Chapter Text
"Lift your chin a little bit for me, amore, there we are," Terzo murmurs, touching the underside of your chin with the tips of his ungloved fingers; the balmy scents of his private bathroom cloying and wispy in that freshly-showered penetration. You’ve sat yourself down comfortably upon a plush chair beside Terzo’s sink, at his request, with a towel wrapped around your wet hair, gloved in one of his fluffy, royal-purple, monogrammed bathrobes.
He prefers to air-dry, gorgeously naked atop a towel tied around his waist for your personal comfort; sparkling with those fading droplets of his shower across his shoulders and throat, glittering gems within his nest of hair at his breast and belly and forearms, as he gazes at your face and features with that studious posture of an Artist before his glorious Work. “You wanted purple and blue, sì?” he reiterates, cocking a brow and making his eyes wide in this funny glamor. Your face puckers with suppressed laughter.
“Sì, to match my dress and yours.” You’ve been invited, by the Papal Royal Himself, to a magnificent Gala of a Concert: a recreation of Paganini, one of your favorite musicians of that poofy, foppish learning curve.
That silky hair upon Terzo’s head is wild and poofy, mussed from one of his towels that he had irreverently discarded upon his black-and-white-tiled floor, and he cups your chin, turning your face this way and that way; humming to himself in purest concentration, and a flush rises to your face as those piercing eyes truly see every pore, every price of every acne scar, and new wrinkles that threaten to crack at your mouth and at the corner of each eye. Time moves slowly, sometimes quickly, but: it moves, and sum strands of delicate grey peek out from the top of your hairline, winking in the light like a coy glance.
You refuse to pluck them out: finding them cute, and your confidence and giddy elation at this pretty change has graced your lover, your bambino, your boisterous Terzo with the same flight of material fancy. You see those simple streaks of grey within his own hair, prominent in that stark light of his vanity and circle lights; befitting a Prince of the Stage, riddled with greasepaint and floral-scented setting spray.
He catches your eyes with his own, beautiful and infinite, the Earth and Moon spotting you amidst the dark, and Terzo smirks, winks, bobbing his handsome eyebrows theatrically. You grin in his gentle grip, your nose curling. “Are we feeling a theme for your pretty face, mia scintillante adorazione? Liquid liner for the eyes, of course ,” he scoffs; rubbing his thumb affectionately along your cheek. “Blush? What is the color of the lipstick you would like? How dark would you like your eyes? Severe, or soft?” he asks: kissing your cheek, releasing your chin to dally with those glittering gems and jewels of his makeup hoard atop the counter beside you. Dazzles of bottles and expensive potions for contour, masks, facials, eyebrow brushes. Dozens of lipstick tubes of impossible wealth and beauty, oval shapes for hidden mirrors and silky shadows of rare pigments for the eyes, lips, cheeks.
As the sect of Beauty is merely another branch of the Luciferian Path, Terzo carries bushels and bushels of fruit from those hefty trees, eager to share and to split his teeth in messy juices, dripping down his chin.
You hum in pondering, lips pursing, kicking your feet. “Severe,” you breathe, and cackle breathlessly as Terzo passes you a sharp grin. “I want to match you, of course. Something blue tinted, too, for my outfit. You haven’t seen it?” you search cautiously.
And Terzo huffs and pouts with that dramatic sway as he shoots you the most miserable look you’ve ever seen. “ No , I have not seen it. How terrible you are to tease me so, when I can’t see what il mio bell'amore will wear with me to the Concert. How cruel ,” he croons, palming a wide pallet, the outside casing sleek and black and speckled with cartoony stars. He flips it open to reveal an eyeshadow arrangement; taking a brush from a medieval-looking goblet, nestling into the space between your knees to look at your face more keenly.
He flutters his eyes prettily at you. “Close your eyes for me, amore.” Smiling, clasping your hands within your lap, you follow his instructions. That silky-smooth, impossibly-delicate slide of the brush across your eyelids makes your heart pound, and your smile to deepen until it nearly aches. “It’s only fair,” you chirp softly. “I haven’t seen yours; that was our agreement. Color choices only, themes of the planets and shooting stars.”
He sighs hard enough for you to feel the heat of his breath, the scent of his minty toothpaste. “I am impatient , mia amore, you know this,” he faux-scolds. You hear a tapping sound- Terzo shaking off that too-much pigment from the brush– before he continues with the color of your eyes, swooping above your lid and dabbing gently around your lashline.
The sweetest push and pull comes in this comfortable, undulating lull: that softest press of Terzo’s brush, the suddenness of his absence, the tapping sound of his brush against the edge of the pallet, and then continuing onto his physical art. Onward and galloping, the meticulousness of his strokes making your breast flex, feeling doted upon and pampered: knowing that you will look fantastic, sublime, complete hot shit.
“Done. Perfetta,” he trills finally, and you open your eyes slowly, peeking in that slash of vibrant light. He beams winningly, triumphantly. “Liner is next, cara mia.” He trades his pallet and brush for a tiny, black bottle, thin and expensive. “I am going to ask you questions about some particularity,” you share, as he leans in to press his elbows upon you, using you as his stance as you accommodate him with all that brevity of comfortable knowing.
You love your Terzo, your bambino; you know he loves you, too, because he never goes a single day without mentioning it to you, whether during heartfelt mornings or flippantly over coffee, passing gooey lovenotes to you as you pass the hallways for separate idles of your separate work; sneaking you into playing hooky as you enjoy each other’s company in the gardens for lunch or cards or simply resting amidst the benches in the private nooks beneath ancient trees or those careful, flowering canopies.
But … you haven’t slept together. Granted: you have slept together, slumber parties with painting nails and sharing gossip, face-care routines and movie nights. But you haven’t slept together, nothing physical, nothing burning and needy with entwining tongues and legs like the earth’s glowing core threatens to burst out from the middle of your connecting, heated bellies. You haven’t done anything like that before meeting him: he was your first kiss, and had wept with the flattery of that gift when you had breathlessly shared it with him.
There’s been kissing and fondling between the two of you, absolutely, trying to make up for lost time … and he’s made you come in your pants more often than you thought possible. You have his expression seared into your memory of when you had made him come inside his silk-threaded trousers for the first time, safely nestled inside his office and crowding him into that spinning chair during an abandoned, mischievous lunch hour, full of fire and hungry energy.
“Which questions, amore?” answers he inquisitively, cupping your cheek with that tender fondness that he always reserves for you; holding you in place as he delicately and craftily begins to swipe near the upper lid of your eye.
You wait for a longer pause inside those sketches, Terzo’s hands steady and confident as he grants you that severe wing you had asked for; keeping your eyes patiently closed. “Whether you have ruffles or buckles, or what the fabric is made from. Is it a two piece?” you inquire blindly. “A gown?”
“Not a gown tonight , mia lucciola svolazzante,” he chuckles warmly, and moves to your other eye. “I wouldn’t dare take that shine away from you on this fantastic evening I have lovingly planned. It is … not a two-piece, no,” he acquiesces, and you hear warmth within his golden throat.
“What is the fabric?”
“Velvet,” he purrs, comfortable and proud. “What is yours?”
“Velvet, too,” you confirm.
“What color, again?”
“Blue. Midnight blue.” You feel the urge again to kick your feet, happy and giddy, but refrain to keep Terzo’s posture steady. “Any embellishments?”
“Dettagli? I have lace,” he offers freely, and leans away from you for a fraction. “Look at me, amore.” You obey. Terzo stares at each eye, rapidly, deigning the necessities for balance and painted symmetry. He simpers at you openly, bare-faced and with all his wrinkles and age-lines handsomely exposed. “Mia bellissimo ragazza, il fiore che sboccia nel mio cuore. You are stunning .”
Your grin widens, bashful and adoring. “Ti amo,” you say sweetly, and Terzo gasps and fawns and presses his hands to his cheeks, the wand of the liner sticking out past his fingers. “Ti amo, il mia scintillante tesoro! La mia canzone del cuore sexy. Mio piccolo e divertente amore!”
You both start cackling, wheezing in this shared epiphany. “Onto mascara!” he calls cheerfully, capping the liner and meandering with his personal gems and tools. He completes your face, that delicate brush of the mascara swooping over your lashes, puffs of blush and penciling delicately the voluptuous shape of your eyebrows, before moving onto the main event of your makeup: your mouth.
“So beautiful,” he purrs, cupping your face in naked palms to run his thumbs across your jaw, careful of that new paint. He places a soft kiss upon your forehead, meticulously placed above your drawn brows, and then onto the tip of your precious nose. He kisses you finally upon the mouth, and you surge into it, holding his own face to breathe deeply the luscious scents of his bath oils and shampoos, that fading smell of Terzo’s cologne that never truly leaves his skin.
He pecks your mouth once, twice, three times before forcibly removing himself from your lips. You choose a shade appropriate for your outfit, and he has you open your mouth ever-gently to slide the perfect shape of your lips with a glittering, midnight-blue stick; staring, with affixed concentration, at that saliva-shiny bulb of your resting tongue within.
You are going to fuck this man stupid by the end of this night; you had already decided, the minute he had swept you off your feet with this luscious concert invitation. Terzo’s throat bobs thickly.
“All done! Perfect in a mystical beauty.” And he caps off that tube of lipstick with flourish, clapping as a single audience to the perfection of your face. You guffaw in laughter, rising from the stool and bowing theatrically. He moves with you, grasping your hands with all that style of a mummer amidst the stage.
“Here, mia amore, look at your face. See how dazzling you are from my artistic capabilities.” He rolls his wrist and leads you to the vanity mirror, the fog gently sliding away off the glass from the heat of the shower. You gawk at your reflection as he preens, unwrapping the dampened towel from your hair to run his fingers gently through it, cleaving to fix possible snags. “There is nothing in this World or Beyond that could possibly match that brilliant beauty I see before me every day, but, I think I might have come close.”
You laugh at his vanity, breathless and stunned, and you are beautiful. Vibrant shades of blue and violet around your eyes, and that sharp liner gives you a sophisticated air, the tell of an Ice Queen, and you are gorgeous with the plump shape of your darkly-painted lips. “Terzo, you are an artist ,” you breathe.
He beams. “Thank you, mia cuore! Now: it is my turn.” And he waggles his eyebrows at you through that foggy mirror.
And then the dance of blessed domesticity, as you leave the vanity to give him room for his paints and haircare. You don the same, minding your wet hair with blow dryers and gels and hair products, the clinking bits and bobs of bobby pins and adornments of clips with shiny diamonds to match your gown; deliberating to wear your hair up into a classy bun, with silky bits of hair to frame your face.
In that time Terzo performs his own rituals, two large pots of brandless black and white paint cracked open upon the sink’s counter; dabbling clean sponges in great gouts to spread across his face. You watch him as you work, his face stern in moments but loose in funny expression as he passes the paints in remembered lines of impossible symmetry, always the same shapes with barely any deviations. Except …
When it comes to his lips, his eyebrows brushed and painted over with that stark black and his bottom lip shaded with his crisp white, he puts down his white-slicked brush for that simple line upon his top lip. He goes instead for your chosen color of lipstick, puckering his lips in the mirror to spread your color onto that naked space. Something thudding and vulnerable inside your breast warms and begins to glow, and you can’t help but smile bashfully at him within the mirror. He winks at you warmly; he passes that mascara over his own lashes deftly, admiring and judging the ending state of his face.
“Finito,” he murmurs triumphantly, and opens up a drawer for a capped can. “Setting spray!” he calls, and you lean to him automatically, closing your eyes tight for that quick sheen of the sweet-smelling can. You blink rapidly and wave your hand in front of your face as he vigorously sprays himself. You finish the rest of your bun and weave the strands in pretty curls around your face, and go for the hair clips to set everything in.
“Mia vibrante bellezza, how will I ever focus on the music of tonight if you plan to look so immaculate beside me?” Terzo frets, matching you and now working on his hair; a fine-toothed comb and a bottle of gel ready for the undertaking. You grin mischievously. “Do you honestly expect me to do the same while you’re wearing my favorite color?” you tease back, turning your head this way and that way in the mirror, fluffing up for a better outlook. Terzo’s brows draw up together in a desperate glance.
“ Amore ,” he scolds, all from warmth and tender infatuation. He combs his hair with flexing fingers, quick and meticulous. “I have my surprise planned, I cannot be too distracted and miss my cue.” And his mouth puckers startled, his two-toned eyes growing wide in the mirror, and like a cat snagging on a new toy do you heighten with that clue.
“A ‘cue’?” you purr playfully, bouncing your own brows upon him. His eyes move frantically, caught in his slipped words. “ Cue ? What cue ?” he fumbles, and laughs too loudly. “I do not know what you are talking about, mia amore. I said nothing. Forget I said anything.”
“In the name of love will I forget you said anything,” you tease him gently, and snicker hard and sway with the volume of your heart. “But I am going to be looking at you fondly all night, and will make up my own plans of how to smudge your paint before we go home.” And his head snaps back to you, his hands freezing as he smooths down the last of his silky hair.
You laugh brightly and flounce out of the bathroom, and Terzo's dark, playful growl follows you into his elaborate, luxurious bedroom. At your request, and again, for your comfort, he had placed a lavish divider near his closet, large and extravagant and riddled with gold filigree over a royal purple fabric, where the both of you would change upon your separate sides. A few white boxes tied with purple ribbons wait for you on your own side of the divider, where your dress and shoes and pretty baubles wrapped in pristine velvet sit simply for the glory of dressing your body. You unwrap the waistrope of your robe, and simply let it fall off your shoulders in the comfortable temperature of Terzo’s perfumed, incense-scented quarters, gloriously lavished with all that gilded craving of a luxurious Papa.
You hear another spray from the bathroom, and a heady aroma of cologne, pleasant florals, hearthfires of sandalwood seep like mists from the mouth of the opened, steaming door, and your naked nipples perk readily with this animal magnetism.
You haven’t even seen each other naked ; not totally. He’s seen your breasts through thin shirts, your puffy areolas on hot days and chilly nights during playful and romantic sleepovers. Terzo was always more comfortable with deliberate nudity than you, with tonight in his bathroom not the first time you’ve seen him without a shirt, bare chest beautifully exposed in that tantalizing texture of his soft hair and soft skin.
He’s had his fingers inside you ; he’s seen your face as you’ve come. How complicated the complexities of a human relationship, and all borne for Terzo’s willingness to have you completely comfortable around him. You lift the lids of your wardrobe boxes and begin to dress: it is a gown, for you, a gorgeous length of velvet with puffy sleeves down to your wrists, your back and shoulderblades exposed, the clothe smattered with glistening diamonds to simulate a clear, cool Night. There aren’t any other fastenings of ribbons or buttons, merely a length of thick, velvet fabric that knots at the back of your neck, so you can easily step into the throat of the gown; the reasoning for your fancy bun.
A teasing quip at the back of your brain reminds you of something before you garb yourself in pretty velvet: a two-piece set of lingerie, lily white and terribly lacy, dripping in hedonism in that purity of laughable virginity. Your face curls with predatory instinct, the laughing Jester amidst the Greenewood, as you pose in this lacy set; eyeing the push of your breasts within this suggestion of a bra, the tantalizing length as the design of the lace cups into an opened flower at the front of your downy pubis. You snicker to yourself as you adorn the dress, stepping gently and carefully into the held-open throat of that midnight-blue maw.
“What is funny, amore?” comes Terzo’s languid and curious inquiry, honey and chocolate twirling at his side of that glinting divider. You beam at that blocking mesh of the deep-purple fabric.
“Thinking about my own plans,” you chirp, crouching at the floor, the gown pooling at your bare feet, to divvy with your chosen rings and jewelry. All silver, all baubles of amethyst, opaline, sum quartz stones hammered into bangles and priceless artifacts, all gifted to you by your one true Bambino. You sit down on that plush carpet to slip on your shoes, booties with the same velvet, the same embellishments as your flowing dress. “You smell divine, my love. Like hedonism waiting for eye contact.”
Terzo laughs in a purring sound as you hear him shifting his fabrics, placing his own clothes upon his naked body. “A poet after my own heart, mia dolce amore. Ah, but in correction: you already have my heart, nestled wonderfully between those perfect breasts.” And you can hear the eyebrow waggle from the other side of the divider. You laugh, giggling in a blushing face.
Already done dressing, you fiddle with your last detail: a simple pocketbook, carrying your phone, your keys, and possibly that precious tube of lipstick that still remains upon the bathroom counter. You cock an ear, your long trail of an earring glittering, and you can hear the rustle of Terzo still changing, the low, musical lilt of him humming happily behind the divider. You wonder if you can sneak past him to find that tube, and to put on your own perfume at your pulsepoints for flattery.
You tiptoe past the divider cartoonishly, holding your hand flat near your cheek to block out his own vision of his chosen costume in respect. You don't succeed, because you hear a sharp intake of shocked breath, and a rumple of clothes hitting the plush of Terzo's carpet.
"Bellezza," Terzo breathes, and your shoulders flinch, the glitter of your earrings dangling like chimes, and you peek at him demurely from over your shoulder. He gawks at you, drawn into a black tunic in rippling ruffles, silky black ribbons and a cravat of black lace holding his throat closed; adorned into a pair of black velvet trousers, skin-tight and unblemished, cinched at the waist with a wide, leather band of pressed gemstones, glittering vulgarity of wealth in the shape of the Inverted Papacy.
He stands frozen near the divider, and his duochrome eyes are wide, and a silver grucifix hangs from his left earlobe, shining like a sliver of moon.
"Goddess of the stars," he reveres, coming to you. He opens his palms to you, obsidian ruffles dripping from his wrists, as if to borne the great beauty of you onto the eternal Stage of Life. "Shining deity of my eyes, come to earth to bless me with your sacred gaze. Amore ."
"You like it?" you ask bashfully, and turn to face him fully. You pinch the bottom of your gown, and twirl with the tips of your boots, allowing the fabric to spin around you.
"I love it," he joyfully adores, offering his palms with which you gladfully take. He holds your clasped hands together and raises them, his eyes wide and starving to sight the glistening sheen of your baubles, the silky shape of your dress, the contours of the bust as the dip of your breasts are hidden by the pure velvet of the gown. He releases one of your hands to touch at that velvet, sliding his bare knuckles across your covered collarbones.
You blush deeply, your breast flexing beneath his curious touch. You bring one of his hands up to your mouth to kiss, sweet and warm. "You are beautiful, my lovely bambino. You look like you’re going to procure a rose from behind my ear,” you purr, and Terzo grins, all gums and pretty teeth.
“Have you been sneaking into my dreams, fiore stupendo?” he teases, and slides his knuckles to the underside of your chin; clasping it, lifting it to fully admire the beauty of your face. His eyes are warm and droopy from the weight of his love, his adoration, his simplistic innocence of the red heart.
After fawning and adoring, spreading palms before open space of your outfits in mirrored reflections of your childlike exuberance as a couple, you finally gain the rest of your details: your lipstick, that lusty spray of your favorite perfume, and you leave his room arm-in-arm with flourish. He’s taller than you tonight, wearing a lengthy boot with a severe, sharp heel of a piratical flair, and it grants him to be a head taller than you, so used to that perfect angle of his face to your breasts. You both wear matching cloaks of soft midnight colors, and the twin set of Terzo’s chosen ghouls wait for you at the front door of the Ministry.
You wave at Alpha and Omega, adorned in their silvery masks and pressed uniforms waiting at the entrance, and beam as their eyes crinkle at your welcome. They open the door for you into a sleek beast of a dark limo, twinkling with gold embellishments and opulent in its grandeur. A plush carpet with royal purple seats sits within, with a mini bar of ice chips and a bottle of pristine champagne, glistening with its perspiration, and Terzo follows in diligently after you.
Dampness has gathered between your legs at Terzo's continuous need to take care of you, to dote upon you as one of sublime royalty; feeding you with succulent foods and fruits and expensive wines and champagnes throughout the entirety of him knowing you. He feeds you gourmet chocolates as you both lounge in the limo, your limbs wrapped around each other and gazing into each other's eyes as the car moves, passing blurs of imageries of woods and smears of greens and slate.
You lick the finger of his ungloved hand as he places a chocolate perfectly atop your waiting tongue, and he hums his satisfaction; tender in the touch of his thumb to your bottom lip, careful of his applied paint. The chocolate melts in your mouth, heady and decadent, and your lips purse beneath his thumb; you kiss it sweetly, and reach for the lapels of his black lace to bring him in to fully taste that succulent melt.
He hums into your kiss, cupping your face delicately. Ever the compassionate and forward-thinker is Terzo so gentle in his kiss, mindful of your fresh make-up, but you are hungry; you are wet, the lace of your panties itching at your swollen pussy that each press of your thighs only woefully exacerbates, and you want to devour, to suck him down, marrow and all. You press harder into the kiss, making him moan, making him chortle by the muffled sounds of your ardor, and you are the only who slides your tongue in between his willing lips.
You’re hungry in your palms and fingers, spreading them atop his flexing breasts and admiring the cotton silk of his lace and ruffles, his poet’s shirt in that tantalizing charcoal drawn open at the throat to gift a peek of his bush of masculine hair. Your head tilts, drawing his tongue deeper into your mouth like a siren. He fawns audibly, cupping the back of your neck, weaving his fingers into those soft strands of hair that had slipped past your coiffed bun.
“How long until we reach the concert hall?” you rasp, your lips smushed together in that swollen drink of pleasure.
“Forty-five minutes,” comes Alpha’s voice from the front.
“Give or take traffic,” continues Omega, and you can see the peak of an opened newspaper from the window of the driver’s seat.
“Dacci la privacy, sì?” Terzo grumbles; weaving his legs with yours, nursing his face into the warm place of your throat.
“Sorry, boss.” A mechanical whir signals that the window separating the driver’s seat to the back rises into that obscure black, and you collapse into muffled snorting.
“So nosy, my ghouls,” Terzo chuckles, nursing into you and holding you, rocking with you in this needy embrace as you laugh with inflamed ears. You press a flurry of kisses onto his exposed throat and collarbones, holding your nose to inhale that luscious scent of his cologne and that inescapable smell that is your Terzo. You press a kiss onto his heart, over that fancy fabric, and slink down his body to nestle yourself onto that carpeted floor, onto your gown-draped knees, between his legs. You grin at him giddily, and he sputters with exhilaration.
“Cara mia, are you doing what I think you are going to do?” he inquires high-pitched, reaching for your hair, then pausing; conferring with the edges of your jaw, holding your face with the tips of his fingers.
You purr in his careful grasp, passing a warm look to his duochrome eyes. "I would," you hum, reaching for the front of his trousers, fiddling with the ribbons there. "Would you like me to?"
He huffs breathlessly, a little hysterical in his laughter. "If you are thinking of sucking my cock into your pretty, succulent mouth, cara mia, I would love nothing more. But--" and his brows furrow down, arching in the middle; dipping his chin to look at you directly into your fluttering eyes. You adore him, your Terzo. "Are you sure? You have … you have never done this before," he reminds softly, and gently rubs the pad of his thumb at the corner of your painted mouth. You press your lips to it firmly, staining the black velvet; making it shine.
“I love you,” you say proudly, and Terzo’s eyes grow wet and wide, his breast heaving with that excited inflection. “I want it to be you, for my everything. Do you know how long I've wanted to taste your cock?" you ask breathlessly, and his breast catches, Terzo’s breath going backwards in a surprising– and charming– musical tone.
You see in real time that ardent spread of his mismatched pupils, that gentle flare of his painted nostrils, and that slow release of his handsome mouth opening. The low lights of the fluorescent lamps outside shine on that glitter of his matching lipstick, the hum of the limo soothing beneath your knees.
You place your palm flat over that hard ridge of his crotch, soothing that tight pain of his pretty trousers; you defer to the ties quickly, borne with the same ribbons from the base of his throat, and Terzo watches you, cupping your face and so meticulous to prevent the smear of your paint. He watches you enrapt, that pleasant disbelief that you are choosing to do this, to him, as unknown to the carnal arts as you have so painstakingly and lovingly explained which each movement of your acts as Firsts.
His is your first experience with everything, and he is half-hard as you gently remove him from his skin-tight trousers.
His cock is pretty , uncircumsized, sensitive in color and blushing as prettily as his naked face. His bush is wild, tastefully tamed into a triangle of bouncy, curling hair, the same dark shade as his head and just as silky. You cannot reflect on the heavy burn at your face from meeting Terzo’s pretty cock eye-to-eye, and move with your instincts as you touch the tip of your tongue inside his molded skin at the tip of his cock, tasting that immediate salt of his precum upon your wet, soft tongue.
The sound Terzo makes is similar to a wounded animal, punctured by the pain of his glistening ardor, and he brings his gloved hand up onto his mouth, biting down sharply upon his covered knuckles.
You grin past your lolling tongue, a string of spit connected at the flesh, and you mouth at his soft skin surrounding that blush of his head, spreading your lipstick and marking him in your tacky paint. You lav at him with saliva and with the warmth of your mouth, and you measure the taste of him clinically: he tastes clean, like warm, salty skin, and that musk that gathers at his folded patches of skin– armpits, that soft hair at the nape of his neck, that delectable thatch at the base of his throat– is heavier, here, succulent and mouth-wateringly good. His cock is tasty , your bambino. He grows hard quickly within the warm embrace of your mouth, and whines when you hum around that too-hot flesh.
"Fuck, mia amore, that's it, suck my cock," he mutters, moaning low in his throat; his thighs twitching when you slide your tongue gingerly beneath that precious fold of skin that covers his swelling cockhead. "Fuck, mia tesoro! Mia dolce amore, you are doing so well ."
His head lolls back against the leather seat, his knees spreading wide to give you more room, and you hum around his shaft; sliding him down your throat in an experiment to see how far he could borne.
Decently far, for your first try. You're not unknowing in complete totality: benefits of the Internet and being exposed to the cacophony of hedonistic delights throughout this magnificent Church has granted you intellectual boons, and you remember reading something of a little trick.
You pull back off Terzo's cock, the tender skin flushed red and veiny and shiny from your spit, and you swallow purposefully, before taking him back into your mouth, swallowing him down. He glides down more easily, further down your throat, and Terzo's voice cracks on a surprised shout, wreathed in a pained whimper from biting down on his knuckles too hard.
"Amore," he groans, and you hum your inquiry; pulling back again, sliding your wet tongue around him as you pull up. He hisses, his brows furrowed up in the middle to pass you a desperate glance. You grasp him at the base, and he is thick , not too long, so fat that your fingers barely wrap around. You moan at the implications, your mouth tingling from your blush.
"You were lying to me," he rasps.
"I was not ," you refute immediately, offended.
"You have done this before," he continues, heaving quietly. He drags his tongue along his bottom lip, and then bites it, smearing his mixtures of colored paint. " Where did you learn how to do that?"
You beam, proud, and stroke him in woesome replacement of your mouth, spreading your saliva. He hums through pressed lips. "I am very diligent with my research, beloved," you purr, and play with his swollen, covered head with your fingers; curious, dipping the tip of your thumb to his slit, finding it slippery and weeping. You drag your tongue to replace your thumb, and look up at him, and bounce your eyebrows playfully. "You've read my stash of dirty novels, sweet bambino."
"Shit, I have," he agrees, lax and tense all at once, and you're hungry, suddenly starving, for the undulating reverberations that rumble out from the middle of his breast. You feel yourself drip between your thighs, your pussy growing soft and sensitive in that terrible trap of your flimsy lace.
You stick out your tongue, wet and long, filthy in the middle of your perfectly-painted face, and slide Terzo's cock in a gentle dip into your mouth; taking him whole, determined to have him meet the back of your throat. His head snaps up to watch you, his jaw dropping down in disbelief. You take him down whole, the tip of your nose brushing against that silky-soft nest of his hair, the gentle skin of his sac meeting sweetly with your stretched bottom lip. You make an exhilarated sound, and he chokes on his words, grasping tightly at your coiffed bun.
He curses shortly and removes his hand, cupping your face instead. “Fanculo, tesoro mio! La mia bellissima ragazza con una bocca fottutamente incredibile!" He moans around your name like it's treasured, drawing at the syllables in a pure, hedonistic way that makes your belly swoop, and your eyes glitter as you come up with another idea: with idle shifting, your jaw aching, naught removing your mouth from his cock, you slide your tongue out from underneath his shaft, and tentatively drag the tip of your tongue along that wrinkled skin of his sac. He shouts, and leans forward to grip at your shoulders, white-knuckled.
He sobs your name mixed with his muddled endearments, rough encouragements underlined with his heady Italian, and your face inflames in a delicious way as you bob your mouth; lusty for the succulent taste of his skin, that salty tang of his precum slipping with your spit that slowly begins to drip down your chin with each thrust of your mouth on his cock.
Terzo babbles, his handsome voice pitching. You grip and grasp him and jerk him at the base as you come up for air, gasping; lapping at the running spit that makes him shine, keeping his eyes. You smile as you wrap your tongue around his head, the swollen, purpling skin peeking out bashfully from his extra layer, like a visceral hug. You mouth at it, sucking on it like a filthy kiss. Terzo hisses past clenched teeth.
"I love you so much," he spits, and brushes his knuckles tenderly along your flushed cheek. You nuzzle into it. "So perfect, so good to me. La mia dolce, bellissima ragazza, such a good girl for your Papa, gifting me with your first time."
"I love you, too," you chirp, your voice rasping. You wink, and Terzo wheezes, caught up on a laugh. "Would you like to come inside my mouth, amore?"
He laughs harder, ragged, passionate, adoring for the pretty flutter of your eyelashes. "Yes," he hisses, his teeth flashing. "Will you gift that to me, too, amore?"
"Yes," you say simply, and press a warm kiss to his knuckles, and devour his cock in that addictive phrase that tells you this could be a newer fixture to your fiddling comforts. Stimming, soft textures– sucking down Terzo's delicious cock. How gorgeous this new affinity!
You want more, more puzzles to explore and to take apart, and your mouth pops off from him to pay attention to his sac, dragging your tongue along that gentle skin. The smell is darker here, more luscious, and you take a heavy weight to slide it inside your mouth, sucking on it amiably. Terzo sniffles above you, and your eyes flash up to him.
Tears of pleasure bead at his eyes, dollops of jewels winking from that wide gaze of painted black, and your eyebrows rise in sympathy. He whines at you, grasping your shoulders again, rubbing his thumbs along your throat. Your pulse thuds wildly, a galloping heartbeat that would make your jaw drop if it wasn't so occupied.
"Mia amore," Terzo whimpers, gnashing hard at his lip, the paint there all but gone. There isn't a car anymore, no golden light from the flickering, passing lamps outside the darkened windows: just him, and you, kneeling at his feet as he worships you with reverent hands and an aweful, dewy gaze. "Il mio amore giocoso. Il mio dolce e gentile cuore. Per favore," he breathes, his breast hitching, his knuckles flexing inside one-half of his gloves. His fingers dig deep into your shoulders, unknowing of his strength in this passionate moment. "Please, please let me come? Please bless me with your tongue, and your mouth, and allow me to return the favor? Allow me to slide my tongue along your dripping pussy, for you to sit on my face?" he reeds, and you blink rapidly at his plea. Arousal shoots down to your belly like a sharpened arrow, flung by that straight accuracy of Cupid's golden bow.
“Sweetheart,” you breathe, and he huffs sharply as the hot puff of your breath hits his ruddy, wet skin. A dabble of precum drips messily down the hot length of his shaft. You lap at it with an animal eagerness, rolling the taste in your mouth. With strings connecting your lips together do you finally suck him down, final and ready to swallow down his fantastic orgasm. Terzo’s spine goes taut as you bob your head with an almost vicious passion, your lips stretched wide, your jaw twinging with the flex of new muscles.
He is a cacophony of beautiful sounds above you, whining and whimpering and moaning around your name as if savoring the flavor of your personal vowels, making you smile around his cock. You breathe heatedly to catch your breath, and swallow purposefully, and slide him down far, farther than you’ve prepared, and there’s a noble reaction to the soft, hard head of his cock touching at the back of your throat.
You ignore the instinct to gag, and simply hold him there; forcing your throat and jaw and mouth to adjust to that alien sensation, and Terzo howls , ragged and caught, and you’re sure both ghouls at the driver’s seat can hear him. You swallow around him, base in this instinct, and Terzo convulses, clutching at either side of your face. He refuses to fuck your face, that compassion at your first time having your heart to flower in terrible sensitivity, and you swallow again, humming in supreme, hungry delight, and look up at him.
It is the sight of your dewy eyes staring up upon him with ardent love, wreathed in the paints of his style, and the wet tonguing of your mouth in that sweet tightness of your newish throat that has him to come, his body jolting, his thighs going taut around your head. The first spurt of his come hitting the back of your throat nearly does have you choke, but you fight it, brave and determined to swallow him down as if he is the fount for that divine ambrosia many artifacts have claimed is the Center of Eternal Youth.
“Bella! Bella! Gioiello del mio Cuore, amore, amore!” he calls, and his heels dig into the limousine’s carpet. His hands hold your face, keeping you still as his come jolts down your throat; you nursing at him and humming old songs along his thudding cock, chuckling at the wet beauty of his feral orgasm.
He shudders and jerks in your mouth, but starts to slow, to moan around his breathing and to collapse against that leather-backed seat. The wrinkles at the corners of your eyes dip deeply as you lap at his cock, cleaning your saliva and his come as you slowly, diligently, slide his softening skin from your mouth. You press a sweet kiss to his head, covered again with that lax skin of his ruddy flesh, and lean back along your haunches. You swallow, using your palm to swipe the remains what dabbles on your chin, and at the corners of your mouth; your lipstick all but gone.
“Good?” you purr, your voice borne deliciously raspy. He heaves, the arch of his throat exposed and gorgeously bobbing, and he laughs breathlessly, running his naked hand through his silky, black hair. He beams at you, ruddy-cheeked. “Fantastico,” Terzo whispers simply, and offers his palms to you, curling his fingers rhythmically to make a cute gesture of grabby hands. You grin cheekily and accept his offering, sliding back atop the leather seat at his side as he paws at you, holding you close; kissing you fervently, sliding his tongue inside your willing mouth to taste his spend still clinging to the base of your tongue. You hum.