Peccadillo

Peccadillo

Performances had always left him feeling exhilarated, craving for more or something else all together. The annihilation of the Dominic Pharmaceuticals had been one of his best. In truth, the National Art Museum had been just as astonishing, but it hadn’t been personal. There had been no interruptions, no toys to torment, no witnesses to whom to tell his secret – the nature of their ‘business’.

Barcelona crumbled around him. What a beautiful melody. From the shadows, the faint sound of crying emerged. Pitiful, really but nevertheless exciting.

“You’re such a sadist.”

For once there was no reprimand, no immediate banter. Isaak smiled, footsteps echoing off the marble floor, resonating upon the empty expanse of the darkened cathedral, topped by the light swish of heavy fabric.

The small number of candles that had been lit cast shadows upon his long features, accenting that smile, the glint of his grey-colored eyes. A sweet-scented cloud of smoke hung around him; ashes were dropped carelessly to the floor. Thin, pale lips parted, exhaling a cloud of smoke as his steps came to a halt, if only momentarily. “I could say the same for you, Dietrich.” He returned, purring. His gaze swept over the Terran’s thin, almost frail body and the thin cigarette was flicked away carelessly.

Little time was wasted. Dietrich knew best than to question the hand that shoved him back, the gloved fingers that pulled him from the side aisle and into the antique wooden confessional that sat against the church’s stone wall.

“Maa~ Isaak,” the Terran breathed, back slamming against the heavy wood, knees backing against the worn seat. It wasn’t a complain, not really. And if it had been, it was quickly silenced by demanding lips and a forceful tongue; by the hands that unbuckled the belt at his waist, parting the thigh length uniform in order to reach the waistband of his pants, yanking them open, and pushing them downward just enough to reveal Dietrich’s throbbing arousal.

Perhaps it was the rushed, desperate way he was doing things, or the fact that Isaak hadn’t even bothered to take off his gloves before wrapping long elegant fingers around his weeping cock. Fastidious as he was about his appearance, this sudden slip only aroused him further – if that was even possible. Either way, it warranted a short cry from him; his head thrown back to thump against the solid wood behind him. It didn’t matter. Nothing other than the friction-induced pleasure did at that moment.

What a marvelous little toy he made, Isaak noted, a grin upon thin lips. He who played with people’s lives, manipulating them to suit his very will now sat beneath him, writhing in pleasure, giving up all his influence in trade of a quick, rough fuck. It sent a shiver down his spine.

His free hand slid up the Terran’s still clothed chest, grasping his chin firmly, only to then tilt his head up. Lips fastened themselves to that bared throat. The once-neat necktie hastily loosened and thus widening the collar of his shirt. A faint gasp brushed his ear, he felt the twitch of muscles beneath his body and then a low, shuddering groan as teeth sunk into that warm, sensitive flesh. And thus he marked him – it wasn’t the first time, nor would it be the last. Dietrich was his after all. The coppery taste of blood invaded his mouth, sprinkling upon his tongue for just a short while. He wouldn’t take much. Not just yet. Isaak’s sole intention was to hear that groan, feel the effect it had on him.

Meeting those amber-colored eyes, he brought hand up to crimson-tainted lips. Teeth snatched at the tips of his gloves, slowly pulling the embroidered white fabric from pale fingers. In the darkness of the small compartment he saw the wanton look that crossed his lover’s face and grinned. Releasing his throbbing length, Isaak took the time to unbutton the extent of his coat, much to Die’s desperation. The buckle was undone, his black slacks dropped, to pool around knee-high military boots.

Like a little whore, Dietrich’s lips wrapped around his fingers, suckling greedily, properly lapping at the very fingers that only moments later invaded him, pressed against and into him. At least Isaak was courteous enough to give him that much preparation. It amounted to little, however, as the Terran pushed himself down, impaling himself upon the slick fingers that stretched him.

“Eager little slut aren’t you,” Isaak purred, and immediately shoved him back against the wooden wall.

“Shut up and fuck me, Magician.”

Eager and demanding. A quiet, throaty chuckle escaped him but he did not delay. The need was too great, even for him. Fingers hooked around the waistband of his lover’s pants, tugging the soft material downward. There was no time to get them off. No need when all he needed was proper access.

The heavy curtain behind him was disrupted as he leaned forward, pressing himself into him none-too-gently. Dietrich cried out, unrestrained. The sound beautifully muffled by the antique confessional, though all too obviously disrupting the revered silence of the cathedral.

“Forgive me Father,” he whispered, momentarily breathless at the sudden tight heat that clamped around his cock. The irony was too great; whether he merely spoke the words to mock the teachings of the despised Vatican, or as an affront to the events of the night it was hard to tell. One hand pressed to the solid wall beside him, the other wound around Dietrich’s slim waist, pressing to the small of his back. “for we sin within your House…” A groan escaped him before he could say anything further.

Beneath him, Dietrich actually laughed – it was an airy, ragged sound but a laugh none the less before it was cut off by a shuddering grasp. Isaak had deemed his momentary rest enough time to get used to his intrusion and started to move against him. Slow, albeit deep thrusts rocked him, causing incoherent little sounds to befall his lips; his breath to hitch in his throat with every sensation that threatened to overwhelm him. He reached out, fingers hooking onto the confessional’s doorframe, betraying a touch of white, the cuff of his sleeve. The only things visible from the outside. It was incriminating enough just the same.

His free hand tangled into the long strands of Isaak’s hair, at the back of his neck; twisting into that long stream of silky black painfully. This earned a groan from the usually oh-so-composed Methuselah himself. The sound resonated deep within his throat, bringing a soft gasp to his lips.

There was no gentle touches between them, no words of affection. It was rough, it was dirty. It was extremely kinky. With each powerful rock of his hips, Dietrich pushed himself down, taking him deeper, wanting more – needing more even as he felt as if he were about to blow. The air was stifling within the small compartment and pressed tightly against him as he was, cries muffled against the shoulder of Isaak’s uniform, it wasn’t long until he felt the trickle of perspiration slide down the back of his neck.

Rough and quick was how he liked it and just how he received it. The previous exhilaration quickly dissipating with each thrust, each slam of flesh, each husky breath that escaped him. Lips met, hungrily, demanding, teeth clashing carelessly, tongues exploring, playing their game of domination – a game Dietrich usually seemed to lose.

So close. So very close to the edge. It was then Isaak took his liberty, finding the previous perforated mark upon the bend of his neck – usually covered by the pristine shirt collar – and reopened it. Oh he was sweet – too sweet. The hand at his back slid around, fingers once more wrapping around Dietrich’s throbbing length. He tugged at him, milked the pleasure from him in cue to each rhythmic thrust.

Whatever sound of protest he would’ve made was overcome by a shiver of pleasure, a muffled groan. The little bastard enjoyed it. Masochist. One more thrust and muscles spasmed, seating himself deeply within his lover’s ardent, willing body. He released his neck, gritting his teeth against the wave of pleasure that washed over him. Even as white flashed behind his eyes, and his climax exploded hotly within him, a moment of clear-headedness came to him.

“Don’t…” he breathed harshly, breath hot against his ear.

Beneath him Dietrich snarled, “What… Isaak!” then hissed. No doubt in momentary pain as his fingers squeezed the sensitive flesh of his cock, forcing orgasm at bay.

He slipped from him easily, slick and flaccid as the last few waves slid over him. Instead of slipping out of the tight space, he crouched down, then pressed a knee to the floor, bowing his head over his lover’s groin. He heard the gasp that escaped him as realization sunk in. The appreciative moan as his lips enveloped his scalding flesh, mercilessly sucking him off and eventually sucking him dry to the last drop. Couldn’t just make a mess, now could they?

At last Dietrich’s shuddering subsided, breath returning to normal, although he still did appear a little flushed. Within moments, belts were buckled once more, his coat buttoned. A clove light up, a deep breath taken and then released, slowly, savoring the sweet taste it left lingering upon his tongue. In this light, Isaak appeared as if nothing had just happened. With the exception of the faint color to his cheeks or the few tangles in his hair.

“Gonna leave me like this?” Dietrich complained, still far from presentable, though not seeming to mind it.

His grey visage glimpsed down as gloved fingers pushed the heavy curtain aside. At last faint light was cast within. “Do it yourself,” he smiled through a cloud of smoke and stepped out into the cool chamber of the cathedral.

The Terran glared but pushed himself up, pulling his clothes back in order. He stepped out of the small enclosure as fingers still fought with the knot of his tie. A brow was arced as he looked upon the normally impeccable sight that was his Methuselah lover, and grinned. “Isaak,” he called quietly, deviously. Once he had his proper attention, he continued. “You’re wrinkled.”

“Tch!”