She's so soft. It's absurdly obscene with the way Slaine is immersing himself in his role, molding his fingers into his girlfriend's breasts for a thorough massage. The moment he hears a squeak out of Sheryl, he chokes back a sound, stifling something that might be confused for a laugh. It's... cute, for the lack of a better term. Very cute.
For those moments, he's actually forgetting about his own embarrassment and constant nervousness, hidden beneath the facade of a ruthless 'torturer'. All he can think about is how Sheryl's breasts feel under his hands — warm, soft, round, perfect.
"Pig?" Slaine arches an eyebrow even if it can't be seen from behind his 'prisoner', and if Sheryl listens carefully, there is a faint undertone of amusement, a slow chuckle drawing out of him. "Are you certain that you don't mean a 'filthy swine' or 'mangy cur'?"
Losing himself seems to be getting easier with Sheryl around; she seems to have that intoxicating effect that draws him to her like a moth to a flame. The longer he caresses her, the further along he gets. Slaine Troyard is going to hell.
"What a shame... I could never leave you alone. Not like this," he whispers.
Is he saying this as the fictional commander, or as her boyfriend? Or both? Double meanings remain hanging in his words as he slides his fingers to the front of the robes, loosening the ribbon so he yank the cloth open, exposing her soft mounds to the cool air. Not for long, however, not when he rubs his gloved palms across them. Burying his flushed face into her neck, he parts his lips to suck on the skin, tasting the light trails of sweat.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2016-11-15 04:05 am (UTC)For those moments, he's actually forgetting about his own embarrassment and constant nervousness, hidden beneath the facade of a ruthless 'torturer'. All he can think about is how Sheryl's breasts feel under his hands — warm, soft, round, perfect.
"Pig?" Slaine arches an eyebrow even if it can't be seen from behind his 'prisoner', and if Sheryl listens carefully, there is a faint undertone of amusement, a slow chuckle drawing out of him. "Are you certain that you don't mean a 'filthy swine' or 'mangy cur'?"
Losing himself seems to be getting easier with Sheryl around; she seems to have that intoxicating effect that draws him to her like a moth to a flame. The longer he caresses her, the further along he gets. Slaine Troyard is going to hell.
"What a shame... I could never leave you alone. Not like this," he whispers.
Is he saying this as the fictional commander, or as her boyfriend? Or both? Double meanings remain hanging in his words as he slides his fingers to the front of the robes, loosening the ribbon so he yank the cloth open, exposing her soft mounds to the cool air. Not for long, however, not when he rubs his gloved palms across them. Burying his flushed face into her neck, he parts his lips to suck on the skin, tasting the light trails of sweat.