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Feyd-Rautha's teeth are lacquered; black and gleaming, like polished obsidian, like the fathoms of the sea, like a starless night sky.
Paul runs his index finger inside the Harkonnen's mouth, probing, exploratory. Each tooth is perfectly formed and—he presses the underside of Feyd-Rautha's canine—perfectly sharp. His breath is hot, and comes in barely controlled pants, and his tongue is wet as it slides along the creases of Paul's fingers.
"Behave yourself," Paul tells him.
Feyd-Rautha groans. He's hard, and has been since Paul first straddled him and pried open his mouth to peer inside. With one hand he holds Feyd-Rautha's jaw, turning his head this way and that to see the moist red and pinks of his cheeks, his gums, his tongue, the back of his throat. The Harkonnen's skin is extraordinarily pale, his teeth dyed black, but thus far the rest of him—soft flesh and hard muscle—has been familiar.
He rocks his hips, feels Feyd-Rautha's desire against him. Paul slips another finger into his mouth. Full lips close around them, sucking as Paul pushes them further in.
All the while, Feyd-Rautha gazes up at him with those intense blue eyes. He does not choke. He does not gag. He opens his mouth wider and allows Paul to press, the pads of his fingers heavy on Feyd-Rautha's tongue. When Feyd-Rautha groans again, it sends vibrations running from the tips of Paul's fingernails and up and along his forearm.
Satisfied with his investigation, he removes his fingers from Feyd-Rautha's welcoming mouth. Another test follows: Paul kisses him, gently, almost chastely, on the corner of his lips, still wet with spit.
And Feyd-Rautha raises his hands, just slightly. They hover there for a moment. Then, with a growl of frustration he claws at the sheets. Paul had told him when they started to keep his hands to himself. To behave. Paul thinks he's done exceptionally well.
Good behavior deserves a reward.
Paul palms at Feyd-Rautha's cock, hot and hard even beneath the fabric of his pants. He asks, "Do you want it?"
"Yes," Feyd-Rautha says.
"Do you want me?" asks Paul.
Feyd-Rautha exhales shakily. "Yes."
Paul kisses him again, tasting Feyd-Rautha's eager moan when he wraps his hand around his cock. He strokes it experimentally, noting the heft, the girth, the heat of it, and watches Feyd-Rautha's reactions. He brings his lips to Feyd-Rautha's ear, brushes the shell of it, murmurs, "You can hold me."
Immediately, Feyd-Rautha arms are around him, hands squeezing his hips, sliding along his back, roaming, roving, wanting.
He doesn't need a Gom Jabbar to determine whether or not Feyd-Rautha is human. Only man knows passion—knows desire. But, if Feyd-Rautha does turn out to be more animal than man—
"Tell me," Paul whispers. "Does that feel good?"
Feyd-Ruatha's pale lashes flutter so very prettily. "Yes," he answers.
Well, an animal can be trained.