And he doesn't have time to gather himself. Burr's lips are on his; he breathes rough through his nose. And he relents: he lifts his chin just a fraction, tilts his head just a fraction, and then the kiss is just right, and he has melted soft against the bed, sweet and liquid and perfectly pliant as Burr works the knot inside him. It is so good.
He is still being fucked, just a little. There is a book of pornography that another whore has, here -- well, she has several -- that Alexander has read, and in that book there was a profusion of blissful sighs. Always, there were blissful sighs accompanying the acts depicted, and Alexander had mocked the phrasing, but there isn't truly any other way to describe the sounds he's making. Soft and breathy, long, pleasured sounds.
Though Burr won't let him be. He wants to drift, but Burr won't stop touching him, lifting his ass, toying with him. A whore's reflex (he tells himself) has him unwrapping his legs, bracing them on the bed to either side so he can open himself more to these new attentions. A little gasp. Alexander turns his head to the side, biting his knuckles again to stifle himself.
Oh, god: it hits him again, that Burr, older, grey-haired, distinguished, is buried within him, young, so young, that Alexander is spread bare underneath him, that his wet is soaking into the trousers that he feels between his obscenely spread thighs. Once a powerful rival in his own right, now a pleasured, petted whore, with his own seed streaking his belly twice over.
When he thinks Burr is just toying with him, he opens to it. When he understands that Burr is trying to bring him off again, he draws in a shaky breath, "No, no, I can't," and a soft moan as he feels fingers enter him, feel out the tender place where he is stretched around Burr's knot. This is not foreign. Alexander has taken two cocks before. He can't explain why it feels new now, why the eroticism of Burr feeling himself in his body is almost painful in its intensity. "Burr." Quiet and wrecked. "Burr, you can't," unable to finish the thought, because he's rocked and fucked and moved on the best knot he's ever taken, and because at least half the motion is his own, as the last shreds of desire start to stir again, again. The hand that he bit down on, wet with saliva, fists in Burr's shirt. The other draws two fingers through the lines of semen on his belly and touches to Burr's lips, as Alexander watches, eyes wide with new, intimate wanting.
He tries not to show it so obviously when Burr finds the right place inside him, but he can't help it, it shows in the flicker of muscle clenching down, in the tremulous breath. Burr notices, of course he does, and then starts to tease all around that spot.
"Is this," gasps Alexander, "how you defile -- all the young men?" His body arousing itself again is ponderous and difficult, like he is dragged unwittingly from slumber. "With pleasure? Over and over -- Burr, I can't," and there are tears spilling now, of stimulation and overstimulation, spilling to the side from the corners of his eyes. His hand has dropped from Burr's shirt and is teasing at his own nipple, at the delicate skin gone swollen and tight, flushed a tender red.
no subject
He is still being fucked, just a little. There is a book of pornography that another whore has, here -- well, she has several -- that Alexander has read, and in that book there was a profusion of blissful sighs. Always, there were blissful sighs accompanying the acts depicted, and Alexander had mocked the phrasing, but there isn't truly any other way to describe the sounds he's making. Soft and breathy, long, pleasured sounds.
Though Burr won't let him be. He wants to drift, but Burr won't stop touching him, lifting his ass, toying with him. A whore's reflex (he tells himself) has him unwrapping his legs, bracing them on the bed to either side so he can open himself more to these new attentions. A little gasp. Alexander turns his head to the side, biting his knuckles again to stifle himself.
Oh, god: it hits him again, that Burr, older, grey-haired, distinguished, is buried within him, young, so young, that Alexander is spread bare underneath him, that his wet is soaking into the trousers that he feels between his obscenely spread thighs. Once a powerful rival in his own right, now a pleasured, petted whore, with his own seed streaking his belly twice over.
When he thinks Burr is just toying with him, he opens to it. When he understands that Burr is trying to bring him off again, he draws in a shaky breath, "No, no, I can't," and a soft moan as he feels fingers enter him, feel out the tender place where he is stretched around Burr's knot. This is not foreign. Alexander has taken two cocks before. He can't explain why it feels new now, why the eroticism of Burr feeling himself in his body is almost painful in its intensity. "Burr." Quiet and wrecked. "Burr, you can't," unable to finish the thought, because he's rocked and fucked and moved on the best knot he's ever taken, and because at least half the motion is his own, as the last shreds of desire start to stir again, again. The hand that he bit down on, wet with saliva, fists in Burr's shirt. The other draws two fingers through the lines of semen on his belly and touches to Burr's lips, as Alexander watches, eyes wide with new, intimate wanting.
He tries not to show it so obviously when Burr finds the right place inside him, but he can't help it, it shows in the flicker of muscle clenching down, in the tremulous breath. Burr notices, of course he does, and then starts to tease all around that spot.
"Is this," gasps Alexander, "how you defile -- all the young men?" His body arousing itself again is ponderous and difficult, like he is dragged unwittingly from slumber. "With pleasure? Over and over -- Burr, I can't," and there are tears spilling now, of stimulation and overstimulation, spilling to the side from the corners of his eyes. His hand has dropped from Burr's shirt and is teasing at his own nipple, at the delicate skin gone swollen and tight, flushed a tender red.