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Aesthetic Principle

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“You get up at four in the morning,” Byron drawled from his seat along the wall, the red velvet a keen contrast to his white nightshirt, “and spend five hours dressing. You are well aware that those hours could be better spent in bed with me, are you not?”

“They would definitely be well-spent hours, George, but better? I don’t know that I can agree to that.”

“Am I not to take offense to that?” Byron’s laugh was dangerous and sharp edged. “I rank somewhere below dressing on your list of priorities?”

“We’ve well established that I cannot stop you from doing anything, George.” Beau moved away from the mirror and walked back to Byron. He closed his eyes with a heated shudder as Byron raised his hand, his ink-stained fingers grazed Beau’s arousal. “Though we’ve also established that nothing ranks above dressing on my list of priorities.”

“There is that in your favor, I suppose.” Byron’s fingers were careful, though careless at the same time, much like his tongue. Beau often thought Byron used words like weapons, sharpened to deadly, then threw them heedlessly, caring little for where they landed or who they cut.

Beau didn’t move, didn’t breathe as Byron touched him, delicately brushing Beau’s cock.

“Does it always do this to you?” Byron asked, a small smile painting his lips.

Beau licked his lips, struggling to find his voice as Byron let the tips of his fingers slide down to the base of Beau’s shaft, teasing the delicate skin there. “W-what?”

“Dressing. The slow, meticulous putting on of cotton and linen and silk and leather. Does it always arouse you, George?”

Beau swayed slightly as Byron shifted his touch again, a curving of his fingers and a slow tightening of his stroke. Swallowing hard, he reached out to hold the winged curve of Byron’s chair, steadying himself. “Yes.”

“Tell me.”

“F-first the…the st-stockings.” His breath was rough, another shudder coursing through him as Byron began to stroke in earnest. “Silk only and only a-after a light application of lotion and a d-d…dus…” His breath caught and shook as he exhaled. “Dusting of powder.”

Byron’s legs were spread, Beau close between them. He licked his lips again as Byron slid his free hand between his own legs, stroking his burgeoning erection. “Why?”

“Holds the silk against the skin.” He wanted to use Byron’s name, distance himself, but couldn’t with the easy grip sliding along his length. “C-contours.”

“Curve and form,” Byron smiled, the edge softened as Beau’s flesh hardened beneath his touch. “Beauty, like the night.”

Beau swallowed hard and nodded, closing his eyes on Byron’s words. He knew when poetry slipped past Byron’s lips by the soft tone his voice took, the distance in his eyes. Byron’s fingers loosened slightly as he closed his eyes for a moment, though they were sharp when he opened them again.

“What next?”

“Trousers.” Beau’s hand tightened on the chair as Byron’s did the same around his shaft, stroking him a bit more intently now. “Brushed free of any detritus, soft and smooth against the silk.” He measured his breathing to match Byron’s strokes, careful to keep his eyes on Byron’s face lest a slip of the tongue anger the man, lest he miss the moment when he had time to save himself from Byron’s razor tongue. “Fastened three-quarters of the way.”

“Are we at an hour yet?”

“Oh, George.” Beau’s voice caught. “Hour two at least. The first is spent bathing, and then the stockings are nearly an hour themselves to line them right, assure they l-lay correctly.”

“An hour on your stockings, George?” Beau breathed with relief at the light tone of Byron’s voice. “Julia spends less time on her entire trousseau.”

“Julia would make a terrible dandy.”

Byron laughed and shifted, spreading his legs wider, lifting the fabric of his nightshirt away to expose the length of his shaft. Beau groaned beneath his breath, the sound barely breaking the silence of the room as he watched Byron’s hand curve around himself, match the rhythm of the hand stroking Beau.

“Shirt next, I suppose.” Byron’s own shirt bunched at his stomach, crumpled white and wrinkled beyond hope of iron. “As pristine white as the flesh of your arse, Beau? Though I know better than all but the Prince himself that pristine does not quite equate to virginal.” He laughed, the sound mocking and harsh, though his hand maintained its firm but gentle pressure. “But oh, what it speaks to the ladies who see beyond the desire for foppish men, hmm? Such bright and shining white. A God amongst men.”

“Your words, George,” Beau whispered, his hips rocking forward, sliding in the circle of Byron’s hand. “Not mine.”

Byron laughed, his head back. His hand tightened at the base of Beau’s cock and he held it there. “My words indeed.”

“G-George.” Beau’s breath stuttered and he stilled, eyes locked on the fiery blue of Byron’s.

“And what, pray tell, George, is after your shirt.”

“Shirt takes time.” He managed the words carefully, tension coiling in his muscles as he held himself still. “Must be pressed properly. Lines right, no wrinkles. Still warm from the iron and floating like gossamer against your skin, clinging just enough to trace the line of muscle and flesh. Nearly the most important part.”

Byron began stroking again, intent behind the grip of his hand. “Nearly?”

“Next.” Beau let his head fall back, gasping as Byron’s hand tightened. “Boots.”


“Why you need a bath to begin with, George.” He released his hold on the chair, letting his hand fall to Byron’s thick hair. “Spend an hour polishing your boots properly. Getting them to gleam.”

“And how do you do that?” Byron shifted in his seat, sitting up, his breath hot on Beau’s cock. “Polish? Paint?”

“Champagne.” Beau gasped as Byron’s tongue flickered across the head of his cock. “Best thing for them, for leather.”

“Champagne, hmm?” He licked Beau again. “No wonder you’re so giddy when you dress. Drunk to the gills on flat champagne and wet leather.”

“Not that much different than a typical night with you, George.” Beau cursed softly under his breath as the words hit the small distance between them, as they registered in Byron’s face, in his eyes.

“Well then, much like a typical night with me, George, I think perhaps you should be on your knees.”

“A dandy never goes down on his knees, George.” Beau’s voice sounded strangled to his own ears. “Ruins the line of his suit.”

Byron removed his hand from Beau’s cock and reached beside the chair for one of Beau’s boots, his hand caressing the sleek, soft leather. “The way I see it, Beau, I paid for this suit. So it’s mine to ruin.” He swung the boot, letting the heel of it hit Beau hard in the arm, smooth white flesh flaring to red. “Wouldn’t you agree?”