Wine and Gun

"Indeed," Albarino said, licking wetly on the bloodstain near his belly button, feeling the muscles in the other's abdomen tremble under his lips, "the police recorded Sharpe when he was charged. full profile - he has nothing contagious; so yes, he's a pedophile, but he's just a corpse now, and it's just blood."

Of course, the Sunday gardener certainly thinks so. He didn't care if the person who died was a pedophile bastard or a philanthropist, there was no essential difference between the blood of Christ and Satan - unless the blood of either could actually turn into wine.

"I guess you didn't care too much when he was alive," Herstal hissed, as the other man unbuttoned his trousers with his fingers.

"Why should you care? This man is a creature of blood and flesh, with a little soul in it. Idealists say that it is the human mind that gives meaning to everything, so I doubt that he deserves that honor. ." Albarino snorted softly, slid his hand into Herstal's trousers, and took hold of the hardened organ - his movements were so familiar that it was not difficult to imagine him in many How to please his partner one night - a wet, sticky, hot jerk, but not the same touch as water-based lube, blood all over his hands.

Herstal took a breath, the pleasure that Albarino could bring was sharp, like needles and animal teeth. It's about the Sunday gardener, sex is never warm and soft, that word is too far from him: he is of cloud, lightning, and west wind, and under his fingers there is an electric charge crackling, bringing A needle-like feel.

Albarino leaned down to kiss him again, his lips brushing over his body, teeth and lips rubbing against his hipbone, like a pagan cult. And they happened to lie on the altar, comforting their ancestors with blood and the heads of their enemies.

Herstal propped himself up on his heels so he could pull his pants down for him. The whole thing is not a good idea from any point of view, not even because he is lying in a pool of blood that is gradually drying up: the soundproofing of the house is good enough not to make the neighbors suspicious, and the price of renting in the neighborhood and the degree of population mobility also determine You won't call the police when a rude man knocks on your door - but these aren't "you can have sex at the crime scene" reasons either, it's a piece of crap.

With his movements, Herstal could feel the liquid being squeezed out of the soaked cloth, making a series of weird grunts. Albarino kissed all the way down his belly, his lips brushing wetly over his balls, his fingers moving restlessly in front of Herstal's buttocks.

Hestal propped himself up on his elbows and asked, "I certainly can't expect you to have lube, can I?"

——He expected himself to ask this way, but the reality was not satisfactory. His voice must have stuttered when the other party put one side of the testicle in his mouth, which was hot and humid. And Albarino snorted vaguely, and the ghost knew what he was talking about.

Because, there really is no serial killer with lubricant to commit crimes, that thing can't be described by the word "weird" at all.

Now that Herstal fully understands what Albarino's answer is, and he even understands what Albarino wants to gān, he has to respond with something about the lubricant. He reached out and pulled Albarino's hair roughly, forcing him to look up.

Then, Herstal warned sternly: "If you dare—"

Albarino was right about one thing: the blood on the ground was no different from all the blood in the world, and it was no different from the blood that shed on Albarino the night he was cut by the pianist, since they confirmed Anthony Sharp really doesn't have any blood-borne diseases, so they shouldn't care...

But now Herstal was waiting for Albarino with a look that could be called fierce, just to prevent the other party from actually sending his hands between his legs with blood dipped in it. The other party looked up at him, with a clear smile on the corner of his mouth. Although at this moment, the glowing, hard genitals were almost filthy against Albarino's cheeks, but something sharp as a knife was still hidden in his eyes.

"Ah," Albarino remarked slowly, "that's picky, pianist."

Then he snapped at Herstal's hipbone and put his legs on his shoulders.

Herstal didn't hold his balance for a moment, he was sure his hand had brushed the dead man's chest as he tried to support the floor. The blood is drying up on the ground to a strange touch, everything will fade away, also like the soul or blood of a dead person, from this perspective, it doesn't matter if his fingers have rubbed the flesh that will rot. the difference.

But it wasn't the same. He remembered the feeling of the knife stabbing into that flesh, and it still made his heart beat fast and his fingertips tickled. And Albarino was calmly bending his body, burying his head shamelessly licking his mouth, trying to pierce the soft secret with his tongue.

He felt like fire from the skin where Albarino's lips touched, blood dripping sticky from between his fingers as he gripped his leg, on Herstal's skin A dark red mark was drawn. Albarino pinched his legs, brutally squeezing moans and gasps from his lungs.

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