The Mirror of Courtesy, part two

December 2, 2008 Danae Klimt
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A Tale of Nouveau Montmartre

“That’s all I have to do? wank in front of you?”

The calm and reasonable tone hid how excited Fionn himself was.  “Bring yourself to orgasm, yes, here in front of the mirror.  Where I can see you, and you can see yourself.”  He made himself frown a little.  “And Courtesies don’t call it ‘wanking’.  We call it ‘fingerdreaming’.”

When he was the boy’s age, he’d have laughed at a poetic euphemism like “fingerdreaming”.  Masturbation was a quick rough jerk in a corner, a break between rougher times that lasted longer.  Not an artform.  But Jerome nodded, obviously enthralled with every little scrap of knowledge, every detail of the Courtesy’s life.  He gulped it down and opened his mouth for more, always, like a hungry nestling.

They were sprawled at either end of a couch–or at least Jerome was sprawled, his legs already spread.  Fionn was trying to maintain his dignity as the boy curled deft fingers around his outsized cock.  Think about something else–think about the couch.  Fionn had a peculiar fondness for this old broken couch, covered in rose velvet.  The upholstery was stained and the frame was too wobbly to stand a fucking, but it made a lovely spot to lie and dream, to jerk off thinking of the boy when they weren’t training, to take naps between patrons.  Lady Willow had given it to him for his first studio, on the day he took the Courtesy’s Vows.

Jerome was stroking himself slowly up and down, watching his hand on his cock in the mirror rather than in the flesh, or closing his eyes.  How many times had Fionn been told to open his eyes during this exercise, or to slow down?  Slow and not quite rhythmical, Jerome fondled his stiffening prick.  The lad was a natural, really–a natural-born show-off, a trait every Courtesy needed.  It remained to be seen whether he had the heart and the mind for the work, too.

“That’s good, lad.  Very good.  Touch yourself just as you like….”  Fionn heard his own voice sink to a purr, saw his eyelids growing heavy in the mirror.  Wasn’t he supposed to be soothing his student, not hypnotizing himself?  But there was no hiding what watching the boy was doing to him, not when his prick was a ridge in his jeans visible even in his reflection.  Well, and self-control was part of his job, as a teacher and and as a Courtesy.  He could wait.  He could wait till later, and spill his spunk on this funky old couch.

Jerome was whimpering now and biting his lip, the hand on his cock moving faster, his other hand shifting restlessly.  He smoothed back his hair on one side, pinched one nipple and then the other, cupped his balls, and pushed up his hips.  Jesus, the boy was taking so long.  How had he got this much stamina already?  Little beads of sweat were starting to well up at Fionn’s hairline.

With a high, girlish cry, Jerome came.  His back arched, and semen spattered everywhere–on his belly and his thighs, on the long-suffering couch, on Fionn’s knee.  He sank back down among the cushions with a ridiculous grin on his face.

“Are you going to get an orgasm, too?”

Fionn managed to reply without stammering or choking.  “That’s for another session, lad.  Time for you to go wash up and get your weekly massage.”


Entry Filed under: Nouveau Montmartre

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