Sean was incredibly warm, and it wasn't just the Idaho sunshine that was doing it. He was aware distinctly of Viggo's movements around him, of his distance, and as a result his own exposure, there in the middle of the floor, white clashing against the dark brown of the studio floor. The floor didn't really make much difference, not with Viggo coming so much closer to take his photographs. Sean tilted his head back at the order, took a soft gasp--the camera snapped a photograph. He heard it--he heard everything, and only tilted his head toward the sound, swallowed, and then Viggo's hand was on him--Viggo's hand, brushing through his hair, a darting touch before he moved away. Another click.
He hadn't realised this would be as hard as it was, and yet here he was, sitting on his heels, staring into blackness as Viggo shuffled and clicked around him. He trembled, straining to listen, unsure where Viggo's photographs were wandering.
When he was touched, again, it was a shock and a delight, just a single long touch against his leg, Viggo's thumb close to his arousal, and he tried his best not to jump up. His chest raised toward the phantom touch, but Viggo was always gone, moved away, clicking at him again, clicking and clicking, and his breath was heavy, his head tipped back, then forward, wiping his wet cheerk against his shoulder, curling his fingers into fists then slowly opening them again, relaxing them once more.
"Jesus, Viggo--" The words were overwhelming, and Viggo's hand was in his hair, and he moaned softly. He just wanted to be touched, stroked. He wantd Viggo to fuck him like he said he would, he wanted... "I thought I could do this. I can't. I need you to touch me. I need you... I want to taste you." He leanted up, up and toward him, toward Viggo's throat, though it meant his hair was pulled and he came up short, biting at air.
"Take another photo," he ordered. "But don't take long. I can't wait forever." He shifted back again, sat back on his heels. "I want you... I want you to paint me. Paint me. Or better yet give me the damn paints, and I'll do it blind." He shivered, tilted his head up again, searching Viggo's eyes even though he couldn't see them. He was still bound, but the idea had settled in now.
And then when Viggo fucked him there would be paint everywhere, paint smudged on both of them, painted over the floorboards, in his hair.
"Come on," he breathed. "About time I was the one making all the mess, don't you think?"
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He hadn't realised this would be as hard as it was, and yet here he was, sitting on his heels, staring into blackness as Viggo shuffled and clicked around him. He trembled, straining to listen, unsure where Viggo's photographs were wandering.
When he was touched, again, it was a shock and a delight, just a single long touch against his leg, Viggo's thumb close to his arousal, and he tried his best not to jump up. His chest raised toward the phantom touch, but Viggo was always gone, moved away, clicking at him again, clicking and clicking, and his breath was heavy, his head tipped back, then forward, wiping his wet cheerk against his shoulder, curling his fingers into fists then slowly opening them again, relaxing them once more.
"Jesus, Viggo--" The words were overwhelming, and Viggo's hand was in his hair, and he moaned softly. He just wanted to be touched, stroked. He wantd Viggo to fuck him like he said he would, he wanted... "I thought I could do this. I can't. I need you to touch me. I need you... I want to taste you." He leanted up, up and toward him, toward Viggo's throat, though it meant his hair was pulled and he came up short, biting at air.
"Take another photo," he ordered. "But don't take long. I can't wait forever." He shifted back again, sat back on his heels. "I want you... I want you to paint me. Paint me. Or better yet give me the damn paints, and I'll do it blind." He shivered, tilted his head up again, searching Viggo's eyes even though he couldn't see them. He was still bound, but the idea had settled in now.
And then when Viggo fucked him there would be paint everywhere, paint smudged on both of them, painted over the floorboards, in his hair.
"Come on," he breathed. "About time I was the one making all the mess, don't you think?"