HOLY CRAP
OHSHIT IT'S GLOVEPORN
In the armoury there is a spare suit of armour for Judge Magister Gabranth. It has never been used and is rarely inspected, so that even if some item or another were missing, it would not likely be noticed for some time. And in fact there is something missing: the right gauntlet.
That same gauntlet now lies cradled to Larsa's chest, below his nightshirt, over his heart.
He has never even dreamed to do this before. He knows he never shall again. But in this moment, the madness that compelled him to take the gauntlet in the first place has not yet been overwhelmed by guilt, and he does not stop.
It is as if the thing had a will of its own. He barely need touch it and it is moving down the length of his body, torturously slowly. He shivers at the brush of metal against his bare skin. If he closes his eyes there is a hand inside: a hand that he has come to know well these last few years. It is scarred and calloused, and yet he values its touch more than he dares say aloud.
The gauntlet moves again: it slides down across his belly, his navel. Finally it cups his groin.
He can barely suppress a gasp as he strokes himself, first slowly, then faster, in a way that is both familiar and strange. Shame only adds to his pleasure: gives it a cruel, teasing edge that nearly chokes him.
When he is spent he forces himself to leave the warmth of his bed in order to wash and polish the gauntlet. Tomorrow he shall return it to its rightful place, and he shall never think on this again.
In all rights this should be expanded and turned into an actual full-length piece, but YEAH RIGHT. My shame prevents me.
In the armoury there is a spare suit of armour for Judge Magister Gabranth. It has never been used and is rarely inspected, so that even if some item or another were missing, it would not likely be noticed for some time. And in fact there is something missing: the right gauntlet.
That same gauntlet now lies cradled to Larsa's chest, below his nightshirt, over his heart.
He has never even dreamed to do this before. He knows he never shall again. But in this moment, the madness that compelled him to take the gauntlet in the first place has not yet been overwhelmed by guilt, and he does not stop.
It is as if the thing had a will of its own. He barely need touch it and it is moving down the length of his body, torturously slowly. He shivers at the brush of metal against his bare skin. If he closes his eyes there is a hand inside: a hand that he has come to know well these last few years. It is scarred and calloused, and yet he values its touch more than he dares say aloud.
The gauntlet moves again: it slides down across his belly, his navel. Finally it cups his groin.
He can barely suppress a gasp as he strokes himself, first slowly, then faster, in a way that is both familiar and strange. Shame only adds to his pleasure: gives it a cruel, teasing edge that nearly chokes him.
When he is spent he forces himself to leave the warmth of his bed in order to wash and polish the gauntlet. Tomorrow he shall return it to its rightful place, and he shall never think on this again.
In all rights this should be expanded and turned into an actual full-length piece, but YEAH RIGHT. My shame prevents me.