|Conversation: Damien Hall and August Lowell|
Conversation: Damien Hall and August Lowell
Jul. 16th, 2007 @ 04:59 pm
I pull back long enough to stop my fingerwalking on his hipbone, and I slip a little lower, stroking his cock and grinning at the moan it elicits.
" Was that professor of yours worth it, after all? Did he have talented hands?"
The distraction of the immediate dulls my curiosity, even though there are a million other questions I'm dying inside to ask, and someday I will poke apart August until he has no secrets. As for now, however, I murmur something, quickening the movements of my left hand while brushing across a marbled nipple with my right.
I lift my head quickly from where I had been tonguing a nipple, letting the thought slide through my head. I had just been getting used to the submissive role that I had quietly assumed in our relationship. The thought of switching filled me with a curious but not unwanted pleasure.
I can't help being slightly symied by his tone. "If I wanted? What about you?"
"As much as a part of me would really, really, really like to show you, in extensive detail.." I sigh. "I can't ask you to give that up for me. Not now, atleast. But don't think I won't, someday."
I towel my hair off vigorously, making it horribly fluffy in the process. "What's that?"
"Is that where you're going with this?" I catch the robe and smile a little smugly. "I mean, I had already guessed the answer was myself, but that is extraordinarily mature of you. Well done.
"I've already admitted I love you and such, so I'll take whatever you're prepared to give. And I'm sorry I've spent so much time peppering you with these questions, but I can't resist asking atleast one more."
I whirl around on my foot and point at the slowly drying mass of blond hair on his head. "Is that altogether natural?"
This morning has made me realize how little I actually know of him; just vague tidbits about some professor conquest and vague outbursts towards his father, nuggets filed away in my head to accomodate the rapidly changing stories I've slowly been forming about him.
"Can't say I recall the name, no."
I look in horror as August starts screaming, and I bend down to pick up the letter, crumpled on the floor, reading the neat, slant hand print. Oh, god.
I sit heavily on the bed and drop the letter like poison, my eyes stinging involuntarily with tears.
My eyes well up and I wipe my eyes hard with my arm to stop them from coming, pressing my arm so tightly to them that it almost hurts. I inhale sharply, clenching my teeth and waiting for it all to end.
August is making frantic, tearful apologies, but I can't yet bear to speak or acknowledge that any of this is happening.
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