Single pity to their otherwise inspired bit of erotic artwork was that Jon didn’t actually get to see any of it. Like a long-lost masterpiece, hung in some dusty frame and draped in endless yards of yellowing ground cloth, he’d simply have to paint their likeness from memory. Envision what he must look with eyes shut in anticipation, pillowy lips moistened to a fine sheen by flicks of pink tongue darting about eagerly. Recall from past experiences lover’s deeply blue eyes disappearing, too, in orgasmic flutter and the striations of light and shadow melting buttery morning sun glow over their bodies. Feel his own open, sure smile and hear encouragements - “Yes, Robb, yes! Do it now, cum all over me.” - colours mixed with lover’s Gaelic to form an entirely different, raunchier palette in lieu of the incredible view.
And just when a ceiling mirror would have been most useful, wet plop of pearly white gold splashed across a whiskery cheekbone.
His sole warning had been a shock in and of itself. The impossible, sudden pressure so remarkably tight round his prick the full heat of that final thrust blared through Jon like the open-throated roar of a concert crowd when the lights go up at last: full and connected and surrounded and satisfied and God, such relief!
Oblivion hit, then, insensible to everything but the wintry ocean gales gathering momentum around and through him, holding blind sailor in a blissful death grip.
Afterwards, Jon gasped for air, muscles slacking against his restraints except where they popped and twitched in violent aftershocks. He was grinning like a loon now, We must both be, still connected deep inside and Jon cracked his eyes open against the resistance of a single drop of milky cum stuck to his lash; Fucking beyond perfection. And yeah, yes, Jon’s imagination had been spot on, but the reality of his spent lover - highland beast rendered a sweaty, spoiled mess - was a far superior sight.