The next hour passes by as a blur, a whirlwind of dancing and grinding and brief snatches of conversation; then we’re back in the booth, and Nyura’s in my lap again, and his hands are up my shirt as I’m pressing the heel of my hand between his legs, fingers exploring over the velvet, listening to him guide my movements, telling me where to touch. He gasps and whimpers, and grinds against my hand; manoeuvring around the harness, I unhook a fastening or two, slip into the parting in the satin, under the scratchy lingerie lace, and find where the bud of his cock rises stiff and vulnerable between the labia.
Nyura whimpers again, and slumps forward, his head lolling on my shoulder, clutching at mine arms; I drag the tips of two fingers up his shaft, to the throbbing tip, and relish his reaction, relish the weight of him on my lap, the press of flesh and skin on skin, the desperate quivering of mine own cock — so close to pain, so sweet in such closeness. And then I take my hand away, and Nyura groans in disappointment, and I smirk and kiss the tip of his nose. He pouts and then loses hold of his composure, and the pout shatters into a helpless grin, and I realise—
I desperately want him to fuck me, yes. But like, I also want to fuckhim. I want to lay him down with his ankles on my shoulders, and—
Okh, it has been a long time, since I have done so, since I have dared admit wanting it, to myself, to others.
I motion for Nyura to draw nearer, so I can whisper in his ear. He inclines his head. Perfume and the scent of peach pomade fill my nose; his hair brushes my cheek, making me shiver.
“Okay like,” I say, softly, running a languid hand down his back. “Thou didst notice how many silver beads I’m wearing?”
Nyura sighs, a long and shuddering sigh of relief and anticipation, and squirms in my lap.
“Yes, dearest, I did,” he says. He’s still out of breath. “Just, ah.” He leans back, and looks at me, mock-serious. “Parade door’s nailed shut, and staying that way.”
“Mhm, nu like,” I say, idly cupping his arse with both hands, “’s fine by me? I planned not on going in that way,” and Nyura laughs, high and bright and excited. I pull him in closer, and wrap mine arms around his waist; he kisses my jaw, just below where the hinge meets my throat, and rests his head on my shoulder.
“We could go, nu?” he says, and his voice is quiet and floaty, wavering just a touch. “Ah. Go back to mine, I should say.”
“Well, maybe?” I say; my hands have found their way back down. Groping another boy’s a thing I had not realised I had missed quite so. “Like, what’s the time?”
“Darling, truly! Do I look like the sort of rose what carries a watch?” he says. “’Tis late, and past midnight. Nu, well–” he tilts his head to one side, birdlike, and adds, “it is summer upon Vyuta. It could be ten in the evening, or three in the morning, and no way to tell.”
I fumble for my handbag, and fish out my mobilnik. Nyura raises a quizzical eyebrow at the state of its screen, at the model — the newest and hottest of two years ago, when Gilya had insisted upon making it easy to contact me, making it easy for me to contact him — but he says nothing. We are lovers for tonight, but like. Much as I am besotted, much as he is enthusiastic, we may be strangers to each other come sunset, and ’tis gauche to pry.
The screen’s cracked, but not so bad as to be unusable. It’s just past midnight; I show Nyura the screen.
“I suppose we could linger here an hour or so,” he drawls. “What think’st thee, darling?”
“Nu like, I’d like one last dance,” I say. “I’ve … um. I’ve been away. It’s been some time.”
Nyura looks at me with sudden sadness, darts forward to kiss my nose. I hug him close.
“I’m fine now,” I say. “Like, worry not on mine account here, nu? I’m okay.”
I’m okay right now, with thee.
Nyura kisses me on mouth, all the same, and I kiss him back, and we delay returning to the dance-floor another spell.
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