There was something oddly satisfying about rendering Zevran to a single language, to making it difficult for him to utter in any language except for that exquisite Antivian that made the Chevalier want to draw the words right out of the assassin's lungs. It didn't really matter what the other said to him, he could lie still and listen to the elf murmur those sweet, rolling words into his ear until temptation overwhelmed him. He would keep such thoughts to himself, for now it was just another way for Zevran to weaken his knees. There was something to be said for being on this side of things and watching his companion writhe in pleasure, at least as much as he could in this position. The labored breathing, the sharp intake of his breath, how he moved against him for more and how Michel wished to give it.
Michel had no formal training so much of his efforts were rooted in what he could remember and his own genuine enthusiasm for Zevran's body, for his responses, for a single intense glance his way. Lack of training meant he knew no tricks, that his attentions weren't practiced, but raw and genuine, he was still exploring all of the things that caused Zevran to bend and twine, ache from the slow-burn of his attentions and he had a mind to learn them all in time--and that in of itself should have struck Michel, who was a man of one night stands and few encounters, as a peculiar thing to desire.
Though he might not understand the content of what Zevran was saying to him, the tone was clear enough for Michel to understand, and there was no intent to stop until Zevran either came, or needed more from him. With that in mind he took as much of Zevran into his mouth as he could manage, maintaining the tight seal of his mouth as he continued with his pulsing suction, head slowly bobbing up and down in tandem with the constrained movements of Zevran's hips. He wouldn't say that this wasn't strange, but the way the elf swelled and throbbed against his tongue triggered Michel's more primal instincts and he growled softly in the back of his throat.
After a time the Chevalier closed his eyes, becoming completely involved in what he was doing, the heat of his mouth withdrawing so that he could explore more, trace the network of veins, follow the swirling designs of his tattoos, circling the base of his cock before sweeping his tongue upward in an elegant gesture to tease and gently probe at the flushed tip. Elves certainly had their own unique flavor, though Michel could scarcely say he had anything to compare it by. He would have to taste other men first and at the moment the idea had little appeal to him, he was certain there was no compairison to this particular flavor.
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Date: 2016-02-27 08:27 am (UTC)Michel had no formal training so much of his efforts were rooted in what he could remember and his own genuine enthusiasm for Zevran's body, for his responses, for a single intense glance his way. Lack of training meant he knew no tricks, that his attentions weren't practiced, but raw and genuine, he was still exploring all of the things that caused Zevran to bend and twine, ache from the slow-burn of his attentions and he had a mind to learn them all in time--and that in of itself should have struck Michel, who was a man of one night stands and few encounters, as a peculiar thing to desire.
Though he might not understand the content of what Zevran was saying to him, the tone was clear enough for Michel to understand, and there was no intent to stop until Zevran either came, or needed more from him. With that in mind he took as much of Zevran into his mouth as he could manage, maintaining the tight seal of his mouth as he continued with his pulsing suction, head slowly bobbing up and down in tandem with the constrained movements of Zevran's hips. He wouldn't say that this wasn't strange, but the way the elf swelled and throbbed against his tongue triggered Michel's more primal instincts and he growled softly in the back of his throat.
After a time the Chevalier closed his eyes, becoming completely involved in what he was doing, the heat of his mouth withdrawing so that he could explore more, trace the network of veins, follow the swirling designs of his tattoos, circling the base of his cock before sweeping his tongue upward in an elegant gesture to tease and gently probe at the flushed tip. Elves certainly had their own unique flavor, though Michel could scarcely say he had anything to compare it by. He would have to taste other men first and at the moment the idea had little appeal to him, he was certain there was no compairison to this particular flavor.