He has not had very much time to explore the castle; somehow, from his arrival on, you've seen to that. Not that he thinks you've been trying to keep him from doing so. It's more a ... byproduct of certain enjoyable, even pleasurable pastimes.
     In fact, aside from the practice session with his sister, he's been spending almost all his hours with you. He can't remember the last time he spent this much time isolated with another human being. It's something he's previously gone out of his way to avoid, ever since the shark took a chunk out of his leg.
     Pres has finished rehearsal with his sister by now, and has returned to the suite - your suite. Why? Well, he's not entirely sure why, apart from that it's where his clothes happen to be. He's taken a little time to admire the castle and its grounds, with a touch of the uneasy awe that is not paired with reverence that Americans often feel in such places. History. Something they haven't got so much of, and aren't entirely sure it's worth all that anyway.
     "If you have work to get done or anything," Pres offers upon entering, looking to see if you are, in fact, even there, "I can clear out. Just saying." He's wearing tan trousers and a white shirt, open slightly at the collar. His hair, which by his standards badly wants cutting, is rumpled and misbehaving. His cane has been recently polished; he's not sure who did that, but he suspects the servants. "I can hit one of the libraries and get out of your hair."

     The beautiful countenance -- in his repose, he is the picture of serene authority. It is not the clothing he wears -- he is in blues and violets again today. Today the leather pants are violet and the shirts are a mixture of blues, layered, thin-knit pull-overs the envy of some designers, to be sure. Gruffydd ap Iowerth lounges -- and it is a lounge -- upon one of the suite's living room sofas, his long legs outstretched. Around him is an assortment of delicacies: wine-plumped figs, walnuts dusted in cinnamon and baked, dates baked with prosciutto, and a bottle of brandy. His glass is a quarter full of the amber liquid. In one hand is a book (it appears to have no discernible title, nothing to indicate what it is or who might be responsible for it).
     As you enter, as you speak, Gruffydd begins a smile. The serene look remains through the upraising of eyebrows. Lavender eyes then lift over the book, the book then tilted, his fingers saving his place. "On the contrary, I prefer you rather in my hair, Preston. Please, come join me. How is your sister?" He has not been in here all day, presumably. But one never knows what Gruffydds do when Gruffydds are left on their own.
     "There is brandy," he sets the books aside. "Figs, dates, various Turkish finger foods," he says. Gruffydd straightens only somewhat, his legs surrendering part of the sofa so that you may join him.

     He blushes, and he doesn't know why he's blushing. But he's blushing anyway, glancing at you and moving silently to join you in the space you make for him. It's only when he's allowed his weight to settle that he turns to look at you, and to speak. "She's doing fine. She wants to do this performance for all of you tomorrow or Thursday night or whenever the big dinner night is, and wanted my help, so we practiced, and, well, I guess we'll see. I know I'm out of practice. I stopped doing guitar and switched to piano mostly after getting off the boat."
     He looks over at you, sidelong, then rakes his fingers back through his hair. It doesn't make it any tidier, but it doesn't look bad, as such. "I'm good, thanks. I don't need to eat just now. You look ... settled."
     Which doesn't explain why I find you so unsettling.

     "I have had practice at being comfortable," Gruffydd notes with a slight smile, a slight lifting of dark eyebrows. "It is an art, really. Some might not consider it so, but...anything worth doing is worth doing well." And that includes you. He sets the book aside, his place seemingly lost. The book has to be three-hundred years old if it's a day. It has been restored from time to time, but it is, indeed, quite old. "I look forward to hearing that. I am not much of one for singing in public. I admire those who can. I have selective shyness," he notes.
     Shyness? Him?
     Gruffydd reaches for one of the wine-plumped figs. He pops it into his mouth and chases it down with brandy. The snifter follows him like a dog, curling up on his lap as he sits back. He looks at you, watches you silently. He is listening, serenely as is his wont. But there is a smoldering quality under that serenity, that study.
     "Preston West," he says at your ear as he leans toward you, "... we should discuss my offer in more detail and your desire, or not as the case may be, to accept it. Do you have any questions? I shall be quite surprised, and maybe a little disappointed if you do not?" He smiles and it can be feel as well as heard.

     He watches you covertly, from under his eyelashes, sitting back and turning more towards you than next to you. You study him, and he studies you right back - because there are so many questions he does not know how to ask, and so many things he wants to know. That they lie inside of him, he's aware of - he's too honest to deny that. But they might, somehow, appear as answers on you.
     Pres sighs as you lean towards him and heat rushes into his face. He looks at you, then away again. "Your offer's - kind. I think. I'm not sure. I have questions but I'm not sure I want to ask them. I'm not sure I want to know the answers, because the answers are probably different from what I'm thinking they might be - and I don't know if I want to know how different. I don't want to be disappointed. I don't want to let you down, either."
     He goes silent, sinking forward to rest his elbows on his lap, hands joined together in front of him. His teeth scrape over his lower lip, and he turns his head to look at you from that position. "I like you a lot for somebody I only met a day ago," Pres says quietly. "I'm not sure where that'd go if I let it, and you can't really answer any of the stuff to do with that. It's me, y'know? I don't really know what the hell I'm doing. I went from having sex with girls to missing half my calf to hey maybe I like guys to in bed with you. Not really fair to either of us, is it, if I just say yes to your offer."

     Gruffydd pauses, settling back, the King of Comfort once more. "It is better to know a thing than to not know, to worry and to wonder, would you not say so? Truth is far easier than artifice. Simpler. Cleaner. Not always more pleasant, this is true. So, truth. Here, Preston, there is no judgment," Gruffydd says quietly, his smooth voice and its deep resonance an balm to the senses. "Ask your questions..."
     There is a kind of safety, a sanctuary of energy. There is the feeling that you may be in an audience with a king, but he is compassionate, interested, and here... in the bubble of his presence...you are safe, secure, and sought after.
     Gruffydd's mouth curls as you speak of sexuality, and of feelings. Questions asked by not asking. "I have been bisexual most of my life, all of it quite possibly. I lost my virginity to a girl, then slept with my first man by the time I was... I believe sixteen. He was ...is... a famous professional athlete in my country. And he and I had an... interesting two or three days. My wife, Maria, understands me... knows and supports what I need. I need, in my bed and in my life, the balance of both men and women. A man and a woman. A woman, I have. It is my other other half that I am seeking. And you, Preston, are the best candidate I've seen. You have the," he tips his head back in thought, "...unique combination of desire, willingness to learn, desire to succeed -- and to please -- and you are extremely intelligent."
     Gruffydd looks to you not with seduction but with compassion and admiration. "What I see in you is untapped and unrealized greatness. My offer has nothing to do with kindness, and everything to do with hope, possibility, and ...I hope... love. In return, I can offer you things... opportunities... you can't even imagine. It sounds too good to be true," Gruffydd purrs, teasing you both. "Surely there must be a catch. There is: it requires an open mind."

     Wife. He absorbs it, a bit with a shock; it hadn't really sunk in. It's not something he's quite prepared to understand - to accept freely, readily. He has to think about it, turning it over. What you say after takes a moment to sink in; when it does, he blushes, ducking his head to stare at the floor.
     "I don't know that I'm - what you describe. I'd like to think that I'm all that. I - I don't know." Pres rubs his cheek roughly, jaw tightening as he looks up at you. "I guess ... I mean, I know I'm interested, I'd be lying if I said I wasn't. I just - what would I have to do?"

     Gruffydd smiles, and for the first time it isn't a smooth smile. He is amused, sympathetic, compassionate in this moment for it is what you need. "Whatever it is you want, Preston. Your passion is waiting for you. All it needs is for you to give it the freedom to exist. Open yourself up... even though it is frightening. This... is a call to faith. To a leap of faith. But... I am here, to catch you. I want your happiness. I want you to succeed, to dream grandly and to have those dreams, some of them, answered. And there is something you will show me by being with me. A part that is yet missing. What that is... we will discover together."
     That serene look is there. It is the calm line of the sea at the Horizon. It beckons. "Open your mind and your heart to Wonder, Preston. You have been limiting yourself for too long," Gruffydd murmurs. "Why should you be anything less than amazing? Anything less than great? Anything less that a bright star in this, or any, universe? What is a valid reason for you holding yourself back? Do you think the universe will not be able to take the brightness?" He winks, his mouth curling a full and stunning smile, dimples shown to you. "If you are worried about my wife, do not be. I have already spoken to her about you, and about my offer. She is looking forward to meeting you... should you decide to be adventurous, that is, like your Mister Hornblower."

     "I'd like to meet her before I decide anything, if that's okay." It's all well and good for you to say your wife's okay with it. It's another for it to be true, and he isn't sure how he feels about this. It's very outside his world-view, and it shows in his eyes, in the troubled expression. He is overwhelmed. (You do seem to have that effect on him.)
     Pres looks around, then leans forward to take one of the dates with prosciutto from your plate with an air of doing so on purpose, testing the limits of what he can do and get away with. "I'm not Horatio Hornblower, y'know. Not really."

     "I do hope not. From what I recall of the stories, he wasn't that pleasant. You're far more upbeat than Mister Hornblower." He does not stop you or reprimand you for taking food from his plate. Rather, the bounty of what he has is there for you to enjoy.
     "I think that's an excellent idea," Gruffydd murmurs. "No time like the present," he murmurs. You eat from his plate -- the dates and prosciutto ham are sweet and salty. Amazing. You have tasted nothing quite as rich. And in the juice and in the flesh of the fruit and meat, you are... transported...
     The only trouble with world-views is that they tend to narrow one's view on everything. And so... goggles off, Preston West. The world's just gotten a great deal more interesting...
     You are seated upon a sofa, but the room is completely different. You are in a palace beyond even the grandeur of Powis Castle. The white marble is stunning against the backdrop of the night sky full of stars. You are surrounded by Eastern architecture. Past the onion-head arches, cut-outs into the rich stone, you see the lights of a city. It is as if you have stepped into one of the 1001 Arabian Nights.
     Next to you sits Gruffydd, as serene and beautiful as ever. His clothing unchanged, but one...no... two things about him are quite remarkable -- the great peacock feathered wings that spread lazily on either side of him. He brings his hands together in a clap, a servant called...
     "Your majesty..."
     "Please ask my wife to join me. I have an honored guest I would like her to meet," Gruffydd says, his gaze not moving from Preston. The servant bows again and hastens off.
     "Look around you, Preston West," Gruffydd murmurs, sitting forward. "To a new world. The world that is waiting for you to say Yes.."

     Pres freezes in mid-bite, and his eyes go as wide and round and shocked. What. The. Fuck.
     He is immediately plunged into shock. Drugs? No. No drugs take effect that fast. There's no explanation for it - there's nothing to do for it except what he does, which is force the date down, choking as he falls off the sofa and onto the floor.
     Majesty? Wings? Ow, fuck. He could have taken that landing more gracefully, but his leg is no help at all. He gives you a wide-eyed look of terror, suspicion and paranoia, tempered with a bit of resentment and resignation. He know it was too good to be true. Meanwhile, he tries to cough up the prosciutto that's gone down entirely the wrong way.

     There is his face, and then a feeling of Peace. More importantly, the date pops out of your mouth and onto the marble. And your leg? Your leg has returned to its former glory.
     "Shh... Preston," Gruffydd murmurs. "I am not going to hurt you. Quite the contrary." He places a hand to your face, making certain that the date is up, your lungs cleared, and all all injuries a thing of the past. The magic does not discriminate. Old wounds, new wounds: they are treated equally.
     "I should have warned you about taking food from my plate," Gruffydd murmurs, sitting back a little. "But... it is faster than a cab." He has a wicked sense of humor. "I have a bit of a food fetish. My apologies. Here," he takes your arm to help you sit up, helping you balance through your shock.
     You don't really need his help getting to the sofa; you merely don't realize it yet.

     He does not realize it. He has no idea. He remains as wide-eyed as the moments before, although he does allow you to help him up. So maybe there's hope. Or something.
     The hand to his face is perhaps the first sign that there's hope; he blushes at it, giving you the wide-eyed look that a moment ago was directed to strange new reality, and he sits on the edge of the sofa, croaking, "So what - what the hell? Drugs, no, okay, not drugs, but what the fuck. What the fuck, man, what the fuck?"

     You will live. Your brain will take some time to heal, but you will live. Gruffydd's hand remains on you, a connection, a lifeline, a reassurance. Your blush is a saving grace, and he does find hope in it. "I did say that it would be beyond your wildest imagination, did I not. Now you know I was not exaggerating. What you are experiencing now is neither dream nor hallucination. And you are not mad, Preston. Your sister and your friend Loki have, by completely separate means and unbeknownst to one another, both skimmed their fingers against it. Loki has actually been here. Here merely has no way of telling anyone. Remember what I said about keeping an open mind..."
     His hand remains on your head, his fingers in your hair, lightly curling against your scalp. "But this is the Truth, Preston West. Who I am? Hmm... in your parlance, I am sort of like Apollo. Where this is? It is where all inspiration and dreams begin. You can call it heaven if that makes you feel more comfortable. You are quite safe, though you do not yet believe me."
     His hand cradles your face, tipping it so you look at him. He remains the same apart from the giant exotic wings. His thumb moves over your mouth. "Your leg is healed," he murmurs. "... it came with the date. You will only need your cane now for ...effect and decoration."

     He stares at you, eyes half-closing as you cradle his head, as you hold him - because it is what you do. Treacherous to the last, his heart thumps, lurching behind his ribs as his lips part a little at the touch of your thumb. This can't be happening. It's a dream, right? This sort of shit doesn't happen in real life.
     But he wants you...
     And he can't help that wanting...
     It's all too much. Pres can't absorb it all, and he makes a sound in the back of his throat, not unlike a whimper, the heat suffusing his face as he looks at you with uncomfortable awareness of his own frailty and his own desire. More than anything, he wants you to kiss him, and his chin tilts at an angle to make it easier, without him thinking to do so.

     So, of course, your wife walks in.
     Maria is radiant in cranberry-colored silk and white ermine fur trim, her dark hair oiled into heavy ringlets atop which sits a jeweled crown. She takes it all in, and her lips twitch. "Your majesty sent for me," she offers, expression kept carefully to herself. Though I can leave if you'd like. It does look rather as if you'd better get on with bending the poor boy over the back of the sofa, hadn't you?

     His thumb presses against your lips, squeezing a moment. It is a stroke that opens your mouth, his thumb there for you to suck. It is offered no less than another part of him would be, may be, will be. Gruffydd smiles at you. It is slight, but travels the miles across your soul. He bends, and he gives you what you want...
     Your mouth is parted, his thumb sliding away unseen. But you feel it, his hand still cradles your face, guiding you to him. Wide, you are taken. Your mouth is kidnapped, your tongue abducted by his own. He comes to you, pressing you backward until you fold into the sofa, he folding on top of you. Your legs are wide, his knees on the cushion between them, holding them there.
     Slowly, his tongue spirals within your mouth, around your tongue as if he is marking you. He suckles your tongue, pleasuring it like he will the hardness that is tormented in the grasp of your trousers. Gruffydd lifts his mouth from yours, but there is still the presence there, still the brushing of his lips, the flicking of his tongue.
     Darling, Maria, how astute you are. Give us a moment of time, if you please. He needs to be... eased into this world a little, reassured in all the strangeness, that he is still alive, and I am the same. Of course, if you would like to watch... you are welcome to stay... so long as you remain unseen. I do not think he's quite ready for an audience...
     Your mouth is plundered but you, Preston West, are adored. You are on a pedestal, treasured. He will have servants whose only task is to bring you food wrapped in sugar soaked flowers. It is in his kiss. It is in the savoring of your mouth, how it is simultaneously pirated and protected.
     You are mine...
     I have you...
     I want you...

     Any resistance he could put up would be purely a token effort, a sop to ravaged pride. Like a kitten puffing itself up before a bulldog, or a wren haranguing a taxi - there is the same element of ineffectiveness to even the idea of protest. And - the truth?
     The truth is, he does not want to fight you...
     His mouth opens automatically, his eyelids coming to half-master, grown suddenly so heavy as if by magic. He feels drugged by your touch; as if it had some narcotic aspect, it leads him to you, s you lead him back, and he moans as you kiss him.
     It is quite audible. He would be so embarrassed if he'd noticed. But he isn't noticing anything.
     Pres does not know what to do with his hands. His arms don't seem to want to work. And despite all of it, I still want you. It's fucking insane. All of this. It doesn't make any sense. Alice had a better grasp on things than I do in her fucking Wonderland. But I want you. I think I need you. I don't want to need you. I want to be able to be independent and that's why I held myself aloof and detached and alone. I was miserable.
     I don't want to be miserable anymore. I'm just not sure I want to be happy this way. And that's pretty fucking silly too.
     The thoughts fire between synapses in the back of his head, and his hands lift to the back of yours, one hand grasping your hair for a moment before letting fingers fall. Why does giving up my independence when I'm around you seem like such a good idea? And he kisses you back, eyes now closed, moth open and posture ardent. He is a co-conspirator to the kiss, willingly giving what you take. For a moment, anyway.

     I think I will give you your privacy, my adored husband. As tempting as it might be to watch - I prefer to have you tell me about it later, in detail, so that I can tease you about it all over again. He does seem sweet. Does he know that he is broadcasting to everyone in range?
     Maria smiles at you, stepping back into the archway and giving you a pointed look before she quietly retreats to the hallway. Fortunately, that isn't very far. Yet. You may want to put up some sort of privacy screens...

     There is a deeply held chuckle that belongs to an ever deeper held delight. There is nothing he loves so well as his wife's teasing. And though his young paramour is unaware, the king draws an invisible curtain closed so that the thoughts merely echo off of he king's private quarters and for his ears only. My dearest love, I will look forward to you pulling out of me each remembered and recounted groan...
     Lavender eyes peep between long black lashes as you grasp his hair. Gruffydd grins into the kiss, grins at your own possession. You want me...
     You have me...
     You want me to belong to you...
     Your lips are crushed, the fruit of them pulverized, flushed, ravished and devoured. Gruffydd traces the outline of them with the edge of his tongue, as if drawing out the boundary to a newly conquered nation. His hands tug your shirt free from your trousers. Bending your legs, his mouth brushing at yours, the connection never broken, he removes your shoes. They drop to the floor, the sound of surrender.
     You are mine...
     His thoughts drag their fingers within you, baring your flesh and blood as surely as his hands bare your skin. Your shirt is dragged away from your shoulders, pushed over your arms, and tossed aside.
     I claim you for my own...
     The zipper of your trousers ticks downward as his mouth assails yours again, spreading it widely beneath him. His tongue thrusts slowly within you, a pantomime of things to come.
     My lover...who delights me...whom I delight...
     Gruffydd pulls from the kiss with an exhalation, rising and removing your pants and the boxers beneath them. He piles back onto the sofa, rolling you backward, naked. "Unclothe me," he murmurs between you. "Take me, as I take you. You want me. You want to stay with me. It terrifies you. Annoys you," Gruffydd smiles. "Thrills you. I want you. And I want to give the happiness of my kingdom to you. Shall there be anyone more adored than you?"

     He is shuddering, aching with your kiss and with his own desires. He wrestles with them; even now, as fragile as he feels, he wrestles. Everything buzzes, tingles, burns with your kisses, your touch, his needs. Everything rings resoundingly with that youthful urgency, and he whines in the back of his throat as you bend him, and as his clothes begin to pull apart, as if of their own accord.
     I want you. I didn't know it'd be like this. But I'm okay with it being like this. It clicks, suddenly, into place; his hands lift, and even though he's naked, even though he should be feeling overwhelmed and possibly a little terrified (wings, man!), suddenly, he isn't. He opens his eyes, and he meets your gaze, hands moving to begin to unbutton your shirt. "Only if you're wanting me for who I really am," Preston West III tells you, chin doing an unconscious little jut upwards. He licks his lips, breathing unsteady as he drags the fabric back from your chest from underneath you, thighs spreading.
     He wants you. Oh, that is obvious. He is fully erect, skin flushed all over as if from too much sun, and his eyes are still just a little wide as he looks at you. "You really piss me off, you know that? But you're right." His hands drop to your hips, and he pulls himself up against you, rubbing himself against your thigh and groaning, teeth scraping his lower lip as he falls back again. "There isn't anybody I've wanted this much before. You speak to me in a way I've never had and I don't know how to deal with, but I want you and if I walked away I'd never let it go and I'd never forgive myself."
     Clumsily, he fumbles your trousers open, less skilled than you by far at this. His flush has deepened for the frottage, and he shivers as his hands fall away from you. "You make me feel about six years old sometimes and I hate it because I like it and I want more of it. Because I think I'm coming to need you and depend on you already and I fucking hate that. But I want you too much right now to limp away. Gruffydd or whatever the hell your name is. I want you to fuck me. I don't want you to let me walk away."
     And it scares me more than anything else including that goddamn shark.

     "I can deal with such hatred as this," he murmurs as you grind against his thigh. His leathered thigh presses back, a fitting mount for you to ride. His fingers tease along the crest of your erection, the glans playfully pinched as you begin to unfold and unfasten the violet leather. "I promise you ... it is for you and who you are...and for no other reason," Gruffydd murmurs. "And," he grins, "...that is my real name."
     Hand sliding over your hard length, Gruffydd sits up upon his knees. He removes the two thin pullover shirts, tossing them aside. His figure is the same as you have known in Wales: amazingly crafted by a life on sea, of labor and warfare. Swarthy skin (that, too, exotic) is smooth, making the musculature all that more apparent. There is nothing to hide it from you. He takes himself in his hands. His arousal needs no coaxing. It is for you, for your enjoyment, for your benefit. "I am as surprised as you," Gruffydd murmurs, his hands toying with his own skin. "I did not expect to find such a treasure sitting around the family manse." Bending and rolling forward, he grinds against you, as his mouth claims yours again. "Hate me, love me all you want," Gruffydd breathes there. "I want it all..."
     He pulls from you, his mouth and teeth tugging your tender lower lip as he rises to remove the leathers, and the shoes. He keeps his eyes on you, the connection held. Your mouth stinging, burning, humming from the last kiss. "Give me your need, your dependence," he whispers, "...and I will give you my devotion. I will explain all to you. Nothing hidden, my treasure, nothing omitted. I do not intend to let you walk away, or even argue your way out of it."
     The wings are very much present. Grand, peacock wings whose very presence conveys the exotic, the decadent, the timeless. They arch over you, flapping in a suddenly lewd and graphic way as he returns to the sofa, his knees between your wide thighs. Your hips rest upon them, your rear lifted. You can feel the elongated thickness of him just resting against your, pressed to your scrotum and inner thigh, as his fingers begin to slowly roll across your anus.
     His hands cradle beneath your hips, and he lifts you, cups you to his mouth, his tongue flitting across the bud.

     He groans again; the more you touch him, the harder it becomes for him to think, to speak. Your thigh being there is enough that it makes him harder, makes everything harder in one sense if not the other, in fact, and makes his brain crumble a bit. Oh, fuck...
     You are bared, bit by bit, and even though it isn't the first time he's seen you (though the first time with wings), it's just crushing, somehow. Which is appropriate. He has one hell of a crush on you, after all.
     "I'm not a treasure," Pres mutters, cheeks flaming hot. He makes a hungry, wanton sound in the back of his throat, thighs spreading further involuntarily as his erection traps against your leather-clad thigh. His mouth opens, lips spreading as he finds himself pressing up against you, shuddering with it, cheeks going reddened with embarrassment at his own behavior.
     And, perversely, as you tell him you will not let him argue his way out of it, it tempts him to try. "I don't see why you'd need me. I'm a cranky cynical bastard, you know. I've been keeping people away for months now. Years. It'd sound more plausible if there weren't that breathless little hitch in his voice, wouldn't it? Pres glowers at you, then moans as you lift him. His thoughts fly away, words spacing further and further apart in his own head, and when he speaks, to feel your hardness touching him. To feel you spreading him, holding him up so that he couldn't get away if he tried. "I'm not ... you're not ... in charge of me, you know... oh, god..."

     Aren't you?
     You can try to convince me all you like, Preston. And yourself. But you have yearned for intimacy. How do I know? Your body screams it. Dig your heels in all you like; my shoulders can bear it.
     His tongue moves quickly, lightly circling, brushing spirals against your skin. Your flesh responds, opening. And he holds you so you can see him, just the horizon of his mouth going down on you.
     However, a tilt of your head to look above... to the left or to the right... will flash different reflections. Mirrors have been called here -- a small table mirror, the kind that might reflect a candlelight's flame for effect reflects instead the wagging of his tongue. A mirror on the wall to your right gives you a fuller view, of him perched on the edge of the sofa, his wings providing balance and bracing strength as he holds your rear to his mouth. Directly above you, part of the ceiling is a mirrored mosaic, one that reflects the images of the fantastic city and stars at night for personal, royal enjoyment and now holds the image of him plunging his tongue into you on its glassy firmament.
     Gruffydd closes his eyes as his mouth travels upward, his hands moving you as he wishes, as he needs, his tongue stroking and pressing against the fullness of your sac to take your whole length into his mouth and to the back of his throat.
     "You are a treasure. And more importantly, you are mine," he murmurs against your flesh, his mouth plunging down around you, suckling sweetly before noisily sliding off of you again. Circling, his tongue travels from the root of your cock to the tortured little bud, teasing it open with insistent little jabs.

     Oh, god... In other people's mouths, it would be a prayer. In his, it is less a prayer than an injunction, an oath as he squirms under you, making that moaning whine in the back of his throat that tells you truly how deeply he is held in thrall. He is a slave to such sensations, really, and right now, he can't even think of being anything but what he is, here and now, in the moment.
     It feels too good. It feels too right. It feels too fucking perfect for him to even think of walking away. Or for him to even think at all...
     Pres sobs, fingers closing and opening against his palms as his head is thrown back against the cushions. His eyes open, and everywhere he looks, all he can see is himself - all he can see is you - all he can see is you, having your way with him in ways he'd never even known were possible.
     "Please," Pres whimpers the word, hips jerking once or twice as he squirms. He can't not squirm, now. "Oh, god, please..."
     He doesn't know if it's don't stop or get on with it. It is as it was the first time. He doesn't want it to ever end. And yet, his cock is as hard as it's ever been. It is lewd and exciting and unreal, and he loves it.

     Have you stopped to wonder: How can I do this? What makes me able to give my thoughts so effortlessly to the air, with all the natural ease of a bird?
     Has he no mercy? To converse with you beneath your skin, within the heart of your ears, while his tongue circles within you? You are opened, unlocked, the doors to who you are pressed away from the lintels of your previous existence and understanding, as his tongue spirals. You feel his heated breath washing against your scrotum, the tropical breeze of it sliding against your length on its way to Creation. It is not merely that I am hearing you -- but it is your ability to broadcast. To assert yourself upon the very air. You have a gift, and I can show you how to use it...as well as I showed you how to use your tongue. Which is... most delightful by the way, my darling...
     Flattening his tongue, spreading the muscle within you, he thrusts deeply, fucking you as soundly as if it were his cock, which you can feel brushing your skin, the small of your back. The heated oils that leak from it mark you.
     Suddenly his mouth is off of you. You feel vacant, your body throbbing against the absence of him. Gruffydd lowers your hips back to he sofa gently, his oiled fingers probing you now where his mouth left off. You do not understand now, but you soon will. And to himself: You will inherit the wind, and though the sea calls you, it will be the air that you command.
     Two fingers, then three feel their way within you, probing shallow, thrusting deeply. I want you to be my consort. To stay with me. Explore the wonders of the universe with me. To rule beside me. To fill my bed with delight, my life with joy. And in return, to have my love, and all the delights and favor I may bestow. The universe has great things in store for you. You call to God. Here is your answer...
     His fingers slide from you and you feel the heaviness, the thickness of his member rubbing against your oiled bud, stretched now and ready. Lavender eyes look to you, not at you, but connecting with you as he fills you slowly, allowing your body to adjust to his girth, his weight, his length. Small jabs are made now and then in the slow slide. And his mouth, that Cupid's Bow, curls and then spreads in a wide, erotic smile. "You fit me... are for me... are mine..." he breathes. It is his own oath, his own injunction.

     You are speaking...
     After a fashion, anyway...
     It is too difficult for him to resist you enough to make entirely sense of it; the words sink in (as does your tongue) and he moans by way of answer. He is open to you; stripped in ways he'd never dreamed of. His body is throbbing, and he is so tender, so sensitive that a breeze is enough to make him shudder, to make his erection twitch with life.
     The sea calls him... the sea will always call him. He is marked by the sea. He belongs to the sea (as he belongs to you, no matter how stubbornly and delightfully he might dispute it) but he is not of the sea; and he wants nothing more than to be possessed. Here, now, it shows, it shines in him. His vulnerability, his need, his rampant desire and the openness that makes him look a boy of sixteen if he's a day, flushed and glowing.
     Please, Pres begs, mouth open with lips red as a cherry, cheeks fevered and eyes bright beneath their heavy lids. Please... I'll do it, I'll do anything, oh god, please, I need you so much...
     He is broadcasting again, mouth and throat given over to whimpers and sighs and the deep-throated moans and groans that would be evidence enough. As your fingers squirm in him, he spreads for you, wider, in invitation, pleading with every part of him. Take me... fuck me... do me...
     The more you touch him, the worse it gets (and better). He can see himself in the mirrors, see how lewd and abandoned he is. And he will remember it - later. Right now, he just doesn't give a damn about anything but that you are about to have him. His heart is leaping in his chest. He whispers it, finally, licking his lips to get the words out. "Please... I want it..."

     "You do," he purrs it out with elongated pleasure. "With every cell and atom. I want you to have it," the first thrust is still going, he still sinking into you. "Take it," he sings to you. And in the reflection, in a multitude, is the image of him arching into you deeply, his thighs wide and strong, yours wide and spread for him, his wings, those beautiful wings spread wider than your legs and with the same meaning as his body sounds loudly against your own.
     Gruffydd turns his head toward one of the mirrors as he pistons into you, the sofa aching, complaining beneath the sudden strong motion. He watches you... he watches himself... he watches you watching. His wings join in the thrusting, adding leverage and balance as he perches on the edge of the sofa. Peacock feathers stretch, a pinion brushing against your open mouth. Another tickles against your turgid length, teasing with gentle fingers beneath the head of it, tickling the cleft. Each feather is like another hand -- a hand with a thousand fingers...
     His hands slide beneath your hips, lifting them, tilting them -- one for pleasured angles, sexual geometry; two for pleasured viewing. A turn one way, and you feel him more thickly. A lift another way, and you see him filling you in a mirror's reflection. Ptolemy, Galileo and Copernicus couldn't manage such angles with such mastery. Tell me what you want... tell me how you feel... I want to hear it... inside and out...
     Feathers grip and balance -- some employed for bracing him, others for delighting you. Two feathers curl beneath your member, sliding against it and along your scrotum as others take turns brushing against the swollen head. And the mirrors capture it all.

     It is heartbreaking; he can do no better than this, squirming, moaning under your touch, swallowing you eagerly though with the same burden that others have known and which is now his. Your girth and length are no easy thing for any, man or woman, and as intense as the pleasure he gains from it is, there is a counterpoint of agony if only from how intense the need.
     If he is Air to your Water, then it is the same gusty sighs that you hear now...
     He is achingly hard in front; achingly soft and open in back. It is worse (and better) even than the first time he was with you, and this is even more complete, somehow. And, perhaps more terribly, he is aware of how complete it is. There is a change underway. He is changing. And he knows it.
     I need you to fuck me... I need you inside me... I've never never never needed anything this bad, not even the morphine when I was in the fucking hospital...
     You touch me and it drives me apeshit. I can't think, I can't eat, I can't even breathe until you're kissing me and with you a kiss always leads to more. I don't get it. I didn't ask for this. I didn't want to be slave to appetites like this. But I am and you're the only thing that appetite will let me be satisfied by.
     Pres gurgles in the back of his throat, groaning as your feathers take further hold of him, as you strike him to the depths. "I hate you," he hisses at you, face contorted with the opposite. "Oh, god..."

     The feathers quiver, quickening each touch until they become myriad. They make an orgy of sensations around and against you. You are licked by hundreds of tongues, clasped by hundreds of fingers and they all belong to him. His hips curl forward and back in exaggerated motions, pulling him nearly completely from you before plunging him back into you.
     Beautiful, serene -- his face is breathtaking, crushing as it looks upon you with affection, pleasure, and delight. He grins. "Hate me... love me... I love a good fight. Tell me you hate me, your face shows me you love me. You will sit on my cock all the same." Plunging into you, Gruffydd brushes his lips against your own past the veil of feathers. "I adore you," he breathes. "I want you when I have you. I want you when I don't." Doubled over you, he quickens his thrusts, doubling upon double strokes, eighth notes within you. Every ninth stroke, he buries himself into you fully until his groin slaps your rear. "You open so sweetly," Gruffydd croons close to you. "So handsome with your mouth open in complaint while your rear lifts an aches to be filled. It is like fucking the sky and hearing the wind moan."
     Strong arms slide beneath you, cradling you. His wings, with final flourishes, move away from the sweet torture of your cock, and he begins to rise from the sofa. He cups you to him, as if he is going to hold you, balance you in his arms and on his cock...
     He is...
     But not in the way you imagine...
     The mirrors show it all: Your legs wrap around his waist as you are impaled on him. His arms hold you, brace you, balance you. You will not fall. His wings extend proudly, aroused, behind him. But with the upward plunging of a thrust, you feel the cool brush of air, a breeze of motion. You are weightless, floating, held by him suspended in the grand ceiling of his grand chamber. The mirror is now a close up of your own ravishment. You miss nothing. You see yourself being lifted and lowered on his engorged length in a multitude of mirrors. His wings tread air as arms would water, and it only enhances the thrusting.
     Gruffydd's face is ecstatic. It placid, beautiful in the intensity of this feeling, this intimacy. His head tips back, his eyes rolling closed.
     His body rolls afterward, pitching to switch positions midair. His mouth spreads yours widely, even as his arms bring you onto him fully. Muscles flex to make his cock twitch within you, jerking seismic as he is as deep as he can go.
     You open to me, you come to me honestly. You do not hide. You do not lie to me, not a single part of you. You are honest to the atom. And I want you with me. His hips grind him deeply in a quickening circle.

     He feels as if he could climax at any moment. The feathers alone are - something else; something he hasn't felt, because how could he have felt, experienced it before?Most couldn't possibly. It is out of this world.
     Well, maybe not out of this world, but certainly out of his world...
     And you rise with him, and you talk to him, and everything you say and everything you do conspires against his control. Pres cries out, wordlessly; he is crying again, tears leaking from his eyes. He is overwhelmed. How could he be anything but? You are too good at what you do - and more than that, you are what he wants. Needs. Craves, the way a woman in menses craves chocolate; craves, the way a child in nightmare craves a parent.
     You are sex itself but you are comfort, and he clings to you, even as a dozen images of himself reveal to him and give him no illusion how thoroughly you take him. Open him. Mark him. Claim him.

     Your world...
     Or my world...
     Wherever you are...
     Wherever you go...
     I will be with you...
     You will be here with me...
     It will make sense, as it doesn't now...
     In ways you can't possibly imagine in the present...
     But I will tell you the truth...
     I will tell you all of it...
     You will understand...
     Most of all, Preston West, you will your part in it, and how worthy you are to take your place in the Firmament...
     Unreal, yes...
     Surreal, yes...
     But real, yes...
     "Yes," Gruffydd repeats at your ear. His hand captures yours, anchors it to the glass above you. He holds you there and by the waist as he bounces you through starry climax...
     Yes...

Posted by rowan at May 26, 2009 09:56 AM