[ Wriothesey's eyes would be on Lyney whether he wanted it or not--he watches trancelike as Lyney licks and sucks at the digit in his mouth, inhaling slow, exhaling heavy. For the first time he allows himself the latitude to think that Lyney is beautiful. He's always known it at some level, distanced himself from it, perceived him with the flat matter-of-fact beauty assigned to paintings or statues. Now desire closes that distance, changes the lens through which Wriothesley sees him: even roughed up as he is, bruised and tousled, Lyney is hopelessly attractive. He wonders fleetingly how the other inmates hold themselves back. If they do at all. It wouldn't surprise him if Lyney has had to hand out rejections like so many flowers; at least, rejection is what he hopes for, tamping down the jealous streak that flashes dimly at the prospect of the alternative.
His breath pitches at the circle of Lyney's hand around the base of his cock, and he grunts, hips rolling to meet his touch. He wishes he didn't need two hands for this--wants to keep Lyney's mouth exactly where it is, unless he has a better designs for it--but he extracts his thumb from the warm wet suction there to properly undo his belt, button and fly, hand brushing against Lyney's as he frees his stiff heavy length from its confines. ]
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His breath pitches at the circle of Lyney's hand around the base of his cock, and he grunts, hips rolling to meet his touch. He wishes he didn't need two hands for this--wants to keep Lyney's mouth exactly where it is, unless he has a better designs for it--but he extracts his thumb from the warm wet suction there to properly undo his belt, button and fly, hand brushing against Lyney's as he frees his stiff heavy length from its confines. ]