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Summary
Henry felt something else stir in his loins, a need for a different type of release. Swallowing heavily, back of his throat still tasting of ale, he held up his cock, fingers pushing back his foreskin, supporting the head. A practiced motion, like he usually would— but not with a nobleman's half opened mouth inches from it. Not with hands, pulling at the garters of his hose as if they were the tap of a full keg of wine.
Hans kept complaining that the Devil's Den ale tastes like peasant piss. Henry jokes that he can let him compare it to the real thing.