samuraiprosecutor (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
samuraiprosecutor) wrote2009-06-11 12:09 am
samuraiprosecutor) wrote2009-06-11 12:09 am
Entry tags:
[Prompt 1; #12] Ficlet || 'Sessions'
Table: A
Prompt: Fantasy
DDD canon?: Oh yes.
On many occasions, he used videos. His collection, which was kept in an unmarked box in the back corner of his closet, was an unvaried one, medium in size and fairly consistent in content, the films differing mostly in their origins and levels of professionalism. The majority of them were European, particularly French or British, newer titles acquired in the years since he was old enough to legally obtain them. They featured the faux amateur style of filming that was so popular in the European market, with unobtrusive, minimal background music and the type of charmingly unprofessional non-acting which only the most experienced actors could provide.
Throughout his collection, there was little in the way of storylines. Even by the standards of the genre, his favorites showed a dearth of plot. These were the tools he turned to when he didn’t wish to afford himself the luxury of time, tools comprised of auditory sensations and physical representations. It was rarely a challenge to lose himself in them; he subsisted on the sounds—the moans, keens, and animalistic grunts—and the sights—dark hair falling across a pale forehead, sweat-streaked skin sliding along sweat-streaked skin—until the feel of his own fingers was almost an afterthought.
The pictures, on the other hand, were rarely used. They were restricted to those painfully few times when a quick and shallow job wasn’t enough, times when he wished to be more thorough but wasn’t yet hungry enough for one of his (considerably more expensive) weekend retreats.
The pictures were housed in his laptop, in a discreetly named, hidden folder, encrypted and under a password lock. While they were all photos, there was more variety among them than among the videos: black and white to color, pornographic images to tamer pictures of actors and athletes, contemporary to vintage to a few, specialty pieces.
As with the videos, these sessions usually found him a safe distance before the screen and keyboard, a large towel spread beneath his knees and another to hand. By their nature the photos offered less content, allowing him to supply details for himself. The routine alternated, between a marathon slideshow and the less common single photo.
Unlike with the videos, additional accoutrements sometimes came into play; he owned few sex toys, and only brought them out when he both craved what they provided and could be bothered to clean up after them (which was infrequently, at best).
Whatever the circumstances, the photo sessions took time—time to develop the setup in his mind, to build the encounter up, to mentally distance himself from the fingers that played skillfully at his hardening flesh or stretched his taut muscle.
He was always well into the session by the time his eyes slipped shut and his mind began to supplant the images on the screen with its own. He wandered through whatever his subconscious chose to show him, exerting very little control over the procession; from his earliest excursions into that taboo terrain he’d done the same, giving his instincts free rein. The abnormal targets of his prurient interest had raised few questions in his mind—his body wanted what it wanted, and in the von Karma household, what one wanted, one took.
The trappings that he wanted had changed over the years, as tastes are wont to do. There were staples—actors, models, and writers that had been making appearances since the beginning. They were occasionally supplemented with newer flavors—other actors at different points in their illustrious careers; singers whose voices would surely draw fire from the apartment complex’s management if they were ringing off the walls instead of solely in the mental realm he’d retreated to; co-workers and athletes and the most memorable of the men he’d patronized in the past.
The Parisien still featured prominently, whenever he happened to show; he dominated the scene with a shy, modestly eager grin and his comfortable posture, showcased on a backdrop of his skillful paintings. His eyes were impossibly blue, something more vibrant than they could have ever been in the dim light of the Bohemian studio.
The sensations built with deliberate slowness, as his mind lingered on each man in turn, absorbing features remembered or imagined. Tonal qualities of voice, skin that clashed deliciously with his or challenged his own pale, perfect complexion, every detail was another spike in his stomach or shudder down his spine, pressing on towards its inevitable end…
He would be there, at the end. It wasn’t a question any longer; it hadn’t been for some time. The one element he’d attempted to control had proven the one element he couldn’t, and wasn’t it painfully appropriate? The irony was not lost on him, though he did his best to bury it along with the scenes.
But the appearances continued. Rising from the depths of his traitorous mind, they usurped his attention, sending him spiraling deep into the pocket of sensation he’d built up around himself. There was no time to banish the images, not like there had been before. They arrested his thoughts, and before his conscience could raise a protest, Wright was under him, riding him, filling him, his eyes half-lidded and needful and impossibly blue, and he was treating him to the kinds of desperate cries that reddened his ears and mercilessly reminded him that they would never be more than the products of his fevered, inexcusably desperate imagination.
The non-existent voice keening in his ear was always the trigger. Whether it was timed with a thrust of his hips forward or back, it was what truly drew the strangled groan from his own throat and eventually left him to collapse, weak-limbed, on the bed, shuddering and spent.
Once he could move again (a matter of a full minute, at the least), Edgeworth would fold the towel over itself, wrinkling his nose as he temporarily hid the evidence. It would be a while longer before he could make a move to clean up after himself, before the accessories would be put away and a shower could be taken; a few minutes in which he could lay his fastidiousness aside, if only for a short while, and simply indulge in the sweet fatigue that followed release, a fatigue soothed by the memory of sweat-soaked skin and deep, blue eyes.
It was never enough…but until the next of his weekends, it would have to be.
Prompt: Fantasy
DDD canon?: Oh yes.
On many occasions, he used videos. His collection, which was kept in an unmarked box in the back corner of his closet, was an unvaried one, medium in size and fairly consistent in content, the films differing mostly in their origins and levels of professionalism. The majority of them were European, particularly French or British, newer titles acquired in the years since he was old enough to legally obtain them. They featured the faux amateur style of filming that was so popular in the European market, with unobtrusive, minimal background music and the type of charmingly unprofessional non-acting which only the most experienced actors could provide.
Throughout his collection, there was little in the way of storylines. Even by the standards of the genre, his favorites showed a dearth of plot. These were the tools he turned to when he didn’t wish to afford himself the luxury of time, tools comprised of auditory sensations and physical representations. It was rarely a challenge to lose himself in them; he subsisted on the sounds—the moans, keens, and animalistic grunts—and the sights—dark hair falling across a pale forehead, sweat-streaked skin sliding along sweat-streaked skin—until the feel of his own fingers was almost an afterthought.
The pictures, on the other hand, were rarely used. They were restricted to those painfully few times when a quick and shallow job wasn’t enough, times when he wished to be more thorough but wasn’t yet hungry enough for one of his (considerably more expensive) weekend retreats.
The pictures were housed in his laptop, in a discreetly named, hidden folder, encrypted and under a password lock. While they were all photos, there was more variety among them than among the videos: black and white to color, pornographic images to tamer pictures of actors and athletes, contemporary to vintage to a few, specialty pieces.
As with the videos, these sessions usually found him a safe distance before the screen and keyboard, a large towel spread beneath his knees and another to hand. By their nature the photos offered less content, allowing him to supply details for himself. The routine alternated, between a marathon slideshow and the less common single photo.
Unlike with the videos, additional accoutrements sometimes came into play; he owned few sex toys, and only brought them out when he both craved what they provided and could be bothered to clean up after them (which was infrequently, at best).
Whatever the circumstances, the photo sessions took time—time to develop the setup in his mind, to build the encounter up, to mentally distance himself from the fingers that played skillfully at his hardening flesh or stretched his taut muscle.
He was always well into the session by the time his eyes slipped shut and his mind began to supplant the images on the screen with its own. He wandered through whatever his subconscious chose to show him, exerting very little control over the procession; from his earliest excursions into that taboo terrain he’d done the same, giving his instincts free rein. The abnormal targets of his prurient interest had raised few questions in his mind—his body wanted what it wanted, and in the von Karma household, what one wanted, one took.
The trappings that he wanted had changed over the years, as tastes are wont to do. There were staples—actors, models, and writers that had been making appearances since the beginning. They were occasionally supplemented with newer flavors—other actors at different points in their illustrious careers; singers whose voices would surely draw fire from the apartment complex’s management if they were ringing off the walls instead of solely in the mental realm he’d retreated to; co-workers and athletes and the most memorable of the men he’d patronized in the past.
The Parisien still featured prominently, whenever he happened to show; he dominated the scene with a shy, modestly eager grin and his comfortable posture, showcased on a backdrop of his skillful paintings. His eyes were impossibly blue, something more vibrant than they could have ever been in the dim light of the Bohemian studio.
The sensations built with deliberate slowness, as his mind lingered on each man in turn, absorbing features remembered or imagined. Tonal qualities of voice, skin that clashed deliciously with his or challenged his own pale, perfect complexion, every detail was another spike in his stomach or shudder down his spine, pressing on towards its inevitable end…
He would be there, at the end. It wasn’t a question any longer; it hadn’t been for some time. The one element he’d attempted to control had proven the one element he couldn’t, and wasn’t it painfully appropriate? The irony was not lost on him, though he did his best to bury it along with the scenes.
But the appearances continued. Rising from the depths of his traitorous mind, they usurped his attention, sending him spiraling deep into the pocket of sensation he’d built up around himself. There was no time to banish the images, not like there had been before. They arrested his thoughts, and before his conscience could raise a protest, Wright was under him, riding him, filling him, his eyes half-lidded and needful and impossibly blue, and he was treating him to the kinds of desperate cries that reddened his ears and mercilessly reminded him that they would never be more than the products of his fevered, inexcusably desperate imagination.
The non-existent voice keening in his ear was always the trigger. Whether it was timed with a thrust of his hips forward or back, it was what truly drew the strangled groan from his own throat and eventually left him to collapse, weak-limbed, on the bed, shuddering and spent.
Once he could move again (a matter of a full minute, at the least), Edgeworth would fold the towel over itself, wrinkling his nose as he temporarily hid the evidence. It would be a while longer before he could make a move to clean up after himself, before the accessories would be put away and a shower could be taken; a few minutes in which he could lay his fastidiousness aside, if only for a short while, and simply indulge in the sweet fatigue that followed release, a fatigue soothed by the memory of sweat-soaked skin and deep, blue eyes.
It was never enough…but until the next of his weekends, it would have to be.