Caleb feels salvia flood his mouth as his eyes rake over Yussa, taking him in for the first time with the kind of time and attention he deserves. Desire is plain on his face watching even the subtle movement of his hips as he relaxes. Between his legs, his sex is temptingly flushed and glistening with arousal, and Caleb knows he would find his folds hot and tender to the touch. He hasn't gotten to yet--not with his fingers; just his tongue, his lips--but he knows.
Distractedly, Caleb gives a low hum, understanding and agreement, and leans down to kiss the newly exposed skin between Yussa's collarbone and the top of his binder. His hands sweep back down to the crux of his hips, where the rough pad of a thumb dips down to drag lightly over his beautifully swollen clit. His breath hitches.
Stay on task. Yussa has asked him to undress, and he hasn't done it yet. Tearing his gaze away, he mutters an apology in Zemnian and makes himself sit up, knelt where he is across Yussa's knees, and shrug the harness from his shoulders. It is the work of only a few moments to pull his shirt up over his head and discard it by the side of the couch, then pull the harness back on to hopefully add some interest to his skinny frame and distract a little from the latticework of scars covering his forearms. He has never worn it directly against his skin before, but the leather is treated well and worn enough not to scratch.
His pants are another matter. For one, he is still wearing his boots. With a soft grunt and a somewhat reluctant look, he makes himself stand and unlace his boots, taking much less care with their removal than he had with Yussa's. As soon as they're loose enough, he toes them off, and sets them to the side where they won't continue to track dirt onto the rug.
After that, he finally moves to his jeans. Popping open the button and dragging the fly down feels almost orgasmic itself (he gasps, soft but audible), as restrictive as the denim has been around long sustained and long ignored erection. He dares a glance up at Yussa again as he does this and finds he can't look away. Pushing his jeans down his slim hips is a further release of pressure, the hard line of his cock barely hidden by the thin grey cotton of his smalls. At the head, the fabric is darker and clinging, clearly damp.
no subject
Distractedly, Caleb gives a low hum, understanding and agreement, and leans down to kiss the newly exposed skin between Yussa's collarbone and the top of his binder. His hands sweep back down to the crux of his hips, where the rough pad of a thumb dips down to drag lightly over his beautifully swollen clit. His breath hitches.
Stay on task. Yussa has asked him to undress, and he hasn't done it yet. Tearing his gaze away, he mutters an apology in Zemnian and makes himself sit up, knelt where he is across Yussa's knees, and shrug the harness from his shoulders. It is the work of only a few moments to pull his shirt up over his head and discard it by the side of the couch, then pull the harness back on to hopefully add some interest to his skinny frame and distract a little from the latticework of scars covering his forearms. He has never worn it directly against his skin before, but the leather is treated well and worn enough not to scratch.
His pants are another matter. For one, he is still wearing his boots. With a soft grunt and a somewhat reluctant look, he makes himself stand and unlace his boots, taking much less care with their removal than he had with Yussa's. As soon as they're loose enough, he toes them off, and sets them to the side where they won't continue to track dirt onto the rug.
After that, he finally moves to his jeans. Popping open the button and dragging the fly down feels almost orgasmic itself (he gasps, soft but audible), as restrictive as the denim has been around long sustained and long ignored erection. He dares a glance up at Yussa again as he does this and finds he can't look away. Pushing his jeans down his slim hips is a further release of pressure, the hard line of his cock barely hidden by the thin grey cotton of his smalls. At the head, the fabric is darker and clinging, clearly damp.