mouths lips tongues etc�
mouths lips tongues etc�
mouths lips tongues etc… by K M B
All Gojyo wants is a taste. Nothing more, nothing less.
The three aren’t lovers. Not even partners. Hardly friends. But they are drunk—two on wine, one on heady emotion—and they find themselves alone. Thankfully their fourth had decided to retire early. Sanzo, the unspoken leader in everything, is once again the instigator, the orchestrator. He tests with touch, with lust, with potency. He begs to be fondled and orders to be loved
arms: enfolding
and every single time the other two give in.
Fingers curl in hair, in hemlines, in mouths. Wet, tasting salt, tasting lust and impending sex and OH their hands are like fire to Sanzo. It’s easy to get the robe off because Sanzo does it himself, writhing like some sort of erotic sex show on Gojyo’s lap
hips: bucking
fingers: sucked
mouth: snarling, but not kissing
as the cloth slides to their fused laps.
The leather of the arm sheaths and the solid black top follow just as easily, as if Sanzo suddenly abhors the thought of clothing. His own hand with an impatient grace pops the button of his jeans. The other two remain fully clothed.
Hakkai’s fingers play along the absence of Sanzo’s clothing, touching the nobs of his shoulder bones and sliding his hands down his arms then closing at his chest, graceful fingertips ghosting and making Sanzo shiver and wriggle more. It is a chain reaction Gojyo is happy as hell to be on the bottom of, Sanzo’s skinny ass grinding into his cock
legs: opening and groins: rubbing
as he sits prone on the single chair in the middle of the room.
Sanzo only ever does this when he’s drunk out of his mind, cause when he’s drunk he can’t think, and when he can’t think he can do whatever he wants.
At first, Hakkai is the fringe, the second stage at the festival. Necessary, wanted, but it’s Gojyo who is the show. Brings Sanzo off every time, fingers wrapped around his priestly cock. Sanzo arches, his blond head hitting Hakkai’s hard abdomen and tilting upwards so Gojyo can have a better advantage against his throat, his mouth sucking what feels like his very life essence out with a locking jaw. Sanzo slits his eyes open—colorless in the dim lighting of the dark inn room—to watch Hakkai and Gojyo
hands: grabbing, clinging, pulling, pushing, silencing
touch him.
It’s always Hakkai’s mouth, however, that Sanzo steals the ending-credit kiss from, swallowing his orgasm, a fact that heats Gojyo’s cheeks and makes his eyes close for a moment as he, too, spills over from the friction, from the excitement, from the red-hot disappointment that it isn’t him again, and then
lips: meeting
mouths: opening, gasping and tongues: touching
Hakkai is on him, sharing the kiss and Gojyo is in aching hell, dying as he watches Hakkai bring himself over pressed to Sanzo’s back and fuck if it isn’t good.
Fuck if it isn’t hot.
Fuck if he doesn’t need it right now.
Fuck if they all don’t.
And in the morning, it isn’t forgotten. It weighs in their
eyes: shifting
gazes, left unspoken as they play pretend. Until the next time.