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"I'm going to punch my fist /right up/ your ass," the wolfish voice promised.
"I'm going to punch my fist /right/ up your ass," Dottore replayed it, his mind bastardizing the emphasis, toying with the menace in that familiar voice.
Dottore is a disgusting Pavlovian dog. This is by his own admission. He walked away from that encounter, his mouth thick with saliva. This relationship was truly the stuff of nightmares for one so cold and detached -- Dottore could scarcely imagine a worse fate, than being made to feel /human/ through sex, of all mundane things. Yet here he was.
Salivating.
/Drooling/.
Punctual. Happily punctual.
Dottore darkened that threshold obediently at 8 pm, papers in hand. He watched the Snezhnayan man lift his head from across the room, the chain in his glasses clinking and glimmering in the tabletop light. He was holding a cigarette in his mouth, his two hands busied -- one holding a paper, the other holding a pen in that queer grip he used. "Look how punctual we're being today," he praised, speaking easily with the stick lolling just ever so slightly.
He drew in a smokey little breath and let it go. "What, you don't want my fist?"
The outcast doctor can't tell if he's happy or sad about it. He doesn't care, because it doesn't matter. The outcome is the same.
Dottore handed him the papers, selectively mute, his smile small and coy -- that very same tense smile he got when he had to hand something in to the Regrator and he was biting back pride, or flirting with annoyance, or in this case -- waiting with baited breath. He wants to see the man's face and he doesn't want to influence the results. He wants the reaction to be /pure/.
Pantalone removes his cigarette from his lips after another drag, taps off some ashes and shuffles papers around. He's languid about it. He likes to move at a snail's pace when people are looming over his desk. He finally grabs Dottore's paper, first without looking: demonstrating just the bare minimum of attention. When he finally deigns to skim the first page, he stops.
He goes completely still.
He scarcely breathes.
Insolent /fuck/.
Pantalone purses his lips simply, doesn't look at Dottore as he slips the little white stick between his lips. "I see."
Dottore so loves to see it. That dark, outraged look he knows is directed toward that paper. The look that vows to ruin him.
The man made him /sweat/.
The original Zandik didn't sweat easily, and nor did his "offspring". His body was more like a well-kept room than a physiological machine; it had features, they served a purpose, there was some cursory maintenance involved, and it was -- for all intents and purposes -- a simple physical space that served as a vehicle to the world outside his mind.
He functioned best on exactly 3 hours of sleep -- no more, no less -- and it optimally occurred between 1a - 4a, but he wasn't so picky as to adhere unwaveringly to this schedule; /that/ would have been absurd. He ate one meal in a day; late breakfast, approximately three hours after arousal. It typically consisted of simple, pure ingredients -- "nutrients without all the frills", he'd once explained it to another -- and he afforded no further interest in food. He possessed a harsh and wiry physique that easily built muscle and stayed trim, without any hint of slightness or frailty.
In other words, this body of his was an easy keeper. And it sweat minimally in the company of all but one.
Those ludicrous, sarcastic eyes. Wild, wavy hair, black as night. Fair skin. That thick, obscene, uncircumcised cock.
Dottore is sweating.
That devilish creature from the far, remote Snezhnayan north, with that archaic vocabulary and those rugged, durable shoulders. The way the man looked so serious while he was thinking, and the sophistic, machinating expression he made when he looked Zandik's way, brazen and ambitious even in the face of death.
The very same night Zandik met him, the Sumeran masturbated feverishly for the first time in years, and thought of coming on that young, melancholic face, imagined it lolling out its tongue like a hungry dog, catching all the spittle like raindrops. His orgasm made his thighs cramp and his body numb. He was a musty, greasy mess by the time he was finished cataloguing the things he wanted to do. He didn't feel any shame in it, exactly -- but when he finished, he felt distinctly like the mere presence of the man had defiled him.
Worse still, he /liked/ it.
35 smirked privately. These lurid snippets did not belong to him, but to his creator. He had to admit, having done all of these things himself a hundred times over, the act exceeded even the fantasy.
The two of them were extremely well-behaved on their way to the Regrator's mansion. Snow drifted down lazily, sparsely, the sky pale, a low and stubborn sun far off in the distance toying near half-mast. They walked side-by-side, their conversation cursory, the both of them prickly inside for different reasons. It might have even been an alarming sight to behold, for those familiar with their usual dynamic.
It was the brewing phase. The waiting game. Dottore toyed several scenarios around in his mind -- will it happen in the foyer? The bedroom? The library, with a lamp-post?
"Strip."
Ah -- the doorway. Dottore is the last to walk through the threshold and the door is closing behind him -- he's pinned between it and a wall of heat and flesh. He can't keep the wicked grin off his face. "Now, now -- "
Pantalone grabs him by the testicles again, just like he'd done earlier, but this time it's /mean/. They're chest to chest. That mouth isn't nearly as friendly as it was in the hallway. "By all means, bore me with your inaction. I'll grind your testicles into mincemeat," he promises against Dottore's lips, the lavender eyes begging the man to provoke him just so he can make good on his threat.
Dottore has to admit -- sometimes, even now, the intensity surpasses his expectation. His cock is warming steadily, swelling against Pantalone's hand like it's a starving creature in a calfskin cage. The hand is pressing down, clenching, /twisting/, that ripening shaft pinched between his thumb and index finger, the scrotum between his index finger and the rest of his hand. the pale-haired man sighs, bristling, all clumsy forearms as he tugs his coat off his shoulders and starts undoing his shirt.
The hand doesn't let go -- it only pauses while the doctor is obeying his command. Pantalone is drinking in his expression, his face an inch away and all of his kisses spent.
The back of the doctor's neck is warm. His shirt is clinging just ever so slightly soggy against his axilla as he detaches it from his form. His thighs feel sticky.
The shower is -- as is the case with most of the man's rooms -- impeccable. Audacious.
If Pantalone's office at the Northland Bank is a love letter to the cosmos, and the living room -- the piano room -- is a love letter to Dottore, then the master bathroom is a love letter to gold.
As was customary, the walls were black. Abyssal black, he'd had the makers call it, despite their reluctance to assign that word to their product.
The water doesn't drip from a head, nor a faucet; it falls from the sky, like rain summoned at one's fingertips, as hot or cold as desired. The basin underneath is wide, circular and deep, the tile nearly iridescent with countless gold flecks, all refractile in the ambered light; they sing in chords of red, and emerald, and violet, chords that disappear once eyes are set upon them. Where the water collects, the basin shimmers, and casts the illusion of molten gold swallowing one's feet.
A cheap trick of the light. It is, however, mesmerizing.
Dottore is lathering himself up, turning himself into an absurd, buzzing mass of foam, his snappy voice reverberating off the walls. "-- I /reiterated/ to them the energy requirements for the trial run, because after one look I /knew/ their grid wouldn't be able to handle it -- one look, Feofan, honestly, these ignorant fools -- and Francois, I think was his name -- gets this /ridiculous/ look in his eyes, condescending arrogant prick, and he says to me --" he's mocking a Fontainian accent now, with perfect mimicry "-- 'don't you worry one bit about our grid, I can assure you it is the height of sophistication, not at all what you would be accustomed to in Snezhnaya -- please worry about your own business and allow me to worry about mine' -- Hah! -- and after he had been so /confidently/, so /wholly/, wrong, after the transformer is a /smoking hole in the ground/, he says to me -- can you believe this: 'I had not anticipated this level of strain'!"
Dottore throws his hands out and shoots a look at the Regrator, his body taut with nervous irritation just recalling the events, sending glimmering drops of water all over the marbled tile outside of the basin. "--You didn't /anticipate/ it, Francois? Yes-- I suppose that's correct, /you/ didn't, but /I/ did, in all of five minutes mind you, doing him the courtesy of serving him the /exact/ problem on a silver platter -- he should have been grateful and if he'd listened to me he wouldn't have such a headache to contend with now -- miserable ignorant bastard, sets my project back several months, without the barest -- "
Truth be told, Dottore could read the alphabet, and Pantalone would still listen. He consumes the spectacle with the most stoic of expressions, his posture straight, sitting there on the marbled bench, as though Dottore was a performer occupying his center stage. He's nude, save for his glasses, and a single, black, calfskin glove, and thick rings that sparkle and shine. He's taking slow, relaxed puffs of his cigarette, setting little 'o's loose to the world inside the slightly steamy bathroom. He doesn't say a word -- he doesn't need to. Dottore sometimes just needs to hear the sound of his own voice, especially fresh from a business trip when he's full of stories to tell.
Pantalone needs to hear it, too -- there's no place he'd rather be, by a margin so wide it bears no further consideration. But tonight he isn't honest about his neediness; he's staring at the man like he's little more than an annoying, barking dog.
He's adjusting the cuff of his glove. Silent. Waiting. Taking it all in.
"By the way, Sandrone saw that whole thing," Dottore changes the topic so quick the banker might have gotten whiplash if he wasn't accustomed to the chaotic flow of his thoughts by now. He points toward Pantalone as he's stepping into the stream again and rinsing himself off. "I think you would have enjoyed the look on her face, if you hadn't run off so quickly." That last bit is spoken sourly.
"I don't enjoy anything about that woman." Pantalone taps ashes off in his tray, listening to Dottore haughtily counter -- 'that's /not/ what I said'.
The news also isn't a surprise to him -- he knew she'd stayed late. It was by his own doing; he'd walked into her office earlier and dropped off a pile of papers she'd given him, saying, only -- 'you've cited data a year out of date, redo it by tomorrow with the proper figures'. He smirks lightly to remember the back and forth that ensued. It isn't /his/ fault last year's data hasn't yet been published, nor is it his problem.
Pantalone watches the man lean unabashedly under the shower head and catch the rain droplets on his tongue, an idle gesture that indicates now he's finished with the deed. The Regrator has watched the whole lurid affair, that meticulous and precise preening, and his patience has paid off.
"That's enough. Come."
The slender, masculine calfskin finger points precisely down on the floor in front of him. Not angled, not loose -- directed and commanding. Stand /exactly there/.
Dottore thrives with precise commands. He displays a different sort of submission than Pantalone in the heat of the moment. As long as his pride isn't challenged too overtly, he submits with excitement. Why should he be ashamed? Fucking feels good, and these games make it all interesting.
The doctor steps into the man's space, his cock twitching to life again, having had to endure such a wretched tease earlier, where he'd even leaked a bit of pre-ejaculate and yet had been left to simmer. He holds his hands down at his side, watching Pantalone take in this meticulously maintained body he's so proud of.
Pantalone doesn't yet touch him. He's sucking on his cigarette like it's deeply disappointed him, somehow. "Turn around."
Dottore rolls his shoulders back, cracks his neck, turns his back to Pantalone. He feels that velvety soft glove trail down his cleft. Pantalone is toying with his asshole, examining him. "Bend over."
The lithe form deftly arranges to be on all fours, a perverse little arch in his back, his expression positively glowing. "Well?"
Pantalone softly blows smoke at the pink, tight ring. He's toying with the muscle, opening Dottore to the world, looking at that tiny glimpse of his pink, blushing insides, pressing his own lips together with a swelling of vile and covetous greed. Even though he thoroughly approves, he clicks his tongue and has the gall to sound as though he's making a concession. "Acceptable."
He's withholding: 'good /crow/'.
Pantalone makes the first slap incredibly hard, but it isn't a backhand. It snaps a sound so loud it almost startles the doctor before the sting sets in. It puts a mild sway in that wiry, muscular body that's stifled with a tightening of his forearms. Dottore's lips part, but he's soundless.
"Again," the pale-haired man sways his ass tauntingly.
The Regrator leans forward and surprises the doctor instead -- he didn't think he was going to use his mouth so early. Its unmistakable, sweltering heat and wetness fastens to his perineum, and then --
His /fucking teeth/ -- Dottore makes a short gasp of a noise, jerks reflexively off the contact -- but Pantalone's hand is now wrapped around his testicles, and he's fastening him in place. His cigarette is sending off little spires of smoke somewhere near his leg. Dottore's calves tense and writhe as he dissipates the excess, stinging stimulation down to his toes, silently mouthing a curse as those teeth dig and tease.
The sharp and sudden contact is easier to tolerate after it's been sustained a moment -- the segment finds his front half sinking, ass in the air, a held gasp coming out as a long, drawled out sigh that's being sucked out of him. Pantalone is dining on him, nestling deeply into him like he's a roast and he's forgotten all semblance of manners, sucking, biting, /tasting/.
When Pantalone pulls his mouth away he scrapes the sharp back of his amethyst ring over the reddened perineum, making Dottore shiver and twitch. Now he bites his asscheek, and this time he's going for blood -- he snaps his teeth against him and jerks his head, causing Dottore to inhale sharply and almost throw a hand back at him. He breathes out the word 'fuck', which makes Pantalone backhand one of those thick, muscular mounds in retribution -- but doesn't matter how powerful, how sharp those backhands are: they're preferrable to the awful sting of his bite.
"Honestly, Feofan -- it was only /two days/," Dottore's voice is somewhat hoarse, but this does nothing to take away that taunting tone, the one that relishes in the fact that he knows the other man is feeling desperate --/ voracious/.
The Regrator cracks another malicious backhand off Dottore's bruising asscheek, hisses out sharply -- '/don't/ talk'.
The Snezhnayan spits crudely and lands a glob of saliva directly onto the winking asshole. Dottore is breathing deeply at this point, having sunk down on his forearms entirely, his slender hand balling up in his own hair -- a heated, self-soothing fidget of a gesture as he resolves -- at least for now -- to suspend his commentary. His breath is stirring ever more steady in his abdomen, now, his ribs and his muscular chest working with growing intensity.
The Regrator starts fingering him, directing his index and middle finger over his prostate, tracing around its rubbery outline, scissoring and spreading the fingers almost cruelly against his rim -- there's nothing generous about this preparation. The whole thing is designed to make him writhe from beginning to end. The banker bites him again as he does this, a short, cursory little nip where the forming welt on his cheek has ripened to the deepest hue, then another, angrier bite that forces the muscular form to keen and hiss and shiver. He's making him choose between running away from the pain, and discarding the pleasure -- he finds the balance that has Dottore pressing pressing into his mouth.
Pantalone's fingers are pistoning into him, two at a time. His other hand is pressing a thumb into the bruised area of his perineum, working it gently, then viciously, anything to keep the man at a constant state of re-evaluation. Dottore can see in the mirror opposite to them that he's got his cigarette in his lips and he's wearing this positively lecherous look -- he has his full and complete attention.
It makes Dottore prickly with pleasure, to be regarded like this.
Those fingers are moving rapidly now, making a disgusting 'slop' of a noise as he buries himself to his knuckles, over and over again, rubbing punishingly into that sensitive buddle of nerves -- Dottore is gyrating against him, until his back straightens and his shoulders flush. Pantalone maintains the pace, brings Dottore to a shuddering release, fucking the orgasm out of him with his fingers. By the time he withdraws, Dottore's feet are stretching and he's sighing happily into the tile, letting out a soft huff of a noise as the Regrator lands a gentle, terse little farewell slap over the puckering muscle.
Pantalone's cheeks hollow around a particularly strong drag as he finishes his cigarette, snubs it out beside him on the bench.
"Now be a good crow and let me watch you walk to that mirror."
Dottore's own reptilian reflection comes to meet him as he strides toward the slightly fogged pane. His first orgasm has loosened some of his tense, nervous energy -- now his limbs are a bit looser, more pliable, /warmed up/, and the Regrator stalks him from behind, enraptured at the sight of his gait. He detours only to grab lubrication from a nearby vanity.
Dottore's fingers clear streaks in the glass where he lays his palm down on the surface. He drags that palm across the mirrored surface so he can see Pantalone approaching him from behind in crystal clear detail. Dottore smirks out a low and appreciative little noise at the look on the other man's face -- both of them are just slightly flushed, Pantalone's previous cold and stoic expression now melted off into one of pure desire. There's a small smear of blood on his lip.
/Dramatic bastard/.
The doctor isn't sore so much as excruciatingly sensitive /everywhere/ below his waist. It typically takes him some time to grow soft after an orgasm-- but the maintained erection is deceptive. It's almost painful, especially to walk with it; his cock feels uncomfortably heavy and sharp, somehow. This is precisely why the Regrator torments him like this, and precisely why Dottore allows it to happen. On the other side of this discomfort is mind-melting pleasure.
Their eyes meet through the mirror. Dottore's sharp, pale brow is knit, his cheeks sharpened with his slightly parted mouth, crimson eyes leveling off an electrifying stare through the pane. Pantalone from this perspective is just ridiculous -- the man has a lithe swagger in his step as he comes in close, practically eye-fucks Dottore's face as he draws near. The heat of his presence brings with it deft, roving fingers that smear lubrication into that pinkened cleft. He deeply enjoys how the doctor's body wrestles for him on full display, conflicted between veering into the contact and jerking away from it entirely.
Pantalone leans flush against him, the bottle of lubrication clattering on the floor at their feet. He's pressing the tip of his cock into his hole, their hips adjusting to one another, Dottore watching the Snezhnayan's face in the mirror with sharp focus. The stare is returned, Pantalone's violet eyes over his shoulder, his arm looped possessively under Dottore's chest, gloved fingers pressing into the man's mouth. He spreads his lips between his index and middle finger to see the doctor's beautiful, gleaming teeth.
Pantalone sinks inside of him, like that. The teeth split open and Dottore huffs almost angrily against those fingers, their pupils dilating in coordination, boring holes into one another, lashes flaring.
Dottore rocks up on the fronts of his feet, his toes curling with the sheer pain of it, that heightened, stinging oversensitivity that makes him feel hot and static-y and impossibly full. He tightly grasps the Regrator's forearm at the wrist, his other hand palming at the mirror, the two of them locking up together. Pantalone pulls out, almost entirely, and slaps in again, each measured thrust ending in a powerful dig. He wants to watch Dottore's expression melt and fray and titter. He slips his fingers inside the doctor's mouth, the very same two that had just been inside him -- they brush and press against the slick muscle of his tongue.
Their gaze mutually darkens as Pantalone claps into him. That muscular, gloved hand is holding Dottore's head in one spot, and the force of their connection puts a lewd arch in his back. He has to push against the mirror to keep from lurching into it, and he steps back into his hips, driving the two of them together with a vicious dig that has them both wincing. The struggle of it all wrings growling, huffy, primal sounds from their chests.
Those crimson eyes go cloudy and the doctor's form permits a shudder that cuts through his sensitivity, a low and heady groan soaking into Pantalone's fingers. He feels the fingers flex against his tongue, and the Regrator watches just the smallest and most demure trickle of saliva slide down Dottore's chin. It makes the Regrator snap into him violently, now, chasing that little spittle, wanting to watch the man leak around his fingers.
"Bark for me," Pantalone whispers, letting go of Dottore's hip only to slap him across the ass. The doctor is huffing breathily, the two of them dribbling pre-ejaculate, little droplets sliding down the mirror -- a deep growl rumbles in his throat. He bites an angry snarl of a noise an inch away from the mirror, making it fog.
"/Again/--"
Dottore's chest is heaving now, his lips twisting, almost simpering around his toothy, monstrous little expression as he chuckles at the obscenity of the request. That man loves his teeth more than anything -- seeing them fills him with a kind of feral lust. Dottore barks for him again, watches the lavender eyes go positively blank with lust. Pantalone is growling at him, too, practically bouncing Dottore's head off the glass. They continue like this until they're convulsive and sweaty, the marbled walls echoing around them.
Pantalone throws him sharply forward -- he has to step their forms back to do this, and the motion almost causes Dottore to lose his balance, if it wasn't for the fingers in his mouth and the hand in his jaw.
Dottore gnashes his teeth against those fingers, now -- spasmodic flashes of brilliant, pearly white, flustered, snappy sounds leaving him -- agh--agh--agh--, Pantalone punching each one of them out. His fingers are being chewed, but the pain makes him hot, and desperate. The doctor's pale, slender hand has drawn tortured streaks along the glass as his fingers have curled and coiled and clutched, seeking for purchase.
The segment hits orgasm gasping against the slick surface, a positively /disgusting/ arch in his back as the Regrator rides out his own release behind him. Spittling and jelly-legged, Dottore allowed himself to slacken some as he felt Pantalone supporting him, drawing him flush, his root nestling into his tailbone, thighs flush against him.
Ejaculate runs down Dottore's perineum -- it feels like ice. He nuzzles his forehead into the mirror, sighs shakily, deliciously warm. His body is a full-bodied, heaving pulse. It reverberates deeply in his core, and ebbs to his fingertips and toes.
They're both panting against one another, sweaty, exhausted. Pantalone draws him in close, whispers into his ear.
"I believe I owe you a punishment."
Dottore had forgotten about /the fist/.
He's almost regretful. /Almost/. That realization is the thing that finally makes his knees buckle.
The Sumeran teeth-chattering on the bathroom floor, Pantalone smooths his damp mint locks out of his face and softly kisses his flushed lips — a chaste gesture in stark juxtaposition with what had just occurred. He chirrs —“Now — rings on, or off? What do you think you /deserve/?”
”Off, unless you want another exploratory surgery,” Dottore leers, his expression teetering threateningly between willing submissiveness and pure menace. The threat gets a chuckle out of the Regrator, who’s adjusting his rings now and clicking his tongue.
”That wasn’t the question.”
Dottore snickers at the man’s brazen insistence. They share a short, mutually threatening stare until Pantalone sighs. It certainly isn’t the hill to die on.
It takes a good moment for Dottore to pick himself up and walk to the bed, arm in arm with the slightly taller man -- the Regrator is positively insistent on hosting the event /there/. It's obvious he wants to use the under-the-bed restraints.
This makes Dottore's toes curl and his mind swim all over again. A small part of him is dreading it. The other part -- the resoundingly loud, obscene, disgusting part -- is salivating again. By the time he's in the restraints, he's shifting lecherously, slowly against them, positively brimming with overstimulation and anticipatory excitement. Pantalone places the black, silky blindfold on him first, then the black, silicone ball-gag, pinching his cheek obnoxiously.
It’s abundantly clear the Regrator intends to box him in: just his visceral, overwhelmed senses, and that large fist.
It seems appropriate seeing as the doctor had summoned this situation into existence -- as far as Pantalone was concerned, to deliver with mediocre fulfillment would be worse than denying the request altogether. And there was, of course, the matter of that /stunt/ he'd pulled.
A new research project; a request for four million mora. /Not/ the expense report he had requested.
Insolent /fuck/.
Pantalone leisurely fans his leather-clad fingers out -- he dribbles lubrication over them, letting the string wind around and coat his fingers.
The Regrator settles between those spread, flexible legs; they're positioned such that the doctor's entrance is turned directly towards him, his tailbone perversely cocked upwards, obliquely pointed at the ceiling. His flexibility is, as always, an astounding sight, something that puts a crude chill in the Regrator's spine. Just the sheer musculature of the man is a thing of beauty, like he's come straight from an anatomy book; the prototypal man.
Pantalone palms his thigh with his bare hand. He slides his three gloved fingers grouped tightly through that winking hole, the ring stretching over him once again, this time more pliant and receptive. He moves slowly, but with focused intent, pressing ever deeper. The internal muscles bear down on those fingers tightly, and Dottore is breathing heavily through his nose as he feels the man’s knuckles biting into his muscle. His wrists shift into the restraints and his thighs tense, almost completely immobilized. None of his limbs can move very far in this configuration -- it's already frustrating him.
”My — your reaction to my fingers is positively /virginal/,” Pantalone taunts him. “How could that be?”
Pantalone begins by curling his fingers into him, his strokes slow and precise, watching the man's head roll and his chest heave. He feels Dottore's prostate against his knuckle -- he drags the sharp edge of the bone along it, watching the man suck on the gag and hitch his breath in his chest. He makes a convulsive hiss of a noise that's squelched out against the gag, and it almost sounds haughty -- almost angry. He's extremely overstimulated.
Good.
The Regrator starts teasing his closed fist in and along that glistening, flushed ring of muscle. He adopts a bit of a crude position, elongating his fist at first, using his fingers as a wedge to force him open, punishing the first couple inches with a repeated and fluidly undulating contact. Dottore is becoming positively frazzled, now: he writhes, arches his back and then shrinks, grimaces his teeth against the silicone ball. His body hosts cold, kaleidoscopic flashes of chemicals -- there's a chill in his bones that pulses and flourishes with the contact. The noise he stammers out against the gag is primal.
Pantalone hefts inside with a bit more weight. The doctor's insides part around him, soft like velvet, gloriously warm. He's wrist deep, gazing down at Dottore ravenously, wringing him for all the sweat, the tears, the saliva, the ejaculate he can possibly give. Dottore makes another feral noise that causes Pantalone's thighs to tense and his own breath to hitch, now.
He gyrates his hand into him, twirls knuckles against his prostate, finds a rhythm that has Dottore bucking into the contact. That mussed head of minty, thick hair is thrashing, his fingers coiling and biting into his palms -- he's practically levitating off the bed.
The Snezhnayan leans over Dottore, his own breaths heavily coming through his parted lips, exerted and focused fully on the unraveling. He slows his pace only to thrust his fist into him deeper -- he's positively sickened and enthralled by the sight of him. Pantalone lays his bare hand down below his navel, works his fist against it, Dottore kicking out his legs, sputtering, /wailing/, full-bodied thrashing --
His third release. It's dry, but unmistakable.
The doctor's pale form is positively rippling, the muscles in his neck working tightly, reddened with effort -- he's chewing against the silicone, spit bubbling out of the corner of his mouth, delirious and shuddering. Pantalone doesn't dare stop until he's finished; he milks that climax out of him, absolutely entranced with the powerful feeling of those muscles grinding down on his hand, on his /wrist/ -- it's a deliciously heinous feeling, defiling your lover this way, wearing them like a sleeve.
Pantalone tears off the glove inside out, discards it haphazard on the floor. He brings himself to a panting, spasming completion easily, just watching the doctor pant and roll against his restraints, observing as he slackens and his redness dissipates. He comes on his abdomen, which causes the the doctor to flinch, the contact downright ticklish and not altogether welcomed.
Dottore is grumbling against the gag, hitting his wrist against the cuff insistently -- he wants out /immediately/, as he always does after these escapades.
When the Regrator takes his blindfold off, he's positively exalted by the sight of him; those bleary, teary sanguine eyes, the way his pale lashes are clumped and wet. He wants to kiss them, but he's fully aware the man's past his limit for the night. Dottore is still quaking against his restraints right up until Pantalone works him free and removes his gag.
Pantalone swipes his thumb over a bit of saliva on Dottore's lip. He’s inhaling lecherously, /obnoxiously/. "I love it when you /cry/." he's beaming, but the tone is not at all kind.
Dottore manages /almost/ to punch him in the dick. He snarls wordlessly and rolls over in the bed, mussed, sweaty, gruff, gelatinous and numb, his mind racing and resolutely blank all at once. He buries his face into his thick, downy pillow trying to drown it all out. There's still a quiver in his thighs, and he's twitching spastically. Pantalone pulls a throw blanket over to him from where it had been folded up over the edge of his bed, tucks it over him knowingly and doesn't say a word.
"Turn the damn light off," Dottore finally rasps, impatient.
Pantalone's private grin is wide, wicked, positively thrilled. It's not often he drives the man to real, actual tears. He holds that image in his mind as he turns off the light, and seeks out his cigarettes for a private smoke in a different room.