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The room is decadent, brocades and velvets hanging from the rafters like tapestries, lanterns hung at random intervals to cast stripes of soft light flickering like ghosts between the fabrics, undulating slightly in the gentle drafts of the cool night air. Looking up rewards you with glimpses of the star-studded skies. The caretakers of this retreat have left repast, drink, and a basin of chilled water with towels and light robes on a low table for you and your partner, otherwise they are also ghosts for the duration of your visit, otherwise it’ll be just you and him.
You arrived early though, finished with duties and off the ship before him, a lazy afternoon spent wandering the bustling streets of the alien bazaar, overwhelmed by the riot of color and noise and music of this planet’s denizens. It was no Risa, but it had its very specific charms. You managed to escape the shops with most of your credits intact, laden down with only a couple of curios for your quarters, and a soft tunic for later, spun in shimmer and blue. Now you settle in among the cushions, comfortably dozing as you listen to the faint strains of music carried on the air.
You sense him before you see him, a silent gap in the ambience of the room. He steps between the cushions to close the space as you open your eyes, his black jacket and high boots marking out a severe silhouette against the reds and golds of the space. The lantern he carries casts complex shadows from the cage, his fingers entwined through the ring at the top cast another shadow across his face, making all but his eyes too dark to read. He sets it down on the low table as he sinks to his knees next to you. You sit up as well, not wanting to seem rude as he enters your personal space.
“I trust you did not have to wait long. Are you still interested?” His deep voice cuts straight to the reason you’re here, an experiment, curiosity, a dalliance away from the eyes of other crew. You study him as you nod in reply, the flickering shadows highlighting his high, sharp features framed by his unkempt hair, the subtle arc of his pointed ear, catching predator-sharp reflections of the light in his eyes. In the half light, his beard is stark against pale skin and leads you to return your gaze to those eyes. His gaze ducks and slides over to the small platter of fruit as you move to pour tea into two waiting cups. He has chosen something from the plate, slips it between his lips before taking the cup. His dark eyes don’t wander from yours as you drink, but he doesn’t chew, doesn’t swallow, doesn’t take a drink for himself yet. He merely gestures with a single finger for you to come closer.
You oblige, now noticing the glint of shine at his collar. Not part of his jacket, but something under it, hugging close to his jawline. He makes you lean closer, to initiate, to take the fruit from him, but only with your mouth. He does not smile, but his eyes study you as you make contact. He doesn’t part his lips for you at first. He makes you work a little for it, as you kiss, chaste at first, then a little harder. When your tongue traces along his bottom lip, he relents, rewarding you with something more tart than sweet, his own tongue chasing it past your lips. When you finally pull away, he doesn’t follow. You want to see what’s under the jacket, but . . . . patience. He finally takes a drink of his tea, eyes only briefly returning to the plate as he selects something else, then watches you again as he slides it slightly more provocatively to settle on his tongue, curling it *just so* around it before closing his mouth again. You don’t need the direction this time, closing the space to settle against his soft lips again, kissing a trail from one corner to the other, nipping at him before he relents once more, crushing his lips against yours with the faintest of rumbling, content noise.
You put a hand on him, against his clothed chest, following the seam of closure towards his neck, but he grabs your wandering hand, holding it still with a firm grip.
“Not yet,” he growls against your mouth. “We’ve barely started.” He gently forces your hand back to your lap, but doesn’t let go. He shifts his hold, now cradling your fingers, thumb rubbing against the back of your hand as he continues to kiss, gently suckling at your lip, interrupting to curl his tongue over yours between measured breaths. You chance to bring your other hand up to run your fingers over his cheek, through the soft hair covering his jawline, brushing over his ear. His breath falters a touch, barely perceptible, his grip over your fingers tightening. He pulls away, gently taking your other hand to put it back in your lap as well, both now trapped in his grip.
He takes his free hand up, brushing the backs of his fingers over the fabric of your top, barely touching. He drags his thumb along the underside of your chin, along your jaw, tracing the heartbeat in your throat before wrapping his hand into the hair at the base of your neck. The touch tingles, sending little electric jolts into your system, all of it from tense expectation at the contact of skin on skin. You can’t help but lean your head back into the cup of his grip, his flesh so hot against your scalp, comforting, calming, For a moment, it feels like you are falling backwards, but there’s no end to it, just eternally falling, that sensation of spinning backwards into space. . . and you jerk yourself upright with a start, out of his hands, and against him.
When did you start breathing so hard?
He continues to just watch you, the shadows of the lamp obfuscating any betrayal of expression. You notice you’ve grabbed the fabric of his jacket as reflex when you snapped forward, and you hold on as the last little swirls of disorientation fade. You can feel the pronounced profile of straps, ribbing under the fabric, the heat of him bleeding through to your fingers as you loosen your grip to span your hands along his sides instead, tracing the edge of some sort of vest underneath, or belting . . . and he removes your hands gently again, pulling them to place on the low table, silently telling you to leave your hands there as he picks up your cup of tea to set aside. He takes another drink from his own before setting it down, pairing the vessels once more with a clink. He nudges your knee, guiding you to turn towards the table, hands still in place on the cool surface. Pale, polished stone, you finally notice. He leaves your side for a moment, and when you turn to follow, he presses his fingers to your cheek. Don’t move, the touch says.
You barely hear the soft rustle of fabric over the constant faint music of this place, lilting violin and flute, a barely familiar lullabye somewhere in the distance, then he is behind you, settling on his knees, the creak of his boots distractingly loud in the soft silence. There is another sound you can’t place, right behind you, a soft susurration cut short by a long silence.
He’s so close, but he’s not touching you at all, not physically, just the warm heat of him radiating against your back, and soft measured breathing. He hasn’t said you can move yet, hasn’t pulled your hands from the table. Just as you feel your patience start to wear thin, his hands are on you. Warmth surrounds your neck and shoulders, but its’ warmth through gloves, the slick material following the taut line of your throat, under the collar of your top to trace over collarbone and the hollow where it meets shoulder . . . before roaming back and down again to trace the curve of your spine . . . the small of your back, down to the sensitive dips to either side of your tailbone, triggering two unexpected focal points, tingling, pleasing . . . and then it feels like he drags that sensation around your hips, both hands on you. The quiver of pleasure seems to follow a wire under his touch as his fingers trace the bend between hip and thigh, and jumps straight to your core. His hands stop once they cover your thighs, fingers spread wide over the thin fabric of your loose pants. You look down, and only see the shine of the material where the ambient lights touch it, otherwise just black against faded sand.
You are startled at the soft tickle of his beard against your neck as he breathes against your skin a scant moment before he gives his first order to you. His lips are a hot tattoo against your ear as he speaks in that deep rumble.
“Remove these clothes, replace them with the tunic I had you purchase.” Your breath stutters a little as he takes his hands away, leaving the ghost of heat wrapped around your thighs. You dutifully take your hands from the table as you stand, and you start to turn towards him . . . but he reprimands you. A simple ‘no’.
Patience, you think again. You must step around the low table to reach the garment, and you place it on the table before beginning to strip down, watching the glimmer of the fabric in the pale lighting as you remove each piece of your current garb. You pause at your underwear, wondering if he meant . . . he interrupts your thoughts with an answer.
“Leave those. They go well with the tunic.” You smile a little, then slip the new garment on. It’s sheer, barely opaque enough to cover anything, it drapes from shoulder to shoulder, split in front from collar to navel, dropped low along your back, and slit open from ankle to hip. You can’t help but run your hands against the silken material, purposely pulling it taut against your skin, watching the shimmer shift and swim over your body.
“Return to me.” You turn towards him at the command, and you finally see what he had hidden beneath his long coat. Your entire first impression is a predator, lying in wait. He had receded to the darker corner of the room, waiting, sat back on his heels, gloved hands against bare thighs, fingers curling with barely restrained motion, impatient with want. The gloves were long, pulled up past his elbows, the black lit with hard shine. His entire waist was corseted in with a wide belt that went from sternum down to his hipline, the edges of the piece dug tight into his skin, with the unexpected enhancement of his bare chest drawing your eye. His entire throat was hidden behind a matching piece, sternly extending from jawline to clavicle. Both pieces were the same dark material of the gloves, upright with traced ribbing, decorated with purposely placed rings at throat and hip points. You begin to approach to see more, hidden by the fabric of the cushions he kneeled into. When you are close enough, he reaches out for your hand, pulling you off balance against him, then rolling you onto your back, his mouth already at your neck with a soft growl, then teeth and tongue, followed by soft suction. One, two, even more follow in a line from chin to sternum, teasingly slow and punctuated by the purposeful rub of his bearded cheek against your flushed skin. The rest of the trail from your sternum to navel knows only his tongue, burning hot, rasping, almost ticklish, but you can’t help it as you buck your hips up in response as your hand finds his shoulder to claw at.
His hand pushes you back down, a firm press against your hipbone back down into the cushions, then he teases, a wayward digit back at the bend of hip and thigh, following that road straight to your center, but only a ghost of a touch against your lips, a trace over clit hidden under cloth. He props himself back up to look back at you, his eyes still predatory, but amused.
“I plan to restrain you . . . do you still want this?” he suddenly asks after studying you for a long pause. You nod, feeling you’d agree to anything at this point. His eyes stay locked with yours as his hand covers your thigh, still hot and velvet soft against your skin as his fingers slip under the fabric, sliding down between your knees. He has to reposition himself to move down towards your feet, and he breaks from your gaze to look down, his free hand against his corseted waist, fingers picking at the base of one of the ribs of it. . . . and he slides something loose from the material, flicking his hand smoothly, ensuring you can’t see what he has in the half light. He repeats the action a second time, then returns his gaze to catch yours, pupils almost reflecting like a predator at dusk. His hands wrap tenderly around one ankle, then the other, sitting up to rest on only his knees as he moves himself between them, sliding them apart.
You catch yourself biting your lip as you raise up on your elbows to look him over, to watch what he has planned. You are mildly amused that you only now notice that he wears the barest covering over his groin, seemingly attached to the corset to disappear between his thighs, more of the same slick black highlighting the curve of his arousal restrained behind it.
He takes advantage of your brief distraction to reveal the clasps hooked the the floor beneath the cushions . . . and the loops that he wrapped around your ankles, forcing your ankles to remain apart. Satisfied that you cannot pull free, he crouches, hands to floor, head sunk low, hot lips meeting bare skin just barely revealed by the cloth sliding and pooling between your knees. He kisses one leg, then moves to the opposite knee as he moves forward, then back, grazing your inner thigh with a nip, keeping your eyes locked with his.
He slinks like a cat as he raises his head away from you just as he nears the crux of your thighs, one hand positioned just between, his other sliding over hip, landing softly between the cushions you rest on, then his other pulling up to graze over your stomach, your breast as he moves to place it just over your shoulder to bring his face in line with yours. His proximity forces you back down, and he rewards you by pressing his knee against you, leans down to drag the soft scratch of his beard against your cheek to breathe and lap at your ear.
“Arms over your head, now,” he rumbles against you. He’s removed his knee, put space between he and you, but his breath still swirls against your attentive flesh. You comply. How could you not? He rewards you again, the skin warm glove sliding under the tunic to stroke over the swell of your breast and tease the tightening peak of your nipple. Brief . . . effective. Your arms are over your head, grasping the edge of the cushion you lay against.
He crawls forward a little more, straddles your midsection as he repeats himself, pulling two strips from the ribbing of his corset, leaning to wrap them around your wrists, the magnets within the strips effectively sealing them to each other, then he pulls another latch up, hooking your wrists to it. He gently pulls on your arms, checking that you can still comfortably move your wrists, then his hands stroke your arms from wrist to elbow to shoulder, then he’s upright again, fingertips tracing just under the edge of the fabric where its pooled against your throat, pulling it aside to expose skin once more as he follows the cut down your torso.
He keeps his weight off you as he slides back, but his tongue is on you as he curls forward, tracing that invisible line between navel and the dip at the base of your throat. His hands move to your hips, pulling the tunic up by the slit there, opening the way to work his hands beneath it, clawing, caressing, embracing. He pauses to watch the rosy flush that has spread across your skin, chasing it with his lips before he lays the first real bite into you, a sharp pinch of discomfort as his teeth dig in against your shoulder, then its gone and he’s lapping at it, the rasp of his tongue a sudden whiplash of sensation, both soothing and exacerbating. He moves to the other side, kissing you to distraction before he bites again. You cry out this time as he does so, and the bite changes to hard sucking, tongue tracing a sigil against your skin. He repeats himself several times, moving to a new patch of soft, sensitive flesh with each bite, working his way down, only stopping as he lays his last nip against your inner thigh.
You hurt. You think maybe it was too much, that you made a mistake, but he puts his fingers to work against your body, messaging and teasing, following the pain with the sweet ache of euphoria as he hits every nerve on the path back to your throat, ending with a soft kiss and gently rolling his hips against yours, teasing you back into heady arousal.
“Is it too much? Tell me,” he asks as he shifts between your thighs, his hardness shifting to rut against you, betraying his own impatience. You shake your head, reaching forward to fetch another kiss from him, seeking that deft tongue against yours. He fills you with a heavy rumble of satisfaction again, repetitive and almost musical, teasing your own moans out with another thrust of his hips before separating from you, returning to his hands and knees over you, studying you, then he’s back on his heels, reaching over for a cup and a fill of tea. He empties it, then refills it and brings the delicate vessel to your lips, gently pouring the liquid for you to drink as well, quenching the thirst you were momentarily unaware of. “Enough?” He pauses before taking the cup back. You nod, and he returns the cup back to the low table. You watch him move, lithe and measured as he pauses to eat some fruit before turning back to you, a slice of something pastel and crisp between his lips as he crawls over you and pauses, waiting for you to take it. You tilt your head up and let the tart sweetness of the slice cover your tongue before he chases it, kissing you again before pulling away to let you eat.
You’ve barely swallowed the fruit when he’s lapping at you again, fingers pulling fabric aside to expose your breasts to him, working his way from one to the other, gently grazing his teeth over your flesh, setting already tense nerves on fire now, making you pull against your restraints in a half hearted effort to reach for him and sink your fingers into his hair and hold him against you. His hands are busy as his mouth works, stroking under the fabric, teasing under the edges of your undergarment, pulling it down slightly before moving to slip under it to swipe those fingers over your netherlips, sliding through the wetness pooling there before disappearing again.
You whine as his hands sweep along your inner thighs, slowly pushing the tunic up and out of the way, finally hooking his fingers under the band of your undergarment, pulling it down, a slow crawl of teasing as he just watches you, your twitches of anticipation, writhing just enough to try and speed the process along.
He stops, realizing the small error of leaving the garment on you before binding your ankles. He looks back up.
“Do you value these?” He tugs a bit for emphasis. You shake your head. “Good.” He grabs the fabric against one hip between his hands, and pulls. The fabric, not exactly flimsy, shreds as if it were candyfloss. He repeats it over your other thigh, then the garment is gone. You swear he smirks in the flickering half light from the lantern. His fingers finish moving the tunic up, pushing the swath of material over your hip, where it slides over your skin to pool next to you, the shift of it like snakeskin across your heated flesh. He’s since pushed your thighs farther apart, pushing a cushion beneath your tailbone to angle your hips upwards, his fingers taking advantage of the position to rub, then claw your buttocks, squeezing the back of your thighs as he raises your knees as far as they can in the restraints. He’s down between your knees, sliding down to lie on his stomach, pressing his lips just above your knee at your inner thigh. A kiss, a lap of his rough tongue, then rubbing his cheek and beard against you. It almost tickles. He works along your leg, infuriatingly slow, then stops just shy of your core. . . .
. . . and starts anew on your other thigh. You begin to whine with impatience, but its cut short as he bites down, hard enough to elicit a yelp of pain. When you bite your lip, silencing yourself, he suckles the bite mark, soothing you, then continues his path upwards. Where he leans against you, you feel him. . . purring. The soft rhythmic rumble carries through his corsetry, matching the rhythm his tongue flicks against you. He stops just shy of your mound again, just his hot breath ghosting over wet arousal. You can hear him now past the quiet creak of his boots and gloves, that rhythmic rumble behind his breaths, and it makes you want more. You moan lightly as he waits over you, watching you shift your arms to relax. His hot tongue is on you again, but not where you want it. He’s tracing the line where leg and hip meet, moving away from the arousal that’s beginning to ache for attention... then his breath is caressing your clit, almost touching. . . but instead he presses his tongue against you again to follow the tendon linking thigh and groin, making you shudder with frustration, but you bite back another whine.
He feels your muscles tense under his touch, and he decides to be merciful.
Rough texture, not soft wetness, grinds against your clit, sending a surprisingly high-pitched moan from your lips. He concentrates on circling it, then sneaking the tip of his tongue along the underside, barely dipping past your opening, making you clench and writhe, seeking for him to go deeper. He pulls away every time you try, reminding you he is in charge, and you’ll get what you want soon enough. He slides his hands over your hips, and forces you to still, watches you as you shift, laying your head back among the cushions to catch your breath, then that tongue is against you again, no more teasing, just rough swathes of stimulation punctuated by harsh sucking and the occasional lap between your lips. You give up on staying quiet and just cry out with each breath as he continues. You know you have to be beyond just wet as you feel your cunt ache with the impending crest of orgasm fighting with an equal wave of overstimulation. Even with him holding you still, your hips flex under his hands, seeking for relief one way or another.
You feel like you are there, just at the peak of orgasm, when he stops, takes his tongue away, and just gently kisses you instead, soft lips against engorged clit, working his way around your nether lips, against your inner thighs again, gentle and sweet, but you cry in frustration. He takes his hands off your hips and slides them up, fingers stroking over stomach and waist, gently massaging breast and nipple as his kisses carry to the peaks of your hipbone and the soft swell of your tummy as you buck upwards, seeking any pressure or friction to complete the circuit of pleasure, and finding none, the ache in your core, strong and unabating, claws deeper, making you shudder involuntarily, pushing you to tears.
He works his way over you, keeping space between your mound and his body, finally finding your mouth with his before he sits up, lifting your hips enough to slide the rest of your tunic from underneath you. He caresses you as you slowly slide back from the brink, shuddering under his touch as he pushes the garment up and past your shoulders and head, leaving it piled over your forearms. He nips and kisses you more, revisiting the aching bites he left earlier. One hand massages the back of your neck as you settle, letting you finally buck up against him, finding only the slick fabric covering the arc of his hard cock, not enough sensation or friction to lead you back to the crest that just receded.
“Patience. I’ll take you there, just slow down. Let me-” he interrupts his own words as he kisses your mouth, slipping his tongue past your lips, his other hand working under the small of your back to pull you close. “Let me lead.” He breathes the words into you, and you breathe him in, still shuddering from small gasps of thwarted completion.
He pulls away from you again, playing his fingers all down your torso as he sits up once more, the warm slide of the gloves soothing over the ache coiled just under your skin. Again, he tends to your thirst, chasing the dryness of your mouth away with delicately plied tea, each drink followed with a gentle kiss and lick along your jawline, the curve of your ear, the press of his hardness against your arousal.
The cup is returned to its companion, and he moves from between your thighs to your side, lounging alongside you as he releases one of your wrists from its entrapment, and he pulls it to his mouth to kiss the skin along the inside of your wrist as he runs his fingers down. He turns your hand, holding the back of it against his lips as he watches you intently in the shadow-fluttering light. Everything inside you coils tight when he does so- its not the soft curiosity you are so used to seeing from him on ship, its a sharp, focused hunger. The reflectivity of his eyes catches you the most since you have never seen it in brighter light. You might have felt an echo of fear if you weren't so tense with need under his touch.
"Your turn to touch…" He lets go of your hand as he moves from laying next to you to propping himself over your hips, enabling you to touch any part of him you wish, but blocking all access to yourself, in case you decided to take advantage of your freedom to bring yourself back to the edge he took you from. His fingers play against your sides as you reach for his face first, brushing your fingers over his lips, then through the softness of his beard. He turns enough to kiss your fingers as you do so, but does nothing else. You trace the lines of the collar where it mimics the tendon from jawline to clavicle, slipping your fingers just enough under it to stroke the dip between them, then down through the silky hair over his chest.
You're sure he smirks a little as you play with it before circling and gently pinching his nipple teasing it to entice a reaction from him. You're rewarded with a quickened pace to his breathing and a soft rumble from him as you run your hand over his pecs. You don't see any way to undo the corsetry around his midsection, but you do find the openings of the small rings that serve to hold in place the covering over his own erection. You cup him through the material first, enjoying the shape of him through the slick material, trying to identify the little ridges and differences that mark him as different from human. Your fingers slip in under the material from the side, tickling along his length to the head of his shaft, spreading the wetness you find there over the sensitive head. You smirk this time as his breath becomes just a little more unsteady, and you feel him fight to keep from pressing against your touch.
There's that rhythmic rumble again. You slide two fingers over the head of his shaft, slipping it between them, feeling the edges of his ridges flick through your touch. You count them silently- one, two, three- as they pass through your fingers. Your thumb traces him through the material, feeling the edge of the opening where his cock protrudes from, the one pure vulcan feature of his sex, and you scrape your fingernail over it, coupling the sensation through the material with the stroking your fingers are committed to. He presses into your touch with a sharp intake of breath, but doesn't interfere, content with studying you as you watch his reactions. You stroke him twice, three times more before pulling your hand free, coated in wet slickness now, and you turn your attention to unhooking the material from the corsetry, freeing his cock for you to admire.
You stroke the soft skin of his inner thigh as you slide your fingers past, pulling the material away. He moves just enough to finish removing it from himself entirely, and to run his fingers up your arm as you cup him again, tracing the bottom slit of his opening, tracing the line of the underside of his cock upwards between the ridges to the very tip of his shaft. He's slick and quivering under your touch, the ridges and head and trail from head to opening almost a beautiful jade color against the faint almost human peach of the rest of him. You look up and see the same faint jade flush crawl across his ears and chest as well, barely noticeable in the light. His eyes haven't left yours, and you can feel his purring through his cock as you finally wrap your hand around his girth.
It’s your turn to smirk as you stroke him in slow, measured movements. He shifts to meet your hand after a few moments, then surprises you by stilling your motions. He's more obviously flushed now, even a little breathless despite his control. He leans forward over you again, laps at your lip, then traces your mouth with his eyes as he whispers almost reverently.
'I would like your mouth on me.' Its less a statement and more a plea, one that you make him wait for your answer for. Your fingers move around his cock, tracing under the ridges, teasing him, then you pull you hand from his to bring your fingers to your mouth, to taste him before deciding. You turn your eyes up to the tapestries that serve as a ceiling as you suck and lap at your fingers one at a time, counting the strips of starlit sky you can see between designs of faded blues and golds, only looking back to him when you have decided the bittersweet flavor of him is agreeable.
You give him your answer by hooking your fingers under the corsetry, gently tugging it towards you. He moves to accommodate, sliding one thigh under your head to rest as you pull his shaft to your lips. He watches you as you flick your tongue around him, dancing the tip over every ridge and path of sensitivity before finally putting your lips over him. You hear him gasp around his rumbling purr, inspiring you to suckle at the head, memorizing the shape and weight of him against your tongue, and he returns the favor by curling down to worship at your breast. He matches the movement of your tongue with his own, tracing around your nipple with each path you make around each ridge. You pull off him with a startled gasp as you feel his fingers slip down and trace your cunt, slick and warm and teasing. He gently thrusts against your mouth for you to continue, gently nipping at your tightening nipple before sucking.
You take him in quickly this time, testing how much you can swallow. His cock is thick in your mouth, almost too much so to take to the back of your throat, but you swallow around him with each shallow thrust, inviting more with each suck. He starts to betray a soft moan with each swallow, breathing hot around the tingle he has inspired under your skin once more, and you are delighted with the lapse of control.
You find your enthusiasm bolstered with his voice, his small moans, and you finally have him entirely. You suck harder, play your tongue against him more. When you pull off of him, you study the lovely green of his organ as his shaft pulses between your fingers. He has returned the favor, paying meticulous attention to your breasts, sending jolts of hard arousal through your nerves with each graze of teeth and tongue and kiss across your skin. One finger traces you, back and forth, slowly, shallowly dipping in past your opening with each pass, the warmth and slick of the glove an interesting sensation against your lips and clit.
At some point in your mutual oral attention, he unclasps your ankles and pulls your knees up as he rolls to raise himself on his knees over you, planting his mouth and hands on your hips and thighs. His cock hovers over you, jutting forward against his stomach like an arrow, and you pull him down to your waiting mouth, humming your approval against his cockhead as his tongue finds your clit again. He's dripping more of that bittersweet liquid, thick on your tongue, rutting shallowly as his own tongue dips in, fucks you, entices you to raise your hips in matching rhythm.
He finds that magic mix of touch on and in you, and you moan loud and wanton around his cock, your fingers clawing furrows around the back of his thigh, fingertips finding purchase in the toned flesh. You pull your other arm, still hooked to the clasp he attached you to, unable to free it, and he pauses enough to pull away and reach back to release you. Both of your hands wander now, roaming over the curves of his buttocks and the dip of his lower back as you raise your head to take him deep. You feel him pause, dropping his head against your thigh as his breathing quickens and hiccups at your efforts. You release him from your mouth again, his cock bobbing back up away from you, but now you trace the flat of your tongue down to the base, jutting out from the slit sheath of his groin, tracing the shape of him around as much of his girth as possible.
He pulls away suddenly, sitting up and moving to sit back on his heels on the cushions above your head, and you crane your head back to watch before rolling over onto your stomach, your fingers underneath you to tease at your clit to keep your arousal at attention. He licks your wetness off the fingers of the one glove, then he rushes to remove them, then the collar, dropping them into the mass of cushions one by one. He pulls at you, bringing you upright to embrace you against him, and he consumes your mouth as his bare hands now roam your body, that tingling sensation that accompanies his touch spreading out over your skin, intensifying with each squeeze and stroke. He releases your mouth to suckle at your throat, pulling your thighs apart to straddle him, fingers stoking the fire in your core. You hold on, returning the favor of mouth to shoulder, biting your own brands into his flesh as he groans with heady approval.
You feel his cock prod against you, off the mark but searching, and your fingers impatiently seek his shaft, to guide him, feeling his effusion freely spreading over your fingers. You barely have him lined up when he slides in, quickly, deep as he can reach, and he crushes you against him as he breathes hard against your skin, pausing to catch his breath even as he growls hungrily against your throat.
You are filled; hot, throbbing ripples that feel like they reignite every mark he's made on you. His hands, his mouth, everywhere that finds skin against skin flashes like a solar flare. He raises his head to look you in the eyes again; they catch the lantern's light just enough to make them glow, seeming to reflect the fire that sears your nerves. You can't help but close your eyes against the intensity of his gaze as you thread your fingers into his hair and plant a kiss against his forehead, leaving your lips against his flesh as he finally starts to move within you.
His mouth is planted against your throat, his hot breath pooling in the dip between your clavicles, and he licks again as he thrusts, small moans of intense pleasure fluttering out of him with each slide into you. You echo him as your hands move to his shoulders, his back, bracing yourself against him. You are a blazing fire in his arms, and each stroke lights every nerve within anew. You find yourself falling backwards again as he rolls forward into you, nestling you back into the pillows, pushing your thighs wide for his pistoning hips. You dig your nails into him; he growls and whines simultaneously as his attention turns from your throat to your mouth once more. Every shift from his thrusts forces your own moans out, music that he matches and muffles, his teeth against your lips and tongue, each slide winds that coil between your hips tighter and tighter…
The first wave of orgasm breaks as he props himself up over you, his fingers clawing a trail over your hip. When your own hips stutter to a halt, he sits back on his heels and grasps you about the waist, pulling you firmly, steadily to him, hissing with each tight clasp of your passage around him. He doesn't stop; the waves keep coming as he delves deeper into you, a sensation indescribable past the clench and release your body performs. You grasp the pillow behind your head, rolling your face into it as you keen your satiation, but he continues, a little faster, a little harder, his breathing a rhythmic moan just barely audible. You usually start to experience sensitivity leading to the point of pain by now, but it doesn't arrive. No warning tingles, just the exhilarating sensation of him sliding in and out, filling you and dragging out that bliss spreading out from your core in ripples through your limbs.
When he finally grows close to his own finish, he lets go of your hips, the sting of the bruising grip he had making itself known, and sets his hands to the floor to curl over you. He finally lets go of his control as he sinks down to you, burying his face to your skin as his thrusts land deep and rough, no more gentle slide to soften the blows of hip to thigh. You feel his cock swell and pulse, the telltale finish as he finally stutters to a stop. His heartbeat flutters like a leaf against where you are joined. Your hands are in his hair again as he finally collapses onto you, breathing hard into your skin, his own arms working their way under you to pull you hard against him, motionless as he continues to cum in you, fighting to catch his breath.
The silence that surrounds you as you both come down is threaded through with that lilting ballad off in the distance, and only the sounds of the night breeze through the tapestries overhead and a flickering lantern keep you both company for the immediate future.