Satin

Written: March 13, 2014 10:18 PM
Finished: March 13, 2014 11:18 PM
Rating: M
Warning: Cross-dressing, dubious age/consent, long, wandering sentences
Pairing: Finitevus/Egon

He stands in the bathroom and looks at himself in the mirror, forces himself to look, because he's sick to death of shying away, of trying not to acknowledge this to himself, of avoiding it, of being some flustered, embarrassed child when that's not what his employer wants from him.

All of his clothing is on the floor, lying wherever he left it. The first time-- the first time he did this, he tried to fold everything neatly and leave it on the countertop, but his hands had been shaking so badly, and he made himself sick, and that wasn't even with any of the strangeness that had begun to infuse their interactions.

There he is, pale in the face, looking like he's two seconds away from throwing up, eyes dark-ringed and only adding to the sickly look. It's times like this that his age is betrayed by his features. He wonders if Finitevus can see this, or if he's too distracted by the outfit. It's clear that a lot of thought has gone into this. The waistline and chest on the pieces both fit closely, although there's no way he could pick something like this off the shelf with the dimensions he has to his name. The colour is good too, it's a nice pastel. Both pieces are rouched and scalloped like sea-shells, light gradients shading the pinkish tone darker toward the bottom of the cups, and the place between his legs. They are so soft and delicate, all satin and chiffon, never intended for any other purpose but this, and if a woman was wearing it, he'd find her desirable. 

A woman wouldn't be ruining the soft lines with a bulge that didn't belong, or making the colours dark and bad with a big wet spot. He knows he isn't big, but his body doesn't let him keep it in when the soft fabrics rub up against him like that, repetitive, insistent motions that coax him out. He is a terrible, fallen individual -- child, his brain supplies venomously -- and he wants to know what will happen if he puts his clothing back on and calls a cab and goes home. If he says 'this is too much', and asserts his boundaries--- but wouldn't Finitevus just point out that he is clearly aroused by this, and talk him through exactly what's giving him these issues, in a way that makes him feel small and stupid for ever questioning him, for ever doubting him, in a way that means they won't go to bed like this, and he'll spend another month aching and straining at the seams for another opportunity to meet?

He doesn't want to risk it. He doesn't have the spine for that.

He pulls his hair-tie out and lets his long, unmanaged quills drape over his shoulders and frame his face. There's one last examination of his rump in the outfit-- he didn't have to ask for the man to supply him with something that covered his backside, not like those terrible, uncomfortable-looking thongs-- and then he leans in toward the mirror and begins applying the makeup, just enough to hide the dark shadows, balance out his skin tone and the last vestiges of his adolescence. Finitevus likes him as natural as possible, but he also has that quiet belief in unworldly beauty of the magazines and the movies, which means a cream concealer, powder foundation, a light glossy tint to the lips, a little eyeliner, and a puff of blush-- just enough to look more 'natural' than he'd look at the end of a long workday like this.

His fingers fumble with the dressing gown's tie, another piece of clothing Finitevus picked out for him that doesn't really cover him or work as conventional clothing (transluscent, embroidered with multi-colour silk, cuffed at the neck and arms with some sort of fur-like fabric with long, thick strands), but which excites the man as an easy layer to unwrap. He almost forgets the sheer stockings of the same pink as the two-piece, but slips them on quickly, soft as feathers and light as spring wind, and opens the door to the darkened master bedroom.

The satin rubs against crotch with each step he takes, and he is constantly aware of his body with these garments, fur trying to prickle up under the stockings, thighs desperately trying to crush the arousal down into something manageable before he drips his unvoiced desires right through the panties, and he finally meets his employer at the edge of the bed, watching those normally calm, welcoming, rational eyes blown out with lust, pupils filling out to the edges with a black that betrays what all men are like under their intelligence and their manners and their covers.

Finitevus picks at the knot on the dressing down, pushes the front open, and breathes him in, attuned to every part of him, especially his scent, and he's glad the man can't see his face with the embarrassment written all over it. The older man focuses on his stomach first, kissing and licking in a way that makes his legs tremble, before nudging his head down and nuzzling the satin-trapped bulge. It takes everything within him not to vocalize that, and he almost gives out right there. He's guided up onto the bed, angled so he's above him, legs spread one on each side of Finitevus' hips, up and away on all fours while everywhere that is soft is touched.

"Beautiful," is a word that's used. "Perfect. Innocent. Lovely." Traditionally gendered words, confusing him all over again about what Finitevus sees and what he wants from him, as deft hands palm at his chest, caress over the panties right at his cloaca, denting in, but not giving him what he wants, and the frustration spills out in tears that are kissed and cajoled away. 

There's a clasp at the waist, a loop over a single pearl bead, and then that sweet torment is pushed aside to one leg, and he arches up, free from his confines, and running wet down himself in an eager stream of pearlized pre-cum, and he's past the point of caring what's right, or normal, or how Finitevus cares about it. The underside is stroked once, with one teasing little claw-tip, and then his man tests how ready he is for him. Finitevus hasn't had to tuck or hide his desire, he reminds himself, staring it on. The doctor just guides him down onto it, a smooth, single motion to bottom him out despite his inexperience, and the jolt that sends his tail pointing sky high, and he remembers, in moments like this, why he's willing to put up with things that are completely out of his depth.

It isn't riding. Finitevus is doing all the work, pulling the strings, guiding him down and down again with expert hands to wring as much pleasure as possible out of his lithe form, and he's willing to let him when the perks are so desirable, when the thoughts leave him and all there is is pure sensation, pure release from his conscience and his shame and his secrets and everything except for the moment, and the pleasure, and the man he loves. He's successful at stifling most of the cries, but some pathetic whimpers and warbles still make their way of out his mouth, unbidden, and there's a streak of white on Finitevus' face in amusement of this-- this terrible weakness.

He can't endure for very long, always trying to buck his own way down, as if he could do it better, always just a moment's chance from spilling over him, but for the grace of Gaia, but he's slowly getting better at it, and it's only moments after his own pleasure overpowers him that Finitevus fills him like a storm-surge, a violent, primal thrust up into him and release. He holds the panties away when he pulls off, not wanting to damage something beautiful with their shameful discharge, and his employer laughs, finding everything amusing post-coitus. A handful of tissues, applied quickly, take care of most of the mess on him, in him, although he feels gross and debauched and shamefully aroused by even this, and he re-does the clasp and pulls the panties back on at Finitevus' order.

The man moves to the clean side of the bed, pulls him close, and wraps an arm around him, kissing and gnawing at his neck now, and always with expressions of what a good boy he was, how attentive he was, how quickly he's learning, and how much Finitevus enjoyed it, and how next time must make it up to him, because pleasures like this are few and far between, and he half wants to sleep, half wants to push the satin aside and make him put it in again until he has no other use but to warm his cock.

He isn't sure that the doctor would do this if he knew how old he is, and he isn't sure the doctor even knows, because he certainly never asked. He can feel the oozing wetness still coming through, certain to wreck the delicate clothing, and he wonders if there's an applicable metaphor there, for the stains and the fluids and his own transformations, but he tucks his legs around Finitevus' thigh, and pecks a kiss to his lips, and rests his head down against his strong, masculine chest to hear the hitches in his breath and the amused, deep churls of satisfaction and possession that speaks to him more than Finitevus would ever willingly say. 

He promises to himself that he won't cry this time. That's still something he has to work on.