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Unneeded (SV, NC-17) -- draft
I wrote this awhile back... it still needs to be betaed, but damnit, when ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
thamiris wants masturbationfic, she should not be disappointed.
He doesn't need to be doing this.
The urge is no longer strong, and even if it were, he's only alone when he wishes to be; it's been that way for years. He always gets what he wants -- who he wants -- and that certainty necessarily dulls the pleasure of attaining things. There's still a novelty to this, however, now; to everything, of course, though with most things that's still too frustrating for him to enjoy.
But... with only imagined visuals possible, other input, true to cliche, has become more vivid. The soft, shifting sounds of his breathing; of different textures of skin sliding together. His favourite armagnac on his tongue when he licks his lips. The feel of leather upholstery against the back of his neck, a strand of his own hair brushing his cheek, silk flowing over the back of his hand.
Refined things.
And baser, more visceral ones: learning shapes anew, exploring places where flesh yields or remains firm to the touch, that, for all the minor changes age has wrought, should feel more recognisable; and the feel of his own hand moving over that flesh, drawing sensations he rises to, the caresses like a new lover's learning him. He'd never really paid attention to the way he smelled, before, under his cologne, but lately he sometimes sits on the edge of his bed, fresh from the shower, bent over and drawing out this fascinating aroma. Pausing the motions of his hand, he brings it to his face. Yes. That. But this afternoon he has something else on his mind.
Slipping his hand back in, past the opened fly and under the waistband beneath, he inhales deeply. He can tell where the flowers are, to his left, about ten paces away on a small table. Lillies, from Kent Farm. Lex keeps orchids in his office, and he thinks soon he'll be able to tell their colour by subtle differences in scent. They all smell like the past, and he should really talk to Lex about that. He hasn't had orchids in his house in nine years.
The lillies are new, fresh; there had never been lillies before. These smell like Martha Kent, variations on a theme in the same way as the orchids. She's left a wrap here, or what she would probably call a shawl; it's over the back of the couch, where he can just reach the edge of it with the outstretched fingers of his unoccupied hand. Common yarn in a common knit, but soft from use and suited to its purpose. He pulls it closer, the leather letting it glide easily. He wonders what colour it is. He can smell her on it.
The couch creaks almost inaudibly as his knees spread further. His hand moves with more purpose, though not in fact faster.
Now that he's had time to learn the rhythms of the castle's settling creaks and breathy draughts, it's become difficult for anyone to sneak up on him. Difficult, but not impossible; servants are paid to be unobtrusive -- and Lex can move with impressive stealth when he chooses, one lesson, at least, learned to Lionel's satisfaction. He thinks he's alone in this part of the house... but he might be wrong.
A turn of his head plunges him into the wholesome smells of Martha Kent, so thick it's hard to imagine this cloud around her shawl would be invisible to the eye. His fingers stroke over cotton, under silk, raising an olfactory afterimage with one hand and his still-rising erection with the other.
Someone might be padding quietly along the hallway. Someone might be skulking just outside the open door.
His head goes back, hair spilling over the edge of the couch, mouth falling open. Another burst of cognac flashes through his mouth when he wets his lips again. There's a not-quite-empty snifter still on the end table from when Lex had come up here earlier, and he can almost smell it. Lex's cologne is long gone from this room, not the type to linger anyway and quickly dissipating in the castle's cavernous spaces. There's no smell of his son here, except that the building's old stone and wood have imprinted themselves on Lex now, and two scents are merged.
If anyone were to pass by, they would see him like this. It's enough to bring him to climax -- but he squeezes himself just enough to forestall that. No sense making a mess of himself, and servants can only be paid to be just so discreet. Letting go Martha's abandoned wrap, he reaches for his cane and the last sip of armagnac. A gust of air sighs through the doorway. He doesn't turn towards it immediately when he stands, fastening his slacks and straightening his shirt. It doesn't matter. There's no one there.
But he leaves the emptied glass behind as he retires to his own bedroom.
thamiris wants masturbationfic, she should not be disappointed.He doesn't need to be doing this.
The urge is no longer strong, and even if it were, he's only alone when he wishes to be; it's been that way for years. He always gets what he wants -- who he wants -- and that certainty necessarily dulls the pleasure of attaining things. There's still a novelty to this, however, now; to everything, of course, though with most things that's still too frustrating for him to enjoy.
But... with only imagined visuals possible, other input, true to cliche, has become more vivid. The soft, shifting sounds of his breathing; of different textures of skin sliding together. His favourite armagnac on his tongue when he licks his lips. The feel of leather upholstery against the back of his neck, a strand of his own hair brushing his cheek, silk flowing over the back of his hand.
Refined things.
And baser, more visceral ones: learning shapes anew, exploring places where flesh yields or remains firm to the touch, that, for all the minor changes age has wrought, should feel more recognisable; and the feel of his own hand moving over that flesh, drawing sensations he rises to, the caresses like a new lover's learning him. He'd never really paid attention to the way he smelled, before, under his cologne, but lately he sometimes sits on the edge of his bed, fresh from the shower, bent over and drawing out this fascinating aroma. Pausing the motions of his hand, he brings it to his face. Yes. That. But this afternoon he has something else on his mind.
Slipping his hand back in, past the opened fly and under the waistband beneath, he inhales deeply. He can tell where the flowers are, to his left, about ten paces away on a small table. Lillies, from Kent Farm. Lex keeps orchids in his office, and he thinks soon he'll be able to tell their colour by subtle differences in scent. They all smell like the past, and he should really talk to Lex about that. He hasn't had orchids in his house in nine years.
The lillies are new, fresh; there had never been lillies before. These smell like Martha Kent, variations on a theme in the same way as the orchids. She's left a wrap here, or what she would probably call a shawl; it's over the back of the couch, where he can just reach the edge of it with the outstretched fingers of his unoccupied hand. Common yarn in a common knit, but soft from use and suited to its purpose. He pulls it closer, the leather letting it glide easily. He wonders what colour it is. He can smell her on it.
The couch creaks almost inaudibly as his knees spread further. His hand moves with more purpose, though not in fact faster.
Now that he's had time to learn the rhythms of the castle's settling creaks and breathy draughts, it's become difficult for anyone to sneak up on him. Difficult, but not impossible; servants are paid to be unobtrusive -- and Lex can move with impressive stealth when he chooses, one lesson, at least, learned to Lionel's satisfaction. He thinks he's alone in this part of the house... but he might be wrong.
A turn of his head plunges him into the wholesome smells of Martha Kent, so thick it's hard to imagine this cloud around her shawl would be invisible to the eye. His fingers stroke over cotton, under silk, raising an olfactory afterimage with one hand and his still-rising erection with the other.
Someone might be padding quietly along the hallway. Someone might be skulking just outside the open door.
His head goes back, hair spilling over the edge of the couch, mouth falling open. Another burst of cognac flashes through his mouth when he wets his lips again. There's a not-quite-empty snifter still on the end table from when Lex had come up here earlier, and he can almost smell it. Lex's cologne is long gone from this room, not the type to linger anyway and quickly dissipating in the castle's cavernous spaces. There's no smell of his son here, except that the building's old stone and wood have imprinted themselves on Lex now, and two scents are merged.
If anyone were to pass by, they would see him like this. It's enough to bring him to climax -- but he squeezes himself just enough to forestall that. No sense making a mess of himself, and servants can only be paid to be just so discreet. Letting go Martha's abandoned wrap, he reaches for his cane and the last sip of armagnac. A gust of air sighs through the doorway. He doesn't turn towards it immediately when he stands, fastening his slacks and straightening his shirt. It doesn't matter. There's no one there.
But he leaves the emptied glass behind as he retires to his own bedroom.
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