"You could do anything to me," Burr gasps, as that finger works it's way in, "and I wouldn't be able to stop you. If you wanted to fuck my ass or my mouth. I wouldn't fight back, even if I wanted to." And he twists his hips down, lower onto those fingers.

"There would be enough come, to ease your way in," and his lower half clenches then, squeezes tight around that intrusion, flutters as he moans. Hamilton's fingers are nudging towards something, deeper, some wonderful spot, and Burr cannot help but try to fuck himself back, to urge Hamilton on.

He has never been taken before, in this way. Had Hamilton's fingers, but no one has ever breached him, stuffed a cock in him, when it could just as easily slip into his cunt--him and Bellamy, teenagers stolen away after church, curled in straw and touching those places for the first time, easing into slickness, fueled only by want and instinct and curiosity. That first orgasm, the first time being filled, confusion and delight at being knotted, the following pregnancy scare.

The heartache, when Bellamy had died. Things to not think about, when he can be so easily distracted.

He reaches up, to where Hamilton's erection is straining against his pants, grips him through the fabric, squeezing and working his palm up and down. He wants to lick him, to drool over the fabric, but with his legs spread so he cannot but wiggle against Hamilton's fingers.

"Your cock," Burr gasps, "I want your cock. I want you to knot me--to come in me. The first. Mark me."