InsaneJournal

It always feels like I’m stealing time for this, and that makes it all the more special. Time stolen is something I’ve captured, something that is all and truly mine. Such a rare thing, that.

I return, you’re sent away. If I were the suspicious sort I’d wonder if – but no, I don’t really think they’d care. Not now.

My gear smells like travel, wind and dust and rain. You’re out there somewhere tonight, in the thick of it, and I imagine the sight of you silhouetted against the sunset, as big as a mountain.

I breathe in the scent of leather and sweat, and smile at the taste of it. Some day I shall have to tell you of my fondness for that smell – though I suspect you’ll have already guessed by now.

There’s a small vial in my kit that has had a piece of my attention since I bought it. I don’t usually indulge in black market goods, but this looked promising. I take it out and gently unstopper it. The delicate scent of jasmine joins the smell of leather; anticipation begins to rise.

Laying back, still fully dressed, I unfasten my trousers and free my stiffening cock. The touch of leather on skin excites me further, and I indulge in a few light strokes. Before I can get carried away, I pour a few precious drops from the vial into my gloved palm, then carefully set the vial out of harm’s way; if this works, I will surely want the rest of it safe and sound.

I lower my hand to palm the head of my cock, and I gasp at the sensation. The mink oil is rich and warm between leather and skin; the jasmine scent of it reminds me of Wutai, and a too-small tent that we very nearly destroyed in our enthusiasm. Grinning at the memory, I reverse my grip and pretend that it’s your hand, stroking me as we breathe in the jasmine-kissed night air.

My eyes are shut tight so I can see you better, the muscles in your arm bunching and flexing as you stroke me, your lips just barely curved in a mischievous smile as you dare me to make a sound.

I gasp softly, arching up into that hand. Forcing myself to slow down, I reach over for the vial again and drizzle a few more drops along my shaft. My nerves thrill to the warm-cool trickle before that friction-hot glove returns to glide over slick flesh.

The muscles in my thighs begin to tremble.

I can feel your touch, strong and sure, tugging me onward into spirals of pleasure. Your hair hangs over your eyes, making you look younger, not so stern, and I smile up at you in sheer joy. You reward me by speeding up the strokes, urging me, taunting me by slipping your fingers across the tip – and again.

I’m panting now, straining up into that touch. My balls are tight, and I know that you’ll let me come, you won’t change directions this time – though I would love to feel you inside me, the solidness of you, the realness of you, this is what I need tonight, and you’ll give it to me with that serene joy that makes you my Angeal, my prize, my love.

Fingertips race across the tip, and again, and –