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“Well, Inspector?” said Jean Valjean, coming to a halt amidst a very thick cover of trees, which concealed from them the breathtaking view of the Alps, and served to shield them from any prying eyes who might likewise be wandering the woods of this hill.
Valjean went on, “Is this satisfactorily private, according to both your canine instincts and your many years of policing, which includes experience apprehending people engaged in the sort of act which we have come here to do?”
Javert, who was currently in the position of being carried over the shoulder of Jean Valjean, who bore him effortlessly by hooking one arm around the back of Javert’s thighs, weight perfectly balanced sure as if he were not a man but a sack of potatoes, looked around as best he could without straining his neck, which had grown irritably fragile with age. “Over there more.”
“I cannot see where you’re pointing.”
“There—there!” cried Javert, gesturing senselessly toward a nice shady spot with an appropriate amount of leafage to conceal what would certainly be an act for which, as Valjean had alluded, he would have once arrested himself if caught, though it bears reminding that, by virtue of their being French, the illegality lied here in the act of public fornication, rather than the fact that they were both sodomites. “And besides, if anyone comes up on us, I am very observant, which will not surprise you.”
“Yes, yes, your senses are finely tuned, mon loup,” said Valjean absentmindedly, and Javert’s heart—and another part of him which would become relevant shortly—stirred tremendously at the pet name, the very concept of which he had despised until this precise moment. It did not slip by him that the stirring in his lower half would surely be known to Jean Valjean, who’s shoulder was rubbing right up against the placket of his trousers. There was, then, a hint of smile in Valjean’s voice when he added, “Or shall I say, you are very good at sniffing out the danger.”
Javert could not do anything about the growl which emitted from him. “Oui, j’aime bien ça—I am your wolf.”
To his dissatisfaction, although all good things must come to an end, and even better things were soon to follow, Jean Valjean at last lowered Javert back onto his feet right before a young beech tree, whose trunk was neatly surrounded by a collection of bushes which were far enough away to give them space, but thick enough to provide visual cover. Javert straightened his back, and then immediately clapped a hand to his head as the world spun, blood rushing downward rapidly from his head.
“I think,” said Javert, despite the dizziness, “That if you should ever need something to lift, for example, to maintain your good physique into your old age, I should be quite eager to volunteer.” Despite this, he wobbled on his feet.
Jean Valjean grabbed onto him, keeping him steady. “Oh—sorry. I’m sure the altitude does not help, either. Myself, my ears have not yet popped.”
Javert nodded, which made the spinning worse, and he gripped firmly onto Valjean’s shoulder for balance. “In fact, one of mine has been irritating me since I dived into the water the other night.”
Valjean let out a huff. “Yes, I am still irritated about that. You, you inexplicable man, drive me wild sometimes.”
Javert grinned, and drew their faces close. “Wild as a wolf, Monsieur le Maire?”
With a mysterious look, Jean Valjean brought his hands up to curl his fists into Javert’s shirt collar, and pushed him with a gentle firmness until Javert’s back was resting against the beech tree, which was sturdy and barely rustled from the weight, its trunk fitting evenly in between his shoulder blades. “I am really very tired of this wolf stalking me all over town, annoying me so persistently. I am wracking my brain thinking what to do about it.”
“It is only its nature, I am sure,” breathed Javert, staring at him with a crazed grin, with wide, hungry eyes.
“And I hear that wolves are pack animals, living in groups,” said Valjean, closing the distance between them far too slowly. Anticipation hung thick in the warm summer air. “But not this one,” he added, and Javert was equally aroused and devastated when Valjean’s lips made contact with Javert’s jawline, rather than his mouth. “This one is all mine.”
Allowing his eyelids to flutter shut, Javert raised his chin to give Valjean better access to his throat, which was taken willingly, the man’s lips grazing downward, his fingertips pushing open the collar and placket of his shirt, down the trail of sensitive skin which concealed the artery. Where once Javert might have imagined Valjean slitting his throat, he felt now instead the flick of a tongue, the press of a firm mouth, the suction, the gentle nip of teeth. Valjean moved down to the base of the neck, between the collarbones, raked his nails gently through the nest of hair upon the chest, before hovering back and giving him a soft chuckle of a sigh.
“Javert,” he said patiently, “Your smile has grown on me, after many years of frightening me, but I have been waiting to kiss you properly for several minutes and it is very hard when your mouth is open so wide that I can see all of your gums.”
“I cannot help it,” declared Javert. “It has been stuck that way ever since you started hoisting me all over the mountain with the strength of your loins.”
“Let us see if I can do something about it,” teased Valjean, cradling Javert’s whiskery jaw in his strong hands and pretending with his fingertips to try and mold Javert’s facial muscles into an ‘ordinary’ smile. Unable to hold it back at all, Javert felt himself quake with a fit of wild—could it be called giggling when it came from such a ferocious creature?—at the manhandling, which only tightened the wolfish smile even more. Valjean was grinning now, too, his shoulders shaking with laughter. “Almost there—see, a little tooth is all right, endearing even, but you, mon loup, are nothing but tooth.”
“What is the problem?” Javert tried to say, but only the est managed to make it out as a coherent sound with his mouth being held in place by Valjean’s fingers.
“Pas de problème,” Valjean assured him, “I am simply thinking of my future grandchildren. They will be told Charles Perrault fairy tales about wolves and picture you when they hear them.”
“Oh là là,” Javert uttered for the second time at the same thought, and felt his taut smile ease at the idea spending the rest of his life surrounded by an army of little Mariuses.
“That’s it,” Valjean said approvingly, “Almost there—oui, c’est ça. If you smiled more like that, people might be a little less afraid of you. But it makes no difference to me—as I said, I have rather grown to like your ridiculous grin, even if it did make my daughter think you had bad intentions with me.”
“You just wanted an excuse to touch me,” said Javert smugly, now that he had free use of his mouth. “Well, isn’t that the whole point of what we’re here for?”
“No,” Valjean said, closing the distance between them, “Well, yes, but I told you what I wanted, which was to do this.”
And with that, in one swift movement, Jean Valjean pressed both their bodies and their lips together, and with the sheer urgency and possessiveness of the kiss, Javert felt his mouth open and his entire weight melt backward against the tree, so much that if he were not supported against it, his weakened knees would bring him to the ground. His hands came up reflexively to clutch at Jean Valjean’s sides and he clung to him senselessly, fists and mind and mouth all occupied with his lover.
Emboldened, Valjean pressed into him further still, kissing him hard, as if he could not get enough, and Javert still could scarcely comprehend being the object of such desire. He held tight to Valjean, who held him securely back, one hand yet cradling the side of Javert’s face as if to hold him there, as if Javert was the one who tended to escape, as if Valjean was the one who had historically sought power in their—he was not sure if whatever they had had for thirty years could be called a ‘relationship.’ And in that tremendous, delightful reversal of roles, this time it was again Javert who was inert in Valjean’s grasp, Javert who would get on his knees any time Valjean desired it, and eagerly, for this man was both his life and the reason that he was alive.
“So,” murmured Valjean against his lips. “What does this wolf want from a humble mayor?”
“Punishment,” hissed Javert, “For terrorizing the town.”
“You are my Wolf of Gubbio, after all,” breathed Valjean.
“And you are my Saint—Lord God, no, forgive me, I feel that might be too blasphemous, in this circumstance,” muttered Javert, unable to resist the Catholic urge to free his hand from his grip on Valjean’s side and sign himself with the cross in atonement. “For all the good it will do me,” he added to himself, “As I continuously assure us both that God will forgive our crimes against Him and then fall back into doubt. No, sorry, I know it is sensitive—do not listen to me, I cannot help it—the mind simply prattles on in its own way and all that is in there cannot be contained lest it be a thought, and even now I would prefer not to—”
Jean Valjean kissed him again, open mouthed and wet, and Javert forgot at once all he had just said. Against his skin, Valjean said, “I remind myself that God made us, and brought us together, and that scripture was written by man. My soul was bought for Him just down this mountain, and into His arms I shall go.” He chuckled. “Witness as I, too, bounce back and forth hope and despair.”
“I know,” lamented Javert. “It is hard.”
It was not the only thing that was.
Valjean’s voice dropped to a whisper, “Now, turn around.”
With a deep shiver of the spine, Javert spun around at once and thrust the side of his face against the trunk of the beech tree, which was mostly smooth, but had a knot in the bark that scratched through his whiskers in such a way that it was pleasant to rub against.
“Marking his territory,” murmured Jean Valjean, his voice gravelly, the growl of the wolf about to claim its mate. Javert felt the man press his body against him so that there was a weight pinning him again to the tree, and Javert trembled with the alluring knowledge that he could not overpower this man if he had wanted to. Valjean, being shorter than him, was of the perfect height that when he pressed his groin into Javert’s backside, the hard lump in his trousers fit perfectly into the cleft at the base of the torso. Standing as they were, it would be necessary for—his heart fluttered—entrance, that Javert would have to bend over or stoop his knees, and though he was eager to do so, they had done very much walking of late, and he did not know if his thighs would make it back down the mountain into Digne when all was through.
“What have I gotten myself into with you,” Valjean went on absentmindedly, his mouth breathing hot into Javert’s neck, his fingers tracing up and down either side of Javert’s torso.
“Tame the wolf,” growled Javert eagerly, his claws digging into the trunk of the tree, for want of something to hold on to now that Jean Valjean was behind him.
Without a word, Valjean removed one of his hands, and Javert could hear the rustling of fabric as his fingers dug into a pocket. Then the hand returned to where it had been, drawing an invisible line up Javert’s side, all the way up to his shoulders, and then down his arms to where Javert’s hands clung to the tree. Valjean’s fingers closed around Javert’s wrists, and Javert let his hands be guided to the other side of the trunk. But the angle was awkward, the stretch impossible, and he had to remove his bodyweight from Javert’s and step around the tree to continue his work, where he thoughtfully and deftly began to bind Javert’s wrists.
“You’re sure this is what you want?” said Valjean, glancing up to meet his eyes. Javert nodded eagerly. “I’m not quite sure I understand the appeal, but perhaps it will become clear to me.”
“They say—for those who like comedy, which I do not—that a joke is no longer funny if one has to explain it. Will this still be enticing if I have to spell it out?”
“It’s just that I’ve had you tied up before,” said Valjean with mild amusement. “And you were utterly convinced I was going to kill you, and deeply disturbed when I did not. I cannot help but ponder if there is a connection.”
“I am somewhat well-read, but I am not a philosopher, and I cannot speak to the human psyche, which still is barely understood.”
“I am not asking what a philosopher would think, and I know that ‘thinking’ is, for some reason, against your personal philosophy, but at least try to explain it to me.”
Javert, at a loss for what Valjean expected from him, tried to shrug, but the movement did not work from his position. “Not only have I borne witness to many of your acts of physical strength, I am also alive because of one. Is it a crime to be helplessly tempted by a man who has the strength of four others, and to enjoy the idea of him overpowering me?”
“Not a crime,” chuckled Valjean, “But you know me. I cannot cope with the thought of a situation from which I cannot escape. To me, this would be a nightmare.”
“I know. I would never ask the reverse of—this—” he wiggled his wrists “—from you. There is something about you being in control of me.” He sighed. “It is perfectly simple. I don’t know what to tell you, other than that the idea of you throwing me over your shoulder and treating me like a dog does very un-Christian things to my body and mind.”
“I will try to keep an open mind,” said Valjean, and though he did not protest Javert’s requests regarding being bound, he was clearly still hesitant. “If you enjoy it, I want to understand.”
“Tighten it more,” hissed Javert, tugging his wrists apart. He decided to try and egg on Valjean. “More! You don’t want the wolf escaping! Think of the townspeople!”
“Break character for a moment longer,” said Valjean, with an oddly fond expression, as he obeyed and held the ribbon more taut before tying the knot, “And tell me whether that is all right.”
Javert allowed himself to sigh again. “We shall work on it when we get back to Paris.”
“The question, please. Is it comfortable?”
“More-so than it was in the wine-shop,” said Javert, watching him hungrily.
“That is not saying much,” said Valjean skeptically. His hands were hesitant. “I want you to be comfortable.”
“I am, perfectly so.” It was not entirely true, but for Javert, for reasons he did not fully understand—because it was not his brain that was doing the thinking now, but another part of him, which was in fact preferable to thinking anyway—that was entirely the point. Still, he frowned, watching the man. “Valjean—if I am asking too much I can—we don’t have to do any of this. I know it has been a stressful few days.”
“No, no,” Valjean said with a brisk shake of the head. “I’m sorry. I want it, too. This. You—being with you, in this way. Really, I do,” he insisted, gesturing emphatically down at the lump in his trousers with one hand, the other still holding taut the ribbon. “I have for…I did not say this before, I have for at least a month now, or more. The second time you massaged my back, I felt—you awakened something in me. My body reacted, if you follow me, which is why I was so ashamed. I could not stop thinking about all the ways I wanted to—to touch you. The point is, I want it, and I don’t want you to doubt that. It is just—” He stopped talking, his eyes a little distant.
“What?” said Javert, trying to sound gentle, something he had gotten a little better at, he thought, despite the raw and helpless need that coursed through his veins and concentrated in his lower half.
Jean Valjean made a thoughtful wave of his free hand through the air. “I worry that we might be moving too quickly.”
Empathy of the kind which Javert had only ever known for this man overtook, for a moment, the intense urge that was currently pressing up hard against the tree. “Jean,” he said softly, “I have known you since 1798.”
“Yes, yes,” said Jean Valjean, a trace of affection lingering even with the compulsive thought of where, exactly, he had been during that year, and the seventeen that followed. “And you have been calling me ‘Jean’ for all of eighteen hours.”
“It has been an unusual thirty—euh—” He screwed up his face in thought, muttering to himself nine, ten—
“Thirty-five.”
“Thank you. Thirty-five years,” acknowledged Javert, who, despite Valjean’s reservations, still had his arms wrapped around the tree and his wrists bound together, and was still surprisingly hard. “Now, for the purposes of efficiency, and to spare you from any further doubt, with the assurance that you want this having been given, I will tell you precisely what I want, which, as usual, you can expect to be utterly honest. I tell you this because I care very deeply for you, and I would do anything at all for you, and I would never want to make you uneasy. What I would like, is for you, right now, to finish tying that knot, despite the wrinkles it will cause in the silk when it is back in my hair, thereby utterly incapacitating me against this tree, as if I was your dog that you left tethered outside while you went into the local pub to have a drink. Following this, God forgive me, I want you to entirely ravish me, to have your way with me, utterly and to completion, in whatever way you choose to see fit, because I am deeply enamored with the idea of you overpowering me, for reasons I don’t quite understand any better than you do, and I want you to be entirely assured, that I will alert you to any particular pain in my knees, or if I start to chafe too badly against the tree, or if anyone should approach us within a half-kilometer distance, or if I need more oil, or—”
“All right, all right,” said Jean Valjean, chuckling now, and finally he found the confidence to definitively tie the knot around Javert’s wrists in a way which Javert was securely bound, but that Valjean himself could easily tug it loose should an emergency arise. As he finished touches on the knot, he glanced up again at Javert, who watched him, satisfied as he could be while being as yet unsatisfied. “I understand.”
“And one more thing,” said Javert firmly. “If you are uncomfortable, just tell me. You are an impossibly loving, nurturing, and gentle man, and if this—” he tugged at his wrists to check the bond “—goes, for some reason, against your intense moral code, then untie me and we shall never speak of it again.”
Valjean shook his head, looking a little tired. “I could never hurt anyone or anything intentionally. I don’t even like the idea of your wrists chafing.”
“But I do,” insisted Javert. “I like the idea of you having left a mark on me. Again, no, I cannot explain, and I barely understand, but you know very well that I am nothing but truthful.”
“That I do know,” said Valjean, and a flash of relief passed on his face. “Yes, that does help to hear. I suppose we can discuss this at some point with clear heads; if you are happy, then I am ready to continue.”
Javert cocked an eyebrow. “And you, this time, are being honest, as well?”
“Not everything out of my mouth is a lie, you know. But yes; I am being honest. I suppose if we have come this far together you will forgive me my nature; where there is a dog in you there is a fleeing man in me, seeking to escape even the situations that I desperately want to be in. And I, I really do want to—what was it you just said—have my way with you.” His shoulders seemed to relax, and he eyed Javert up and down very candidly, now, a smile playing at his lips. “In whatever way I see fit?”
“Any way whatsoever.”
Valjean’s hands moved to the buttons on his trousers, which he began to undo. Javert watched his fingers work with wide eyes, having been wanting to stare at the lump straining against the fabric since Valjean had been pointing it out, but feeling that other matters were more pressing.
“I suppose what it really is,” said Valjean as he undid the final button and let the placket fall downward toward the earth, “Is that the other night, when we lied together for the first time, I felt something come over me which I did not recognize.”
“I recognized it,” growled Javert, himself twitching at the tent poking out of Valjean’s linen shirt, which was tucked into the undone trousers, concealing that beautiful sight. “It was that impossibly strong man who brandished the iron bar at me. That is precisely my point.”
“That is my point,” said Jean Valjean matter-of-factly, his fingers inching toward that tent slowly enough that Javert knew it was an attempt to drive him back into madness. “The man who brandished the iron bar at you, might have used that bar if further provoked, even though he swore not to hurt anyone or anything. I could have killed you.”
“Perhaps I have not been clear,” said Javert, squirming with anticipation, held out from him as if a particularly appetizing piece of meat he could not reach. Well—en fait— “That iron bar,” he went on, glaring hard at the base of Valjean’s shirt, “Is what I want.”
“But you understand what I am trying to say,” reasoned Jean Valjean.
“Jean,” said Javert exasperatedly, finally dragging his eyes back up to meet Valjean’s. “I love you. I trust you. I am not concerned about you crossing any boundaries, because there are none, to my knowledge, that I have. If I discover them, I shall inform you, and if you discover any, you shall inform me. For a final time, if it makes you unhappy to tie me to a tree and pierce my innards with that which you are concealing from me, which, again, is what I desire, then untie me and we shall go down the mountain pretending this never happened.”
Jean Valjean ran a hand through his hair, a bashful tinge of pink rising above white of his beard. “Very well. Very good. I am sorry. We can talk about it more later. I’m ready. I promise.”
“Don’t be sorry,” said Javert, trying to be patient, trying not to snap. He loved this man, and in order to continue loving this man, and being loved in return, he had to learn how to be kind—perhaps the most difficult task put to him yet. “Are you sure you’re ready?”
Finally seeming assured, Jean Valjean’s nod turned confident. “Yes. Thank you for your patience with me.”
“Any time,” murmured Javert, “Now for the love of—” He sighed, and had to mime another sign of the cross with his finger in lieu of raising his hand to his face. “Now, for all that is good in the world, so help me, if you do not lift up that shirt at once and penetrate me with that thing, I shall simply once again end up committed to an asylum in a fit of insan—”
As the linen was pulled away, Javert found that he fell utterly silent due to the dropping open of his jaw.
“This thing?” said Jean Valjean, eyeing him in amusement. He reached down to it, to do what Javert could not, and rest it in the palm of his hand, as if showing off a new clasp-knife.
Javert swallowed. “It occurs to me now how very dark it was the other night.”
“You’ve seen it before,” said Valjean, smirking now. “We’ve slept together naked, twice.”
“They behave very…differently…in those circumstances,” said Javert, not hearing his own voice.
“You two have already been acquainted, even if you did not actually see it.”
The worst thing about being tied to a tree in this position, which had admittedly grown more uncomfortable after several minutes of argument and reassurance, was that Javert could not drop onto his knees and fill all crevices of his salivating mouth with that glorious, sinful piece of Jean Valjean.
Said man broke him out of his trance with a hearty laugh. “Have I ever told you that your face perfectly reflects whatever it is that you’re thinking? I think it’s my very favorite thing about you. In this case, I think the dog tied to the post has laid eyes on a delicious piece of meat.”
Javert was too aroused to feel even the slightest bit self-conscious.
In a surprising burst of confidence, Valjean pulled up the hem of his shirt and held it out of the way by propping his hands up on his hips so that Javert could ogle. “You were a very good policeman, Javert, a little too good, I should know—but I don’t know how you managed anything if you’re incapable of being anything other than that expressive.”
“You cannot misunderstand me that badly,” said Javert, watching the way Valjean’s length, quite hard but not fully erect, so that it was diagonal with the earth, bobbed in irregular motions with each little movement the man made. His heart was racing so fiercely he might faint, or die. How cruel! After a year of yearning for death, for release, that he should die now, hungry, desperate, staring at the length and girth of Jean Valjean’s—
“You,” Javert went on, “Are the only person who has ever been able to unravel me.”
“So you have said,” said Valjean smugly, and slowly, with his hands still propping up his shirt, he began to walk back around the tree behind Javert, and Javert followed him with his eyes until he could not longer twist—curse that fifty-three year old neck! Once again, Valjean’s hands, now obscured from view—Javert faced forward again so as not to aggravate his stupid, infuriating muscles—came up to Javert’s sides to trace up and down, and he shivered furiously. Valjean leaned in close, breath tickling Javert’s ear, and murmured, “Permission to unravel you, Inspector Javert?”
“Please,” came the most pathetic whine that Javert had ever heard from himself, and he knocked his head back in utter disregard of the neck he had just cursed, which did, in fact, hurt, but caused the secondary effect of offering a curtain of hair for Jean Valjean to finger his hands through. Valjean took the offering, raking his nails across Javert’s scalp and into his hair while he pressed a wet kiss into the increasingly sore neck of Javert.
Valjean reached up as best he could at the awkward angle to kiss the corner of Javert’s mouth, and that hot breath sent a shiver down his spine. “You said you trust me?”
“Implicitly,” Javert whispered.
Valjean’s fingers began to trail downward, down Javert’s front. “Are you willing to be just slightly experimented on?”
“I shall be your willing test subject.”
“I have heard of men doing it,” Valjean offered without explanation, his body pressed against Javert’s as he began to undo the buttons of Javert’s trousers, now.
“What is it,” breathed Javert aloud to himself, desire replacing thought, rebellion traded in for sin.
“I always thought it sounded unpleasant, in practice, for the giver,” said Jean Valjean casually, not elaborating, tugging Javert’s trousers down firmly to the thighs in one movement. Javert shivered same as if he had just been pulled from the water, his length twitching in delightful agony against the tree, shielded from it by his shirt. “But as we are both clean, and smell good, having just been in a hot spring, and since I remember the idea of it after all these years, clearly it must have left an impression on me—can you step your feet a little more apart, and bend just slightly?”
Javert obeyed, as wide-legged as he could be with his trousers down around his knees; he would straddle the tree naked if Jean Valjean had asked him to.
Valjean moved back from him, and Javert heard a soft grunt, the kind which might imply an old man kneeling down in ways his body was not quite used to; he tried to twist his neck to see, but unfortunately, his age and mobility had not changed since the last time he had checked and Valjean was perfectly out of his periphery.
Accordingly, he did not know what to expect when he felt two warm hands come up to either of his outer thighs, and push the linen fabric up away from his lower half.
He still did not know what to expect when he felt those hands raise up to knead gently into his cheeks, manipulating the cushioned skin, pushing them apart, but it made his length twitch again.
He was beginning to have an idea when he felt a whisper of warm breath against his entrance.
His eyes widened.
His jaw slacked.
Jean Valjean’s tongue came into contact with him, and in the wake of a quick gasp, a tremendous, bodily moan erupted from Javert’s chest, and his knees bent, and he lurched backward toward the source of that sensation, and Jean Valjean braced his strong arms against the back of Javert’s thighs, holding him in place as he chuckled, pulling back.
“Sorry to laugh,” said Valjean, and Javert was quite sure he had learned to recognize what was probably called fondness. “Your reactions are always very amusing—lovingly said.”
“Less sorry,” groaned Javert, “More tongue.”
Valjean obeyed, starting with a firm upwards lick, and Javert would not have been able to describe the sensation if prompted, in that moment. It was something like a wet tickle, and he supposed there must be a plethora of nerve endings there; it reminded him of a kiss, which was a sensation almost as new to him as this one was, but one which he could not reciprocate, but extracted from him senseless noises, voiced to the bark of the tree. For all that Javert knew about sex—and there was not much—it occurred to him now that he had so boldly assumed from their encounter a few nights prior that they had more or less covered the bulk of sensations which he might henceforth experience in later engagements. That night, there had been innumerable new feelings which his body had never undergone prior; now, this was one more which was utterly novel.
At that time, he began to register another sensation of wetness, this time at the hem of his shirt, which was pressed between his heat and the tree, and it occurred to him that his unattended length was leaking in anticipation.
The thought occurred to him briefly that this was something a dog might do, and so he supposed it must therefore be correct.
“Javert?” came a voice, which was almost unrecognizable for the tone it had taken on, husky and gravelly, but which must have emerged from the mouth which was doing unspeakable things to him, which he had not known were possible until today.
He was so distracted that he almost forgot to reply, and could only manage to utter the smallest hein?
There was a firm upwards lick against his—oh, the vulgarity, his hole— “Thank you—I have not heard you this silent since you passed out from laudanum in my arms. I was afraid for a moment I had lost you.”
Javert, who did still feel he might be in danger of dying, could only follow up the hein with a little ah.
Valjean began to move his tongue outward, kissing and licking the sensitive skin around the entrance, hands holding Javert in place, and Javert wondered if there was any vein in the area which had a pulse, and therefore if Valjean knew how hard his heart was pounding.
“It is new to me,” replied Javert in a murmur, eyes shutting against the world, face resting against his arm, “But it should not be; the dogs figured this one out long ago.”
“I am not going to start sniffing you,” quipped Valjean from down below, in between his motions, and if Javert had a free hand, he would use it to thread his fingers into that pure white hair and press the man’s face further into his backside.
“I’d think you have been thoroughly marked with my scent, by now.” He blinked at the sensation of Valjean’s mouth leaving him. “That is not a request to stop, to be clear.”
“Apologies,” said Valjean, and after some rustling Javert heard the sound of a bottle being uncorked. “But the jaw is getting sore.”
“I can imagine,” said Javert wistfully, still picturing his own mouth wrapped around Jean Valjean’s large, hard, swollen—curse it. If he was going to have one inside of him, he may as well muster up the strength to voice, in his head, in a great moment of internal rebellion, the horribly uncouth, vulgar word of cock.
He shuddered. His life was unrecognizable, now.
And there was not a single thing about it which he would change—except perhaps to trade for a younger neck. Though he supposed the enduring suicidal thoughts were probably the more pressing—
Pressing, pressing, Jean Valjean’s fingers were, that was, pressing into him, holy God—his head was once again thrown back, hair catching in a pleasant breeze, this time un-grabbed by Jean Valjean, whose fingers were too busy pressing into him, slippery, pressure, into the hole, so unnatural, sodomy, delightful delicious sodomy—
“I forgot,” said Javert uselessly, his face aimed at the sky.
“Hmm?” said Jean Valjean, whose finger was caressing the inside of Javert’s—
“That feeling,” breathed Javert, staring at the canopy of beech leaves.
Heavily oiled, Valjean withdrew his finger and began to add a second, pushing against the tight skin, which yielded, though with resistance. “It is strange?”
Javert blinked, speechless, stretched, penetrated. “Wildly.”
“It’s a little odd to be doing it with the sun out,” Valjean admitted, apparently unfazed by having his fingers inside another man’s— “To be—staring at it. Seeing it.” Javert felt the same about Valjean’s cock. “I like it.”
“I like it,” repeated Javert, senseless.
“I’ll tell you, though, it may be a little while before I can bare all skin in the light. Once we get home, obviously.”
“Seen you naked,” mumbled Javert.
“Debasing myself,” said Valjean, “I know. It’s different, somehow.”
“It is.”
“Two fingers is not enough, but it is awkward to try and fit three—the hand does not stretch like that,” Valjean was saying, as if trying to figure out the answer to an equation.
“You are large,” said Javert stupidly. “Large fingers—hands. Last time, sufficient.”
“You seemed uncomfortable last time. That’s part of why I was hesitant today—I don’t know how you did it, taking all of that. I don’t want to hurt you.”
“It is not the will which is lacking,” lamented Javert.
“I am not trying to brag,” said Valjean quickly, “I simply think that it is…a little large.” He pressed a kiss to Javert’s soft skin. “But then again, so are you, mon loup.”
“Perhaps everyone else is just small,” said Javert, unaware of anything but the fingers inside of him, unsure of what to do with himself. He supposed he did not have to worry about his hands, bound as they were opposite the tree.
“Just tell me if it’s too much,” said Valjean, holding his fingers in place so that Javert could stretch around them. “And if you want to get down from the tree.”
“It is a good tree,” Javert whispered absently, forehead again on his arm, resting his neck. His shoulders were beginning to ache terribly, and it was a miracle his knees were holding fast. Maybe it was not quite right—dogs were tied by the neck, usually. They did not have thumbs, though, to free themselves, and the interest was in lacking control.
“How do you feel?”
“Ready,” said Javert, entirely unready, for there was no way to be ready for this stimulation that he had, in fact, demanded, and craved like cold water on a hot day.
“All right,” said Valjean, withdrawing his fingers, pressing another kiss above the cleft. “I am going to move you, a little—you are a little too tall for me, I think.”
Javert allowed his hips to be pulled away further from the tree, and positioned where Valjean wanted him; he shifted his bound hands a few inches down the bark so he was leaning over just enough for it to feel awkward; but sex, he’d discovered without surprise, was awkward enough altogether, and Jean Valjean could move him into any position he wanted as long as that thing was going to do those things to him that it did the other night.
When he was positioned to Jean Valjean’s liking, necessitating a slight bending of the knees and flexing of the thighs, which Javert was not sure how long he could maintain, there was another slick sound of oil being spread over skin, and Javert did his best to remain calm. Breathe. Release tension; let him in. Let him in. Let him in—
The first thing he felt was a steadying hand coming up to grip Javert’s hip, allowing for leverage and guidance. The second was the warmth of their bodies being close, Valjean’s legs pressed against the back of Javert’s.
The third thing he felt was warm, wet, round flesh rubbing gently against the spot where Valjean’s tongue had been massaging previously, and his heart felt like it would burst.
“Ready?” Valjean prompted again, and all Javert could do was nod, bracing himself against the tree. “You’re tense. Try to relax. Take a few breaths.”
Javert continued to nod into his arm, putting conscious effort into releasing the tension everywhere except where it was necessary to stay upright in this position. He kept his eyes shut, tried not to overthink. Or, think at all, but that was usual.
Valjean must have noticed a relaxed change in his posture, and a moment later, with an intense sensation of pressure, the profound contortion of his countenance, and the distinct feeling that this was unnatural, Javert felt himself be breached.
“Oh,” was the sound which ripped out of him, garbled and drawn out, barely a word, emerging from the deepest reaches of his interior, which he would not have been able to replicate even if he tried, even if he had been handed a stack of bank notes totaling a million francs from Louis-Philippe himself.
“Ça va?”
Javert blinked stupidly, absently pondering such a mundane, simple question. “Ça va.”
Jean Valjean edged further inside, slow as a snail. Javert breathed again, forcefully, consciously, finding himself tense again, and relaxed as best he could, willing his body to accept the appendage which penetrated it. Valjean took a moment to run his fingers through Javert’s hair, a reliable trick commonly applied to achieve that relaxation, which this time only marginally helped.
“Is the angle bad?” asked Jean Valjean.
After a moment, Javert muttered a strained, “Chais pas,” and was utterly disturbed to hear himself stoop to the use of such the slang. Bewildered, he asked, “How much of it is that?”
“Maybe….two inches?”
Javert swallowed thickly. “Out of how many?” His voice cracked on the second syllable of combien.
“Well, I’ve never exactly measured it, have I?” said Valjean blankly. “I really don’t get them that often—beyond the ones that just sort of happen. You know how it is, to be a man. God forgives us our regular functions.” He sighed, which seemed to be at himself. “Keep going?”
Javert grimaced. “Can you try the three fingers?”
Jean Valjean slipped out of him, causing Javert an enormous, guttural groan, feeling like he had been emptied. “It is the—I do not like to say it out loud—the opening which needs the most getting used to it. Everything after that is—oh là là, la vie est bizarre—it is just the—ah—”
“That is three fingers.”
“Ah,” Javert repeated.
“Is there any pain?”
“Non.”
“Well, is there any pleasure?”
“Oh,” Javert emitted suddenly, torn out of him by the machinations of Jean Valjean, whose fingers had just caressed a particularly sensitive spot. “Yes.” So sensitive, in fact, that with another little caress, Javert jerked wildly against the tree, and threw his hips back toward the sensation. “There.”
Jean Valjean was laughing at his sudden reaction. “What?”
“Right there,” Javert breathed, “Is, is, is—that spot—is—it is—oh—”
“This?” asked Valjean, rubbing it with apparent attention. “I do feel something there. Something sort of round.”
“Oh, mon Dieu, ah—and there I say it again, God forgive me, please God forgive me—but I take it not in vain, for this is a gift, this is a blessing—after all—Man was made in His image, wasn’t he, so this had to have been a choice—clearly this was a choice, no? No?”
“I have no idea what you are saying,” said Jean Valjean calmly, as he continued to massage that sweet, sacred, interior spot. Javert thought in that moment he could die, if it meant his spirit could come out of his body and see what Jean Valjean might look like, crouched there with his fingers penetrating his hole, a serene smile on his face.
“That is certainly for the best,” Javert muttered. Valjean continued to move his fingers, loosening the grip of muscle, acclimatizing it to penetration. Every so often those fingers massaged that ‘sort of round’ shape within him, whatever it was, whatever made it feel so good, and Javert had to squeeze his eyes shut and try to calm himself, and his—cock. Then his eyes bugged, and he gasped. “Wait—arrête, arrête,” he demanded, desperately, squirming wildly, “Get out, out out out.”
Valjean withdrew without question. “Are you all right?”
Javert’s knees were shaking, and he had to force himself to still, lest a breath of mountain wind set him off too early; untouched, his cock twitched, close, very close—almost, no no not yet—he squeezed the tree with his arms, and his eyes shut, and he tried to breathe, and will the closeness with which he was about to burst to tamper.
“Javert?” asked Valjean more urgently, standing, hand coming up to touch his back in concern.
“Yes, yes,” Javert managed to say, winded. He felt the urge pass, finally, and sighed, relieved—but not that kind of relieved. His cock, hard and hanging, rested, calmed, dissuaded. “Sorry. It was—that felt too good.”
Valjean paused, as if shocked, and then laughed again, the arm against Javert’s back sagging in relief. “Isn’t that the point?”
“Yes,” Javert moaned, and then shook his head, “No. The point is for Monsieur le Maire to punish his dog.”
“You are so very strange,” said Valjean through a smile, and Javert heard the sound of liquid being upturned in a bottle before feeling those same fingers rub more oil gently both upon him and inside of him. Then, Valjean came back into the same position as before. “Shall I, now?”
“Please. The full—the—ah—”
With that request, he felt the head of Valjean’s cock press against him, and when it entered him again, there was not so much resistance as before.
He did not know if it was comfortable this time, per se, but it was better, far better, and he found himself finally relaxed, able to take it, to accept it into him, stretched, molding to him. He leaned, again, against the tree, pressed his hips back into Valjean, who sort of stilled to let him, allowing him to adjust, to ease onto the length, which filled him, wonderfully, perfectly, strangely. It was the strangest feeling, still, that he had ever known, but less unexpected this time, now anticipated, now wanted, now craved.
The sensation of fullness, the pleasant friction, the tight fit; the impression that this part of his body no longer existed for its normal function, but rather for Jean Valjean to have. The newfound belief that such a thing could not truly be forbidden by God, for He was the only one who could have designed it to feel so right. All of this was right. All his life Javert had wanted to do that which was right, correct, just; well, the justice he had served he accepted now to be injustice, but this, this, this could only be right.
Jean Valjean, appearing to understand that Javert had relaxed, and was breathing normally, and was not about to shatter, made one more adjustment of Javert’s hips, bringing him to the right height, and began to move.
“Oh, Lord above,” moaned Javert, and wondered if he would be set aflame the next time he dipped his fingers into the holy water font and signed himself with the cross.
“You can surely find some other exclamations,” reasoned Jean Valjean, his voice strained.
“Yes,” went Javert. “Yes.”
“I suppose that works, if you must say anything.”
“I must.”
“You have always talked too much.”
“My hair,” demanded Javert senselessly. “Pull my hair.”
“What?” said Jean Valjean at the crest of a thrust, and Javert threw his head back, shaking it as in offering.
“Pull my hair,” he begged, fearing that he sounded like a petulant child who was not being given an enticing chocolate.
“I said I don’t want to hurt you,” said Valjean, aghast.
“I am not made of glass, Valjean,” Javert complained. With a palpable hesitance, Valjean’s cock slipped out of him while he reached up to gather Javert’s hair into one hand. He gave it a gentle tug. Javert shook his head. “Harder.”
“What about your neck?”
“Damn the neck,” snapped Javert impatiently. “That’s what the hot spring is for; we’ll stop again on the way back down. We’ll have to, anyway, or I’ll never get this oil off.”
“It is definitely a little messier than perhaps I first imagined.” Valjean, very gently at first, testing the waters, began to tug at Javert’s hair.
“And what exactly have you imagined?” growled Javert, gaze drawn upward to the sky, asking the question to the canopy of leaves.
“Not as much as one might expect, for a man of my age,” admitted Valjean, taking his other hand to guide his cock back to its coveted position. He tightened his grip of Javert’s hair, and began to pull, before pushing his cock back inside. Javert shuddered, eyes rolling back in delight. Valjean sighed, a sound of relief, and leaned in to Javert’s ear, which was drawn back to his level. Into it, he whispered, his voice lusty, “I do love your hair.”
“Then it is yours,” pledged Javert.
“It is,” said Valjean, his voice laying claim to it, his words a signing of the contract. “And you?”
“Yours as well.”
Jean Valjean began to move inside of him, slow, achingly slow, temptatious. “And—” He exhaled, appearing to decide something, to deliberate a word. “Your ass?” He made a derisive noise, as if he did not like the sensation of the word on his tongue.
Nevertheless, Javert said, “That is very much yours.”
“All of you,” breathed Valjean, giving another decisive tug on the hair, “Mine?”
“Yours,” Javert answered, “For the taking.”
“It would be rude not to take such a readily offered gift,” said Valjean huskily, evidently trying to play the character, but maybe not quite reaching its full potential. Without any further speech, he pressed his cock further into Javert, and began to rock his hips back and forth, sliding against the oil, against the interior, against the hole.
Javert could barely contain himself. Could not, actually, at all. With a precarious glance around the forest, feeling Valjean doing the same, he checked, definitively, for human presence, and when he found none, as was expected, he could no longer prevent the insensible, guttural sounds which emitted from him.
Well, how could he help it, with multiple inches of Jean Valjean thrust up inside of him, and thrusted, and thrusted, pushed and pulled, inside of him, the vulgarity, the intimacy, the sex of it all. How could he help it, when the sounds pulled from within him, without his control? How could he be expected to control himself at all? That was for Valjean to do, now. Control him. To tug his hair and to fuck him, to Hell with his aversion of the slang, to fuck that cock into him, as if they were dogs—a snowy-white wolf sent by God, and a dog-son of wolves. This was where they belonged, out in the wild, untamed, hair loose, tugged on, mouth open and panting, one tied up, one with all the power. Valjean with dominion, Javert at his whim. As it should be. As it always should have been.
“Javert,” Valjean chided, out of breath, “I appreciate your enthusiasm, I really do, but we are outside. Can you not be quiet, for just once?”
“They will just think—ahh,” he stammered through another great thrust. “That the dogs are mating. No—oh—one here anyway, I would have—heard—”
“I cannot hear a thing, myself,” said Valjean, pushing into him hard against the tree, “Over your moaning.”
“We shall have to switch—roles at some point only so you can see—ouf—that it is not voluntary…”
“Not that it is a topic I want to broach here, now,” said Jean Valjean, “But in prison they were much more quiet, so I do not quite believe you.”
“But they were not—being—screwed by the Jack, if you will forgive me the phrase—ah—” He was such a ninny. “But now I wish I had been.”
“I am very curious to try it,” said Jean Valjean, “For all the effect that it seems to have on you. But until then, as usual, I will have to take matters into my own hands, it seems. And I do mean that literally.”
Javert was just about to ask what that was supposed to mean when all of a sudden, Jean Valjean’s strong hand came to clasp firmly over Javert’s mouth and any further exclamation which emitted from him was thence muffled as if he had been gagged. At once his brows shot skyward, and Jean Valjean used his new position to gently tug Javert’s head back toward him so he could whisper in Javert’s ear: “Monsieur said, be quiet.”
It was simply impossible, then, for any sounds to emit further from Javert, who had not for some time been given an order from a superior, and missed greatly having someone to answer to. As if the hand of God Himself—he was damned for the repeated blasphemy, surely—had closed around his larynx, and forbidden him from uttering a peep, he fell silent, and his only outward expression of the feeling inside him could be the rolling of his eyes.
With a husky chuckle, Jean Valjean thrust firmly again into him, shoving him up against the tree, which Javert clung to with a death grip. “You take commands so well, mon loup. But I have known that for a long time.” Another hard thrust. “Remember when I ordered you to leave the room, and you obeyed me, in front of all your men?” Javert nodded eagerly against his hand. “You’re right. Imagine all the things we could have gotten up to back then.”
Javert mumbled something indistinct against Valjean’s palm, and even he did not know what he was trying to say. Jean Valjean’s other hand came down to grip at Javert’s hip, and pull him backwards so he could push all the way inside, so the curve of their bodies lined up at all points, and so he was entirely full. Javert’s eyes bugged, and he wondered how he was even able to take it all. Valjean stilled, and allowed Javert to nestle backwards into him, grinding against him, which felt divine. He suddenly hungered for them to be on the ground, and imagined himself, if his knees would cooperate, which he was not sure if they would, sitting astride Jean Valjean, the man’s cock inside him, both of them naked and sweaty, writhing his hips so that every crevice of himself was snugly filled. He envisioned Valjean watching him, overcome with lust, finally at peace with how badly someone wanted him, insecurities vanished. He imagined a world without fear, without taboo, where they could fuck in the sunlight in an open field, free, unashamed, united by the Church as two men could never be; he wanted to thread his fingers into that thick white chest of hair, he wanted Valjean’s brand not to be a curse he had to conceal; he wanted Valjean not to have the brand at all. He wanted to take back the last forty years of their lives; he wanted to have chosen a different path, outside of the only two he had ever comprehended.
He wanted to love Jean Valjean out in the open, for everyone to see, to walk through the gardens arm in arm as young couples did, and not have to lock doors and sequester themselves to the top of an unpopulated mountain, hidden by brush and leaves, in order to simply share a kiss.
As if he knew what Javert was thinking of—thinking! him! during sex! sex, of all things, him! having it! with Jean Valjean, the convict-angel-saint! life astounded him continually—or as if he was going through the same motions, Jean Valjean pressed a hot, wet kiss into Javert’s neck, as best as he could reach, and murmured into his skin, “I love you.”
Javert was undone. Was this what they called faire l’amour? Could he, with his heart of wood and stone, really know what it was like? Should he have been interested before? Would it make this meeting less special if he had? He thought it would have. And who with! A woman? Absolument pas. A man? Hardly! He had seen them both naked and reviled it. But Jean Valjean undid him. Jean Valjean unraveled him, as he unraveled Javert’s ribbon to play with his hair. Jean Valjean, the elusive criminal, had always unraveled him, always a step ahead; Jean Valjean the friend, continuously did so as well, confronting him with new perspectives, mercy, grace, forgiveness; but none of this was as much as Jean Valjean the lover did. The lover! When had this happened! Just days ago! So suddenly! The thoughts had been there within him on the way south, to Provence, as they shared beds in various inns when it was more frugal to do so; there was more than one day where Javert had awoken beside him and yearned for his touch. They had shared a bed a few times before then, as well, but never with that thought; Javert wondered if Valjean had had the thought, the desire, even just an inkling. He wondered when it had started—he had mentioned the infamous massage earlier, but had he said that was the beginning? He might have.
He imagined, as Valjean’s cock pumped in and out of him, in and out, sometimes in rhythm, sometimes irregularly, how that must have felt; Javert’s large hands pressing into his bare back, skin that had not been touched in years, may never have been touched by anything save the lash. Javert wondered if he had ever laid a lash upon that skin, and despaired at the possibility. He had been around for at least one of those earlier escape attempts. He imagined Valjean’s reaction, then, to his more recent touch, the revelation, as Javert had had the same day, that his hands could do good; good, which he, Javert, was capable of, recently learned, relative to his lifespan; he imagined Valjean getting hard under his touch, ragingly hard, erection pressed into the sheets, straining against his trousers, leaking into the linen. Imagined what it might have been like if, instead of massaging him, Javert had straddled him, imagined if they had fucked that day. He wondered what it would be like for his cock to be inside the man, as the man’s cock was inside him now.
Suddenly he wanted to know. He wanted to give Valjean the pleasure that Valjean gave him now. He wanted to prove that he loved the man back, that incorrigible, helplessly insecure man, who felt himself unworthy of affection, who sought to escape from his own desires. He wanted to go back to Paris so they could lock themselves in one of their apartments and fuck freely, loudly, taking turns inside each other, at all hours of the day, until they were both spent and exhausted and fell asleep in each other’s naked arms. Then he wanted to wake up, and kiss him for hours, until they fucked again, every day, until the years caught up with them and death took them both. Together. Dear God, together. Javert, eleven years his junior, did not think he could cope with the idea of living in a world without Jean Valjean.
“Javert,” breathed Jean Valjean into his back. His hands had long ago left Javert’s mouth and hips, and were now wrapped around his torso tightly, his intense strength threatening to snap Javert in two, clutching at him desperately, as his thrusts became furious, his breath ragged, and he leaned forward, pressing into him, his head coming to rest against Javert’s shoulder, throwing all his energy into the last movements which would secure his release. He gasped as if running out of air, and shuddered, fists clenching in Javert’s shirt, and his hips began to grind and jerk, pressing into him, riding the wave, until his gasps dissolved into pants and sighs and he ceased to move, having emptied himself completely into Javert.
Utterly exhausted, Javert felt a great force press him against the tree as Valjean leaned into him, half-collapsed against him with his whole weight, catching haggard breaths with his head still resting on Javert’s shoulder. Javert found himself desperately longing to look at him, to see his eyes closed in contentment, the flush of his cheeks, his lips parted as he gasped for oxygen, to scan over all the minute changes that might overcome his face in this state of pure bliss. It had been so dark on their previous encounter, without moon or candlelight to show him that blessed sight. It was strange to think on, that Javert himself could find so much pride and gratitude at giving Jean Valjean, the self-loathing saint of a man that he was, this moment of happiness, when all that he had really done was stand here tied to this tree and allowed himself to be used.
The thought, being used by Jean Valjean, existing in this moment just to satisfy him, made Javert shiver horribly, and his cock twitch helplessly against the linen of his shirt which shielded it from the tree trunk.
Valjean’s hands were the first thing to move, first from where they had fallen in an exhausted dangle up to Javert’s waist, and then to trace around the tree and untie the ribbon without a word, pulling it away between his fingers. Then he shifted his weight back on his heels to support himself, allowing Javert to turn around and finally have his wish to look upon the man. Accepting that his untouched appendage, which had gone somewhat soft but for that last twitch a moment ago, would continue to go unheeded, Javert was just beginning to pull up his trousers to redo the buttons when Valjean’s hands reached out quickly in unison and closed around Javert’s wrists and leaned in, his voice as close to a growl as Javert had heard it in a very long time.
“Did I say I was done with you?”
Javert blinked at him, his eyes wide, and a breath later, Jean Valjean took a step to close the distance, pressed Javert’s back into the tree again, guided Javert’s hands around the back of the trunk and stepped around again to rebind the wrists. Javert could not help but wince—his shoulders had been in a deep forward stretch for some long number of minutes, now, and to have them stretched in the other direction was outright painful. But he said nothing, his cock hardening further at the direct and unabashed lustfulness of Valjean taking such command of him, and by the time Jean Valjean had come back from around the tree, Javert managed to replace the pained expression with one he hoped adequately showed his eagerness.
“It seems you understand the assignment, now,” he said ravenously, gazing over Valjean from top to bottom, from his disheveled white hair to the lines of his face to his undone trousers, spent cock hidden from view behind the fallen hem of his shirt.
A sort of crooked grin came upon the man’s face which Javert was not sure he had ever seen before, like he was terribly proud of himself for the very first time in his life. He surveyed Javert with selfish satisfaction. “It may just be.”
“I am at your continued whim, Monsieur.”
“So many options,” said Valjean in between heavy breaths. “I could leave you here and go on about my business, and you would still be here when I came back.”
Javert batted his eyelashes like a young maiden. “One would have to be a horrible man to abandon his dog in the woods. There are wolves around here, Monsieur, I could be devoured.”
“Devoured,” said Valjean, snapping his fingers. “That is just the word I am looking for. I have not yet had a chance to devour you.”
And then he stepped close, closing the distance, and Javert leaned in despite the horrible ache of his shoulders, yearning for that mouth on his, that delicious mouth, which had licked and loved and made love to him and now spoke to him with that crass, hungry voice.
But Valjean, who was right up against him, kept his face at just the distance where Javert could not reach him. “Ah, you want me to kiss you?” said Valjean teasingly, still plastered with that twisted, smug grin. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
“Please,” whispered Javert, staring at Valjean’s lips, his cock hardening more every moment. He squirmed against his bonds, desperate for Valjean to touch him, somewhere, anywhere, and especially there.
Jean Valjean raised his left hand—the one which was not so oily—to the side of Javert’s face and scratched gently at his whiskers. Javert swooned, nestling into the hand, eyes rolling without his input. Valjean brought the other hand up to run it through Javert’s long mane. “How you react…what a good dog you are.” He chuckled to himself, and brought the hand in his hair up to rub the top of the head instead. “What a good boy.”
Such a shudder went through Javert at that, and so much blood flowed through him then, that he thought he might finish instantly the moment Jean Valjean graced him with just a brush of fingers to his cock.
“Oh, you like that,” said Valjean, sounding half-surprised, breaking character for a moment. “I’ve been thinking of saying that, I was afraid that might be a little too far into the canine analogy.”
“I am discovering things as you are,” panted Javert, astonished at how much that affected him. “You continue to unravel me.”
“How else can I do that, I wonder,” murmured Jean Valjean, tugging up the hem of Javert’s shirt and baring his throbbing cock to the wilderness of Provence. He looked down with a smile where Javert had stared at him before in astonishment. “Mmm…so eager.”
“It shan’t last long, I fear,” groaned Javert, knowing his expression must reflect how hard he was trying not to let Valjean’s gaze alone send him to completion, untouched. “Leave it alone a moment to recover; I don’t want it to be over in seconds.”
“What ever shall I do in the meantime,” said Valjean, feigning contemplation. “I think I need the rest of your trousers off.”
“Then they are yours,” said Javert senselessly, shaking his head. “Take them. Take everything I have. Rob me blind, if you want to.”
“I don’t,” chuckled Valjean, who nonetheless bent over to tug down Javert’s trousers to the ankle, where he maneuvered one pant leg off of it’s corresponding foot. “How are your knees doing?”
“Knees are all right,” Javert said absentmindedly, “Thighs are turning to jelly.”
“Do you think you can squat just a little, to part your legs?”
“I can do anything you want,” breathed Javert, leaning backward against the tree and pressing into it to use as leverage in bending his knees a little, so that he resembled half-sitting. His thighs, thoroughly exercised from both today and from their walking journey into Digne, burned with exertion, and a return trip to the hot spring was no longer a desire, but a necessity.
“Thank you,” said Valjean, who lowered himself down to his own knees and seemed to make himself comfortable in between Javert’s legs. He blinked up at Javert innocently. “I will give you just one minute to compose yourself,” he added, “Before I utterly devour you.”
“We will see,” panted Javert heavily, “Which gives out first; the thighs or—the rest of me.”
“With the way you seem to respond to all that I do, my bet is on the rest of you,” whispered Jean Valjean, his mouth two inches away from Javert’s aching, sensitive cock, and the hot breath did not help his issue of trying not to explode.
At a tantalizingly slow rate, Valjean closed the distance, and locked his lips around the head of Javert’s cock. He licked, testing the waters, tasting it, flicking a bead of fluid onto his tongue, tasting it on that warm tongue, in his hot mouth, his hot wet mouth, the one who had said all those sweet words, all those filthy words. As that mouth began to take in more of his length, Valjean’s fingers came back up to caress Javert’s hole, more oil unneeded, as Valjean’s own emission filled him and seeped out of him.
Bracing himself for the vision of it all, Javert turned his gaze from absentmindedly observing the forest, downward to the mouth that was fastened around his cock.
Here, out in the daylight, it could not have been more different than the other night; Javert possessed a feline sort of night vision, it was true, but nothing could compare to the fully illuminated sight of Jean Valjean, pink lips surrounded by a white beard, latched onto him, cheeks shadowed as they suctioned, sucked, as his tongue caressed the underside of his cock; for a moment, Javert had a very bizarre moment where it brought to mind the memory of leeches on his skin, when they had bled the pneumonia out of him, or tried to. He was not sure what to do with that thought, but it did not last long, when the finger that had been teasing at his hole finally slipped inside, and began to move gently up and down until it found that spot, that spot, that was the one—
“There,” Javert went, “That’s it, that’s it, there, there, there—”
Jean Valjean’s eyes opened, and he looked up, almost mischievous, clearly delighted, the wrinkles around them happy, and they locked gazes, and with the rate at which warmth and pleasure spread inside him, Javert knew he would not last long here. Jean Valjean’s gaze flicked back down, half shut, focused on nothing, and his other hand came up to fondle at Javert’s sac. Javert gasped, twitched, overwhelmed, overstimulated. He was going to burst.
“Oh,” moaned Javert, his weight shifting downward a bit toward the earth, his spine skidding down the tree an inch or two. “It will be quick, I cannot—will not be able to—to hold it—”
Jean Valjean’s mouth released his suction with a pop! as his finger continued to caress. “Your thighs, or this?” he said with amusement, giving him a firm lick.
“Both,” said Javert desperately, throwing his head forward. “Put it back—please—oh, look what you have me—don’t stop—this ninny I have become—mon Di—ah, non, you were right before—forgive me, rather—parbleu, I’m going to—”
At the crest of the wave, at the top of the hill, suddenly, gradually, all at once, over time, warmth, ecstasy, sin, heat, fire, lust, release, relief— His mouth gaped open, he gasped. Speech failed him, but guttural, senseless sounds replaced it. He did not know if his eyes were open or closed, it was all blessed light either way, the halo of Jean Valjean, the grace and mercy of God, how he knew he was forgiven. His body clenched, squeezing around Valjean’s fingers, and he was absent of the man’s mouth again, Valjean having jerked away when the first spurt came out of him, but he did not need the extra touch, for the rush was inside of him, bodily, not focused in his cock; it was in all of him, in his legs, shaking him, wringing him out like a rag. He curled forward toward the ground, arms strained, tugging against the restraint that bound his hands behind the tree, so that his shoulders felt they’d be ripped from his sockets, but with an equal mix of pleasure and pain. His eyes were closed, he finally decided, and his head bowed, hair spilling downward, tickling his belly, face contorted, mind weak, soul weaker. Valjean’s fingers were still inside him, so welcome, and he ground and squeezed his hips against them, astounded that the sensation was still enduring; he was a man, he’d had emissions before, but they were brief, a few seconds; this felt like it would never end.
But it did, gradually, ease, the tide receding back into the sea, Valjean’s fingers sliding out, breath returning to normal. His knees shook horribly, and for a while, he slumped there against the tree, mind full of static, blissfully absent of thought, recovering his sense of being a person, a man, a human. Remembering his location, feeling anything at all other than pure awe and pure, indescribable sensation, for which there could not be a word that fit.
Valjean, in time, still on his knees, shuffled around the tree to give the ribbon tying Javert’s wrists a decisive tug, and pulled the silk away. Javert barely noticed at first, but brought his hands back to his front, and let himself slide downward against the tree, and hardly managing to pull the linen of his shirt down around under him in time before he collapsed against the forest floor, barely conscious of any tree roots and sticks beneath him. At long last, he let his arms rest, his shoulders slump, and there was nothing he could do to stop the tremendous gritting of the teeth as he at last began to regain feelings in his shoulders, clutching painfully first at one, and then the other, taking stock, finally, of the bizarre situation he was in, trousers hooked around one ankle, neck throbbing, shirt unbuttoned and hanging half open.
A flash of horror struck Valjean’s face like lightning as he recognized Javert’s grimace. “I told you to tell me if it hurt!”
“Worry not,” insisted Javert, but his words were strained. “It was much worse after the barricade.”
“Well I should think—but that’s not—that—that doesn’t help,” stuttered Jean Valjean, running a helpless hand through Javert’s hair as if that would help with the pain—it did not, but Javert’s heart fluttered nonetheless. “I should not have—this is my—I could have dislocated your shoulders!”
“I am the one who asked for this. I am fine, really,” Javert assured him, grimace easing, and he studied Valjean’s face for the first time since his emission and barked out a great laugh. “Oh là là—I have made a terrible mess of you.”
Valjean smiled weakly, pulling out a handkerchief and wiping at his face. “I knew it would happen, but I was still not quite ready to dodge it.”
“Here,” Javert said, taking it from him with another wince at the pain in his shoulder. Oh, he would be feeling this for days. He began to dab at Valjean’s face where the man had missed, finding, as his arousal bottomed out, that he found the stickiness of the substance rather…unpleasant was a mild word, but true. “It is all over your beard.” Valjean seemed amused, despite the mess. Javert did his best to clean the man up, and then handed it back to him to wipe off his oily hands. “How is your back feeling?”
“Good,” said Jean Valjean, twisting it as if to check. “No pain.”
“Not a lie?”
“No.”
“Was that a lie?”
“No. But you should have told me about your pain.”
“It did not hit until you untied me,” Javert insisted. “And it does not bother me at all. Sometimes pleasure is pain—that is a thing which I have just discovered. I would much rather my shoulders ache for a few days, than have missed that experience.”
“I believe you,” said Valjean, exasperated. But his expression softened, and he brought up a hand to cradle the side of Javert’s face. There, he leaned in, and pressed a warm, affectionate kiss to his temple, and then his cheek, the side of his mouth, and finally onto his lips. They kissed, soft, loving, tender, before Valjean pulled away and looked him over very fondly. “After all, there is no creature more honest, loyal, and loving than a dog.”
Javert blinked up at him, grin breaking out, gums and canines bared to the warm summer air. “So I was a good dog?”
Jean Valjean sighed from deep within his chest, but he was smiling. “Oui, mon loup. You are a very good dog.”
Content with that praise, Javert nestled his face into the hand which was still on his cheek, eyes closed, blissful. Jean Valjean let him, and then, with a chuckle, brought that hand and the other around Javert’s ears, so that the fingers could scratch in his hair and his thumbs could rub pleasantly through his whiskers. Javert let out a tremendous, contented breath, and leaned into the sensation, utterly at peace with life. The only thing that could be better was if they were, as the other night, wrapped in each others arms, naked, warm, cuddled under a blanket of stars.
“I wish I had discovered this trick in Montreuil,” murmured Jean Valjean, continuing to scratch him. He exhaled wistfully. “A few things would have gone much easier.”