His scalp tingled, and he could almost feel a ghostly grip tug at his hair. Would Master Ryan grab or stroke? Hurry him or let him adjust? Before today, Atticus would have thought the latter - but the way Master Ryan had been close to brutal with him... As desperate as Atticus himself. Like it had been building in the air between them, all these months like a storm. Would to be like that the second time?<em>If </em>there was a second time. He hoped there would be... his finger pressed against the aching ring of muscle and groaned.<br/><br/>Master Ryan's hand would stroke his head, train around his ear, then splay across his scarred cheek, thumb sweeping over his closed, damaged eye, tilting his head up to meet his gaze, his souldeep stare, letting the orders blaze into him wordlessly. Had he ever been taken in all the way before? But of course he had, he was the Master of a whorehouse. One of his stock would have had the skill. Or even one of his lovers. Atticus would lean in, Master Ryan's hand would slip hack into his hair, and he would slide his tongue against the smooth, hot tip, sliding back and forth against the salty little slit, then following it down, to tease the tender sweet place where the glans joined to the shaft.<br/><br/>The fingers in his hair would twitch and tightened, nails pressing harder, a fine tremor running over his skin. '<em>Louis</em>,' he would hiss. Oh, to have that power, to stir that desperate fire...<br/><br/>He would take the tip between his lips, his lower lip would twinge and ache and he would taste copper blood along with the salt and savour that was Master Ryan's flesh. He wouldn't be able to resist tasting the Master a little more until the man's hips bucked forwards unintentionally, the soft wrinkled skin of his balls tightening so slightly. And then he would lean in, pressing the blunt head over his tongue to the back of his throat, and swallow him down, careful and slow. He would look up, and Master Ryan would be staring down, his chest lifting and falling with uneven gasps. '<em>More. Deeper,</em>' his voice would rasp as if he were on the brink of tightening his grip and driving in or pulling out all together and ploughing into his still aching rear.<br/><br/>So he would swallow and swallow again, taking him in by inches, his throat starting to ache and Master Ryan's grip starting to hurt and his dark eyes shutting, his hips twitching, forcing more down his throat -<br/><br/>"Gods!" Two fingers slid easily passed his aching ring, electric sparks rushing through him as his fingers rasped against aching inner walls. He curled his fingers and found the right spot, nudging and rubbing it with one-minded urgency, his other hand pumping faster, harder.<br/><br/>