Title: In the Event
Rating R-ish but, I hope, sweet
Cleveland and Cathcart
Word Count 495
In the Event
It had been so strange, afterward.
The immediate madness drained away, and a sweet floating joy seeped in somehow.
Always before-- the few times before, the shameful needy times, there had been things to do. He had been aware, always, that he needed to dress, to pay cheerfully for what he had been given, and to leave before he got rolled and robbed. Always before he had been aware of his body, too fat, too slow, too fast. And he had thought of Saphronia, those times, as he gasped, and pushed and peaked. That was shameful too.
But oh, this. This was nothing like that. She nestled against him, moving like a settling bird. He reached up once to push her hair out of his face, smooth it down, away from his nose. Her head fit his shoulder perfectly.
How strange to be in a bed, to have the whole night ahead, and the morning too. Here were clean sheets, and a dim, slow, motionless, evening out the window. No wonder people got married.
He knew he had hurt her. He had felt the barrier break, she had bit down on her lip, but she had pushed against him too, he had felt her heart, her kisses. He had only been able to imagine it, before, like wounds he had seen from flying splinters. He had feared, as he wanted her, feared to hurt her so. But it had not been as bad as that. And now she curled close to him, took his hand a moment, released it. She reached out shy to place her fingers on his leg.
“Can I-- can I touch it?” She did not look up to meet his eye.
Her question, more than her soft fingers, scorched him with desire. She touched and it was nothing like his own touch on himself. He was hurried at such times, expert, and slightly impatient. She touched him with wandering curious gentleness. She looked down, to see where her own hands went. His cock was still soft and sleepy. Christopher thought it was, perhaps, simply astonished.
“I've never seen one, you know, not up close.”
“I never thought of that.” Indeed he could not imagine it.
Her hand was growing bolder now, touching his hair, ghosting over his balls. Christopher shivered.
“Are you cold?” She was fishing the blanket up from the foot of the bed. She was turned away from him now, and he could see the shadow in the fine curve of her spine. She curved out again at the top of her bum. It reminded him of the top of Clayton's long ago fiddle.
And he had not thought he had been cold, but the blankets over them both felt good. She settled against him again. He felt her yawn. He yawned too. His eyes were closing. It was all right. There was more time.