"Thou takest me so well," says Laertes, and there's wonder in it--awe at the indomitable engine of Lucien's body, the flesh that can yield and not be harmed in yielding. He slowly begins to rock his hips up to meet the warmth and openness of Lucien's mouth. "If thou canst, suck hard when I pull out of thee," he whispers. "Use thy tongue along the ridge around the head--I like that so much." He digs his nails in again, deep and slow, leaving red furrows that swiftly swell into welts.