Wine and Gun

Herstal didn't bother him, just reached out and pulled his belt - the belt buckle slammed on the ground when the thing fell to the floor, and Herstal had reached out nimbly. Unbuttoning his trousers, he put his hand in.

The longest knife in the string of letters he left before extended to the groin, and now it was wrapped in gauze and tape, and even the skin that should have been within reach was much less. Herstal touched the hardened organ while sucking on the skin under his Adam's apple, and heard Albarino take a low breath.

This is the first time to a certain extent. After all, when the pianist committed the crime, Albarino couldn't stand up because he lost too much blood. Not to mention the previous time, this man didn't even unbutton a single button. . It made the sticky writhing and rubbing under him a new experience, Herstal stroking his balls and thighs with his fingers, feeling Albarino gently in his ear He panted, raking his fingers through the ends of his hair, which he had secured with hairspray.

"I'm really curious," Albarino said in a low voice, in a gruff voice, "because of your personal experience, do you reject others over you—or did you have no nightlife before me?"

Herstal wanted him to shut up, a thought that eventually translated into a bite mark near the throat. Albarino made a soft sound, like a plucked instrument. But anyway, when he cooperated with Herstal to throw off his pants, he didn't stop talking.

"But I'll do it," Albarino whispered. At this time, Herstal's lips had already slid down, along the scars, and finally slowly licked his rǔ dizziness, this movement made Albarino's voice a slight, difficult pause. "...I'll open you up with my fingers and fuck you so deep - so deep that you can think of the moment you cut those people's bodies with a knife, and you'll know there's no essential difference between sex and death."

Then there was a hiss of pain, mainly Herstal shoving his unlubricated fingers inside him.

Albarino's legs trembled, his lips clenched visibly, and Herstal was distracted and recalled what he had done to the other party a few days ago. But anyway, he still said firmly: "Can you shut up?"

"Don't make it difficult, Herstal." Albarino replied slowly, he must have felt the pain, but the surface of his voice always had a layer of oily pleasure, "You have to be good enough for me. Just shut up."

—but, anyway, most of the rest of the night was hot, melted, and pulled into indistinct shapes.

Herstal could remember how the fabrics fell, the expensive fabrics stacked with Albariño's disparate old clothes; he remembered the huge backpack that Albariino had pulled over him from the edge of the sofa, The teasing smile on his face as he pulled a can of lubricant from one of the bags; the color and texture of the liquid didn't look like blood as it trickled down Albarino's legs.

He remembered those eyes, green and inhuman, with dilated pupils, black pupils like a terrifying black dòng that would devour everything. He remembered Albarino's smooth and graceful movements as he tilted his head back, sweat running down his neck and gathering in the hollow of his collarbone, looking like a magic fountain in a fairy tale.

The other party made a small hissing sound when he pulled the wound on his abdomen, his lips were bitten red by him, and there was some smeared blood on the corner of his mouth. And this man is still smiling, smiling in the moments of ups and downs between the abyss of confusion and ecstasy, and of course before pain and death. When Herstal's fingers tightened in the other's hair, the man put his legs around his waist, so, so calmly, as if sin and death were not flowing between their fingers, It's as if they've managed to hide their vision of killing each other.

Albarino did not hesitate to let out a scorching moan, raving to the point of being too explicit, and his fingers left scratch marks and bruised bruises on the pianist's shoulders. And his own body was so scarred that it seemed as if the painter had painted the wrong canvas, and those cyan and long lines of blood scabs that had not yet fully healed entangled him.

In order to keep his wounds from tearing open again, Herstal stuck to his waist most of the time, watching the muscles in his abdomen and thighs tremble disorderly, but beware of him bending or stretching his body inappropriately. He almost pressed the other party into the sofa so ruthlessly, the force was strong enough to make the other party have nowhere to escape, but somehow he still didn't seem to be the controller of the entire love affair——

Perhaps, because those green eyes were still filled with an indelible smile.

Herstal had some one-night stands, but that's about it. After all, his sexual inversion has not yet reached the point where he has to kill someone to get an erection, so he sometimes needs to adapt to his own desires: he used to have some partners, there are slightly more women than men, expensive high-end intercourse, in the business field The guy who met by chance. Herstal isn't the type who can tolerate going to a bar to strike up a conversation with someone. He chooses people who are quiet, polite, and know how to stop.

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