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There's perks to being the heir to your absentee family's multi billion dollar company, but having the ability to run away from his problems—especially his feelings—in a private jet has to be his favorite one.
This time, he's in the beach coast of Brigid. His family is scouting the area to build a resort here, giving him the perfect excuse to explore under the guise of a business trip.
But despite his many white lies, it truly is just business beneath it all. Every moscato tinged kiss serves as a mere transaction to him; every affair gives him the distraction he needs from familiar ache inside that he refuses to give a name to; and the scratches on his back, blissful as they are painful, are a contract of his one, human condition: to make him forget. Signed, sealed, and delivered in red.
Sylvain revels in cycle of self destruction. Hates it, and he can't stop as he shoves his tongue down yet another stranger's throat.
Nobody can see them in this secluded beach cove. Their messy lip lock is hidden from the public, behind a large, towering rock, and is only revealed by the faint glow of the moon that hangs above them.
The stranger's mouth is stronger than he had expected, fighting against Sylvain's for dominance. Yet somehow, Sylvain strangely feels like he's being toyed with in the way that he toys with his ongoing string of nameless lovers; it makes him feel awful. It makes him feel good. It has him dropping to his knees to the gritty, warm sand and roughly tugging at the stranger's beige trousers. He feels his own hard cock drag across the sandy floor, its leaky tip peeking through his red Bermuda shorts.
"Needy, are we?" a husky, masculine voice chuckles; it commands Sylvain's attention with a pathetic kind of ease, forcing him to look up. Not nearly as ashamed of himself as he should be, Sylvain licks his lips as he drinks in sight of the tall figure before him. Their tan, honeyed skin is on open display along two voluptuous pecks, barely restrained by a thin white dress shirt. "You should've let me buy you a drink."
Sylvain is impatient and horny, but he can't help himself from cheekily replying, "Who needs a drink—" His fingers finally work the belt in front of him free, and he discards it to the side. "—when I could let you fuck me up instead, handsome?"
The stranger hums, amused. Sylvain doesn't see their smile, but he hears it amidst the waves crashing around them. "Clever. But if I'm going to do that, you're going to call me by my name, then." There's a pause; Sylvain stills. "Claude."
The gentle demand has Sylvain reeling. "Claude," he mindlessly repeats. More composed, Sylvain says, "I'll have to remember that."
The pungent scent of smoke wafts under Sylvain's nose as Claude casually takes one last drag of his cigarette. He tosses the burnt nub to the side when he's satisfied, its dim embers disappearing into the sand as if they never existed in the first place.
Remnants of smoke vapor clear to unveil Claude's face; it looks much different than when Sylvain had initially met him in a local bar, made up of playful jokes and easy smiles, entertained by the mere act of being alive—so it had seemed. Now, the man before him is nothing but dark shadows and moon glow, dancing back and forth upon his strong, bearded jaw, threading itself through his dark, windward hair, and traces itself in the glint of his sea green eyes.
Claude's smile drips onto him like a shot of bourbon, searing his skin. Sylvain swallows, hungrily. "You will."
Quietly vicious and saccharine, Claude's voice alone is enough to bring Sylvain to the brink of cumming. He barely withholds his release in favor of the insatiable Gautier blood that precedes him, mouth watering as he attempts to pull Claude's boxers down in one go, and his mind spins as the fabric catches at his bulbous tip. With a final tug, Claude's cock springs out, long and thick and slightly hooked to the right, with a mass of untamed pubic hairs encircling it, trailing down to the pudge of his inner thighs; it bobs in Sylvain's face, taunting.
Sylvain has never been one for tenderness and affection, but he can't help but stare at Claude's cock in reverence for a moment; it's beautiful, just like the rest of him, and Sylvain is undeserving as much as he is greedy. He firmly grabs the base of Claude's cock with one hand and directs it to the pout of his lips, dribbling spit onto the tip, letting it glaze over the entirety of Claude's length until it's messily spilling down his fist, and uses this as an excuse to drag his tongue through the crevice of Claude's balls, cleaning up the sopping mess he’s made.
Then, he moves onto generously smearing the tip of Claude's spit lubed cock across the seam of his lips, giving them a generous coat of gloss. Sylvain maintains eye contact with Claude the entire time, eager to show him just how good he is. Through his lashes, he catches Claude staring down at him, his expression unreadable. Only the end of Claude's thick brow raises in response, as if to say, what are you waiting for?
Wasting no more time, Sylvain finally answers by taking Claude into the wet tightness of his mouth. His cock is heavy against his tongue, rimmed with salt, and Sylvain hums in self satisfaction as Claude emits a low groan at the sudden contact. He works himself further down Claude's cock, taking his time to trace its vein with the tip of his tongue. He feels delirious as it stretches as lips apart to the point of burning, but the taste of Claude is too addictive for Sylvain to want to stop. Sylvain's own cock is throbbing with need, while the musk between Claude's legs is so intoxicating that he's starting to feel lightheaded, and Sylvain feels like he could happily die here, choking on a lifetime’s worth of pain and want inside of his body, all brought to him in this singular moment by a man he only met two hours ago.
Wondering if Claude's feeling even a fraction of what he is, Sylvain looks up at him; he finds Claude with a tick in his jaw and sweat beaded onto his skin; where his eyes were once cold moments ago are now simmering with heat, and the change is so stark that it gives Sylvain whiplash along his spine, has his back arching with a whine. Claude bucks his hips at the sound, shoving his cock into Sylvain's mouth without warning. Hits the back of Sylvain's throat all at once, has him choking around the base with tears leaking out of Sylvain's down turned eyes.
There's a chorus of moans in tandem; Sylvain is too dizzy to know whether they're from him or Claude. He continues to suck, tightening his lips every time he pulls up, imprinting the delicious curve of Claude's cock into his mouth. The affair becomes messier and messier, with globs of Sylvain's spit and Claude's precum becoming one as Sylvain pushes himself onto Claude without inhibitions, spiraling into a lustful trance.
Claude seems to be losing his composure too. From above, he's grunting, threading his big hands into Sylvain's wild, red hair. Claude's touch is oddly gentle, searching, before it isn't—as if something within him snaps, Claude uses his right hand to claw Sylvain by the scalp, pulling Sylvain off of his cock, just to shove it back down Sylvain's throat again in one, sudden movement that has Sylvain whimpering in pleasure and struggling to breathe. Right as Sylvain is about to pull off of Claude's cock for air, Claude is kind enough to give it to Sylvain how he wants: rough and unrelenting. With a deep growl, Claude ruts his hips forward as he yanks Sylvain onto his cock without warning, fucking himself into Sylvain's mouth over and over. Sylvain feels Claude's massive length squeeze past the narrow column of his throat, taking its claim and shaping its throne.
As if on command, Sylvain starts grinding his still clothed cock against the grains of sand beneath him, uncaring of how desperate it makes him seem; Sylvain is a man made up of lies, but this moment between Claude and him is true—every moan from Claude feels like an admission, something Sylvain shouldn't be hearing. The realization has Sylvain bracing himself as Claude forcefully pushes past his lips again.
"Ah… Sylvain," Claude murmurs.
Claude says his name like a mindless thought, rather than an acknowledgement, yet Sylvain feels heat pool into his gut like molten lava anyway—overwhelmed by being known by Claude at all. The sensation is surreal, and has tears running down his hollowed cheeks. Bombarded by pleasure, it only takes Sylvain a few more seconds to reach his peak, cumming uncontrollably, completely untouched. Despite being filled to the brim, moans spill out of Sylvain's mouth like running water, with a wet patch blooming onto the crotch of his shorts. Soon after, Claude is cumming into Sylvain's mouth, giving Sylvain no choice but to swallow it all, and the contractions make Claude's hips stutter, grinding against Sylvain's blissfully fucked out face until the last drop of cum is leaking out of the corner of Sylvain's lips.
Still in a daze, Sylvain feels himself being slowly released from Claude's grip, his glossy lips coming off of his cock with a resounding pop. A slave to his desires, Sylvain resists the urge to take Claude into his mouth again, wiping his mouth clean, openly panting.
Minutes pass by before Sylvain is recovered enough to fully blink awake again. He starts to push himself up to the ground, only for the ridged sole of Claude's dress shoe to plant itself onto Sylvain's chest, and Sylvain is reminded of the cigarette nub that Claude had tossed earlier. His breath hitches, relishing in the way his chest caves in under the pressure. When he looks up, Claude is casually hooking his fingers into tie around his neck, loosening it with a languid tug, like he just got off from a shift—like its end is only the beginning for Sylvain.
Claude looks ethereal as the salty breeze shifts around him. His little fang dips out of his lips as he licks them, looking at Sylvain with intent, mapping his body out with a single glance. Sylvain watches as Claude mulls over his thoughts, daring to push up against his shoe even more; Sylvain's spent cock twitches in excitement as Claude doesn't budge, grinding his dirty sole into his Goneril salmon polo, marking his territory.
And though Sylvain has strayed far from religion, no amount of money or titles save him from submitting to himself to Claude. He lets Claude dig into him, until his back is falling onto the edge of Brigid's soothingly warm shore, only for the tide to rush in seconds later without warning. A choked cry comes out Sylvain then, at the cold water suddenly thrashing around him, licking and swallowing and drowning him alive, causing his back to arch and his cock to stiffen again. Claude looms over him, stroking his own cock, fully mast as well. He looks otherworldly. He looks like God.
Claude grins, and Sylvain wants to feel himself being torn apart by Claude's teeth.
"You didn't think I was done, did you?"