I hum to one of Roderich's piano tunes as I prepare chocolate fondue. Excited, so excited...
My dirty mind conceives of things to do with the chocolate that would have repulsed me only a week ago. I think of Roderich, sleeping peacefully with a smile on his face, too beautiful to touch, yet also too beautiful not to. He would be very unhappy if I were to molest him.
But his reaction to it... would be sooo beautiful to watch. I bet he is just ADORABLE when he is upset, trying to keep his gentlemanly composure while being feebly assertive at the same time...
Maybe he'll enjoy it. No, I don't want him to enjoy it. Gentlemen do NOT enjoy being molested. If he were to enjoy it, the chaste, saintly image I have of him in my head would be shattered.
I carry the fondue dish into my bedroom, turning the light on just enough so I can see his face. Gott, I cannot exaggerate how drop-dead gorgeous he is!
Some men are ruggedly handsome, some men are cute, but Roderich's dashing good looks, which fully complement his mind, attitude, and the way he carries himself, can only be described as beautiful. Such beauty is often seen in women, but the odd man that possesses it is at least ten times as beautiful. The glasses have been placed on the nightstand - oh, I simply cannot have that, him not wearing the one accessory that can make him more beautiful! I place the specs back on his face.
I pour a ladleful of chocolate fondue over his face. Is it strange that he still looks elegant even with his face smeared with muddy brown goo, his glasses fogged and smeared with it? He looks like a chief commander fallen nobly on the battlefield, muddied by a foe that has tried to disgrace him. Shame on them!
I then remember that the mud on his face is melted Lindor. I bring my face over to his lips and open my mouth to take a big lick off of them.
I lick his face everywhere like a puppy dog. His skin feels baby smooth and stubble free on my tongue, as though he waxed it, or has shaved it very close and very recently, or has hair so fine it leaves no noticeable stubble, or as though he never needed to shave it at all. And yet the flavor on the skin beneath the chocolate is so masculine - is it the memory of some sort of fine cologne that he wears, or is it his own unique flavor? It carries just a touch of testosterone, which is good - judging by its effects on men, testosterone is like salt - a little bit of it is necessary, but too much is unpleasant, and the preferred amount depends on the particular tastes of the person in question. For me, just a hint is fine, thank you.
At last, I lick the glasses clean. After I do so I become entranced by the violet jewels behind them that sparkle at me. He just woke up... now the fun can begin!
"Liechtenstein, what are you doing?" He sounds tired, but not groggy. Good, because it would be unbecoming of him to sound as though he were half passed out.
"Cleaning your face. I spilled chocolate all over it."
"Choco-what?" Roderich pushes himself upright and turns the light up so he can inspect his clothing for stains.
I push him down and, although he is stronger, he complies. I turn the light lower and put my hands on the brass buttons on his jacket.
"What are you doing?" he asks as I unbutton him while he swats his butterflylike hands at me.
"I want to see what you look like underneath!"
The open jacket reveals a prim white button shirt that has been neatly ironed and tucked in. I open the buttons to find an undershirt that is just as clean and white - how scrumptious! This man has more layers than a birthday cake! I fall nose first onto his chest and inhale it. It smells of fresh linen, edelweiss-scented fabric softener and or detergent, coffee beans, vanilla extract, and, of course, him.
I sniff the outer shirt just to compare its scent to the undershirt - crisper, less strongly of him and more strongly of the other scents. I pull that and his undershirt out from the pants, which takes some work - does he know how to tuck tightly! - and lift the undershirt to see what his chest looks like.
Just the faintest curve of muscle ripples over where a stronger man's abs would be, coated with skin so pale it took on a yellowish hue, rather than the pinkish hue of the skin of his that regularly sees daylight. Other women might be repulsed, but I favored the delicate look. I press my hands into his tummy; it has just the slightest bit of fat layering beneath the skin to lend softness. The chest hair is short, sparse, soft, and, surprisingly, pale. Roderich shivers as I play with the silky hairs, each of them curled like a miniature Mariazell.
"I... haven't waxed in a while..." he says, his voice tight with shame.
"It's OK." Even his shame is just so endearing. I feel the lean hardness of his ribs and pectorals tightening beneath the tender flab as I add a drop of chocolate to each of his nipples, even more so after I begin to suck on one of them like a baby sucks from its mother. Like chocolate milk from a baby bottle. His soft little nipples, smaller even than his mole, become pert at the touch of my tongue and lips.
I stand up and look at him. Jacket undone, shirt unbuttoned, undershirt all but removed, everything wrinkled, sticky traces of muck on his face, he looks sort of... wartorn. In an innocent, helpless sort of way. How sexy.
His facial expression looks dazed, though half asleep, perhaps dismissing this turn events as the going-ons of a strange dream of his. I press him down gently to the pillow and I grab his arm and bring it to the bedpost, hopeful that he is unaware of what I am up to with this.
He grabs hold of the bedpost while I unfasten his cuff links, wrap the open sleeves around the bedpost, and link them around the bedpost. That should keep him still for a while, should he become more awakened. I go to the other side of the bed and do the same to his other sleeve.
Yes, he will need to be fastened tight for the final destination in my journey through his vital regions. I stand still and ask myself, am I ready for this?
I swoon in the memory of his scent, the feel of his skin, the way it complemented the flavor of chocolate. Why, his body essence could be used as a secret ingredient that would make for EXCELLENT chocolate, perhaps the best in all of Europe! The memories of these sensations tingle through my body, every nerve of which screams, Yes! Yes, I want this! YES!
His pants are tight, VERY tight. It would not be proper for them to be removed. He would never remove them, except to use the restroom or change into nightclothes or take a shower.
No. A gentleman has to have his pants RIPPED OFF.
Just as I imagine Prussia might have done, out on the battlefield. How sweet would it be for him to be all helplessly torn up!
He can always patch them back up. Big Brother says he is a good enough seamstress to make his underwear last centuries.
Good think I brought another one of Brother's gifts to me - a Swiss army knife.
