In the midst of the entangled dance between Danta and the blonde, Dorian seemed to be a passive observer, his demeanour retaining the same detached yet intense focus. The seductive tableau, a swirling symphony of pleasure, unfolded before him, but his attention was like a spotlight: selectively illuminating certain moments while leaving others in cold shadow.
As the room embraced the intimate choreography, Dorian reclined in the bath with a certain arrogance. His gaze, a study in control and calculation, followed every movement. The wine, now a constant companion, was lifted to his lips in a rhythmic dance that mirrored the undulating passion nearby.
His manipulation of the stem, the liquid cascading into his mouth, was a performance in itself—a demonstration of his control over every nuance of the scene and one perhaps even more sensual than the acts currently being performed by Danta's tongue. The allure of the spectacle was there, but for Dorian, it was a means to an end, a canvas where he painted the strokes of his dominance.
Still, he met the blonde's gaze with a cold intensity, a deliberate move meant to temper the flames kindling between her legs, forcing Danta to work harder for the desired heat. Did he, Dorian, remind the girl of her father? Was it her father's touch she wanted, and if so, would she imagine Dorian's hands now between her thighs, or would she manifest his paternal presence instead as a warm and loving hand upon her back?
As the room embraced the intimate choreography, Dorian reclined in the bath with a certain arrogance. His gaze, a study in control and calculation, followed every movement. The wine, now a constant companion, was lifted to his lips in a rhythmic dance that mirrored the undulating passion nearby.
His manipulation of the stem, the liquid cascading into his mouth, was a performance in itself—a demonstration of his control over every nuance of the scene and one perhaps even more sensual than the acts currently being performed by Danta's tongue. The allure of the spectacle was there, but for Dorian, it was a means to an end, a canvas where he painted the strokes of his dominance.
Still, he met the blonde's gaze with a cold intensity, a deliberate move meant to temper the flames kindling between her legs, forcing Danta to work harder for the desired heat. Did he, Dorian, remind the girl of her father? Was it her father's touch she wanted, and if so, would she imagine Dorian's hands now between her thighs, or would she manifest his paternal presence instead as a warm and loving hand upon her back?
The high indifference some call fate
But we had names more intimate
But we had names more intimate
