Claude hums his agreement. He's a bit surprised that Aurelien isn't arguing for his position, and his next words make him wonder if he might have hit a nerve. It's such a sudden shift in tone: a clear reminder of the vast gulf of power between the two of them. If he was speaking with anyone else, he would have slipped in a snide remark about the strong threatening the weak, but he knows better than to risk provoking Aurelien.
The tailor's fingers brush over his thighs now and then while she works, and he has to force himself not to react. No- he doesn't need any reminders of his pathetic state when he isn't even afforded control over his own body.
But maybe Aurelien needs to remind himself of his own power. There is still so much he doesn't know about the young demon.
"It taught me that a clever mind can overcome brute strength." Again, contrary to what demons seem to believe. He firmly believes in the power of the mind, even if it hasn't done him much good here so far.
"And that strength can't fix a contemptible soul."
Aurelien sets his empty glass aside, and this time, he does stand. His footsteps are unhurried as he circles Claude's flank; he passes on the side opposite of where the seamstress squats now, and as he comes to stand in front of Claude, he folds his arms behind his back.
He truly meant what he had said, as twisted as the compliment might be; it makes touching Claude a difficult proposition to resist. He stands just beyond reach to stop himself—and yet, as he cocks his head, the natural difference in their heights still manages to turn his presence looming.
"I confess — demons aren't particularly concerned with the state of our souls." His smile sits wide on his face, a sliver of perfectly white teeth showing between soft lips. "Just between us, though... I'd rather have a contemptible soul than a meek spirit!"
Or, rather: what Claude considers to be a contemptible soul is likely rather different than what any demon would. He laughs, light and easy, as his head lolls the other way.
"Just don't allow your mind to become too clever for its own good. Too much subterfuge makes a man look spineless."
His body visibly tenses when he hears Aurelien rise from his seat and slowly approach him. He worries he's managed to push his luck too far, despite trying to hold back. After a week reprieve from any physical punishment, he isn't eager for a new set of bruises, and he rather enjoys being able to sit properly.
Thankfully, Aurelien doesn't raise a hand when he comes to a stop before him, though Claude isn't fooled by his broad smile. The way he looms over him while cheerfully taunting him- clearly he isn't pleased by their discussion's conclusion.
There is something harshly satisfying about the thought that he finally managed to get under Aurelien's skin. The demon always seems so composed and in control; seeing him this way is almost humanizing.
"Back home, you do whatever you can to survive." He keeps his response vague, and purposefully avoids making eye contact. Aurelien's behavior is familiar to him. Any sign of disrespect could be used as an excuse to hurt him, and he isn't going to fall for such obvious tactics, even if that makes him look spineless.
"I can see that," he says—and then, he does lean forward. It isn't to strike Claude, though, or to seize him by the throat, or even to turn his head by the hair; rather, inches from Claude's brow, Aurelien's fingers snap, rapidly and repeatedly.
"Look at me when I am speaking to you." Now, he drops his congenial tone. With the sudden sharpness of a reprimand, he declares, "If I want you to bow your head, you'll know."
But learning when to meet his master's eyes and when to grovel is all part of Claude's education. Aurelien straightens, and as he again fixes his arms behind his back, the smile on his lips turns just a little bit stiffer.
"Do you think you have offended me? But we're merely discussing a poem you have read — are we not?"
He flinches slightly at the first loud snap, and turns his gaze back to Aurelien as ordered. There's a question in his eyes that he doesn't give voice.
Whenever Claude thinks he's had a revelation about Aurelien, the young man always finds a way to sprinkle in a healthy dose of skepticism. His conclusions might still stand, but they aren't fully consistent with the sudden demand for eye contact.
Of course, that could just be another way to flaunt his authority over his pet. Sometimes, he worries he's overthinking every little detail of Aurelien's words and behavior simply because he doesn't have much else to do with his time. If only he could keep a private journal (as laughable as that notion is).
"We are. I'm glad you aren't offended." The lack of sincerity in his words is likely obvious to everyone in the room.
"Indeed. If I've ask for your opinion, it doesn't behoove me to punish you for giving it."
Now, he does sigh. His smile fades away, and he makes a show of his own vexation, tossing the spill of his pale hair over his shoulder with the loll of his head and an imperious flick of one wrist.
The seamstress rises to her feet somewhere beside him and speaks; it takes Aurelien a moment to realize she is addressing him, and when he does, he looks to her with an impassive stare. As she informs him that she is done taking measurements, he nods and dismisses her; he watches the tailor and her assistant take their leave, and when he looks to Claude once more, his lips are set once more in his typical idle smile.
"Come," he says, gesturing for Claude to follow with an indolent crook of his wrist. Again, he steps around Claude, returning to the abandoned loveseat—and as he sits, he pats the space atop his thighs expectantly.
This time he offers a small nod in acknowledgement, but says nothing in response. Aurelien has occasionally proven himself to be rational, though Claude is always surprised when it happens. He must value some level of honesty, at the very least.
The tailor and her assistant take their leave, and his apprehension swiftly returns. And as Aurelien returns to the loveseat and pats his lap just so with that damned smirk, he realizes his anxiety was well-founded.
"Right here?" He asks, as though Aurelien hadn't thrown him over the table and fucked him right in the public dining room. Without really expecting any answer aside from a yes, he pads over to the loveseat. If there is a graceful way to straddle a person's lap, Claude has yet to discover it; he awkwardly climbs into place, his hands cautiously resting on Aurelien's broad shoulders. He braces himself for the touch of strong hands over his smooth, shaved skin, and the painful ache when his cock tries to stiffen in its cage.
"Why not?" Aurelien asks in answer, as smoothly as if this were a well-rehearsed routine, and as he does, his smile quirks wider at one corner. It is the most token objection Claude could offer—and, indeed, he slides into place without any real fuss. Aurelien sinks deeper into the loveseats cushions, and his head lolls back as Claude's palms skirt over his shoulders like he were handling an untamed beast.
Aurelien doesn't find the imagery objectionable, actually, so he leaves the caution in Claude's touch unremarked upon. Instead, just as Claude predicted, Aurelien's strong hands snake around the smaller body balanced in his lap. One grabs, greedy, at the meat of Claude's flank—and the other slots itself beneath the small of Claude's back, holding him firmly in place just in case he has any smart ideas about trying to escape Aurelien's touch.
"Let's see," he purrs, dragging out every word with deliberate suspense, "Perhaps I should leave you in your cage, this time...?"
If only he had a third hand. Alas, he must instead relinquish his hold on Claude's ass; its fingers trail along Claude's hip as Aurelien pulls it into the space between their bodies, and with deliberate idleness, he allows the pad of his thumb to toy with the little cage that constrains Claude's cock.
"You were so excited last time that you couldn't hold it in... Maybe a little training will help you learn to control yourself until your master is satisfied?"
He exhales a slow breath, steadying himself as one of Aurelien's hands holds him in place while the other grabs at his rear. In addition to reading the poetry book, he's also been meditating more often, precisely in hopes of better controlling his mind and body when Aurelien decides to play with him. The less he reacts, the better the outcome.
That's his theory.
His breath only hitches slightly when Aurelien starts nudging at the cage, but the spark in his eyes belies his subdued response. Claude desperately wants it removed. If he can control himself now, perhaps there's a chance he won't have to wear it back in his cell.
"No- please, my Lord. I can control myself," he meets Aurelien's eyes with an imploring look, his fingers digging into his shoulders for a brief moment. Now that he understands the consequences of failure, he's certain he can keep himself in check until the young man is sated.
"Oh?" He feels the sudden clutching of Claude's fingers, and as quick as it fades, the sensation is enough to draw a familiar, cruel grin across Aurelien's face. "You realize it will be worse for you if you fail a second time, don't you?"
Still, even as his words harry Claude, Aurelien shifts beneath the legs that straddle him. He leans forward—except, it isn't to push Claude from his lap. The hand at his back tightens its hold on Claude's body in kind, and its twin lifts again from the space between Claude's thighs; this time, its fingers slot along the base of Claude's skull, and before Claude can wonder about the touch, Aurelien leans forward.
Compared to the rough, devouring kiss Aurelien had subjected Claude to on their last outing, the brush of his lips now is downright sweet. They brush, gentle and probing, over Claude's—and then, without pressing any deeper, Aurelien settles once more against the loveseat's back. Underneath Claude, his legs spread, and with the swift removal of the chastity cage that constrains Claude's prick, Aurelien guides the man by his hips to the new space made between his thighs.
"Very well — but don't think I'll make it easy for you."
Claude doesn't want to consider how Aurelien could make his punishment worse. He simply nods, determined to overcome the challenge this time.
Aurelien begins with an unexpectedly gentle kiss. His lips are soft, inviting rather than cruelly demanding; quite the contrast to the downright wicked grin he'd been sporting just moments ago. He expects the fingers tangled in his hair to grab and yank at any moment, or for teeth to suddenly dig into his lip.
Neither happens.
Before he can seriously consider returning the kiss, Aurelien is pulling away. Eying him quizzically, Claude remains in place until the cage is finally removed- that earns a relieved sigh- then lets Aurelien guide him by the hips to settle between his spread thighs.
"I didn't think you would," he replies, voice sounding far calmer than he feels. At first, he assumed he would be directed to kneel before the loveseat. Now, he isn't so sure.
"Should I move to the floor?" Sucking Aurelien off is always a daunting task, but at least he's done it a few times before. He can handle that, prefers it to the alternative.
Aurelien makes a show of his consideration. He glances to one side, and then to the other, gaze seeking as though he might find some new, unexpected feature of his surroundings there. It is only once each wall and corner has been thoroughly checked that he looks to Claude again; with an exaggerated arch of one eyebrow, he asks, "I'm not sure where else you'd suck me off from."
He supposes there's empty space on the loveseat beside him, but... Sitting upright, he would miss all the exciting details of Claude's attentions from that vantage. His legs stretch wider apart; one knee rests against the seat cushion in question as he thumbs open his slacks—though he makes no move to tug them downward, apparently leaving the work of that to Claude himself.
He shrugs a shoulder, but does as ordered, climbing down from the couch so that he can lower himself down onto his knees between Aurelien's legs. Once there, he waits a few moments, until he realizes it's up to him to pull down Aurelien's slacks. Right, of course.
Claude reaches forward and begins working the demon's slacks down far enough to expose his underwear, and then moves to tug those down as well. He reasons that quick obedience will make the entire process faster and easier, while trying to pretend it has nothing to do with his master's 'training' methods. He simply didn't want to bother waiting for another inevitable command. That's all.
He continues running ahead with that line of reasoning by taking Aurelien's cock in hand, his touch gentle as he strokes along the stiffening shaft. His fingers tremble slightly- perhaps the scowl he wears will help balance out such a clear sign of nerves.
To Aurelien's senses, tuned so keenly as they are to signs of weakness, the tremble of Claude's hand stands out like the glow of a lighthouse in the midst of a clear, dark night. His lips peel from his teeth with sadistic pleasure, and as that nervous hand draws along the swelling shape of his cock, Aurelien lifts one of his own to capture Claude's jaw in the easy, intractable cup of his palm.
"Why such a fearsome expression, my little prince?" The pad of his thumb grazes over Claude's skin, catching at the corner of his mouth and rubbing as though he might wipe away the sullen set of his lips. "Glaring at it won't make me come any quicker."
Rather, if anything, it is the opposite: watching Claude take pleasure in his debasement excites him most of all. He has no intention of giving his pet any further hints, though. Aurelien's hips shift, settling his weight to make himself more comfortable—and as he does, beneath his body, his shadow thickens.
There's no toy plugging Claude's ass, this time, so Aurelien will have to make do with an alternative. Below them, thick, grasping tendrils rise from the darkness. They twine themselves around Claude's legs, slithering around the backs of his knees and climbing the length of his handsome thighs, until their own flared tips come to rub between them. One grinds against Claude's exposed taint, carelessly nudging against his balls, and the other rubs against the shape of Claude's newly-freed cock from the front.
His scowl eases slightly when Aurelien grasps his jaw and mocks him over it, if only because he has a point, if an incredibly aggravating one. He needs to focus entirely on the task before him, not on his anger or fear. That is how he will make Aurelien come quicker.
Lowering his eyes after the young man settles back in the cushions, he says nothing, but continues stroking the thickening length, watching it swell to its full, intimidating size. He certainly isn't paying the shadows around him any mind.
Claude settles his grip around the base of Aurelien's shaft and leans in closer. He decides to begin by licking just under the head, his tongue dragging along in broad, wet strokes, when something begins winding around his legs. He startles back, eyes wide.
"Wha-?" He chokes as something cool and solid begins rubbing between his thighs, while something else targets his cock. His spine goes rigid, mouth hanging open slightly: he should have expected something underhanded, but he hadn't been prepared for this. He's too sensitive after a week straight locked in his cage, and his cock is already stirring, responding to the gentle stroking and nudging behind his balls.
Red-faced, he tries to relax at least somewhat, but this time he skips ahead to wrapping his lips around Aurelien's thick, swollen cockhead.
As Claude's lips close around the head of his cock, a low purr wells from the center of Aurelien's chest. His hand shifts; not wanting to interfere with the man's dogged attempts to take him into his mouth, it moves from his jaw, the tips of its fingers brushing briefly against the outer shell of his ear before they come to rest atop his head, threading through dark hair in a now-familiar gesture. His palm lies there, heavy, as Aurelien allows his head to tip back; his eyes slide closed, and the only sign of his amusement is the smile that still lingers on his lips.
One of those dark tendrils curls around the stiffening shape of Claude's cock—not quite as dexterous as a hand, but grasping all the same. It undulates around his shaft in an approximation of a stroke, teasing him harder as its partner continues to rub against whatever other vulnerable flesh it can find between Claude's legs.
Over the wet sounds of Claude's mouth and his own measured breathing, Aurelien hears the sound of footsteps and an opening door. The seamstress must have returned to confer with him on some detail, Aurelien thinks—and, even before his eyes have opened, the weight of his hand atop Claude's head redoubles. He is sure the man would use this interruption as an excuse to pause in his ministrations; he must learn that he stops only when Aurelien says, no matter his shame or struggle.
An eye cracks open. The figure that stands before him is not the tailor, but—
"Oh—Papà!" Automatically, Aurelien shifts, sitting straighter atop the loveseat. There is no shock in those words, no mortification or shame at having been caught in the middle of a sexual liaison by his father; his voice is bright, and his eyes are attentive as he gazes up at the towering figure of Lord Tuvries Calix. "Is there something that requires my attention?"
There is nothing particularly obsequious about Aurelien's words, but contrasted against the imperiousness of his typical manner, he must sound downright submissive by comparison. The moment lapses into silence; Calix turns his eyes from his son, down to the figure of the human kneeling between his legs.
At last, the elder demon asks, "Have you housebroken it already?"
Without waiting for Aurelien's reply, he reaches forward. He motions with a slight flick of his wrist, and automatically, Aurelien lifts his hand away; in its place, Calix seizes Claude by the hair, drawing his lips free from Aurelien's cock and tilting his head back to stare down at his face from above.
In many ways, the man appears not unlike Aurelien: tall, pale, and statuesque. His eyes, however, are unreadably blank: a flat expanse of gold that stretches from one corner to the other, unbroken by the humanizing shape of pupils and whites.
"The prince is stubborn," Aurelien answers, half-laughing, as Calix holds Claude's gaze—but, then, Claude shouldn't be surprised that he takes some amusement in his struggles. "Still, my training has begun to bear fruit."
Aurelien makes no attempt to cover himself. He sits with his thighs spread and erection unflagging, the head of his cock still glistening with Claude's spit. Instead, he reaches forward; idly, he cradles Claude's jaw in the crook of his thumb.
Aurelien is correct to assume that Claude would try to pull back when he hears the door open. The tightened grip on his hair stops him before he do more than jolt in reaction to the sound, however; he grunts around the head stuffing his mouth, but decides it would be best not to struggle further when breathing properly is already a challenge.
The shadows below don't seem about to slow either, audience or not. He tries not to focus on them, does his best instead to flood his mind with thoughts of the discomfort in his knees and the strain on his jaw-
-no. Best not to focus on the heavy weight of Aurelien's cockhead on his tongue, and how impossibly full his mouth feels when he starts fucking his throat. Under different circumstances, he might have enjoyed the challenge of being so overwhelmed. Frustratingly, his body doesn't always see the difference; his cock twitches, moisture beading at the tip as the shadows continue to toy with him.
They don't stop teasing him even as Aurelien reveals the identity of their visitor. Papa? Claude's eyes grow wide, and before he realizes what's happening, a new hand buries in his hair. He gasps for air as the man pulls him off Aurelien's dick and tilts his head back so they can look at one another face-to-face.
So... this is the Lord of this place.
Immediately, he notices the family resemblance: long, white hair, tall, strong but elegant. Then there are the eyes. Golden, just like Aurelien's, but monocolor, like the servant girl with black eyes. He finds that difference rather peculiar, though his curiosity is overshadowed by a surge of anger at the sight of this man.
This is the one responsible for his capture and torment. This is the one who wants to use his crest's power for his war effort.
The words exchanged between father and son are background noise. He only hears Aurelien's question because the hand at his jaw pulls him from his thoughts.
"Lord Calix." Claude stares back at the demon with an unreadable expression. The basic acknowledgment could easily be interpreted as respect or spite. He then glances over at Aurelien. He can't believe the difference between their eyes!
"...Right," he replies, far more invested in examining the young man's eyes than considering what he's agreeing to.
The reply is more irreverent than Aurelien would have hoped—but, then, his father's presence must be so overwhelming that Claude is having trouble reading the room. A short, sullen sigh leaves Aurelien as he leans back in his seat, and a moment later, Claude will feel something that is—unfortunately for him—not a wholly unfamiliar sensation: the leather of Aurelien's boot rubbing against his groin.
"'Yes, my lord,'" he corrects, the toe of his boot nudging against Claude's balls. "Please forgive him, Papà; he's still learning his place."
Lord Calix releases his grip on Claude's hair. This time, Aurelien insures that Claude shows the proper deference himself, reaching forward and holding his head down in the posture of a servile bow.
"If you have claimed this one as a pet," Calix says, the tone of his voice a dispassionate reprimand, "you are responsible for its behavior, Aurelien."
"I know that." His own reply is mild; an unpleasant, weightless feeling floats beneath the tips of his fingers, which he ignores. "However, our ways cannot be taught overnight. Even I required years of tutelage before you deemed me ready to debut."
Of course, playing the role of a demon lord's son demands a bit more than the role of a pleasure pet. Nevertheless, his father seems to have accepted his retort; again, his gaze falls over Claude where he is forced to kneel.
"In that case, Aurelien — shall I taste the fruits of your training firsthand?"
"Ah! Do you wish to play with my pet yourself, Papà?" Immediately, Aurelien's mood buoys again, the tone of his question light. Tentacles of shadow tighten around Claude's legs; in an instant, they have spun him from the loveseat to face the formidable Lord Calix instead. "Please, partake as you wish."
Behind Claude, Aurelien moves. He slips from the edge of the loveseat to fall into an easy, graceful crouch—not kneeling in the way Claude is, but poised behind him, the heat of his body close at his back. The weight of his thick, towering cock lies against heavy against the small of Claude's back; one of Aurelien's hands captures him in a firm embrace about the waist, and his other moves his head by the tangle of his hair, directing his gaze upward to the space between Lord Calix's own thighs.
"Go on, little prince," Aurelien murmurs, close to Claude's ear. "You have permission to remove my father's trousers."
Claude isn't given much of a chance to continue his examination of father and son. The all too familiar sensation of smooth leather takes the place of the shadows between his thighs, snapping him out of his thoughts once more. He does his best to keep still: it's already humiliating enough meeting the man responsible for his captivity in such a state, and it would be far worse if he appeared to be enjoying such degradation in front of him.
Lord Calix releases his grip on Claude's hair, but before he can feel any relief about it, Aurelien's hand takes its place, forcing him to bow before his father. He grits his teeth, though his anger fades when Lord Calix makes a very interesting statement.
Aurelien is responsible for his behavior. Hmm. That knowledge could come in handy one day.
Whatever small victory he takes in learning something new feels completely insignificant when the demon lord expresses interest in tasting him. Any hope that Aurelien might object is killed immediately when the young man cheerfully offers him up to his father, and even uses his damned shadows to forcibly turn him around. Claude tries to steady himself with a hand on the floor, but Aurelien is soon on crouching right there behind him, a strong arm around his waist holding him very securely in place.
His face feels hot as a hand once again buries in his hair, tilting his head back until he's staring right at Lord Calix's crotch. How could father and son behave this way together? And, most pressingly, how would such a wicked man react to disobedience?
He isn't sure his body could handle finding out.
When he reaches forward to work open Lord Calix's trousers just as he had minutes earlier for his son, he's motivated by simple self-preservation. Aurelien's won't lift a finger to protect him against his father. His behavior around the man has been so... quick to please, seemingly eager for praise. And it's no wonder- he can already imagine a childhood full of horrific abuse as the demon lord shaped his son into his perfect heir.
How ridiculous that he could feel any sympathy for Aurelien, particularly now.
Calix dresses in a manner somewhat more elaborate than his restless, sportive son—but trousers are trousers, and it doesn't take much effort for Claude to unfasten them. Just like Aurelien, the flesh beneath is nearly ivory-pale; no different than his son, Lord Calix's anatomy would appear indistinguishable from a human's—along with one other way the two men particularly resemble each other, as well.
Near to Claude's ear, Aurelien laughs, the sound of it musical and bright.
"What an odd question," Aurelien declares—and, as he does, his hand moves from Claude's scalp to his jaw. His strong, broad hand cradles it in his grip, and the pad of his thumb plays along his bottom lip, plying open his mouth.
"Indeed." Calix's alien expression is difficult to read—though, oddly, there doesn't seem to be any anger in it, no matter how hard one looks. His fingers curve around the base of his cock, and without waiting for any signal, he forces it forward against Claude's parted lips. "Is it not apparent?"
Aurelien's fingertips massage Claude's jaw: gentle, almost, and coaxing. "Relax your jaw," he directs—as if Claude's question were not even a subject worth speaking on, as if its answer were unremarkable and mundane. "You've taken me before, so you'll be able to handle Papà's."
Father and son respond to his question so casually, as though sharing sexual partners with one another is the most natural thing in the world. Could such a thing really be common among demons? He knows well enough that sex is far more open among them, but this? He can't believe this is a normal part of any loving relationship between parents and their children.
If Lord Calix is even capable of something approaching love. Aurelien seems to adore him, but that alone tells him very little.
As much as he would like to ask more questions, Claude knows he has to focus on his own predicament. Calix is at least as big as Aurelien, and somehow even less patient. His lips are barely parted when Calix presses forward; Claude's eyes grow wide, and he thoughtlessly grasps at the elder demon's thighs to brace himself. Normally he holds Aurelien's shaft when they do this, giving him a modicum of control (or at least the illusion of it). Without that, he feels even more helpless than usual.
Shockingly, Aurelien's gentle touch and encouraging words manage to help him calm that rising panic before it can snowball. He was just about to do this, wasn't he? He can do it; he can handle it.
Claude relaxes his jaw as instructed, allowing the thick head to plunge freely between his lips. It's still far too much, but it provides that same overly full feeling that makes his pulse quicken and his dick throb. At the same time, he can feel Aurelien's heavy erection straining against the small of his back. That should horrify him: it shouldn't send a shiver down his spine.
He quickly blames his reactions on a full week wearing his chastity cage. It isn't worth contemplating that Aurelien might be conditioning him to enjoy being stuffed with a huge cock.
Claude's jaw relaxes, and in reward, Aurelien purrs near to his ear, "See? Good boy." He watches as his father's heavy palm rests atop Claude's head in place of his own; the hand cradling Claude's jaw falls away to his shoulder, bracing him as Lord Calix pushes an inch deeper into his wet, tight throat. He can see the strain in Claude's jaw, the way his throat bulges around the intrusion—and he feels the way Claude shivers, too.
Aurelien rocks back on his heels. He could, if he wanted to, rub himself off on Claude's ass while he watches his mouth get fucked. Instead, he grasps one cheek of his ass and squeezes, kneading Claude's flesh like a toy; as he does, he turns his gaze upward and asks, "Would you object if I fuck him first? He is my pet."
There is a small pause—long enough for Calix's hips to saw back and push forward again, making use of Claude's mouth. Then, he answers, "Just don't seed him."
Aurelien doesn't bother with any confirmation. He leans away from Claude, seeking something else that had been left on the small table beside the loveseat. Before Claude has long to question, one of his hands presses between his thighs; its fingers are slicked in a cool, slippery oil, and Aurelien wastes no time smearing it along the ring of Claude's hole. His other hand comes to brace along Claude's hip as the tip of a finger pushes into him—careful, but inexorable, forcing its way down to the top knuckle before Aurelien decides to stop and see if Claude needs the same coaxing he had at his mouth.
He closes his eyes and focuses all of his energy on relaxing his jaw and throat, but Lord Calix isn't trying to treat him with any sort of patience or care. His throat tightens around the intrusion as he chokes; his eyes snap open, tears popping up at the corners while his fingers dig harder into Calix's thighs.
Then Aurelien asks a question that makes him choke all the harder.
He barely has time to recover his breath when Calix draws back: there is no opportunity for him to object. The swollen shaft slides back down his throat, functioning as a fantastic gag for his moans of protest. It also helps keep him firmly in place when Aurelien returns from retrieving something from he'd been lounging earlier.
Claude's entire body tenses when he feels a cool, slippery finger rubbing against his hole. He whimpers as the digit slips inside of him, deeper and deeper, and a bead of moisture slicks the tip of his cock.
He prays that Aurelien uses plenty of that oil this time.
"You fuss too much," Aurelien declares. Evidently, Claude need not say a word for Aurelien to sense his objections—or for him to ignore them. The tip of that intruding digit ekes back ever-so-slightly, and then it pushes deeper, wedging itself a second knuckle down before Aurelien stops to crook it inside him, instead. "You know already that this will be better for you if you try to accept it."
His own cock twitches with excitement at the prospect. Of course, he has shared enough playthings with his father to know the moment requires some delicacy; that is why he continues working Claude open with that single finger, sliding it forward and back in a slow, ceaseless rhythm until it has sunk down to its bottom knuckle. Only then does Aurelien pause again. Again, he curls the digit inside of Claude, and as he does, he leans forward to press his lips against his shoulder in some parody of an act of comfort.
It puts the sounds of Claude choking around his father's cock so close to his ear.
The moment lingers only briefly, and then Aurelien draws back once more. A second finger, just as slippery, joins the first; this time, Aurelien's touch is a bit more insistent, plying Claude's body wider with the first thrust of his hand. He watches the merciless thrust of his father's cock, pumping itself deep in and long out of Claude's throat—and, as if by instinct, the pump of his wrist falls into a rhythm to match it, pressing in with the forward thrust of his hips and drawing out as they roll back again.
Claude knows what Aurelien says is true: it will be better if he tries to accept it. If he had any power here, even the smallest bit of leverage, he might be able to object or negotiate here or there. With nothing the demons want that they can't take by force, all he can do to improve his treatment is behave and comply. If he had fought against Lord Calix, he highly doubts those thrusting fingers would be quite so slick.
They aren't nearly as objectionable when coated with so much oil.
One finger, deep inside, curls just right. He moans again around Calix's prick, just as a pair of soft lips presses against his shoulder. Strange, how Aurelien sometimes peppers in little gestures of affection now and then... an additional layer of cruelty, most likely. And yet, he can't be as cruel as his father, who fucks his mouth without a care, relentless however badly he gags and chokes around him.
Tears begin to trickle freely down his cheeks. Aurelien adds a second finger, stretching him out and thrusting harder; Claude gradually allows himself to accept the sharp surges of pleasure for what they are, and with that acceptance, he begins to loosen his tightly clenched muscles.
How odd, that giving into his helplessness feels so much more freeing.
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The tailor's fingers brush over his thighs now and then while she works, and he has to force himself not to react. No- he doesn't need any reminders of his pathetic state when he isn't even afforded control over his own body.
But maybe Aurelien needs to remind himself of his own power. There is still so much he doesn't know about the young demon.
"It taught me that a clever mind can overcome brute strength." Again, contrary to what demons seem to believe. He firmly believes in the power of the mind, even if it hasn't done him much good here so far.
"And that strength can't fix a contemptible soul."
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He truly meant what he had said, as twisted as the compliment might be; it makes touching Claude a difficult proposition to resist. He stands just beyond reach to stop himself—and yet, as he cocks his head, the natural difference in their heights still manages to turn his presence looming.
"I confess — demons aren't particularly concerned with the state of our souls." His smile sits wide on his face, a sliver of perfectly white teeth showing between soft lips. "Just between us, though... I'd rather have a contemptible soul than a meek spirit!"
Or, rather: what Claude considers to be a contemptible soul is likely rather different than what any demon would. He laughs, light and easy, as his head lolls the other way.
"Just don't allow your mind to become too clever for its own good. Too much subterfuge makes a man look spineless."
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Thankfully, Aurelien doesn't raise a hand when he comes to a stop before him, though Claude isn't fooled by his broad smile. The way he looms over him while cheerfully taunting him- clearly he isn't pleased by their discussion's conclusion.
There is something harshly satisfying about the thought that he finally managed to get under Aurelien's skin. The demon always seems so composed and in control; seeing him this way is almost humanizing.
"Back home, you do whatever you can to survive." He keeps his response vague, and purposefully avoids making eye contact. Aurelien's behavior is familiar to him. Any sign of disrespect could be used as an excuse to hurt him, and he isn't going to fall for such obvious tactics, even if that makes him look spineless.
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"Look at me when I am speaking to you." Now, he drops his congenial tone. With the sudden sharpness of a reprimand, he declares, "If I want you to bow your head, you'll know."
But learning when to meet his master's eyes and when to grovel is all part of Claude's education. Aurelien straightens, and as he again fixes his arms behind his back, the smile on his lips turns just a little bit stiffer.
"Do you think you have offended me? But we're merely discussing a poem you have read — are we not?"
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Whenever Claude thinks he's had a revelation about Aurelien, the young man always finds a way to sprinkle in a healthy dose of skepticism. His conclusions might still stand, but they aren't fully consistent with the sudden demand for eye contact.
Of course, that could just be another way to flaunt his authority over his pet. Sometimes, he worries he's overthinking every little detail of Aurelien's words and behavior simply because he doesn't have much else to do with his time. If only he could keep a private journal (as laughable as that notion is).
"We are. I'm glad you aren't offended." The lack of sincerity in his words is likely obvious to everyone in the room.
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Now, he does sigh. His smile fades away, and he makes a show of his own vexation, tossing the spill of his pale hair over his shoulder with the loll of his head and an imperious flick of one wrist.
The seamstress rises to her feet somewhere beside him and speaks; it takes Aurelien a moment to realize she is addressing him, and when he does, he looks to her with an impassive stare. As she informs him that she is done taking measurements, he nods and dismisses her; he watches the tailor and her assistant take their leave, and when he looks to Claude once more, his lips are set once more in his typical idle smile.
"Come," he says, gesturing for Claude to follow with an indolent crook of his wrist. Again, he steps around Claude, returning to the abandoned loveseat—and as he sits, he pats the space atop his thighs expectantly.
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The tailor and her assistant take their leave, and his apprehension swiftly returns. And as Aurelien returns to the loveseat and pats his lap just so with that damned smirk, he realizes his anxiety was well-founded.
"Right here?" He asks, as though Aurelien hadn't thrown him over the table and fucked him right in the public dining room. Without really expecting any answer aside from a yes, he pads over to the loveseat. If there is a graceful way to straddle a person's lap, Claude has yet to discover it; he awkwardly climbs into place, his hands cautiously resting on Aurelien's broad shoulders. He braces himself for the touch of strong hands over his smooth, shaved skin, and the painful ache when his cock tries to stiffen in its cage.
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Aurelien doesn't find the imagery objectionable, actually, so he leaves the caution in Claude's touch unremarked upon. Instead, just as Claude predicted, Aurelien's strong hands snake around the smaller body balanced in his lap. One grabs, greedy, at the meat of Claude's flank—and the other slots itself beneath the small of Claude's back, holding him firmly in place just in case he has any smart ideas about trying to escape Aurelien's touch.
"Let's see," he purrs, dragging out every word with deliberate suspense, "Perhaps I should leave you in your cage, this time...?"
If only he had a third hand. Alas, he must instead relinquish his hold on Claude's ass; its fingers trail along Claude's hip as Aurelien pulls it into the space between their bodies, and with deliberate idleness, he allows the pad of his thumb to toy with the little cage that constrains Claude's cock.
"You were so excited last time that you couldn't hold it in... Maybe a little training will help you learn to control yourself until your master is satisfied?"
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That's his theory.
His breath only hitches slightly when Aurelien starts nudging at the cage, but the spark in his eyes belies his subdued response. Claude desperately wants it removed. If he can control himself now, perhaps there's a chance he won't have to wear it back in his cell.
"No- please, my Lord. I can control myself," he meets Aurelien's eyes with an imploring look, his fingers digging into his shoulders for a brief moment. Now that he understands the consequences of failure, he's certain he can keep himself in check until the young man is sated.
"I just need another chance."
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Still, even as his words harry Claude, Aurelien shifts beneath the legs that straddle him. He leans forward—except, it isn't to push Claude from his lap. The hand at his back tightens its hold on Claude's body in kind, and its twin lifts again from the space between Claude's thighs; this time, its fingers slot along the base of Claude's skull, and before Claude can wonder about the touch, Aurelien leans forward.
Compared to the rough, devouring kiss Aurelien had subjected Claude to on their last outing, the brush of his lips now is downright sweet. They brush, gentle and probing, over Claude's—and then, without pressing any deeper, Aurelien settles once more against the loveseat's back. Underneath Claude, his legs spread, and with the swift removal of the chastity cage that constrains Claude's prick, Aurelien guides the man by his hips to the new space made between his thighs.
"Very well — but don't think I'll make it easy for you."
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Aurelien begins with an unexpectedly gentle kiss. His lips are soft, inviting rather than cruelly demanding; quite the contrast to the downright wicked grin he'd been sporting just moments ago. He expects the fingers tangled in his hair to grab and yank at any moment, or for teeth to suddenly dig into his lip.
Neither happens.
Before he can seriously consider returning the kiss, Aurelien is pulling away. Eying him quizzically, Claude remains in place until the cage is finally removed- that earns a relieved sigh- then lets Aurelien guide him by the hips to settle between his spread thighs.
"I didn't think you would," he replies, voice sounding far calmer than he feels. At first, he assumed he would be directed to kneel before the loveseat. Now, he isn't so sure.
"Should I move to the floor?" Sucking Aurelien off is always a daunting task, but at least he's done it a few times before. He can handle that, prefers it to the alternative.
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He supposes there's empty space on the loveseat beside him, but... Sitting upright, he would miss all the exciting details of Claude's attentions from that vantage. His legs stretch wider apart; one knee rests against the seat cushion in question as he thumbs open his slacks—though he makes no move to tug them downward, apparently leaving the work of that to Claude himself.
"Come, now. Enough stalling."
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Claude reaches forward and begins working the demon's slacks down far enough to expose his underwear, and then moves to tug those down as well. He reasons that quick obedience will make the entire process faster and easier, while trying to pretend it has nothing to do with his master's 'training' methods. He simply didn't want to bother waiting for another inevitable command. That's all.
He continues running ahead with that line of reasoning by taking Aurelien's cock in hand, his touch gentle as he strokes along the stiffening shaft. His fingers tremble slightly- perhaps the scowl he wears will help balance out such a clear sign of nerves.
gonna have them interrupted next tag I think!
"Why such a fearsome expression, my little prince?" The pad of his thumb grazes over Claude's skin, catching at the corner of his mouth and rubbing as though he might wipe away the sullen set of his lips. "Glaring at it won't make me come any quicker."
Rather, if anything, it is the opposite: watching Claude take pleasure in his debasement excites him most of all. He has no intention of giving his pet any further hints, though. Aurelien's hips shift, settling his weight to make himself more comfortable—and as he does, beneath his body, his shadow thickens.
There's no toy plugging Claude's ass, this time, so Aurelien will have to make do with an alternative. Below them, thick, grasping tendrils rise from the darkness. They twine themselves around Claude's legs, slithering around the backs of his knees and climbing the length of his handsome thighs, until their own flared tips come to rub between them. One grinds against Claude's exposed taint, carelessly nudging against his balls, and the other rubs against the shape of Claude's newly-freed cock from the front.
Okay!
Lowering his eyes after the young man settles back in the cushions, he says nothing, but continues stroking the thickening length, watching it swell to its full, intimidating size. He certainly isn't paying the shadows around him any mind.
Claude settles his grip around the base of Aurelien's shaft and leans in closer. He decides to begin by licking just under the head, his tongue dragging along in broad, wet strokes, when something begins winding around his legs. He startles back, eyes wide.
"Wha-?" He chokes as something cool and solid begins rubbing between his thighs, while something else targets his cock. His spine goes rigid, mouth hanging open slightly: he should have expected something underhanded, but he hadn't been prepared for this. He's too sensitive after a week straight locked in his cage, and his cock is already stirring, responding to the gentle stroking and nudging behind his balls.
Red-faced, he tries to relax at least somewhat, but this time he skips ahead to wrapping his lips around Aurelien's thick, swollen cockhead.
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One of those dark tendrils curls around the stiffening shape of Claude's cock—not quite as dexterous as a hand, but grasping all the same. It undulates around his shaft in an approximation of a stroke, teasing him harder as its partner continues to rub against whatever other vulnerable flesh it can find between Claude's legs.
Over the wet sounds of Claude's mouth and his own measured breathing, Aurelien hears the sound of footsteps and an opening door. The seamstress must have returned to confer with him on some detail, Aurelien thinks—and, even before his eyes have opened, the weight of his hand atop Claude's head redoubles. He is sure the man would use this interruption as an excuse to pause in his ministrations; he must learn that he stops only when Aurelien says, no matter his shame or struggle.
An eye cracks open. The figure that stands before him is not the tailor, but—
"Oh—Papà!" Automatically, Aurelien shifts, sitting straighter atop the loveseat. There is no shock in those words, no mortification or shame at having been caught in the middle of a sexual liaison by his father; his voice is bright, and his eyes are attentive as he gazes up at the towering figure of Lord Tuvries Calix. "Is there something that requires my attention?"
There is nothing particularly obsequious about Aurelien's words, but contrasted against the imperiousness of his typical manner, he must sound downright submissive by comparison. The moment lapses into silence; Calix turns his eyes from his son, down to the figure of the human kneeling between his legs.
At last, the elder demon asks, "Have you housebroken it already?"
Without waiting for Aurelien's reply, he reaches forward. He motions with a slight flick of his wrist, and automatically, Aurelien lifts his hand away; in its place, Calix seizes Claude by the hair, drawing his lips free from Aurelien's cock and tilting his head back to stare down at his face from above.
In many ways, the man appears not unlike Aurelien: tall, pale, and statuesque. His eyes, however, are unreadably blank: a flat expanse of gold that stretches from one corner to the other, unbroken by the humanizing shape of pupils and whites.
"The prince is stubborn," Aurelien answers, half-laughing, as Calix holds Claude's gaze—but, then, Claude shouldn't be surprised that he takes some amusement in his struggles. "Still, my training has begun to bear fruit."
Aurelien makes no attempt to cover himself. He sits with his thighs spread and erection unflagging, the head of his cock still glistening with Claude's spit. Instead, he reaches forward; idly, he cradles Claude's jaw in the crook of his thumb.
"Isn't that right, pet?"
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The shadows below don't seem about to slow either, audience or not. He tries not to focus on them, does his best instead to flood his mind with thoughts of the discomfort in his knees and the strain on his jaw-
-no. Best not to focus on the heavy weight of Aurelien's cockhead on his tongue, and how impossibly full his mouth feels when he starts fucking his throat. Under different circumstances, he might have enjoyed the challenge of being so overwhelmed. Frustratingly, his body doesn't always see the difference; his cock twitches, moisture beading at the tip as the shadows continue to toy with him.
They don't stop teasing him even as Aurelien reveals the identity of their visitor. Papa? Claude's eyes grow wide, and before he realizes what's happening, a new hand buries in his hair. He gasps for air as the man pulls him off Aurelien's dick and tilts his head back so they can look at one another face-to-face.
So... this is the Lord of this place.
Immediately, he notices the family resemblance: long, white hair, tall, strong but elegant. Then there are the eyes. Golden, just like Aurelien's, but monocolor, like the servant girl with black eyes. He finds that difference rather peculiar, though his curiosity is overshadowed by a surge of anger at the sight of this man.
This is the one responsible for his capture and torment. This is the one who wants to use his crest's power for his war effort.
The words exchanged between father and son are background noise. He only hears Aurelien's question because the hand at his jaw pulls him from his thoughts.
"Lord Calix." Claude stares back at the demon with an unreadable expression. The basic acknowledgment could easily be interpreted as respect or spite. He then glances over at Aurelien. He can't believe the difference between their eyes!
"...Right," he replies, far more invested in examining the young man's eyes than considering what he's agreeing to.
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"'Yes, my lord,'" he corrects, the toe of his boot nudging against Claude's balls. "Please forgive him, Papà; he's still learning his place."
Lord Calix releases his grip on Claude's hair. This time, Aurelien insures that Claude shows the proper deference himself, reaching forward and holding his head down in the posture of a servile bow.
"If you have claimed this one as a pet," Calix says, the tone of his voice a dispassionate reprimand, "you are responsible for its behavior, Aurelien."
"I know that." His own reply is mild; an unpleasant, weightless feeling floats beneath the tips of his fingers, which he ignores. "However, our ways cannot be taught overnight. Even I required years of tutelage before you deemed me ready to debut."
Of course, playing the role of a demon lord's son demands a bit more than the role of a pleasure pet. Nevertheless, his father seems to have accepted his retort; again, his gaze falls over Claude where he is forced to kneel.
"In that case, Aurelien — shall I taste the fruits of your training firsthand?"
"Ah! Do you wish to play with my pet yourself, Papà?" Immediately, Aurelien's mood buoys again, the tone of his question light. Tentacles of shadow tighten around Claude's legs; in an instant, they have spun him from the loveseat to face the formidable Lord Calix instead. "Please, partake as you wish."
Behind Claude, Aurelien moves. He slips from the edge of the loveseat to fall into an easy, graceful crouch—not kneeling in the way Claude is, but poised behind him, the heat of his body close at his back. The weight of his thick, towering cock lies against heavy against the small of Claude's back; one of Aurelien's hands captures him in a firm embrace about the waist, and his other moves his head by the tangle of his hair, directing his gaze upward to the space between Lord Calix's own thighs.
"Go on, little prince," Aurelien murmurs, close to Claude's ear. "You have permission to remove my father's trousers."
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Lord Calix releases his grip on Claude's hair, but before he can feel any relief about it, Aurelien's hand takes its place, forcing him to bow before his father. He grits his teeth, though his anger fades when Lord Calix makes a very interesting statement.
Aurelien is responsible for his behavior. Hmm. That knowledge could come in handy one day.
Whatever small victory he takes in learning something new feels completely insignificant when the demon lord expresses interest in tasting him. Any hope that Aurelien might object is killed immediately when the young man cheerfully offers him up to his father, and even uses his damned shadows to forcibly turn him around. Claude tries to steady himself with a hand on the floor, but Aurelien is soon on crouching right there behind him, a strong arm around his waist holding him very securely in place.
His face feels hot as a hand once again buries in his hair, tilting his head back until he's staring right at Lord Calix's crotch. How could father and son behave this way together? And, most pressingly, how would such a wicked man react to disobedience?
He isn't sure his body could handle finding out.
When he reaches forward to work open Lord Calix's trousers just as he had minutes earlier for his son, he's motivated by simple self-preservation. Aurelien's won't lift a finger to protect him against his father. His behavior around the man has been so... quick to please, seemingly eager for praise. And it's no wonder- he can already imagine a childhood full of horrific abuse as the demon lord shaped his son into his perfect heir.
How ridiculous that he could feel any sympathy for Aurelien, particularly now.
"Is this something you've done together before?"
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Near to Claude's ear, Aurelien laughs, the sound of it musical and bright.
"What an odd question," Aurelien declares—and, as he does, his hand moves from Claude's scalp to his jaw. His strong, broad hand cradles it in his grip, and the pad of his thumb plays along his bottom lip, plying open his mouth.
"Indeed." Calix's alien expression is difficult to read—though, oddly, there doesn't seem to be any anger in it, no matter how hard one looks. His fingers curve around the base of his cock, and without waiting for any signal, he forces it forward against Claude's parted lips. "Is it not apparent?"
Aurelien's fingertips massage Claude's jaw: gentle, almost, and coaxing. "Relax your jaw," he directs—as if Claude's question were not even a subject worth speaking on, as if its answer were unremarkable and mundane. "You've taken me before, so you'll be able to handle Papà's."
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If Lord Calix is even capable of something approaching love. Aurelien seems to adore him, but that alone tells him very little.
As much as he would like to ask more questions, Claude knows he has to focus on his own predicament. Calix is at least as big as Aurelien, and somehow even less patient. His lips are barely parted when Calix presses forward; Claude's eyes grow wide, and he thoughtlessly grasps at the elder demon's thighs to brace himself. Normally he holds Aurelien's shaft when they do this, giving him a modicum of control (or at least the illusion of it). Without that, he feels even more helpless than usual.
Shockingly, Aurelien's gentle touch and encouraging words manage to help him calm that rising panic before it can snowball. He was just about to do this, wasn't he? He can do it; he can handle it.
Claude relaxes his jaw as instructed, allowing the thick head to plunge freely between his lips. It's still far too much, but it provides that same overly full feeling that makes his pulse quicken and his dick throb. At the same time, he can feel Aurelien's heavy erection straining against the small of his back. That should horrify him: it shouldn't send a shiver down his spine.
He quickly blames his reactions on a full week wearing his chastity cage. It isn't worth contemplating that Aurelien might be conditioning him to enjoy being stuffed with a huge cock.
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Aurelien rocks back on his heels. He could, if he wanted to, rub himself off on Claude's ass while he watches his mouth get fucked. Instead, he grasps one cheek of his ass and squeezes, kneading Claude's flesh like a toy; as he does, he turns his gaze upward and asks, "Would you object if I fuck him first? He is my pet."
There is a small pause—long enough for Calix's hips to saw back and push forward again, making use of Claude's mouth. Then, he answers, "Just don't seed him."
Aurelien doesn't bother with any confirmation. He leans away from Claude, seeking something else that had been left on the small table beside the loveseat. Before Claude has long to question, one of his hands presses between his thighs; its fingers are slicked in a cool, slippery oil, and Aurelien wastes no time smearing it along the ring of Claude's hole. His other hand comes to brace along Claude's hip as the tip of a finger pushes into him—careful, but inexorable, forcing its way down to the top knuckle before Aurelien decides to stop and see if Claude needs the same coaxing he had at his mouth.
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Then Aurelien asks a question that makes him choke all the harder.
He barely has time to recover his breath when Calix draws back: there is no opportunity for him to object. The swollen shaft slides back down his throat, functioning as a fantastic gag for his moans of protest. It also helps keep him firmly in place when Aurelien returns from retrieving something from he'd been lounging earlier.
Claude's entire body tenses when he feels a cool, slippery finger rubbing against his hole. He whimpers as the digit slips inside of him, deeper and deeper, and a bead of moisture slicks the tip of his cock.
He prays that Aurelien uses plenty of that oil this time.
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His own cock twitches with excitement at the prospect. Of course, he has shared enough playthings with his father to know the moment requires some delicacy; that is why he continues working Claude open with that single finger, sliding it forward and back in a slow, ceaseless rhythm until it has sunk down to its bottom knuckle. Only then does Aurelien pause again. Again, he curls the digit inside of Claude, and as he does, he leans forward to press his lips against his shoulder in some parody of an act of comfort.
It puts the sounds of Claude choking around his father's cock so close to his ear.
The moment lingers only briefly, and then Aurelien draws back once more. A second finger, just as slippery, joins the first; this time, Aurelien's touch is a bit more insistent, plying Claude's body wider with the first thrust of his hand. He watches the merciless thrust of his father's cock, pumping itself deep in and long out of Claude's throat—and, as if by instinct, the pump of his wrist falls into a rhythm to match it, pressing in with the forward thrust of his hips and drawing out as they roll back again.
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They aren't nearly as objectionable when coated with so much oil.
One finger, deep inside, curls just right. He moans again around Calix's prick, just as a pair of soft lips presses against his shoulder. Strange, how Aurelien sometimes peppers in little gestures of affection now and then... an additional layer of cruelty, most likely. And yet, he can't be as cruel as his father, who fucks his mouth without a care, relentless however badly he gags and chokes around him.
Tears begin to trickle freely down his cheeks. Aurelien adds a second finger, stretching him out and thrusting harder; Claude gradually allows himself to accept the sharp surges of pleasure for what they are, and with that acceptance, he begins to loosen his tightly clenched muscles.
How odd, that giving into his helplessness feels so much more freeing.
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getting back to this while I'm tagging with him anyway :')
<3
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