BJ Marathon #2 - Razrusheniye/Dym

[maderr]

It made him feel guilty, sometimes – a lot of the time – to stare at Dym and think the things he did.

He could still remember how tiny Dym had been that first day, trembling as he clung to a gold apple, filthy and grimy, face stained with tears. Such a sweet little child, who had grown into such a fine man…

Even when he'd been only a thief, Raz recalled, he had been struck by the splendor of the High Priest. It wasn't just the man's beauty, though that was great – especially since Dym had such little interest in his own appearance, was always so humble about it – it was the intensity of his green eyes. The way pride in his position mingled with humility that he had that place…it was so many things, both obvious and not.

From a little boy and through his youth, Raz had watched him grow every step of the way…and had been so willfully ignorant of so many things.

No longer.

Which was why he felt the slightest bit guilty watching his Priest of Ashes bathe, thinking all manner of lascivious thoughts. He wanted to lick every drop of water from that fine skin, then get him wet all over again. The way Dym washed himself was a slow torture, and Raz wanted very badly to do the washing himself, rub the slick soap over those fine muscles, explore every curve, slip his fingers into hidden places and watch delicate shivers wrack Dym's body. He wanted to wash the soap carefully away, and then pull Dym flush to him, increase the fury of his touches until his priest trembled in his arms, so desperate for the release Raz would not give quite yet.

Then he would pull Dym from the bath, lay him out on a soft towel in the corner where steam billowed to entice bathers to relax a spell. Muscles tight with want, panting with need, begging with those soft noises Dym offered no one else…yes. His priest was always so eager and willing to give, to surrender…it was always a fine thing, to bring Dym to the point he softly begged.

Yes. Spread out on the floor, skin gleaming with sweat and steam, water beading once more all over that skin… It was always so hard, deciding what to taste first on his priest. The pale nipples, the flat stomach, the throat offered up so sweetly, the sharp hipbones. He loved to drive his priest mad, to make him forget completely that self-imposed formality Dym always used.

Nothing was headier than making Dym forget himself.

Raz smirked faintly, watching Dym bathe, wanting badly to make his priest forget himself. Yes…spread him out on the floor, stroke every line of his body, make him ache with longing…then swallow that fine cock, taste the bitter need, lick and suck, feel Dym move beneath him, listen to the calm and controlled voice turn ragged and hungryy, hear his name said on a shuddering moan as Dym's pleasure spilled into his mouth.

Then Raz would kiss him slowly, luxuriating in the warmth of Dym's mouth, the lingering flavor of mint-tea, letting Dym taste himself, drugged on the touch of his priest as fingers slid over his own body, the scent of Dym and pleasure thick in the air.

Sweeter still would be spreading those thighs and sliding into the tight, welcoming heat of his lover's body, watching Dym's face as want and pleasure filled it anew, as the hands upon him faltered, that long throat bared in utter submission as Dym begged softly once more.

Mmm, yes.

He always felt slightly guilty thinking such things about this boy he'd watched grow into a man.

Not so guilty, though, that he ever resisted.

Moving silently, Raz discarded his clothing and slid into the large bath, moving toward his priest to act out each and every one of his guilty thoughts.