As Claude's palm cups over the head of his cock, Aurelien watches. Typically, when he has brought Claude off in his hand, it's been with his back pressed against his chest—the same as it had been earlier, when Claude had stumbled on the stairs. Only on a few occasions has he seen him this way: face bare and unobstructed as he crumbles.
Still, Claude's face now feels different. There are no gritted teeth, as though he were trying desperately to resist his own pleasure. Aurelien's smile curls wide on his lips, self-satisfied, as his fingers trail along the skin of Claude's newly-bare calf. The pad of his thumb flicks against the softer skin behind his knee.
"Such a good boy," he hums, pleasure evident in his voice. "You did just as I said. Keep it up, and you may even earn yourself a treat."
With that said, Aurelien stands from between Claude's thighs and steps back. It takes him only a second to cast his gaze around the washroom, and a moment later, he tosses a small towel in Claude's direction.
"Wipe yourself down. And then stand for me — it will be quicker to finish your legs, that way."
After grounding himself with a few slow, steadying breaths, Claude finally opens his eyes. The first sight that greets him is Aurelien's handsome grin, and his brow furrows a little as he imagines how smug the young man must feel.
Of course, that can't be helped. Humiliation is at the heart of Aurelien's expectations for him; if he wants praise, and the benefits that go along with behaving, he'll just have to learn to live it. Now in particular, when his muscles whine in protest after he wipes himself clean and then slowly, carefully, rises to his feet.
He has never wanted to curl up in bed more than he does now. His entire body feels sore, and his thighs quiver slightly when he stands straight. Or, as straight as he can manage.
"Quicker is good," he mumbles, as though trying to justify his prompt obedience. Unsure what to do with his hands now, he crosses them behind his back, one hand clasped around the other wrist. His eyes fix on Aurelien, a renewed wariness in his stare now that he's come down from his orgasmic high.
As if in some deliberate, mocking contrast of Claude's trembling rise to his feet, Aurelien sinks to his knees at his feet in a single, fluid movement. He casts his laughing gaze upward, and as he greets Claude's face above him, its brow newly pinched with unease, the corners of his eyes crease with mirth.
"Indeed it is," he agrees, and as he does, his gaze falls low again. It focuses on Claude's quivering thigh before him; without warning, one of his broad palms snakes behind it, stroking a greedy path along its lean musculature. The crook of his thumb and forefinger comes to cup the space beneath Claude's buttocks, and Aurelien holds it there, turning his wandering hand into a crutch to brace Claude's unsteady weight.
He says nothing of the gesture—of holding Claude upright against his exhaustion. He merely returns the task at hand. His free hand rubs more of that slick oil into Claude's skin; it strokes from his knee to his hip, and then it begins a new trail downward, the broad pads of his fingertips tracing the intimate swathe of skin along Claude's inner thigh.
There's something decidedly strange about watching Aurelien from above. Maybe he should like the change from their usual positions, but the demon somehow manages to make him feel small, even when kneeling before him. The way he tilts his head back, laughter in his eyes, is as good a reminder as any that Aurelien is on his knees because he wants to be there, and Claude is at his mercy all the same.
He breaks eye contact first, gaze instead fixing on an empty patch of floor.
Only moments later he feels a familiar touch stroke upward along his thigh. That hand then braces against him, offering an unexpected bit of support for his unsteady legs. He can't help but glance back, his eyes drawn to the sight of Aurelien's broad hand rubbing slippery oil all along his thigh.
He bites back a gasp when slick fingers wander inward, his entire being still oversensitive to such an intimate touch.
Claude always makes himself so difficult to resist. The coquettish aversion of his gaze, the subtle tension that takes him as Aurelien's fingers explore his body—or did he think that Aurelien would overlook the sudden tightening of his throat, stifling whatever noise had been desperate to escape his lips? He wonders how Claude would answer him, if he leaned forward and replaced the graze of his fingers with the ply of his tongue.
Again, he has to make an effort to rein his thoughts back to the task at hand. He shouldn't allow himself to become distracted now that he has already started; how foolish would Claude look, wandering around with a half-shaved leg? The thought is amusing enough that his lips quirk, and at last, he drops his eyes downward to regard Claude's unshaven skin.
The hair at the front of his leg comes away in brisk, businesslike strokes of the razor. It's only when he reaches the interior of Claude's thigh that the spirit of mischief rises in him again. The edge of the razor comes to rest against Claude's skin slowly, as if it were a flirtation; like a long, lingering touch, the blade traces the swelling shape of his thigh. The hand that braces Claude shifts, and with another swath of skin sheared clean, its thumb flicks against its smoothness.
It lingers there, toying with the newly sensitive flesh bared to it, as Aurelien continues to strip away the hair of his inner thigh. Perhaps it even begins to feel a bit possessive, the longer he works: warm and heavy, grip firm as he shifts closer to change the angle of his arm.
As the blade inches closer and closer to his groin, Claude's nerves begin to spike. Anxiety induced adrenaline keeps him alert despite his exhaustion, not only to the danger of a razor so near to his delicate bits, but also the lingering caress of Aurelien's fingers over his smooth, newly shaved thigh. Again, the demon torments him with alluring pleasure while he should be terrified or in pain. He must be doing this on purpose.
Even the stroke of his blade starts to feel something like a teasing touch as it slides expertly over his skin. Claude finds himself watching its progress again despite himself, hardly able to accept this is his body, his skin, so oddly naked without even a dusting of hair left behind. He hadn't thought he could possibly feel any more vulnerable than Aurelien had already made him before today.
And this isn't even the last of it. His heart jumps as Aurelien draws the blade higher yet; a reminder that he isn't quite done even after his legs are shaved clean. How will he manage... that? So far, Aurelien hasn't nicked him, but that area seems far more complicated to navigate with a razor. His breathing becomes a little bit heavier as he considers the issue.
Standing steady is also becoming more of a challenging, but he forces himself to keep still. To behave. To not give Aurelien any excuse to let his hand slip.
Edited 2023-09-29 20:07 (UTC)
my hard drive died like an hour after you tagged. god is trying to put a stop to this.
Claude remains still under the graze of the razor: an obedient pet unresisting in his hand. That, too, is a form of pleasure, the heat smoldering in Aurelien's gut like a stubborn ember. For a moment, his eyes fall closed, and the steady work of his hand slows; he imagines Claude on his knees, the same as he had seen him so many times already—only, this time, he will be truly bare and pliant.
He works his way over one of Claude's legs, and then the other. His hand never falters. As though Claude were an artwork of his own making, Aurelien shears away hair as if a single misplaced stroke would ruin the masterpiece of his body; the possessive weight of his hand never lingers far behind, pale fingers stroking along skin as if to test their own thoroughness.
At last, Aurelien finishes. The touch of his empty hand turns suddenly playful, and the first signal Claude receives of the task's completion is a broad palm giving his ass a swift, firm squeeze.
"You may sit again," Aurelien announces, as though he were being very magnanimous by saying so. "Keep your legs spread."
From that point on, his stare doesn't stray from Aurelien's hands and the steady stroke of the razor along his skin. The absence of an expected stinging nick helps him relax again, if only slightly; he tries distracting himself by letting his mind wander back to a pleasurable fantasy, fueled by the firm touch that always follows in the razor's wake.
In another time and place, he knows he would love for a beautiful man to kneel in front of him, feeling him up little by little with something akin to reverence. With such appreciation, he could even imagine allowing that man to shave him. The constant brush of fingertips over his newly bare, smooth skin is almost too much, and he's privately grateful when that alluring touch falls away, replaced by a hard squeeze to his bruised bottom. He flinches, breath catching, but it's for the best- that sudden, sharp pain helps snap him back to the present, and to his senses.
"O-oh."
Claude is far from grateful for the supposed reprieve, well aware of what it means. He takes a tentative step back toward the tub, as though his hesitance might somehow convince Aurelien to change his mind about finishing the job. He isn't willing to genuinely test Aurelien's patience just then, however; once the backs of his legs bump against the tub, he gingerly lowers himself back down to his perch on the lip.
Spreading his legs open again is more of a challenge. He only manages with a brief pause after reminding himself what could happen if he refuses to obey. His legs will be spread whether he likes it or not, so why make himself suffer needlessly?
As Claude inches back, Aurelien says nothing. He merely continues to kneel, still and poised and unbothered; only his eyes chase Claude's uneasy movements, their gaze glinting with a predatory humor to match the bestial yellow of their hue.
When Claude spreads his thighs at last, though, Aurelien moves. He slips forward without ever rising from his own knees, feline and graceful as he settles between Claude's legs. The ever-present smirk on his lips creeps wider, and without a word of warning, he brings a hand up to cup Claude's sack in his palm.
"Don't worry," he hums, clearly enjoying the fact that Claude is. With an almost idle movement of his wrist, he rolls Claude's balls in his palm; for just a moment, his gaze flits from Claude's face to the delicate flesh cupped in his hand, and as he does so, the pad of his thumb rubs along its velvety skin. "I have no intention of gelding you. You would be much less valuable to me, if I did."
His tone is as cruel and dismissive as ever, despite its mirth—but, in his own way, Aurelien means for it to be reassuring. He doubts Claude would believe him if he were to take on a soothing affect, so why not simple assure him of his own selfish interests? His gaze turns from Claude in his entirety, and again, he slicks his fingers in smooth oil. His weight shifts where he kneels, the signal both unspoken and clear. When he returns his stare to Claude's body, it is to resume the thorough shaving of his skin.
He starts above. His fingers tease the space below Claude's navel, dragging slick oil along the light dusting of hair that leads to that space between his thighs. Its only once his fingers stroke through the pubic hair crowning Claude's cock that the brush of the razor follows, as precise as ever.
Aurelien's attempt to reassure him is successful in a way; he doesn't really think 'gelding' is on the menu. That doesn't stop anxiety from tightening his chest and churning within his gut, leaving him to sit before Aurelien once more with horribly stiff muscles.
He almost jumps when a hand reaches between his thighs and cups his balls. Considering the possible consequences of sudden movements just then, Claude forces himself to steady his breathing and keep his eyes fixed downward, watching closely. If he's focused, there's much less of a chance that anything will surprise him.
"I... believe you. It's still hard not to worry." By now, he knows better than to trust Aurelien's gentle touch, however; he may be choosing to handle him delicately right now, but the aching bruises decorating his body tell a more honest story. It's simpler to trust the demon's selfish words than any pleasant touch or caress, especially with his own traitorous body. It's fortunate he has so little left to give, or the oil-slick fingers trailing from his navel down to his groin would almost certainly have him squirming.
As it is, he forgets to breathe for a moment when the razor replaces Aurelien's fingers. The blade glides effortlessly downward, taking nearly the last of his body hair along with it. Claude's thighs tremble slightly, his muscles weak from exhaustion and strain, but he still doesn't relax- he doubts he's ever stared at anything else with such intensity before.
"Gods..." He breathes the word like a plea, praying that Aurelien's hand won't slip, that he'll finish quickly, that his cock won't stir again tonight.
The blade strips Claude from his navel to his groin in a single, fluid stroke. It slows as it reaches the peak of his groin, though, and Aurelien's grip shifts along the hard line of the blade. One of his hands comes up to brace Claude by his hip, and for the tremors of weakness that rack his thighs, Aurelien holds his posture steady; hair peels away with slight, delicate flicks of Aurelien's wrist—the careful, meticulous work of detailing an engraving, rather than the haphazard stroke of a paintbrush.
Still, he meets the sound of that trembling plea with a short, sharp click of his tongue. For a moment, the work of his hand stops; again, Aurelien's eyes flit upward, their corners creased with a cruel mirth.
"If you keep up like this, I'll have no choice but to assume you doubt my skill with a blade." He laughs at his own tease, light and congenial. "Though — I suppose I haven't yet given you a direct demonstration, have I?"
For better or for worse. Thoughtlessly, as though the impulse were as natural to him as breathing, Aurelien spins the razor blade between his fingers. But—no, of course, he cannot. So much as he craves to carve his name into Claude's flesh like a brand, he must finish what he started.
He exhales, attempting to expel that itch alongside the air from his lungs.
"In any case," he continues, the idle cadence to his voice unbroken, "I feel very insulted."
Claude winces when Aurelien clicks his tongue and glances back up at him. Even before he says anything, the prospect of punishment has him on edge- if he can possibly tense up more than he already has done. The strong hand bracing his hip is likely the only reason he's able to remain steady at all.
He feels completely drained, his body and mind sapped of every last drop of energy and strength. If there was any mercy left for him, he would pass out.
Instead, he falls back on the simplest form of self-preservation: attempting to satisfy the ego of the one threatening him. It isn't a foolproof strategy, but it doesn't require more than the bare minimum thought to deploy.
"I'm sorry, my lord. I didn't mean to insult you. I promise I'll keep quiet now." His voice is small, meek. There's no getting out of this, so the best he can hope to do is avoid any further punishment. So far, Aurelien hasn't let that knife slip... Claude has no desire to find out what a 'direct demonstration' of his 'skill' might feel like.
Simple though it may be, Claude's sudden obsequiousness works as desired. Aurelien's cruel smile inches wider, gaze coy and knowing where watches Claude through the fan of his pale lashes—but if he finds Claude's words insincere, he says nothing about it. His eyes flit downward again, and his lips purse together in concentration even as they linger in the shape of a pleased curve.
"There's a good pet," he hums—another barb wrapped in the sweetness of praise. "Soon enough, you'll have even learned to keep your peace without being told."
They are close to done, anyway. There are just Claude's arms and pits and... one other thing. The short, dark hairs at the crown of Claude's groin have been peeled away; again, Aurelien gathers Claude's sack into the cup of his palm, allowing its weight to shift in the spread of his fingers much less idly this time. The skin there is loose from the warmth of the bath, and as Aurelien smears it in the lightly-scented shaving oil, he pulls the thumb across it to draw it tighter.
"Now," he says, a sudden and authoritative demand for attention, "what sort of exercise did you have in mind?"
Perhaps the thread of conversation will keep Claude's thoughts from the cold touch of sharp metal against his tender skin, Aurelien following its shape with a delicate, precise movement of his wrist.
Aurelien's praise, demeaning as it might be, is music to his ears. Claude glances off to the side, fully intending to keep to his promise. Words won't do anything else for him, not until this humiliating task is finished, so he would be better off focusing the last remainders of his energy on breathing, and attempting to somewhat steady his trembling legs.
Despite his best efforts, he doesn't manage to bite back a soft whimper when Aurelien cups his balls once more. He squeezes his eyes shut as Aurelien rubs the shaving oil over delicate skin, still too-sensitive from his recent orgasms. His cock twitches faintly, but doesn't swell further beneath the young man's careful touch. He hardly dares draw a breath with the first brush of the razor over his taunt sack.
The sudden question surprises him, forcing him to split his attention. There is still a brief hesitation as he's forced to collect his thoughts while every other part of him is screaming danger.
He dislikes having no other choice than to place his trust in Aurelien, of all people. He has to remind himself that, as much as he hates submitting to his sadistic master, he still prefers the devil he knows taking a blade to his genitals.
Who knows what the other demons here might do, if given the opportunity?
"Um. Going for walks. Stretches. Something to lift. Anything like that."
A low, handsome chuckle rises from Aurelien's place between his thighs. Even that sound fails to disturb the inexorable path drawn by the razor; Aurelien doesn't even look up as Claude obligingly supplies an answer to his question, and from above, the shearing motions of his fingers resemble nothing so much as the peeling of a ripe fruit.
"Ah, of course! How could I have been so negligent, failing to take my dear pet on walks around the grounds?" Only then does he glance up again, the yellow gleam of his eyes as sly as ever. Idly, the tip of his tongue darts across his lips, as if wetting them in thought. "I've grown tired of spending all my time cooped up to mind you, anyway. Leading you around by your leash ought to be a welcome change of pace."
His eyes fall away, and all at once, one of his hands moves in a dismissive sweep, as if to silence arguments from some yet-unseen audience. As he continues his vivacious monologue, his hands work uninterrupted; without a care for Claude's lingering sensitivity, he rolls his balls in his palm, checking for fine hairs that have yet escaped the reaping of his razor.
"I will have to find a place for the rest of it. Perhaps, if you prove well-behaved, you will be permitted more hospitable quarters."
"That isn't what I-" He abruptly cuts himself off, biting his tongue. Protests always worsen the situation, and there's always a chance that Aurelien isn't seriously intending to walk him like a dog around the manor. If he gets worked up about it, however; Aurelien will be more likely to follow through.
Claude focuses his gaze back down on the demon and the casual way he handles that knife, a mere slip of the hand away from mutilating him. Thankfully, he hasn't left behind a single nick anywhere on his body, so it's only natural fear that fuels his nerves.
"I would appreciate that," he mumbles. A soft sound catches in the back of his throat as Aurelien rolls his balls in his hand, now smooth and bare like the rest of him. He would never have guessed it was possible to feel even more naked, more exposed.
"Even just a blanket in my current room... would really help." Especially now. He hates when the guards leer at him, loathes the utter lack of even the most basic privacy.
That must be by design. He realizes it, and hates knowing it, because it's still effective.
Aurelien hums, but the sound is noncommittal and distracted, as if he's barely heard Claude at all. The razor presses to Claude's skin again; a faint furrow creases Aurelien's brow as he pares away a stray hair that had escaped his blade, the demon's attention concentrated wholly on the task before him.
There. Now his work is perfect.
It would seem that he and Claude are in agreement, otherwise, so Aurelien sees no reason to belabor the point. Rising from the marble floor to sit beside Claude on the basin's edge, Aurelien allows the silence to linger between them as he shears away the coarse hairs that decorate Claude's forearms. Aside from a single, stray comment on their handsome musculature and an appreciative squeeze, Aurelien remains focused on the task at hand; he strips the outside of Claude's arms bare, and then he directs his pet to lift them above his head and does the same to his pits.
With the last of Claude's body shaved, Aurelien directs Claude to rinse his limbs in the bathwater (somehow, still warm—but of course such hedonistic creatures as demons have enchantments for such things). When Claude steps clear of the bath again, washed clean of any lingering debris, Aurelien at last drapes a pale towel over his shoulders; the fabric is warm, too, and its texture decadently soft as Aurelien begins to pat away the water that clings to his skin.
It's another terribly intimate gesture—particularly when Aurelien again drops to his knees, stroking cloth from Claude's ankle to the interior of his thigh. Aurelien doesn't seem particularly concerned with their closeness, however; he wipes Claude dry and then wrings Claude's hair into the fabric, casting the towel aside only to draw that ivory comb through his dark waves once again.
In the end, Claude leaves the bathroom far more presentable than he entered it: clean, pleasant-smelling, and smooth to the touch. Aurelien looks over his work and smiles—and, evidently satisfied, he gathers Claude into his arms and lifts him from the floor as though he were carrying a princess. His own clothes cling damply to his chest as he cradles Claude there, Aurelien carrying Claude from the washroom to the main space of his quarters.
"Stay put," he orders, in a lazy way that suggests he wouldn't expect Claude to do anything else, as he deposits Claude in the middle of his bed. It's about as extravagant as one would imagine: silken sheets and feather-soft pillows underneath, dyed in rich, dark colors. Without a backward glance, Aurelien turns from it, loosening the laces of his now-soaked shirt.
He doesn't speak again as Aurelien finishes shaving his body clean of any remaining hair. He silently complies with the order to rinse himself again, and doesn't object to being dried off in such an unnecessarily intimate way. Beyond exhausted, all he desires is some time by himself, to curl up on his cot, face the back wall, and fall into the oblivion of sleep.
Aurelien lifts him into his arms, and he allows himself to be cradled against his broad chest. Most of his body aches, from his throat down to his thighs, and as humiliating as it is to admit to himself, he's grateful Aurelien isn't forcing him to walk. At the moment, he'll take any reprieve he can get.
But Aurelien doesn't carry him out of his quarters.
Claude watches him with wide eyes after he's laid down onto the young lord's own bed and told to stay put. Even with his backside bruised and sore, and his shoulders likely no better off, he feels like he's lying on a puffy cloud, surrounded by luxuries beyond those he remembers from home. The silk slides over his newly shaved skin like gently flowing water. If the implications of finding himself in Aurelien's bed didn't send a fearful chill down his spine, he might have melted into the mattress right then and there and fallen straight to sleep.
Instead, he rolls onto his side, fingers digging into delicate sheets as he watches Aurelien work open his damp shirt. He can't... not again. And yet, there's no where for him to go; both of them know it, or Aurelien wouldn't turn his back to him so casually.
"Please... my Lord. May I sleep now?" He doesn't mind begging for it. The words come easier than before.
Aurelien answers Claude's plea with an idle, backward glance. For just a moment, the movement of his fingers stills; then, Aurelien turns away again, and the pale cloth of his shirt begins to slide from his shoulders with the final tug of a knot.
"Rest, if you like," he answers, voice lilting in the same casual, inattentive way he moves. He tosses his shirt aside, its fabric carelessly crumpled on the floor, and then, he gives his pants the same treatment, sliding the fabric still damp from Claude's wet body down his thighs.
When he straightens again, he doesn't turn to Claude. Rather, he steps toward a wardrobe that stands near to the bed; from the angle Claude lies at, he might catch a glimpse of more silky fabric within it, and a moment later, Aurelien withdraws a sheer robe. Evidently, the trouble of dressing again so soon is too much for him; Aurelien fastens it around his waist as he pads, barefoot, to a bookcase that stands in another corner of the room.
He says nothing further. He leaves Claude, alone, at the center of his bed.
Claude doesn't move, nor does he turn his gaze away from Aurelien while he finishes stripping off his damp clothing. Even when he's offered the chance to rest, he doesn't begin to let his guard down until Aurelien dresses in a robe and steps past the bed on his way to the other corner of the room.
Before closing his eyes, an idle thought crosses his mind- Aurelien looks much softer when he isn't dressed so formally.
He frowns, trying to shove any and all thoughts to the back of his mind. Thankfully, the pressing need to sleep helps, blurring the lines of consciousness, easing the path to oblivion.
The next time Aurelien checks on him, he's curled up a little tighter on his side, fast asleep.
In truth, Aurelien is a little surprised that Claude has managed it. He supposes that he simply must be truly exhausted. It makes it a bit tempting to toy with Claude's body while he lies there, prone, but... Even now, he cannot say how deep Claude's slumber is, and the loss if he wakes would surely outweigh what Aurelien would gain otherwise.
Two hours pass before Aurelien disturbs Claude. Outside, the sun still shines; fallen from its noonday high, its light fills the tall windows of Aurelien's room, giving the space a surprisingly bright and airy ambiance. Behind Claude, the mattress sinks beneath the weight of Aurelien's tall, strong body; the demon brushes the backs of his knuckles along Claude's jawline, and then his palm comes to rest against Claude's shoulder, shaking him awake.
A hand shakes his shoulder, forcing him out of his blissfully dreamless sleep. At first, Claude's only response is to furrow his eyebrows and ignore it. But when Aurelien asks him a direct question, he realizes he won't be able to get away with faking sleep.
He slowly blinks open his eyes and glances blearily at Aurelien. The room is still bathed in sunlight, and the young demon hasn't changed out of his silky robe. No wonder he still feels so tired, his limbs leaden, his eyelids heavy.
It was silly to imagine he would be allowed to sleep on this heavenly bed for very long. Just like the blissfully hot bath, luxuries like this aren't reserved for slaves.
"Mm," he mumbles in response. Claude realizes he'll have to leave the bed, but that doesn't mean he has to rush before receiving the order. "You have a nice bed."
"You'll have more opportunities to enjoy it," he assures—though, of course, Claude may not feel particularly comforted by the assertion, and especially not when the tone of his voice drops to a honeyed purr.
Still, he makes no command for Claude to rise. Instead, Aurelien shifts, drawing his knees up onto the bed alongside Claude. He moves closer, and as he does, his knees slip into the space behind Claude's thighs; his hand finds Claude's hip, and as he rolls Claude onto his back proper, he guides Claude's legs wide around him so that his ass can settle firmly onto the pillow made by Aurelien's lap.
It's certainly a suggestive pose—so, surely Claude will be relieved when he realizes Aurelien's intentions aren't to fuck him again. Instead, with one hand holding Claude's hips steady, he slips the ring of Claude's chastity cage around the root of his groin once more: a clear signal that he has finished playing with his "pet" for the day.
"Alas," he sighs, slipping the cage over Claude's soft cock, "other matters require my attention." The lock snaps in place as he asks, "Do you require any ointment?"
Aurelien can admit that he has been a bit rough with Claude, today. Of course, he won't say so outright; to do so might imply fault.
Claude is not, in fact, comforted by Aurelien's words. And when he finds his legs parted wide with Aurelien shifting on his knees between them, his heart jumps, and his eyes are suddenly wide open and alert. Those few hours of sleep weren't nearly enough to prepare him for this again.
Thankfully, and this is probably the only time he'll be thankful to see that damned cage, sex doesn't appear to be at the top of Aurelien's mind.
The metal device is as snug and unyielding as ever as it's locked into place around his balls and the base of his cock. Claude squirms just a little in Aurelien's lap; it's enough to elicit a jolt of pain deep inside. He bites his bottom lip, wincing.
His first instinct is to reject the offer for ointment. Thankfully, his good sense pipes up, suggesting he'll be much better off if he can recover quickly. Pride hasn't done anything for him here, and it isn't about to start now.
Such a bashful expression! Aurelien's lips crack wider, pleased enough by Claude's acceptance that he doesn't even remind the man to say please.
Of course, even as he offers Claude this small balm, Aurelien has no intention to give him a reprieve from his touch. He produces another vial of the stuff from the breast-pocket of his robe, and as he does, he is already working the cap loose; by the time Claude has had a chance to realize what he is doing, Aurelien has already begun to drizzle the ointment over the tips of his fingers.
"As you like, then," he hums, and as his dry hand settles against Claude's thigh to hold it still, he presses his slick fingers between the cheeks of Claude's ass. Unrelenting in their touch, they smooth soothing balm over Claude's enflamed hole, rubbing in slow strokes atop that ring of muscle.
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Still, Claude's face now feels different. There are no gritted teeth, as though he were trying desperately to resist his own pleasure. Aurelien's smile curls wide on his lips, self-satisfied, as his fingers trail along the skin of Claude's newly-bare calf. The pad of his thumb flicks against the softer skin behind his knee.
"Such a good boy," he hums, pleasure evident in his voice. "You did just as I said. Keep it up, and you may even earn yourself a treat."
With that said, Aurelien stands from between Claude's thighs and steps back. It takes him only a second to cast his gaze around the washroom, and a moment later, he tosses a small towel in Claude's direction.
"Wipe yourself down. And then stand for me — it will be quicker to finish your legs, that way."
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Of course, that can't be helped. Humiliation is at the heart of Aurelien's expectations for him; if he wants praise, and the benefits that go along with behaving, he'll just have to learn to live it. Now in particular, when his muscles whine in protest after he wipes himself clean and then slowly, carefully, rises to his feet.
He has never wanted to curl up in bed more than he does now. His entire body feels sore, and his thighs quiver slightly when he stands straight. Or, as straight as he can manage.
"Quicker is good," he mumbles, as though trying to justify his prompt obedience. Unsure what to do with his hands now, he crosses them behind his back, one hand clasped around the other wrist. His eyes fix on Aurelien, a renewed wariness in his stare now that he's come down from his orgasmic high.
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"Indeed it is," he agrees, and as he does, his gaze falls low again. It focuses on Claude's quivering thigh before him; without warning, one of his broad palms snakes behind it, stroking a greedy path along its lean musculature. The crook of his thumb and forefinger comes to cup the space beneath Claude's buttocks, and Aurelien holds it there, turning his wandering hand into a crutch to brace Claude's unsteady weight.
He says nothing of the gesture—of holding Claude upright against his exhaustion. He merely returns the task at hand. His free hand rubs more of that slick oil into Claude's skin; it strokes from his knee to his hip, and then it begins a new trail downward, the broad pads of his fingertips tracing the intimate swathe of skin along Claude's inner thigh.
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He breaks eye contact first, gaze instead fixing on an empty patch of floor.
Only moments later he feels a familiar touch stroke upward along his thigh. That hand then braces against him, offering an unexpected bit of support for his unsteady legs. He can't help but glance back, his eyes drawn to the sight of Aurelien's broad hand rubbing slippery oil all along his thigh.
He bites back a gasp when slick fingers wander inward, his entire being still oversensitive to such an intimate touch.
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Again, he has to make an effort to rein his thoughts back to the task at hand. He shouldn't allow himself to become distracted now that he has already started; how foolish would Claude look, wandering around with a half-shaved leg? The thought is amusing enough that his lips quirk, and at last, he drops his eyes downward to regard Claude's unshaven skin.
The hair at the front of his leg comes away in brisk, businesslike strokes of the razor. It's only when he reaches the interior of Claude's thigh that the spirit of mischief rises in him again. The edge of the razor comes to rest against Claude's skin slowly, as if it were a flirtation; like a long, lingering touch, the blade traces the swelling shape of his thigh. The hand that braces Claude shifts, and with another swath of skin sheared clean, its thumb flicks against its smoothness.
It lingers there, toying with the newly sensitive flesh bared to it, as Aurelien continues to strip away the hair of his inner thigh. Perhaps it even begins to feel a bit possessive, the longer he works: warm and heavy, grip firm as he shifts closer to change the angle of his arm.
I'm sorry I'm the worst :')
Even the stroke of his blade starts to feel something like a teasing touch as it slides expertly over his skin. Claude finds himself watching its progress again despite himself, hardly able to accept this is his body, his skin, so oddly naked without even a dusting of hair left behind. He hadn't thought he could possibly feel any more vulnerable than Aurelien had already made him before today.
And this isn't even the last of it. His heart jumps as Aurelien draws the blade higher yet; a reminder that he isn't quite done even after his legs are shaved clean. How will he manage... that? So far, Aurelien hasn't nicked him, but that area seems far more complicated to navigate with a razor. His breathing becomes a little bit heavier as he considers the issue.
Standing steady is also becoming more of a challenging, but he forces himself to keep still. To behave. To not give Aurelien any excuse to let his hand slip.
my hard drive died like an hour after you tagged. god is trying to put a stop to this.
He works his way over one of Claude's legs, and then the other. His hand never falters. As though Claude were an artwork of his own making, Aurelien shears away hair as if a single misplaced stroke would ruin the masterpiece of his body; the possessive weight of his hand never lingers far behind, pale fingers stroking along skin as if to test their own thoroughness.
At last, Aurelien finishes. The touch of his empty hand turns suddenly playful, and the first signal Claude receives of the task's completion is a broad palm giving his ass a swift, firm squeeze.
"You may sit again," Aurelien announces, as though he were being very magnanimous by saying so. "Keep your legs spread."
we must remain defiant!!
In another time and place, he knows he would love for a beautiful man to kneel in front of him, feeling him up little by little with something akin to reverence. With such appreciation, he could even imagine allowing that man to shave him. The constant brush of fingertips over his newly bare, smooth skin is almost too much, and he's privately grateful when that alluring touch falls away, replaced by a hard squeeze to his bruised bottom. He flinches, breath catching, but it's for the best- that sudden, sharp pain helps snap him back to the present, and to his senses.
"O-oh."
Claude is far from grateful for the supposed reprieve, well aware of what it means. He takes a tentative step back toward the tub, as though his hesitance might somehow convince Aurelien to change his mind about finishing the job. He isn't willing to genuinely test Aurelien's patience just then, however; once the backs of his legs bump against the tub, he gingerly lowers himself back down to his perch on the lip.
Spreading his legs open again is more of a challenge. He only manages with a brief pause after reminding himself what could happen if he refuses to obey. His legs will be spread whether he likes it or not, so why make himself suffer needlessly?
"Please... be careful."
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When Claude spreads his thighs at last, though, Aurelien moves. He slips forward without ever rising from his own knees, feline and graceful as he settles between Claude's legs. The ever-present smirk on his lips creeps wider, and without a word of warning, he brings a hand up to cup Claude's sack in his palm.
"Don't worry," he hums, clearly enjoying the fact that Claude is. With an almost idle movement of his wrist, he rolls Claude's balls in his palm; for just a moment, his gaze flits from Claude's face to the delicate flesh cupped in his hand, and as he does so, the pad of his thumb rubs along its velvety skin. "I have no intention of gelding you. You would be much less valuable to me, if I did."
His tone is as cruel and dismissive as ever, despite its mirth—but, in his own way, Aurelien means for it to be reassuring. He doubts Claude would believe him if he were to take on a soothing affect, so why not simple assure him of his own selfish interests? His gaze turns from Claude in his entirety, and again, he slicks his fingers in smooth oil. His weight shifts where he kneels, the signal both unspoken and clear. When he returns his stare to Claude's body, it is to resume the thorough shaving of his skin.
He starts above. His fingers tease the space below Claude's navel, dragging slick oil along the light dusting of hair that leads to that space between his thighs. Its only once his fingers stroke through the pubic hair crowning Claude's cock that the brush of the razor follows, as precise as ever.
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He almost jumps when a hand reaches between his thighs and cups his balls. Considering the possible consequences of sudden movements just then, Claude forces himself to steady his breathing and keep his eyes fixed downward, watching closely. If he's focused, there's much less of a chance that anything will surprise him.
"I... believe you. It's still hard not to worry." By now, he knows better than to trust Aurelien's gentle touch, however; he may be choosing to handle him delicately right now, but the aching bruises decorating his body tell a more honest story. It's simpler to trust the demon's selfish words than any pleasant touch or caress, especially with his own traitorous body. It's fortunate he has so little left to give, or the oil-slick fingers trailing from his navel down to his groin would almost certainly have him squirming.
As it is, he forgets to breathe for a moment when the razor replaces Aurelien's fingers. The blade glides effortlessly downward, taking nearly the last of his body hair along with it. Claude's thighs tremble slightly, his muscles weak from exhaustion and strain, but he still doesn't relax- he doubts he's ever stared at anything else with such intensity before.
"Gods..." He breathes the word like a plea, praying that Aurelien's hand won't slip, that he'll finish quickly, that his cock won't stir again tonight.
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Still, he meets the sound of that trembling plea with a short, sharp click of his tongue. For a moment, the work of his hand stops; again, Aurelien's eyes flit upward, their corners creased with a cruel mirth.
"If you keep up like this, I'll have no choice but to assume you doubt my skill with a blade." He laughs at his own tease, light and congenial. "Though — I suppose I haven't yet given you a direct demonstration, have I?"
For better or for worse. Thoughtlessly, as though the impulse were as natural to him as breathing, Aurelien spins the razor blade between his fingers. But—no, of course, he cannot. So much as he craves to carve his name into Claude's flesh like a brand, he must finish what he started.
He exhales, attempting to expel that itch alongside the air from his lungs.
"In any case," he continues, the idle cadence to his voice unbroken, "I feel very insulted."
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He feels completely drained, his body and mind sapped of every last drop of energy and strength. If there was any mercy left for him, he would pass out.
Instead, he falls back on the simplest form of self-preservation: attempting to satisfy the ego of the one threatening him. It isn't a foolproof strategy, but it doesn't require more than the bare minimum thought to deploy.
"I'm sorry, my lord. I didn't mean to insult you. I promise I'll keep quiet now." His voice is small, meek. There's no getting out of this, so the best he can hope to do is avoid any further punishment. So far, Aurelien hasn't let that knife slip... Claude has no desire to find out what a 'direct demonstration' of his 'skill' might feel like.
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"There's a good pet," he hums—another barb wrapped in the sweetness of praise. "Soon enough, you'll have even learned to keep your peace without being told."
They are close to done, anyway. There are just Claude's arms and pits and... one other thing. The short, dark hairs at the crown of Claude's groin have been peeled away; again, Aurelien gathers Claude's sack into the cup of his palm, allowing its weight to shift in the spread of his fingers much less idly this time. The skin there is loose from the warmth of the bath, and as Aurelien smears it in the lightly-scented shaving oil, he pulls the thumb across it to draw it tighter.
"Now," he says, a sudden and authoritative demand for attention, "what sort of exercise did you have in mind?"
Perhaps the thread of conversation will keep Claude's thoughts from the cold touch of sharp metal against his tender skin, Aurelien following its shape with a delicate, precise movement of his wrist.
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Despite his best efforts, he doesn't manage to bite back a soft whimper when Aurelien cups his balls once more. He squeezes his eyes shut as Aurelien rubs the shaving oil over delicate skin, still too-sensitive from his recent orgasms. His cock twitches faintly, but doesn't swell further beneath the young man's careful touch. He hardly dares draw a breath with the first brush of the razor over his taunt sack.
The sudden question surprises him, forcing him to split his attention. There is still a brief hesitation as he's forced to collect his thoughts while every other part of him is screaming danger.
He dislikes having no other choice than to place his trust in Aurelien, of all people. He has to remind himself that, as much as he hates submitting to his sadistic master, he still prefers the devil he knows taking a blade to his genitals.
Who knows what the other demons here might do, if given the opportunity?
"Um. Going for walks. Stretches. Something to lift. Anything like that."
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"Ah, of course! How could I have been so negligent, failing to take my dear pet on walks around the grounds?" Only then does he glance up again, the yellow gleam of his eyes as sly as ever. Idly, the tip of his tongue darts across his lips, as if wetting them in thought. "I've grown tired of spending all my time cooped up to mind you, anyway. Leading you around by your leash ought to be a welcome change of pace."
His eyes fall away, and all at once, one of his hands moves in a dismissive sweep, as if to silence arguments from some yet-unseen audience. As he continues his vivacious monologue, his hands work uninterrupted; without a care for Claude's lingering sensitivity, he rolls his balls in his palm, checking for fine hairs that have yet escaped the reaping of his razor.
"I will have to find a place for the rest of it. Perhaps, if you prove well-behaved, you will be permitted more hospitable quarters."
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Claude focuses his gaze back down on the demon and the casual way he handles that knife, a mere slip of the hand away from mutilating him. Thankfully, he hasn't left behind a single nick anywhere on his body, so it's only natural fear that fuels his nerves.
"I would appreciate that," he mumbles. A soft sound catches in the back of his throat as Aurelien rolls his balls in his hand, now smooth and bare like the rest of him. He would never have guessed it was possible to feel even more naked, more exposed.
"Even just a blanket in my current room... would really help." Especially now. He hates when the guards leer at him, loathes the utter lack of even the most basic privacy.
That must be by design. He realizes it, and hates knowing it, because it's still effective.
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There. Now his work is perfect.
It would seem that he and Claude are in agreement, otherwise, so Aurelien sees no reason to belabor the point. Rising from the marble floor to sit beside Claude on the basin's edge, Aurelien allows the silence to linger between them as he shears away the coarse hairs that decorate Claude's forearms. Aside from a single, stray comment on their handsome musculature and an appreciative squeeze, Aurelien remains focused on the task at hand; he strips the outside of Claude's arms bare, and then he directs his pet to lift them above his head and does the same to his pits.
With the last of Claude's body shaved, Aurelien directs Claude to rinse his limbs in the bathwater (somehow, still warm—but of course such hedonistic creatures as demons have enchantments for such things). When Claude steps clear of the bath again, washed clean of any lingering debris, Aurelien at last drapes a pale towel over his shoulders; the fabric is warm, too, and its texture decadently soft as Aurelien begins to pat away the water that clings to his skin.
It's another terribly intimate gesture—particularly when Aurelien again drops to his knees, stroking cloth from Claude's ankle to the interior of his thigh. Aurelien doesn't seem particularly concerned with their closeness, however; he wipes Claude dry and then wrings Claude's hair into the fabric, casting the towel aside only to draw that ivory comb through his dark waves once again.
In the end, Claude leaves the bathroom far more presentable than he entered it: clean, pleasant-smelling, and smooth to the touch. Aurelien looks over his work and smiles—and, evidently satisfied, he gathers Claude into his arms and lifts him from the floor as though he were carrying a princess. His own clothes cling damply to his chest as he cradles Claude there, Aurelien carrying Claude from the washroom to the main space of his quarters.
"Stay put," he orders, in a lazy way that suggests he wouldn't expect Claude to do anything else, as he deposits Claude in the middle of his bed. It's about as extravagant as one would imagine: silken sheets and feather-soft pillows underneath, dyed in rich, dark colors. Without a backward glance, Aurelien turns from it, loosening the laces of his now-soaked shirt.
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Aurelien lifts him into his arms, and he allows himself to be cradled against his broad chest. Most of his body aches, from his throat down to his thighs, and as humiliating as it is to admit to himself, he's grateful Aurelien isn't forcing him to walk. At the moment, he'll take any reprieve he can get.
But Aurelien doesn't carry him out of his quarters.
Claude watches him with wide eyes after he's laid down onto the young lord's own bed and told to stay put. Even with his backside bruised and sore, and his shoulders likely no better off, he feels like he's lying on a puffy cloud, surrounded by luxuries beyond those he remembers from home. The silk slides over his newly shaved skin like gently flowing water. If the implications of finding himself in Aurelien's bed didn't send a fearful chill down his spine, he might have melted into the mattress right then and there and fallen straight to sleep.
Instead, he rolls onto his side, fingers digging into delicate sheets as he watches Aurelien work open his damp shirt. He can't... not again. And yet, there's no where for him to go; both of them know it, or Aurelien wouldn't turn his back to him so casually.
"Please... my Lord. May I sleep now?" He doesn't mind begging for it. The words come easier than before.
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"Rest, if you like," he answers, voice lilting in the same casual, inattentive way he moves. He tosses his shirt aside, its fabric carelessly crumpled on the floor, and then, he gives his pants the same treatment, sliding the fabric still damp from Claude's wet body down his thighs.
When he straightens again, he doesn't turn to Claude. Rather, he steps toward a wardrobe that stands near to the bed; from the angle Claude lies at, he might catch a glimpse of more silky fabric within it, and a moment later, Aurelien withdraws a sheer robe. Evidently, the trouble of dressing again so soon is too much for him; Aurelien fastens it around his waist as he pads, barefoot, to a bookcase that stands in another corner of the room.
He says nothing further. He leaves Claude, alone, at the center of his bed.
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Before closing his eyes, an idle thought crosses his mind- Aurelien looks much softer when he isn't dressed so formally.
He frowns, trying to shove any and all thoughts to the back of his mind. Thankfully, the pressing need to sleep helps, blurring the lines of consciousness, easing the path to oblivion.
The next time Aurelien checks on him, he's curled up a little tighter on his side, fast asleep.
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Two hours pass before Aurelien disturbs Claude. Outside, the sun still shines; fallen from its noonday high, its light fills the tall windows of Aurelien's room, giving the space a surprisingly bright and airy ambiance. Behind Claude, the mattress sinks beneath the weight of Aurelien's tall, strong body; the demon brushes the backs of his knuckles along Claude's jawline, and then his palm comes to rest against Claude's shoulder, shaking him awake.
He is still dressed in nothing but a robe.
"Did you enjoy your nap, pet?"
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He slowly blinks open his eyes and glances blearily at Aurelien. The room is still bathed in sunlight, and the young demon hasn't changed out of his silky robe. No wonder he still feels so tired, his limbs leaden, his eyelids heavy.
It was silly to imagine he would be allowed to sleep on this heavenly bed for very long. Just like the blissfully hot bath, luxuries like this aren't reserved for slaves.
"Mm," he mumbles in response. Claude realizes he'll have to leave the bed, but that doesn't mean he has to rush before receiving the order. "You have a nice bed."
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Still, he makes no command for Claude to rise. Instead, Aurelien shifts, drawing his knees up onto the bed alongside Claude. He moves closer, and as he does, his knees slip into the space behind Claude's thighs; his hand finds Claude's hip, and as he rolls Claude onto his back proper, he guides Claude's legs wide around him so that his ass can settle firmly onto the pillow made by Aurelien's lap.
It's certainly a suggestive pose—so, surely Claude will be relieved when he realizes Aurelien's intentions aren't to fuck him again. Instead, with one hand holding Claude's hips steady, he slips the ring of Claude's chastity cage around the root of his groin once more: a clear signal that he has finished playing with his "pet" for the day.
"Alas," he sighs, slipping the cage over Claude's soft cock, "other matters require my attention." The lock snaps in place as he asks, "Do you require any ointment?"
Aurelien can admit that he has been a bit rough with Claude, today. Of course, he won't say so outright; to do so might imply fault.
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Thankfully, and this is probably the only time he'll be thankful to see that damned cage, sex doesn't appear to be at the top of Aurelien's mind.
The metal device is as snug and unyielding as ever as it's locked into place around his balls and the base of his cock. Claude squirms just a little in Aurelien's lap; it's enough to elicit a jolt of pain deep inside. He bites his bottom lip, wincing.
His first instinct is to reject the offer for ointment. Thankfully, his good sense pipes up, suggesting he'll be much better off if he can recover quickly. Pride hasn't done anything for him here, and it isn't about to start now.
"...Yes," he says softly, glancing aside.
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Of course, even as he offers Claude this small balm, Aurelien has no intention to give him a reprieve from his touch. He produces another vial of the stuff from the breast-pocket of his robe, and as he does, he is already working the cap loose; by the time Claude has had a chance to realize what he is doing, Aurelien has already begun to drizzle the ointment over the tips of his fingers.
"As you like, then," he hums, and as his dry hand settles against Claude's thigh to hold it still, he presses his slick fingers between the cheeks of Claude's ass. Unrelenting in their touch, they smooth soothing balm over Claude's enflamed hole, rubbing in slow strokes atop that ring of muscle.
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