Lion Head Mesa [sc] [M] Diamonds Under my Eyes

he —
well, this was certainly new.
here was izaiah, the lowly priest's son from qashon, the straight-laced scribe from minya, now a whore in akashingo. and the worst part was that he enjoyed it.
the boy all but melted into a puddle, completely at the mercy of the man who now had him snared in his widow's web. his lack of experience was evident, and yet he was eager, needy, needy, needy; his teeth found machi's jaw, his lower lip, the soft curve of his ear, and he was whimpering, this pathetic, hormone-addled mess reduced to nothing but the nerves which lit aflame beneath every ministration.
he was lost in it, a slave to his own body, doing as was instructed of him by the deepest reaches of his subconscious. hips rocking, back arched; he would have allowed himself to be thrown like a doll if it was what machiavelli desired.
until —
oh, dear.
the silver-cloaked voice of the fellahin breaks him from his spell long enough for him to drag his head away, heaving, suddenly all too aware of where he was and what he was doing and who he was doing it with. this was — it was —
he glances over the golden-hemmed shoulder before he says, quietly, sheepishly, i-i can't.
i mean, fuck-- i-i want to, so bad, i just, i-- reduced to nothing, dissipating, whittled to his raw core. i can't go further th-than this. with you, or with anyone. i'm-- i'm sorry.