Daniel speaks. It feels sensory, even this, just a story. Still pleasantly high, vaguely synaesthesic for it. Armand lets his eyes wander, tracks the journey of sticky fingertips to mouth.

"Yes," he answers.

Armand feels out curves, dips, textures across Daniel's chest in return, down the centre of him. The highest of the high has been journeyed over, but some of it lingers, remains, and it only takes a little bit of intentional thoughtlessness to feel something like ash lifting off his touches as he goes. Coloured chalk. Pencil dust.

"I don't stay in it for long," he adds. "Relatively. An hour, two hours, and I can feel it. A sensitivity. Needles."

His fingers travel to Daniel's cock, stroking along the underside it volunteers. A gently applied itch of nails.