OOM: Treating Sinric's ankle

[cook_the_rude]

 Hannibal's office is dimmer today, the windows largely covered by dark grey blackout blinds to keep out the summer sun, while two lamps, one by the couch, the other stooped over the drawing table, provide islands in the soft gloom.

The prints on the wall, still mostly Istanbul, and harem scenes, have now been joined by a series from the 18th century depicting Farinelli in different operatic costumes that all have ridiculously huge and long plumes on the helmet or hats in common.

Hannibal puts down the exhausted Sinric on the couch and then fetches his medical bag from the closed bottom part of the book case.

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[thewidewideworld]

Sinric manages to free the last button of Hannibal's shirt, his hands roaming freely over the doctor's chest as he moans.

The feel of the doctor's generous lips on his breasts sends shudders through him, causing the little snail to unfold and fill as he rocks against him with little involuntary jerks of his hips.

[cook_the_rude]

Hannibal slips his fingers back into Sinric's cleft, and then breaches his hole, sliding in the middle finger to the second knuckle.

His other hand reaches between them to touch the tip of the little pricklet before opening the buttons on his trousers to free his own cock.

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric cries out with joyously intensity as Hannibal opens him, almost not feeling the touch on his tiny, useless member for the pleasure of pushing back against that invading finger. He rocks against it, greed for more.

[cook_the_rude]

Hannibal adds a second finger, and pushes both of them in deeper.

His other hand slides further between Sinric's legs, rubbing the entire length of his member.

His cock is following suit.

[thewidewideworld]

"Please, sir!" He whimpers, rocking against him. "Please, I'm implore you, enter me!" Sinric wriggles in Hannibal's lap, begging to be fucked. He has dreamed too long of having the doctor inside him and now it is all he think of.

[cook_the_rude]

Hannibal strokes his slick fingers over his own cock once, leaving it smooth and shine.

"Come, sit on me," he says, putting his hands on Sinric's hips to make him rise up. "All yours for the taking."

He pulls him close, and trusts up, towards Sinric's hole.

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric sinks down on him with a deep sigh, feeling himself filled and stretched around him. He take Hannibal to the root, sheathing himself utterly.

He rests his hands on Hannibal's shoulders to steady himself. His eyes flutter, gasping as he lifts himself, finding that place inside him as he moves slowly.

[cook_the_rude]

Hannibal pushes up, aiming at that very point that makes Sinric gasp.

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric cries out warmly and starts to fuck himself in earnest, impairing himself over and over. His soft, high voice rings out, his eyes half closed as his gives himself over to the sensation.

[cook_the_rude]

Hannibal reaches out to touch Sinric's breasts, rubbing his thumbs over those sweet, generous pink nipples.

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric closes his eyes and lets the sensation pour over him, making no effort to stifle his sounds.

He should feel guilty - to be enjoying the luxuries of the flesh while Athelstan suffers because of his neglect but he cannot bring himself to think on that. Or on anything but the glide of the doctor's prick within him and rub of the doctor's strong thumbs on his breasts. If he lets himself think, for even a moment he will fall apart again and his dispair will consume him.

[cook_the_rude]

Hannibal leans in to kiss him, his hips and thumbs still moving strongly.

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric sinks into the kiss, moaning richly. He buries his fingers in the doctor's hair, carding it softly as he rocks against him. He finds just the right tempo, indulging in pleasure without driving himself to the edge while still keeping everything enjoyable for Hannibal. He could gladly go on like this for some time.

[cook_the_rude]

So, it seems, can Hannibal. He gasps softly, rocks his hips upwards in time with Sinric's movements, and uses his hands and mouth on Sinric's breasts to good effect, drawing more moans.

"You can see," he murmurs, when next kissing Sinric's lips, "how this is just like music."

[thewidewideworld]

Its wonderful to have a partner in no great hurry to find completion. Who can go on and on and enjoy the unhurried pleasure.

Hannibal's mention of music makes him smile and he starts to sing. A simple Greek fisherman's song, it's rhythm meeting perfectly the thrusts and rises of his thighs as he rides Hannibal's cock. His moans makes the words rise and fall, wonderfully breathless and erotic.

[cook_the_rude]

Hannibal quietly sheds his shirt that was still restricting his arms and back; his movements time themselves to the song, to which he contributes nothing but small gasps and hums.

"Song is natural to you," he says, lips moving on Sinric's left nipple as he speaks, "as breathing. This is the root of the duet" -- thrust -- "and the pas-de-deux!"

[thewidewideworld]

His voice rises as Hannibal teases his nipples, sending excited shivers through his body. The tempo of the song picks up with his need, the melody shifting just as naturally. He nuzzles Hannibal's hair, his ear, singing just for him and very glad to share the duet with him.

[cook_the_rude]

"Crescendo," Hannibal moans, picking up the tempo and echoing it in his moans and movements.

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric changes his song to something faster, harder, rougher. His voice grows rough with it, wanting to feel Hannibal's need, to drive him to his own crescendo.

[cook_the_rude]

"You need it now," Hannibal murmurs, "do you?"

[thewidewideworld]

He nods, his song growing reckless and strong. He will not peak, not this night but he needs Hannibal's release just the same. He needs to feel Hannibal lose control, to feel him spill into Sinric.

[cook_the_rude]

Hannibal takes hold of Sinric's hips with strong hands, and starts thrusting upwards with much greater urgency, groaning with every thrust.

Hitting home with every thrust, too, as if refusing to accept that Sinric might not peak.

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric won't and can't. Not this time. It is as much a matter of mind as of body and through the pleasure is great, his headspace is off.

But that doesn't mean there isn't great pleasure in it for him. He tries to keep singing, the air pushed out of him with each joyously thrust, counterpane to Hannibal's groans.

[cook_the_rude]

Hannibal speeds up, his breathing becomes ragged and the rhythm syncopated, and then he spills himself into Sinric in long, hot spurts, his head thrown back in one long moan, thrusting all the while.

A man's cock doesn't deflate like a pricked balloon, after all, more like a quickly wilting plant, and Sinric will have every last moment that Hannibal can give him.

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric closes his eyes with a long, warming sigh, feeling himself flooded with Hannibal's seed. He slows his thrusts and his song to a soft ballad and leans into him, tucking himself cuddled against Hannibal's chest.

Fear and self loathing for his failure wait like a cold wind to attack him again but he hides from it in the warm lee of the doctor's arms.