Desmond found himself in an interesting position, both figuratively and literally.
Literally speaking, he was sitting in a black office-type rolling chair that had uncomfortably placed arm rests. At least, they were uncomfortable due to the fact that he was trying to spread his thighs far enough for... eh... ease of access. Furthermore, the hard, ill-padded back of the chair wouldn't relent as he slumped down further, leaving a horrible cramp in his neck thanks to the odd position. His elbow jabbed against the aforementioned chair arm as he hastily unbuttoned his jeans.
Figuratively speaking, he was in in interesting position because he was harbouring latent sexual desires for food. Well, not very latent any more, eh, Dezzy?
It had begun in Baby. He rounded up on a memory of Ezio's that Desmond wished desperately that he could forget. It was seared into his retinas, haunting him every time he closed his eyes.
Ezio had been in Leonardo's shop. He could still smell the earthy fragrance of linseed in the oil paints, undercut by the strange harshness of turpentine, even now, outside the Animus. The table had been set with two bowls of pasta. Leonardo ate quickly and absently, clearly ready to get back to his painting.
What Desmond had not expected was the sudden carnal rush. At first he thought Ezio was secretly holding the flame of a crush on Leonardo. It was not implausible. However, after Leonardo left the room, the feelings redoubled. Colour Desmond perplexed!
He soon realized, though, that these odd feelings emanating off of Ezio were not directed to Leonardo or indeed even another human. That hungry look in his eye was not just from an empty stomach---the man wanted his dinner. Like, wanted wanted.
Desmond was a strange mix of horrified and ashamedly turned on while Ezio... err... went about his business. It was difficult not to be, considering he felt everything that Ezio felt. Desmond tried to reason it out---they practically share a body while he's in the Animus. Of course he's gonna be turned on if Ezio is. It's just how things work. Besides, any man would stiffen up at the sounds that Ezio was making.
Oh, hell. Who was he kidding. This wasn't about Ezio at all.
Desmond copped a quick stroke over his jeans. This was all about him, and his unleashed urges to fuck food.
In particular, cake.
It wasn't just any cake, though. This thing was a work of beauty.
It was deep, rich brown chocolate cake, baked up light and fluffy. It was decorated with smooth white butter cream icing and dotted with bright red, glossy, stem-on cherries on top. It was sitting under a transparent plastic lid, taunting Desmond.
Come fuck me, Desmond. Come ram your hard cock into my delicious depths.
He let a low groan slip past his dry lips.
It was fucking ridiculous. He did not want cake. He might want to EAT the cake, but he did not want to DO the cake.
He firmly resolved that in his mind and sat up quickly, jarring himself out of his drowsy lust-haze. Desmond buttoned his jeans again and tried to ignore the uncomfortable tension in his lower waist regions.
He focused instead on his companions. Rebecca had fallen asleep in her chair, head titled back and mouth agape, snoring intermittently. Lucy and Shaun were nowhere to be seen, also presumably sleeping. Lucy had gone on a supply run earlier and brought back some food and basic necessities. A loaf of bread, some bars of soap, a razor to replace Desmond's old one so that he could finally tame his furry face-yak, deli meats and cheeses and, as a surprise, a cake.
FILLED AGAIN: Cake Rapist (1/?)
Desmond found himself in an interesting position, both figuratively and literally.
Literally speaking, he was sitting in a black office-type rolling chair that had uncomfortably placed arm rests. At least, they were uncomfortable due to the fact that he was trying to spread his thighs far enough for... eh... ease of access. Furthermore, the hard, ill-padded back of the chair wouldn't relent as he slumped down further, leaving a horrible cramp in his neck thanks to the odd position. His elbow jabbed against the aforementioned chair arm as he hastily unbuttoned his jeans.
Figuratively speaking, he was in in interesting position because he was harbouring latent sexual desires for food. Well, not very latent any more, eh, Dezzy?
It had begun in Baby. He rounded up on a memory of Ezio's that Desmond wished desperately that he could forget. It was seared into his retinas, haunting him every time he closed his eyes.
Ezio had been in Leonardo's shop. He could still smell the earthy fragrance of linseed in the oil paints, undercut by the strange harshness of turpentine, even now, outside the Animus. The table had been set with two bowls of pasta. Leonardo ate quickly and absently, clearly ready to get back to his painting.
What Desmond had not expected was the sudden carnal rush. At first he thought Ezio was secretly holding the flame of a crush on Leonardo. It was not implausible. However, after Leonardo left the room, the feelings redoubled. Colour Desmond perplexed!
He soon realized, though, that these odd feelings emanating off of Ezio were not directed to Leonardo or indeed even another human. That hungry look in his eye was not just from an empty stomach---the man wanted his dinner. Like, wanted wanted.
Desmond was a strange mix of horrified and ashamedly turned on while Ezio... err... went about his business. It was difficult not to be, considering he felt everything that Ezio felt. Desmond tried to reason it out---they practically share a body while he's in the Animus. Of course he's gonna be turned on if Ezio is. It's just how things work. Besides, any man would stiffen up at the sounds that Ezio was making.
Oh, hell. Who was he kidding. This wasn't about Ezio at all.
Desmond copped a quick stroke over his jeans. This was all about him, and his unleashed urges to fuck food.
In particular, cake.
It wasn't just any cake, though. This thing was a work of beauty.
It was deep, rich brown chocolate cake, baked up light and fluffy. It was decorated with smooth white butter cream icing and dotted with bright red, glossy, stem-on cherries on top. It was sitting under a transparent plastic lid, taunting Desmond.
Come fuck me, Desmond. Come ram your hard cock into my delicious depths.
He let a low groan slip past his dry lips.
It was fucking ridiculous. He did not want cake. He might want to EAT the cake, but he did not want to DO the cake.
He firmly resolved that in his mind and sat up quickly, jarring himself out of his drowsy lust-haze. Desmond buttoned his jeans again and tried to ignore the uncomfortable tension in his lower waist regions.
He focused instead on his companions. Rebecca had fallen asleep in her chair, head titled back and mouth agape, snoring intermittently. Lucy and Shaun were nowhere to be seen, also presumably sleeping. Lucy had gone on a supply run earlier and brought back some food and basic necessities. A loaf of bread, some bars of soap, a razor to replace Desmond's old one so that he could finally tame his furry face-yak, deli meats and cheeses and, as a surprise, a cake.
Fuckdamnit, cake.