"So petulant, Wyrmblood. Do you approach everything you do with such impatience?" Gaius asks; he's manuevering in the back, running his bare fingers over slick skin, down from muscle to skin to rolling Estinien's sac in his palm, before he goes back up.

He grips Estinien's hip in one hand, bandages apparent, and then uses the other to grip himself. "This is more than mere fingers, though, dragoon -- and an entirely different impalement."

There's a hot nudge of flesh, and then pushing past that loosened muscle; after all that greedy action with his fingers, Estinien's body is primed and ready to accept this larger penetration. Gaius' sock is as the rest of him: bigger than average, and hard a man can get.

Finally, he breaks control, a shuddery breath as he strokes once, twice, before he bottoms out -- hips flush to Estinien's ass. One hand goes to the hip to steady him, and the other to the back of Estinien's shoulder to keep him in place.

"S--Ser, by all that's good--" He takes his own ragged breath, no longer being able to pretend at disaffection and placid calm. "If you are unhappy, speak a word. I won't have you used roughly and take only pain from it."