold digger, to Claude, living for the rush – not something he’s going to judge the other man on (he isn’t one to judge, in general, not to mention that he’d be judging the entire gay subculture), but neither can he deny that it’s the impression the other man is giving off. It’s not something he normally finds attractive, but there are exceptions to everything. Apparently, Vincent is his exception, because…

Claude lets his eyes run down his back – the long, strong lines of it. Vincent is taller than him, has a more elongated body. Finally, his gaze settles on its actual destination. His arse. He has a great arse. Firm, toned. Claude’s cock would be practically dripping now, if it weren’t for the condom. He’s just that turned on.

Inching closer, until he’s all but leaning in over him, Claude unscrews the lid of the tube and pours a generous amount of lube out onto his left palm, then tosses it to the side and rests his right hand on one of Vincent’s buttocks, spreading them slightly. Eyes narrowed in arousal, he breathes in deeply and runs a couple of fingers along his scrid, to his opening, leaving a fat trail of quickly heating lube behind. Their shared body heat is getting noticeable now, after all. That lube won’t be cool for long.

For a few seconds, there’s just the sensation of Claude more or less looming over him, his body heat palpable between them. Vincent is tall – not taller than most, but taller than many – and so, the sensation is a little bit alien, the feel of being looked down upon. It’s why he often tops, too; up against a wall, it just makes for a very nice size dynamic. He shifts slightly, cock rubbing against the mattress. The friction’s good; not sufficient, but good. He sighs, focusing his gaze on the metal works of the headboard, eyes following the twirls and wreaths lazily.

Vincent is rarely completely relaxed. It’s just not how his mind works and thus, his body doesn’t either. In bed, however, he’s as close to being ‘at ease’ as he’s ever going to get. At the touch of Claude’s hand against his buttocks, his fingers slipping from his scrid and upwards, he breathes out slowly, the mixture of hot fingers and wet lube making his skin tingle and body feel heavy with expectation. Impatience, too. When he speaks, his voice sounds raw and hoarse, like his throat’s fighting to get enough air to produce the words.

“Shit, that’s nice.” He shuts his eyes, shifting again. Friction. Mmm. “Don’t take too long, Claude, I’m getting really fucking needy here.”

He pictures Claude’s big cock buried in his arse, his body heavy on top of him and the smell of sweat and man thick in the air. Safe to say, it doesn’t make him feel any less impatient. He’s always been somewhat slutty, though; what can you expect?

At Vincent’s words, Claude smiles. Not that Vincent will see him do so, but he does. In any case. He could really come to like the other man’s dirty mouth, in more ways than one. If only he’d give him the chance. With how this is panning out, though, maybe it’s not too unlikely… Time will tell, he supposes. For now, Claude is too preoccupied with other, more important things to give it much thought. Drawing his fingers further upwards, he parts Vincent’s buttocks more and lets his fingertips follow the slightly puckered skin of his arsehole, the muscles surprisingly relaxed beneath his touch. As much or as little as he’d like, huh? Well, it’s obvious how Vincent is becoming impatient and to be honest, his own body isn’t much more inclined to be patient anymore, so if Vincent can take it rough, rough it will be. The mere thought is enough to make Claude’s breathing catch in his throat. Fuck, it’s hot.

Two fingers sticky and slick with lube, he slowly begins pressing against his opening, applying enough pressure to loosen the muscle, his other hand keeping Vincent’s buttocks parted. The sight could quite literally drive him crazy – the promise of his cock going the same way, burying inch by inch in Vincent’s arse. To the base. Keeping the motion steady and the pressure even, Claude feels Vincent’s arsehole loosening to adjust to the intrusion. He glances up, eyes following the expanse of Vincent’s back, up to his shoulders and neck, looking for any indicators of pain. All he can really care about, though, is how hot Vincent’s arse is around his fingers. How hot he’ll be around his cock.

… oh. He breathes out again, heavier this time and a lot more shakily. The feeling of Claude’s fingers, pushing into his arse is making it difficult to form coherent thoughts; his attention is completely focused on the feel of penetration. Though he’s using two fingers (and his fingers are, apparently, pretty big), it’s not really the sensation of getting stretched that steals his focus as much as it’s the sense of intrusion. Someone once told him that a man who likes getting penetrated must be weak as shit – that nature never intended for a man to take, as much as give. It’s bullshit, of course, but the thought has stayed with him regardless. Pops up every time he takes a cock up his arse, neutral but present all the same.

He blinks slowly. The mattress is growing slightly damp beneath him, his cock dripping precome and his balls almost agonizingly tight. He can wait, though. He can wait. He doesn’t have to concentrate to keep his orgasm at bay; things will only get better, after all. Shoulders tightening up from anticipation (and his body tensing up all the way from his spine to his arse as well), he clears his throat and says, “That’s good, that’s perfect. Fucking perfect. Go on, go on…” His voice lowers almost to a mumble, the last few words swallowed up by the way his breathing keeps getting hitched in his throat. Getting fucked really is a lovely thing – natural or not, who gives a shit? Jesus.

Claude feels Vincent tense up, watches the tightness in his shoulders and feels the tightness in his arse, the muscles tightening up around his fingers, though it slows him down only minimally. It obviously isn’t from pain or Vincent wouldn’t be lying there, purring like a fucking kitten. After a few seconds, his fingers are buried in his arse all the way and he pauses. Gives them both a moment to… just breathe. His own breathing is erratic and he doesn’t attempt to control it at this point. He’s just too horny to bother. He is a patient man, sure, but patience is only the anticipation that you won’t have to wait forever.

Just as slowly as when he pushed them in, he begins pulling his fingers out, setting a rhythm of in- and outward motion that’s not too slow (wouldn’t want to bore a man in need, would he?) – but just slow enough to have all the right sensations linger. Every time he’s pulled his fingers almost all the way out, he scissors them slightly, making sure to loosen Vincent’s arsehole good. Vincent might say he has no particular preferences, but Claude really doesn’t want to hurt him once he starts fucking him. Which needs to be soon. It needs to be really soon…

The next few moments, he simply fingerfucks him like that. Pulls his fingers out, pushes them in. In a strong, even rhythm. Leaning in over Vincent’s back, he rests his chin on his shoulder with only the slightest hint of a shuffle, labored pants making strands of Vincent’s hair move into further disarray.

“Fuck… oh fuck, yes, just like that…”

He’s not quite babbling yet though truth be told, his brain has more or less ceased functioning on any level higher than need – raw, sexual need. His hips twitch slightly as Claude starts fingerfucking him, the tiny twinge of pain from the persistent stretching quickly drowned out by pleasure. The sensation of getting filled, of his muscles giving in to accommodate even just Claude’s fingers (imagine what comes next!), of his body re-arranging itself to adjust. It’s got nothing to do with powerlessness, does it? It’s the complete fucking opposite.

Claude leans in over him, his breathing reduced to an audible panting, heated against his shoulder and hair. There’s something addictive about sex, yeah – about what it does to your partner, about the way it reduces people to their most basic elements. Vincent won’t go as far as to say that sex is his drug of choice, though it comes very, very close. His fingers curl into fists against the sheets, the fabric soft and cool. Stark contrasts to everything else; every part of his body overheated, Claude’s body hard muscle and want over his back.

“Claude.” With a massive effort, he manages to prevent his voice from shaking. “You should fuck me. Now.”

When it comes to anal sex, he would never go ahead without his partner’s explicit permission. It’s just a thing for him – Claude doesn’t just take, even when he is in every position to. Even when he could without precautions and without consequences. It doesn’t turn him on and it doesn’t make him feel like he has given anything back in return which is really what sex is all about for him, besides the physical gratification itself. He isn’t gayer than that. He isn’t a bigger sissy boy. Than that. He wants his orgasm, too. Right now, he really… really needs it. To come and to come soon.

So when Vincent asks him to get a move on, he isn’t slow to oblige. Moving on top of the other man, he withdraws his fingers from his arse – slowly, easily – and poises himself with an arm on either side of Vincent’s shoulders. Once he’s found his balance, he reaches down with one hand, closing his fingers around the base of his own cock and positioning himself against his arsehole. Lubricated and overheated against the tip of his cock, even through the protective layer of the condom. Claude can hear himself holding his breath as he begins pushing forward, pressing against the loosened muscle. Honestly, this is the best moment, even though everything that follows is good as well… This moment of expectation, of knowing what’s in store.

Resistance, at first. No matter how well you prepare, there’s always resistance at first. Then, Vincent’s body begins giving way and Claude can feel himself sliding inside his arse, little by little in what feels like endlessly slow penetration, but is in fact probably a bit too fast to be completely comfortable.

The first twenty seconds of anal sex is always a myriad of different sensations – specific to this situation, there’s Claude’s uneven breathing; his body bearing down on top of his, supported mostly by his arms on either side of Vincent’s shoulders; their legs somewhat entangled, the heat, the heat… and the pressure, of course, as Claude pushes inside of him, stretching him open to a point that feels almost unnaturally wide. Vincent’s panting in earnest now, eyes screwed shut and brow furrowed. Shit, that’s a big cock. That’s a really… big… Fucking Christ.

Claude’s going fast, too, though not too fast. Far from it. Resting his forehead against the pillow, he forces his muscles to relax again. Waits for the burn to die down, familiar as it may be (and very harmless as a result). He could ask Claude to hold back a bit but well, what would be the point? Anal sex doesn’t have to feel like roses and candy. Instead, he concentrates on his breathing, his hair sticking to his forehead and his attention slowly turning to pleasure again as he forces his focus downwards again, out of his mind.

Within a few moments, he’s buried in Vincent to the hilt. It’s sensory overload. The tightness around his cock, the heat, pure and unadulterated. The idiots who talk about condoms ruining the experience of anal sex (or sex in general, really) obviously know nothing. Excuses, all of it excuses. This, yes, this is fucking great. Exhaling slowly, staying in position on top of Vincent, front against his back, Claude lets his eyes fall closed and just indulges the sensations for a few seconds. Immobile. Silent, except for his ragged inhalations. They’re both covered in sweat at this point, the friction between their bodies not limited only to his cock in Vincent's arse. Everywhere they’re touching, there’s the slide of skin against skin. Claude presses his cheek against the side of Vincent’s neck, breathing in the smell of him. Of sex and of man.

“You feel so good.” His voice is hoarse.

Then, he begins pulling out again. At the same pace that he pushed inside of him, with the same level of control, just to make sure that he doesn’t cause Vincent any real pain. But that’s really all he can do. He’s slowly reaching the point where he just… needs to move, needs to fuck without too much thought beyond the pleasure of it. So the movement is sharper, when he pushes back in again. Then sharper still, the third time – until the rhythm has turned harsh and hard. Desperate. Desperate for relief.

Claude’s voice sends shivers down his back and he gasps, forcing down another breath with effort. It’s almost too much of everything; of stimulation, of stretching, of scents and touch and cock. He’s just about to speak, probably gibberish with little to zero meaning, when Claude pulls out, the movement careful but also unmistakably unyielding. Then, he pushes back in again. Harder. And there are no more coherent words to be had. Instead, his voice comes out as a moan, loud and unrestricted, his muscles working to keep up with the quickening pace.

He could easily attempt to control the rhythm somehow – to slow them down, perhaps or to tighten his muscles enough to send Claude hurtling towards the edge. But he doesn’t, not today (some… other day?). It’s perfectly clear that they’re both waiting to get off, not to have sophisticated arsefucking. That, and he can’t even think to plan ahead that far. Claude’s fucking him at just the right angle, the head and length of his cock pressing against his prostrate with every thrust and it’s making his head spin. Waves of pleasure at almost even intervals, the thickness of Claude’s cock as he pushes into his arse…

Another moan, another gasping breath. It’s so good. A fucking brilliant mix of orgasmic, burning pleasure and just that hint of roughness and pain that makes him feel alive. It’s rarely like this, truthfully. This perfect blend of casual danger and a greater foundation of safety is completely surreal; might be cliché and girlish to think so, but in many ways Claude really is very different from what he’s used to. Different in all the best ways.

Those moans go straight to his cock. Drawing in a sharp breath, Claude feels his hips jerk violently – the first signs of orgasm, along with the increasing tightness in his balls. He’s not a man who really believes in the notion of romantic sex and had he done so, this entire scenario would probably have disappointed him somewhat. Romantic sex is an invention of Hollywood’s – real life sex is what you make of it and they, Vincent and he, are making something absolutely spectacular of it right now, if you ask him. Right here, bathed in the yellow light of the morning sun. With a groan, he pulls out again. Pushes in. Sets a rhythm that is reaching for the finish line. God, it feels like Heaven. A tiny piece of it, at least.

The bed is creaking something fierce (the downside of having a metal bed) and combined with the sounds the both of them are making at this point, he really should be concerned for the neighbours, but he’s in no state of mind to care, even if someone should decide to come knock on his door. They can go fuck themselves. Kindly.

Vincent’s arse feels hot and tight all around him and Claude is slowly growing dizzy from the pleasure of it. He’s reaching that… point now… Where everything is melting together into a blur of sensation, of heat and tightness, of motion. (Almost) uncontrolled, but never quite. He’s so close. So close to climaxing. Just another few thrusts and… It washes over him soundlessly, his orgasm. Balls tightening and sperm leaking from his cock into the condom, he simply stiffens for a moment, face pressed against the side of Vincent’s neck and all the muscles in his body completely taut from the effort.

He catches on to the signs pretty quickly – Claude’s breathing speeding up next to his ear, the force and pace of his thrusts increasing with every breath. It’s good timing, too, because he’s getting close to the edge. Everything’s starting to blend together in his mind; every sensation, from Claude stretching his arse open and filling him up, pushing against his prostrate, to the friction of his cock, rubbing against the mattress. And Claude’s body on top of his, pressing him down against the bed, the sheer sense of weight and warmth swallowing him up both physically and mentally.

They don’t orgasm at the same time, not as such. That hardly ever happens, at least not for him. It’s close, though. He feels Claude’s cock contracting inside his arse, the implications pushing him the rest of the way and as Claude stills on top of him, his face sweaty and hot next to his neck, he comes against the mattress. It’s a fast, powerful orgasm and he gasps for air, eyes screwed shut and face drawn tightly. Oh, fucking hell. Fuck, fuck, fuck…

“… fuck.”

He breathes in. Breathes out. Notes somewhat distantly how the sheet beneath him has gone damp, sperm cooling on the bed. Probably on his stomach, too. Jesus Christ, he’s going to just lie here now. Until Claude pulls out and he’d better not be quick about it unless he wants Vincent to hobble home.

Claude’s orgasm is drawn-out, prolonged by the tightness of Vincent’s arse around him, but in the midst of it – he hears Vincent’s exclamation and his laboured breathing, slowly falling into a more even rhythm in time with Claude’s own. As the pleasure dies down, slowly fading out. Becoming an all-encompassing fatigue, all his muscles turning suddenly and almost violently relaxed. Completely relaxed. Breathing in and out at an even pace finally, he simply remains where he is, in place, on top of Vincent. Just managing to keep his entire bodyweight lifted off of Vincent’s back, mostly as a courtesy. The other man will be sore enough without a slipped disc added to the picture.

A few moments pass like that. In silence. Until Claude finally lifts himself up, arms stretched and his own back aching slightly in this new position. He isn’t twenty anymore and at times like this, it shows, too. Carefully, he begins twisting his hips, pulling out of Vincent’s arse slowly – one long, even motion. Nowhere near the force or speed that he’d fucked him with only minutes earlier. Tired as he is, he doesn’t really consider the possibility of Vincent going anywhere, but if he were to… He’d be limping unless Claude showcases the proper amount of care.

One last jerk of his hips and he’s pulled out entirely. Glancing down between them for a brief second before rolling onto his back next to Vincent, he takes in the sight of Vincent’s arse – his arsehole stretched and open. Honestly, this is one of the hottest shags he’s had in a while. God, this was good.

He pulls out slowly, thank God. The gradual loss of physical fulfillment – literally – is both a relief and a pain. Vincent's body is still kind of tight from orgasm and as Claude draws back entirely, he feels the first signs of soreness, his arsehole almost numb. Going by experience, that’ll hurt later today. But who cares? He’s just had the best fuck in months and months. It’s not just about cock and size (though Claude wins out in that category, too) – this was just plain hot.

As Claude lies down next to him, Vincent remains on his stomach, utterly unwilling to move, his muscles feeling limp and unresponsive. His eyes remain shut, the darkness behind his eyelids seemingly seeping through his mind. In ten minutes, he thinks, he may just fall asleep again. Why’s that even happening? One-night-stand, hello?

“Hey,” he says, words a bit slurred. “Going to sleep it off, hope it’s alright.”

After all, if Claude’s expecting visitors, for instance – like a steady boyfriend or another date, who the fuck knows? – a thoroughly naked, well-fucked man sleeping on the bed might just make things awkward. Funnily enough, however, the mental image doesn’t bother him much at all. Hah!

Edited 2014-01-18 17:36 (UTC)

“No, it’s fine.”

Claude’s own eyes are already beginning to droop, but the condom has started to feel clammy and cold around his cock and his back is still aching from the position he’s all but trundled into. Shifting just a bit irritably, he reaches down with one hand blindly to roll the condom off and crumble it up in his palm before dropping it on the floor next to the bed. On his side, to prevent Vincent from stepping on it once he’s slept it off and thinks it’s time to go home. With a frown, Claude looks to the side at Vincent who’s quickly falling asleep all but on his face, in the same position that Claude fucked him in moments ago. Charming. Actually. Really charming.

Damn.

With a sigh, he turns his head away again. Stares up at the ceiling for a couple of long moments, his body feeling wonderfully sated and relaxed. In a minute or two, he’ll be falling asleep, too – and they’ll provide a wonderful morning exhibition of nudity for whoever is tactless enough to glance in through his bedroom window. Gays in the aftermath. Sounds like a masterpiece. But really, he should have insisted on his usual speech about one-night stands before they got this far. Watching this one walk away is going to be… annoying. Yes, really annoying.

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