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Apr 10, 2020 3:44 PM
valentine furnishes his new house
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He's entirely lost in it, half-moaning, tongue slipping out a little to catch the last remnants of the taste on his lips.

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A warm hand ruffling his hair. The sound of a zipper, again. A soft cloth on his cheek, two fingers under the strap.

 

And then the door closes, and he is presumably alone with his thoughts.

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As if he has thoughts.

He floats, perfectly contented, held and safe, chasing the lingering taste around his mouth.

(Valentine used him. Valentine was pleased. Valentine petted him, afterwards -- he's Valentine's good pet.)

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The sounds of the house filter through to him. Cooking, creaking, stairs taken two at a time – chickens.

 

 

It's some time before the door opens again.

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The sounds are good -- comforting. He hadn't realized how much he'd come to love all of them.

At the first sound of the door, he's alert. What now? Is Valentine here to take him out?

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This time he gets no warning.

A zipper, a hand opening his mouth, and then his mouth is full.

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Oh. So much better than freedom.

There's a special blessing to being taken as straightforwardly as this: simply because Valentine wants him, and he is at hand, and so Valentine is using him.

(It means, after all, that Valentine wants him.)

It's so easy to be good, like this. He doesn't have to do anything; everything which is required of him is simply taken. Valentine's cock down his throat makes him good, imbues him with grace.

He gasps, when he can, moans softly at the pleasure of being used for Valentine's pleasure, swallows and swallows and swallows.

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He doesn't pay quite so much attention to Jean's breathing, this time, doesn't slow his pace for him quite so much – tightens the strap a little further, and a little earlier, when he comes.

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Jean loves that -- wants Valentine to take more, give him less mercy, make the world swim and dance for him.

Even more, though, he loves Valentine coming down his throat while he chokes for Valentine's pleasure.

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He checks him over, like before, just before he leaves — a hand on his face, on his neck, under the strap.

 

An hour later, he returns to let him up, takes him to the bathroom without once speaking. He leaves the blindfold on.

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He finds himself shivering, a little, pulling against the bonds to feel them firm against him.

(It's a long time to be alone with his thoughts. Is Valentine pleased with him -- is he good? Is this the use to which it pleases Valentine to put him, or is Valentine only humoring him?

Worse, is this somehow a punishment? He thinks again and again of Valentine saying detective to him, Valentine keeping silence on the way to the bathroom, Valentine checking the strap but not petting him--

-- it's stupid. He knows it's stupid. But it's dark and he's alone.)

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The next time Valentine enters the room, his hand is on Jean’s cheek, in his hair, checking his pulse.

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He's trying to slow it -- thinking of slow music, sleepy late-night stakeouts, mornings sitting with the chickens -- he doesn't want to fail, doesn't want Valentine to take this away from him --

-- but he's certainly not succeeding at slowing it fast enough.

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The strap loosens from around his neck — the collar goes back on — the blindfold comes off.

Only then does he speak to him.

“Have we encountered some complications, pet?”

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"--please, I'm sorry, I'll be good--"

He's near tears. (He's ruined this -- the best thing he's ever had--)

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“Shh. You’ve been very good.”

He keeps on petting him.

“Is something painful? Are you suffering from time to think? Have you, perhaps, left the oven on?”

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...he has to laugh. It makes tears spill over, just barely.

"--the second one, Valentine."

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"Well. That seems like a solvable problem."

He is very dedicated to petting.

"Anything I can put to rest for you?"

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The petting is so good. Tension spills off of Jean and pools metaphorically on the floor.

 

Softly: "...why this?"

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"Why this task, you mean?"

He drums his fingers on the top of Jean's head, thoughtfully.

"...because it seemed dramatically appropriate. Because it's a satisfying reversal. Because, to tell you the truth, I've always wanted to do it to someone... Because I'm currently spending quite a bit of time practicing admirable self-restraint. Because you're lovely as a piece of furniture."

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"Oh..."

He melts, as Valentine speaks, relaxing completely until he's almost entirely supported by his bonds.

"Thank you, Valentine."

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"You also happen to have an excellent mouth."

He strokes his hair again, then his cheek.

"Will you be able to make it until dinner?"

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Jean whimpers softly; he’s returned, at some point in the conversation, to a state of painful arousal. 

“Yes, Valentine, please.”

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"I'm glad to hear it."

His fingers comb through Jean's hair one last time.

"Did you drink, earlier?"

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"No, Valentine." It seemed unwise, given that he doesn't know how long he'll be here or how often Valentine will take him to the bathroom.

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