In the dark of the secret little room, Benjamin Pond’s hand is snowy trace on glass. He squirms, back-brain processes driving him toward some desperate need, a need the usual place in his conscious is not yet aware of.
A shining man smelling of rough gold and sex is above him, the dimple-chinned face hovering like a dangling leaf about to leap from a high branch. One arm is wrapped in a … cuff of leather, with a ticking thing on it.
Pond grabs the face in one hand, shoving straight out easily with his elbow. The shiny man arcs back, his head spearing the wall. He will not trouble anyone, for a while.
His body twists up, the power in his abdominals hurting his guts as he strains them loose from sleep- or tries to anyway.
He –is- still asleep. Part of him.
The part that is not, however, the deep part, oh that is very awake, and rumbling.
Rumbling with the need to shove something out.
The space between his legs envelops his senses.
Bits of flesh feel numb; they hang from him, hot, cold, dripping the wet of his body.
Below his stomach lies the problem.
He grabs his bulging belly in wonder, feeling the muscles squeeze.