[ Just for you, he says and puts himself completely on display, pushing his pelvis upwards and making it very obvious that yes, indeed, he's in need of a hand. Or whatever else. For a moment, Jean Louis just watches him from his position between his legs, the way he pushes back against the wall, muscles working to accommodate the slight change in position on the settee. When you've seen Claude on stage, the very definition of bodily control, from the way he jumps to his spins and his acting - it's actually rather endearing to have him like this. Just a man, trying to get comfortable. It's a privilege, he thinks, to a certain extent. Means it's worth something.
In that regard, once again, they're a bit alike. Parliament, after all, is a stage as well.
Breathing out, he runs his hands slowly up Claude's legs again, fingers splayed out against his inner thighs this time, fingertips brushing against the hem of his briefs. His cock looks very much in need of attention, the cotton pulled tight around its hardness. Brow furrowing slightly, he presses his palm flatly against the bulge, feeling the contours clearly underneath - shaft, head, balls further down. He's hot, is Claude - heated - and it goes straight into Jean Louis' bloodstream, translates itself into a language that's by and large universal. His body certainly recognises it well enough. Feeling a sudden rush of impatience, he reaches up and pulls the hem over and down. Claude's briefs come off a lot easier than his jeans, thank God, or he'd have to start pulling at them for real, and who knows what would happen if he ruined them? He might just owe the other man another pair and then, he'd have to find a way to buy them without actively buying a pair of pink cotton briefs... complicated.
Like this, though, he's got a naked Claude Bérubé sitting sprawled on his settee and the night's definitely looking up. He doesn't have to feel or think about that constant undercurrent of unease, lingering behind in Marcel's absence, the thought that the other man's off to Amsterdam (by himself, alone, he's alone, too). Instead, they can drown themselves, he and Claude, and Claude's free to forget as well, isn't he? Whatever it is that he's longing for; because surely, it isn't this, this is simply convenient and that's fine, too. Once again - human nature. ]
I should probably help you with that as well, don't you think?
[ His tone sounds hoarser now, like the heat from Claude's body's settled somewhere around his vocal chords - in a few minutes, it won't be too far from the truth, either. Smile gone, replaced by a look of intense concentration, he folds his hand around the length of Claude's hard cock, a light grip, just a beginning. Pulling slowly up and down, his grip too dry still to make any real impact, he reaches into his pocket with the other, fishing out a condom like an afterthought. Gone are the days of unprotected sex - that was him and Marcel, only, back when they were still getting settled.]
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In that regard, once again, they're a bit alike. Parliament, after all, is a stage as well.
Breathing out, he runs his hands slowly up Claude's legs again, fingers splayed out against his inner thighs this time, fingertips brushing against the hem of his briefs. His cock looks very much in need of attention, the cotton pulled tight around its hardness. Brow furrowing slightly, he presses his palm flatly against the bulge, feeling the contours clearly underneath - shaft, head, balls further down. He's hot, is Claude - heated - and it goes straight into Jean Louis' bloodstream, translates itself into a language that's by and large universal. His body certainly recognises it well enough. Feeling a sudden rush of impatience, he reaches up and pulls the hem over and down. Claude's briefs come off a lot easier than his jeans, thank God, or he'd have to start pulling at them for real, and who knows what would happen if he ruined them? He might just owe the other man another pair and then, he'd have to find a way to buy them without actively buying a pair of pink cotton briefs... complicated.
Like this, though, he's got a naked Claude Bérubé sitting sprawled on his settee and the night's definitely looking up. He doesn't have to feel or think about that constant undercurrent of unease, lingering behind in Marcel's absence, the thought that the other man's off to Amsterdam (by himself, alone, he's alone, too). Instead, they can drown themselves, he and Claude, and Claude's free to forget as well, isn't he? Whatever it is that he's longing for; because surely, it isn't this, this is simply convenient and that's fine, too. Once again - human nature. ]
I should probably help you with that as well, don't you think?
[ His tone sounds hoarser now, like the heat from Claude's body's settled somewhere around his vocal chords - in a few minutes, it won't be too far from the truth, either. Smile gone, replaced by a look of intense concentration, he folds his hand around the length of Claude's hard cock, a light grip, just a beginning. Pulling slowly up and down, his grip too dry still to make any real impact, he reaches into his pocket with the other, fishing out a condom like an afterthought. Gone are the days of unprotected sex - that was him and Marcel, only, back when they were still getting settled.]