(no subject)

[thewidewideworld]

{From here}

Sinric leads Hannibal out through a door and out into the garden. He picks a path through the trees to what looks from the outside like small and simple marquee.

But inside it is something very different. Large as any room inside the bar, the floor is covered with richly patterned carpets, as soft underfoot as grass. The walls are draped with the finest silks. Silver lanterns hung from the roof cast geometric patterns from their cut work sides, coloured rainbow hues by glass inserts.

A table is set lavishly to one side with all the finest foods and drinks of Sinric's time.

But at the room's centre is a raised dais spread with silks and furs, cushions and bolsters; a bed worth of a king. Or an emperor.

Comments

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric smiles and curls his light little form on Hannibal's chest, keeping the doctor in him as he brushes a gentle hand through Hannibal's hair, singing softly to him.

[cook_the_rude]

"There'll be more," the doctor promises, in a murmur, "in a minute."

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric chuckles warmly and presses a finger to Hannibal's lips, following it with a kiss. "There is no need for hurry. Enjoy, I know I am." He feels so deliciously filled, the muscles of his thighs aching wonderfully from the strain.

[cook_the_rude]

"hmm-mm."

Incoherent Hannibal is incoherent.

[thewidewideworld]

And snuggly Sinric is snuggly, his head resting on Hannibal's chest as he strokes the doctor's shoulder. He's enjoying the pleasant warmth of it.

More can wait till the good doctor is ready.

[cook_the_rude]

After a few minutes of basking, the doctor opens his eyes more purposefully and tilts his head at Sinric.

"Come," he says, "you've got some catching up to do."

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric chuckles and moves to remove himself from Hannibal, moving to stretch out on the bed in a pool of silk skirts. "What would you have of me, sir?"

[cook_the_rude]

"Your pleasure, as you had mine," Hannibal says.

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric smiles and toys with the laces that keep his breasts bound beneath the tight bodice. "It is yours to take, sir." His smile is all invitation and goading.

[cook_the_rude]

Hannibal reaches out to unlace the bodice, and slip his hand inside to cup Sinric's little breasts.

[thewidewideworld]

There's something wonderfully sinful, if Sinric believed in such things, about being fondled under one's clothes. A hand slipped down a tunic or up a skirt to catch a clandestine grope.

Not that this fondling is, or needs to be, clandestine in any way but the thrill of it is there anyway. His breasts swell, his nipples hardening under Hannibal's palms and Sinric moans softly.

[cook_the_rude]

Hannibal smiles lazily, and lets his hand roam inside the bodice, rather than pull it down.

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric hums contentedly gently petting at Hannibal's arm in encouragement.

[cook_the_rude]

Hannibal's other hand slides under Sinric's skirts and starts finding its way around there.

[thewidewideworld]

He wears nothing beneath the folds of silk but his own soft skin. His little snail is still only half hard, poking out a little to the touch. Sinric moans softly and reaches out to pull Hannibal into a slow, lazy kiss.

[cook_the_rude]

Hannibal kisses him back, deeply and with feeling, and teases the little snail with a playful finger.

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric purrs and moves under his touch, his hips rolling up minutely to rock into the teasing. He buries his hands in Hannibal's hair, lifting a knee to brush against Hannibal's hip.

[cook_the_rude]

Hannibal's hand slides deeper between Sinirc's legs as he has better access now.

[thewidewideworld]

His voice catches in a soft moan, lifting his hips to offer himself up to Hannibal's explorations. His hole is slick with Hannibal's seed and his skin hot with use.

[cook_the_rude]

Hannibal dips his fingers into the slickness and then slides them smoothly between Sinric's legs.

[thewidewideworld]

The texture of the scar gives some indication of the skill, or lack there of with which he was cut - thick and ropey, widest where the stitches pulled and left him with an infection that nearly killed him.

And sensitive along it's length, especially at the very base of his tiny manhood.

[cook_the_rude]

So at that very base is where the doctor keeps rubbing, insistent despite his own lingering lassitude.

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric moans softly, sprawling prettily over the pillows. He arches up into the insistent movement of the good doctor's fingers. His snail thickens slowly, reacting to the pleasure.

[cook_the_rude]

Hannibal's hands fondle, rub and stroke underneath Sinric's clothes while he keeps kissing him, slow and lingeringly.

[thewidewideworld]

There's something powerful about Hannibal's slow, determined touch. Something inexorable that draws moans from Sinric. He eases to full hardness, such as it is, straining for more.