"Aren't you virile enough for it?" bursts out Alexander, desperately, dragging at him, gripping at him, feeling his own wet under the curve of his ass, soaked into the sheet, the muscles of his cunt trying desperately to hold on to the manhood that won't just satisfy him, satisfy how tender and needy he feels inside. "Just fuck me!"
Burr pins him, then, with the head just inside. Burr's taunt, it must be, against Alexander, and much more effective than words. His chest swells with frantic breath, his spine coming off the bed as he tries to drive himself down on it. Nothing, nothing, just shivering tight on emptiness inside him.
"Burr," he cries, "Aaron, please, anything, please," whimpering, and even more than the words, the smell he emits is one of submission, eager and yearning, the invitation of it thick in the air. He knows, he knows that Burr wants him -- lascivious old bastard -- but he can't wait, he can't win this game. He isn't made to win, not with this body. He's made to yield.
His jaw drops open as Burr penetrates him, fully and suddenly. It shouldn't be this good. He shouldn't be so pleasured on something so simple. It's far from the biggest he's taken, and yet the breathtaking ruthlessness of it punches another cry out of him. He does all the things that are second nature to him now: bear down on it, tighten deliciously as Burr withdraws and go loose and open for him as he thrusts in. Almost seems as though it doesn't matter how he uses his muscles, though, because the amount of wet means Burr can fuck him freely.
And how he does. Alexander is already driven half out of his mind, and the punishing thrusts take him the rest of the way. Hand flies up to brace him against the headboard so he can push back. The usual dirty talk (you're so big, fuck me like you mean it) flies out of his mind and instead he's making high and rhythmic sounds of need, sounds he's never made before in earnest.
Thrusting is thrusting, he'd said once to another whore, dismissively. There isn't much difference, once you get it as hard as you like. Fuck, but he was wrong. Burr's grip is bruising-intense, but his angle is perfect. Maybe he's doing it just to make a point, just to make Alexander the helpless one; maybe the heat is making it so much better than it's felt before. Either way, Alexander feels his body lighting up with every stroke. Burr couldn't have done this to him as an alpha.
Burr couldn't have.
Right?
Now, though, Alexander is different. He is weak. His body now needs what once only tormented his mind, and the satisfaction of that need is everything. Burr is inside him, is always inside him, made him what he is, from the birthmark-stain between his ribs to the very fact of his body's age, a clock started when he breathed his last in New York an age ago. It's hard not to feel as though Burr took Alexander and molded him, changed him, just to be the perfect thing to fuck.
And his body is fertile and lush and open, and pregnancy is a very real risk. Burr could wound him in a way deeper and more permanent than a gunshot if his seed takes root in Alexander. The looming danger of that drives Alexander feral with desire.
"Burr," and he doesn't even realize that he's speaking again, "Burr," and with another man he would say fuck me, or spill praise, but instead it's Burr's name, like a prayer, and "I'm yours, I'm yours, I--" because that is what will make Burr frantic, "deeper, please, deeper, Aaron," can't breathe, can't get away, can't get enough, "I need -- knot me, I need it," the room flooding with the pheromones of frantic and frenzied omega.
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Burr pins him, then, with the head just inside. Burr's taunt, it must be, against Alexander, and much more effective than words. His chest swells with frantic breath, his spine coming off the bed as he tries to drive himself down on it. Nothing, nothing, just shivering tight on emptiness inside him.
"Burr," he cries, "Aaron, please, anything, please," whimpering, and even more than the words, the smell he emits is one of submission, eager and yearning, the invitation of it thick in the air. He knows, he knows that Burr wants him -- lascivious old bastard -- but he can't wait, he can't win this game. He isn't made to win, not with this body. He's made to yield.
His jaw drops open as Burr penetrates him, fully and suddenly. It shouldn't be this good. He shouldn't be so pleasured on something so simple. It's far from the biggest he's taken, and yet the breathtaking ruthlessness of it punches another cry out of him. He does all the things that are second nature to him now: bear down on it, tighten deliciously as Burr withdraws and go loose and open for him as he thrusts in. Almost seems as though it doesn't matter how he uses his muscles, though, because the amount of wet means Burr can fuck him freely.
And how he does. Alexander is already driven half out of his mind, and the punishing thrusts take him the rest of the way. Hand flies up to brace him against the headboard so he can push back. The usual dirty talk (you're so big, fuck me like you mean it) flies out of his mind and instead he's making high and rhythmic sounds of need, sounds he's never made before in earnest.
Thrusting is thrusting, he'd said once to another whore, dismissively. There isn't much difference, once you get it as hard as you like. Fuck, but he was wrong. Burr's grip is bruising-intense, but his angle is perfect. Maybe he's doing it just to make a point, just to make Alexander the helpless one; maybe the heat is making it so much better than it's felt before. Either way, Alexander feels his body lighting up with every stroke. Burr couldn't have done this to him as an alpha.
Burr couldn't have.
Right?
Now, though, Alexander is different. He is weak. His body now needs what once only tormented his mind, and the satisfaction of that need is everything. Burr is inside him, is always inside him, made him what he is, from the birthmark-stain between his ribs to the very fact of his body's age, a clock started when he breathed his last in New York an age ago. It's hard not to feel as though Burr took Alexander and molded him, changed him, just to be the perfect thing to fuck.
And his body is fertile and lush and open, and pregnancy is a very real risk. Burr could wound him in a way deeper and more permanent than a gunshot if his seed takes root in Alexander. The looming danger of that drives Alexander feral with desire.
"Burr," and he doesn't even realize that he's speaking again, "Burr," and with another man he would say fuck me, or spill praise, but instead it's Burr's name, like a prayer, and "I'm yours, I'm yours, I--" because that is what will make Burr frantic, "deeper, please, deeper, Aaron," can't breathe, can't get away, can't get enough, "I need -- knot me, I need it," the room flooding with the pheromones of frantic and frenzied omega.