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With a sigh, Zenos slipped the glove off of his right hand and shifted slightly forward on the sofa. He leaned back and spread his legs.
He unbuttoned his trousers, sliding them a little way down his hips, and withdrew himself from his smallclothes.
His cock rested in his hand, weighty and warm—firming up by the moment.
With his free left, he reached over and took a small vial of oil from the end table beside him. He popped the cork with his thumb and poured its contents out over himself, oozing warm and thick, as he worked it along his full, stiff length. His skin prickled with pleasure at his touch; his whole body hummed with desire—eager for him to build the prickling to a swelling pressure, and an eruptive release.
And Zenos glanced back up at the man glowering across the parlor at him.
A current of pleasure jittered up Zenos’ spine as he seized hold of Faust’s burning gaze. His friend sat in an armchair, his body rigid and his eyes blazing with his characteristic fury—but with a charming reticence, too. Zenos had not gotten to see such a look on him before, but he had no difficulty parsing it for what it was:
A collection of conflicting feelings, and then the burning anger he felt about them.
Ah, but how furious he was. Indeed, he almost looked like he could barely breathe, as if his chest were so full that his lungs could not expand; as if he might combust into flames, with only the strength of his feelings as a catalyst.
As if he could have flown at Zenos and set upon him with nothing but his bare hands and teeth, ripping and tearing Zenos’ flesh like a savage beast.
Zenos sighed as he stroked up from his base, back arching somewhat at the thought.
For all of his friend’s bluster and contrariness—what an obedient creature he could be.
Zenos held Faust’s gaze as he worked himself. Leisurely, his warm palm glided up his shaft, twisting gently at the head before descending again to the base. With each stroke, pleasure rippled out to the extremities of his body; delicate shivers clambered up his spine, fizzling at the base of his skull. He sighed, hips thrusting lazily to meet his hand.
And Faust watched him, unblinkingly—the blood rising to color his pale face.
A soft groan passed Zenos’ lips.
What piercing green eyes.
Piercing green eyes, that broke with Zenos’.
It was only a stray glance; a passing moment of weakness. Zenos watched him—watched the anger flicker out, leaving just a clear view of the feelings behind it.
Zenos watched Faust watch his hand as it slid up the length of his cock, slick and bathed in oil.
Zenos watched him shift uncomfortably in his seat.
And since the spell had already been broken, Zenos allowed his own eyes to wander. His friend looked fetching in his new attire, sporting his new weapon—the heavy guillotine that stood, propped at the door. Zenos wanted to see him wield it; he wanted the naked fury and breathy intimacy of close combat. Faust had been strong before, but it had all been sinewy, lean muscle; while still slender, he must have had to train hard to gain the strength to wield such a heavy sword—to say nothing of his apparent certainty that it could protect him from Zenos.
His pauldrons made him seem bigger than he really was, but Zenos knew that his friend still must have been broader in the shoulders and chest since they’d last seen each other.
And Zenos sucked in a breath as he lovingly twisted his palm around his head and stroked down, a shiver rattling up his back. He arched into his hand.
He wanted to peel his friend from his new armor, and discover for himself the changes his new discipline had wrought upon him.
Already, despite the pauldrons and armor, his friend seemed so much more accessible. Covered from his throat to his feet, but not buried and shapeless in cloaks and hoods and billowing hakama. His coat cut away to give an excellent view of his elegant, shapely legs, in the sleek, black trousers and clinging thigh boots.
Zenos let his eyelids droop as he savored the thought of his friend’s spread thighs and the warm embrace of his body.
And then Zenos spied the bulge in his friend’s trousers.
Zenos focused closely, but the slender, oblong shape pressed against Faust’s leg by his clothing was unmistakable.
The outline of his friend’s erection.
Zenos watched him through his eyelashes—watched him, red-faced and transfixed by the easy motion of Zenos’ hand along his length; watched his mind drift to a salve for the hard ache throbbing against his leg. Watched him admire Zenos’ pleasure.
Watched his green eyes spark and snap abruptly back to Zenos’, blazing bright once more.
But not with anger, this time—or at least, not as much anger. No, his eyes burned with determination . Transparently, the determination to resist temptation. The temptation he had been plainly resisting since he sat down across from Zenos; the temptation that Zenos had sensed on him the moment he’d laid eyes on him.
But from the way he squirmed in his seat, knees clamped tightly together and fingers dug into the arms of the chair, Zenos knew it was a losing game.
It wasn’t as if he could just look at Zenos’ face to stop himself from seeing Zenos pleasure himself.
And Zenos wondered, what was he thinking of; what part was the point of fixation? Zenos’ hand, lovingly working his cock, both slick with oil and precum; did he want to be the one working, or the one who was worked? Did he want Zenos in his hands—or in some other part of him?
Again, Zenos groaned, long and low, as he thrust up into his hand. The pressure building behind his hips had become somewhat significant, and he was beginning to feel impatient with his own leisurely pace. His body begged him to work faster, to bring himself to climax.
But Zenos swallowed back the urge with a small, breathy grunt of exertion.
And he watched as across the room, Faust shifted, face twisted in almost a grimace and feet braced against the floor like he might leap up from his chair. Zenos watched the shallow rise and fall of his chest, and he imagined the pounding heart and rushing blood within.
Oh, how badly he desired him!
But Faust did not move; he remained rigid in his seat, even as he radiated desire. Restrained as he was, surely he would have gotten up and left Zenos to his solitary pleasure, whatever the cost to himself—could he have done so. But his continued presence indicated that he could not remove himself, because he could not restrain himself against the strength of his own aching want.
He was paralyzed, and helpless to do anything but what Zenos had demanded of him.
But would he remain so? Or would the last shackles of his self-control break, and send him lunging across the room to take whatever it was he wanted?
Indeed, perhaps what he wanted was not Zenos in some part of him; perhaps he desired some part of him in Zenos.
Zenos liked the idea of being left the way he had last left Faust. All of his fight spent, and at the mercy of his friend’s ravenous sexual appetites. What would his friend do with him then, he wondered?
Zenos felt the pressure swell, and savored it.
And across the parlor, Faust squirmed in his seat.
Zenos watched him paw at himself.
Carefully and covertly, he made a passing attempt at acting like he was adjusting how his trousers had gathered at his hips. But Zenos saw the way he dragged the heel of his hand across the bulge against his leg, and saw the flicker of hunger in his eyes.
A little indulgence to sate the appetite.
“No touching yourself,” Zenos growled, low and sensuous, from deep in his chest.
Faust started like he’d been shot. His eyes snapped back to Zenos’, hot with both mortified horror and a fresh rush of fury, as all of the blood rushed to his face—even his neck and the tips of his ears. He crossed his arms and legs tight, as if twisting in on himself, like this would spare him from the indignity of arousal by his own cherished enemy.
He glared at Zenos, his anger burning just as bright as his red face.
Zenos sighed, tilting his head back a little to consider his friend. “Ah; but there is a thought,” he hummed. “You, spread out in the quiet comfort of your bed, eagerly milking yourself for pleasure—and thinking only of me. Gasping and groaning for release; spilling out over your hand as you finally claim it from the dream of me you so lovingly conjured for this very purpose.” Zenos paused, letting his own imagery wash over him. “It is… inspiring.”
Faust’s fingers knotted themselves in his sleeves, and he clenched his jaw—eyes so black with fury that Zenos knew he had struck home.
It brought a new urgency to Zenos’ own gratification.
“Yes,” he groaned, thrusting up into his hand, finally conceding to stroke himself a little faster. His patience was wearing, but not yet completely worn through. “Keep looking at me like that. How radiant your fury.” His heart raced, and a thin tremble claimed his thighs as he ached. “Ah, to tear you from those clothes and leave my mark upon you. Suckling at the soft, milky-white flesh between your thighs until it blossoms in reds and blues; until you beg for me to wrap my lips around you and swallow you whole—to greedily drink and drink of you, until I have left you completely dry.”
The pressure between his hips surged higher, and Zenos’ breaths came a little faster, now. “To leave you begging, instead, as I climb, tracing the topography of your body and planting flowers beneath your skin. Hungry for the taste of you; basking in the warmth of your scent—your desperation; your need for satisfaction.”
Zenos groaned again, low, from the very pit of his chest, as a wave of pleasure washed over him. He arched his back, twisting his wrist on the down stroke. “To settle at your breast and make you squirm and plead for the relief of my touch,” he growled, nearly breathless. “To deny you.”
Faust somehow stiffened. His shoulders tensed, and he reached again for the bracing stability of the chair, digging his fingers back into its arms. His lips pursed tighter and his brows pinched deeper. His folded legs clenched.
The look in his eyes; full of anger and shame—and a desperate hunger.
Zenos’ whole body resonated with the sight.
His breaths came quick and shallow; the words were harder to find—but he forced them out, all the same. He was close; so, so close. “To at last indulge you! To listen to your beating heart; your groaning and supplication as I bring you the euphoria of release. To watch you writhe as you grasp for it with both hands, wild with your own voracious need—”
Faust’s face twitched and his body shuddered.
A soft whine slipped between his pinched lips.
Zenos sucked in a sharp breath.
His eyes closed as the force of his orgasm crashed over him.
Behind his eyelids, he saw stars as warm pleasure flooded his body. He moaned, low and earnest, as he pumped himself for whatever else he had; semen dribbling warm down from his tip, oozing over his fingers to mix with the oil. Determined to ride the wave of his climax to its absolute conclusion.
He reeled, breathless and blind—and finally, finished.
And when he had tired of basking in the afterglow, Zenos again opened his eyes.
Faust remained precisely where he had been the whole time—stone stiff in that armchair, eyes burning as he stared at Zenos from across the parlor, and face drawn in a compelling combination of anger and wild, animal hunger.
Zenos looked at the clench of his fingers against the arms of the chair and the tight press of his crossed thighs. How hard he had worked to obey Zenos.
How badly he wanted to satisfy himself.
But he had been a good audience: polite, receptive, and attentive through to the very end.
His friend deserved a reward.
“Now,” sighed Zenos, at last. His eyes fixed again on Faust’s, unblinking as he held his gaze. “Relieve yourself.”
Faust’s body almost convulsed, and the color rose higher in his cheeks; his whole face tightened, from his jaws to his brows, as if holding onto something on the verge of escape. He could not speak like this; he could only glare at Zenos.
“Why so shy? You were so eager before.” Zenos tilted his head a little to one side, his curtain of blond hair spilling against the back of the sofa. His cock was soft again in his hand—weighty and warm in his palm. “Come; relieve yourself. And since you were so cooperative, I shall repay the favor.” He blinked slowly, gaze sharpening to a piercing edge. “You shall have my full attention throughout.”
But again, his friend said nothing; he only glared at him.
Burning anger, and burning shame—and desperate, screaming hunger.
A smile curved Zenos’ lips. It suited him.
Zenos watched as Faust gingerly unfolded himself. The outline of his erection was clearer than it had been before, and Zenos thought he spied a darker spot near where his tip pressed against the fabric.
Zenos watched eagerly as—with trembling hands—Faust unbuttoned his trousers.