Lace on the leather canvas
The workshop smelled of rust and old leather. The walls kept the traces of the last exhibitions: pigment stains and scratches of frames. There, between forgotten easels and linen curtains, Lucas' work table had been installed: a large mirror, silk rolls, and a lamp of warm light that gave each fold a velvety shadow. At nine o'clock the street was already empty, but Lucas was still there, folding fine nightdresses that he had made for a private parade.
Diego came in with the jeans stained with paint and the neck of his shirt open. He came from the top floor, where he had the studio. He had seen the light on and the excuse had been to borrow a square. However, when looking at the lace pieces on the table, his gaze took longer than necessary.
"Forgive the intrusion," he said, though the tone did not seem to apologize.
Luke smiled without raising his head from the black lace he held between his fingers.
"Don't bother. If you stay, close the door. The air of the ladder drys the silk.
Diego obeyed. The sound of the lock sounded like an invitation and a limit at the same time.
For a few minutes, only the silk rub was heard on the table. Lucas was measuring a lace bodice on a mannequin. Diego approached, but kept the distance. He watched the designer’s fingers stretch the fabric, how the thumb ran through the little arabesques of the embroidery.
"Do you want to try it?" said Lucas suddenly.
Diego raised an eyebrow.
- The bra?
Lucas let go of a low laugh.
"No. This other garment," he lifted a grey lace brief that looked like smoke.
Diego didn’t answer. He took off his shirt and exposed the torso: wide pectorals, a blue paint stain near his collarbone. Lucas handed him the garment. The fabric was fresh; contrasting with warm skin caused Diego to hold his breath.
The lace was adjusted to the shape of his hips and strained over his crotch. Soft pressure reminded him that the garment was more suggestion than barrier. When he looked up, Luke looked at him as if he was finishing a painting.
"Now move," said the designer.
Diego walked to the mirror. The reflection returned to him the image of a man wrapped in something that did not conceal desire, but announced it. Lucas placed himself behind him. He did not touch him yet. He only put his fingers in the air, following the contours of his shoulders without touching them.
"You feel the fabric yielding when you breathe," Luke observed.
Diego nodded. “The heartbeat in the groin had become noticeable against the lace. He turned slowly to face the other man. Between them there was barely a span of space. The leather of the old sofa that Lucas used to rest between orders seemed to shine under the low light.
Lucas then passed a hand through the inner face of Diego’s forearm, from his elbow to his wrist. The caress was so light that the lace captured the residual heat of the palm. Diego closed his eyes for a second. When he opened them again, Lucas looked directly at him.
"I can stop whenever you want," he muttered.
"Don't stop," Diego replied, and the voice became enthroned to him.
Lucas nodded only once. He accompanied the other one to the leather sofa. The furniture protested with a soft creak when Diego sat down. Lucas knelt between his legs without haste, as if he were laying a cloth. His hands went up the calves to the thighs, and there they stopped. The lace had moistened a little in the front; the gray silk adhered to the erect form that pressed from within.
"Breath," said Luke.
Diego obeyed. The air came in cold and came out hot. Lucas then slipped two fingers down the edge of the lace, following the seam that separated the fabric from the skin. The friction was so subtle that Diego felt the erection palpitating against the contact. Lucas kept his gaze fixed on the reaction: how the head swelled, how the lace tightened to almost transparent.
"You are very present," said Luke, and the phrase sounded like a compliment.
He slowly unbuttoned the button that closed his underpants. The fabric opened like a flower. Diego’s erection jumped forward, heavy, shiny skin on the tip. Lucas took it with one hand, but without pressure; he simply held it to feel the pulse. With the other hand he picked up the lace and slipped it down to the thighs, leaving the limb in the air and to the touch.
He lowered his head and, without rushing, passed his tongue all the way, from the base to the glans, picking up the salty flavor that was already pearly. Diego released a contained sound. Lucas’ hands stood on his hips, guiding him back until the sofa’s leather received all its weight. The tongue rolled around the glans, licking the groove with precise movements, and then descended to swallow half of the limb in a single, slow onslaught.
Diego put his head back. The cold leather against the skin of the thighs contrasted with the damp heat of Lucas’ mouth. The latter’s hands caressed the sides, lowered to the buttocks and went up again, measuring the tremor of each muscle.
When Diego thought he wouldn’t last any longer, Lucas joined in. He took off his shirt and pants. His own sex was hard, his head wet and dark. He opened a drawer of the auxiliary furniture next to the sofa and pulled out a small jar of almond oil. The liquid shone under the lamp while pouring it over his fingers. He knelt again, this time on the couch, gagging over Diego’s legs.
"I can prepare the way," he offered, and waited for the answer.
"Do it," Diego replied, "and the voice sounded safer than it felt.
Lucas poured a few more drops of oil on his own limb and spread it slowly. Then he bowed forward, holding one hand to the back of the sofa. With the other he reached behind himself and, with two fingers, began to open. Diego could see the movement of the wrist, how his fingers disappeared between the firm buttocks and came out shining again. The smell of almond oil mixed with that of leather and sweat.
When Lucas considered that he was ready, he strung himself back in with a gag. He held Diego’s erection with one hand and directed it toward his entrance. He lowered the body inch by inch, letting the head press and yield. The muscle ring opened around the glans, and Lucas breathed a long sigh when he crowned it. Diego felt the inner heat pressing it, the way Lucas’ body received it and narrowed it at the same time.
Once he was completely inside, Lucas remained motionless for a few seconds. His hands rested on Diego’s chest, feeling his heartbeat out of sync. Then he began to move: he climbed up to almost free him and went down again, deeper and deeper. The leather of the sofa creaked with each descent. The grey lace, now entangled in Diego’s thighs, moistened with every drop of oil that slipped.
Diego placed his hands on Lucas' hips, guiding the rhythm without forcing. The view was hypnotic: the designer's body waving, the belly tense, the sex of both rubbing when Lucas came down at all. The smell of hot leather, the wet sound of penetration and the small groans escaping from Lucas' throat filled the space.
The climax arrived gradually. Diego felt the orgasm grow from the base of the spine, stretching out through his thighs. Lucas bowed forward, sticking his torsos. His mouths were found in a kiss that tasted of sweat and almond oil. When Diego ran, it was with a grunt content that vibrated against Lucas’ lips. He felt the heat flooding his partner’s interior, how the inner walls contracted around him in rhythmic spasms. Lucas reached his own climax seconds later, pouring over Diego’s belly without looking away.
Lucas got up slowly. The semen slipped through the inside of his thigh. He picked up the gray lace from the floor and left it on the table. Then he went back to the sofa and lay next to Diego, sharing the same hot leather.
"That bra is yet to be finished," said Luke, though the voice sounded lazy.
Diego smiled and passed a finger through the paint stain he still had on his collarbone.
"Tomorrow," he replied.
Outside, the street remained silent. Inside, the smell of leather, oil and desire was mixed with the lace I expected, intact, on the table.
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