Your Left Foot

Eames, gloriously filled with cock, with Arthur sitting against the headboard of their bed, gracefully bending his knees to offer his feet for worship, which Eames provides with fervor; grinding down onto Arthur’s cock, back against Arthur's chest, listening to his low moans, his groans, Eames in on his knees, leaning down.   

Down to Arthur’s beautiful, slender, pale feet, licking the instep of the left foot, tasting it, feeling it under his tongue, bearing down on Arthur’s cock to heighten the full-body experience of having Arthur like this. All of him.  

Pushing upwards, Arthur sighing encouraging words of how Eames should suck his toes, Eames is in another headspace; Here, Arthur belongs to him. All of him, and whatever Arthur wants, Arthur gets, because what Arthur wants, it’s what Eames wants, and what Eames wants, is to be impaled by his lover, Eames’s arse clenching around Arthur at the feeling in his mouth, when he sucks on three of Arthur’s toes.  

Through his haze of sheer want, Eames wants more. He wants more of everything, and he knows how to get it. In a blinding moment of clarity, he knows exactly how to get what they both want.   So he sits up, drawing long sighs from Arthur as he rides deep onto his cock, reveling in the feeling being fulfilled, before sitting up and away, around on his knees and hastily reaching for the lube.  

“Trust me,” Eames says, eyes half-lidded at Arthur’s confused objections, at Arthur’s fingers clambering to draw Eames back in, on, within.  

“You’ll love this as much as I will,” Eames manages through his arousal, through this one burning idea, growing in his mind to a point where it must be taken action upon.   And Eames lubes Arthur’s toes.  

And Eames adjusts himself, gently sitting down on Arthur’s foot, his hand directing, helping Arthur to push his big toe inside Eames while the others curl with pleasure, and soon enough, as well as they can manage, there’s another toe inside the furnace that is Eames, ragged, breathy, lost in each other, they long to kiss, but they are pitifully too far apart. Eames can’t reach Arthur from his vantage point, and he doesn’t want to release the beautiful long toes from his arse, as it is nothing like he’s experienced before.   It’s nothing like fingers. It’s nothing like cock. It’s nothing other than what it is; Arthur’s toes, on which Eames can bear down carefully, taking them as deep as they go, watching Arthur’s face in rapture, mirroring his own. …if only he could take one more, if only Arthur could give it to him…  

Instead, Eames feels another urge overcome him like flood, the need to see Arthur come, with his foot nearly entirely inside Eames, so breaking the eye-contact, Eames folds forward, capturing Arthur’s cock with his lips, and is rewarded with Arthur’s toes wiggling pleasantly, the rest of the digits begging entry, while Eames sucks down hard.  

Arthur, and it shouldn’t be surprising, since this is Arthur with his long, delicate toes, wriggles another toe in, curling them, making Eames pant and moan around his cock, sweating with pleasure, overwhelms by all this; All of Arthur, Arthur, oh Arthur, And Arthur curves beatifically, a long keen erupting from his throat as he empties himself into Eames’s mouth, with words nonsensical, adoring; “How can you…” “You always…” “You…” “Eames…” “Forever…”  

And it’s the words as much as the pulsing of Arthur’s cock as much as the curling of Arthur’s toes that make him come.  

How he got to lay beside Arthur, being calmed down by him, Eames’s hearing numbed, Arthur’s voice coming like through balls of cotton; “That was… I love you.”

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