private storyline ..... b1?

[non_stop]

It turns out you can't write your way out of hell when you're an omega.

So Alexander Hamilton -- not his birth name, not this time -- decides to take a different route. Born into abject poverty, again in the Caribbean, he earns his way out.

And, in New York, he leverages what he's learned, his cleverness and his quickness and his persistence, into a position at a bawdy house that's clean, safe, and run by an alpha woman who is fiercely protective over her whores.

He does not hope for more than this. He saves, obsessively, and invests. He cannot be a statesman like this. He cannot write financial systems to into existence. (And he sometimes doubts whether he ever did those things -- sure, he remembers philosophy, he can quote in a Latin that he never learned, but it all seems so unlikely. So bizarre.)

He is a prized commodity quickly, in this brothel. He likes it that way. When his next heat approaches, the alpha madam raises his price.

To his surprise, someone new meets that price.

He is in only the early stages right now, pre-heat, warm skin and a welcoming scent rising. He's horny, but he's not even close to out of his mind. He's never gone out of his mind, even in heat.

He waits, in his rooms, with the broad mirror, the wide bed, the luxurious sheets. Waits for his client.

Comments

[slowtoanger]

Alexander may close his eyes, but Burr will not allow him to forget who he is with, who it is who is buried inside him. He shouldn't have time to gather himself, before his fourth orgasm. Should be kept flushed and overwhelmed and out of his mind. Was made to be kept like this--filled, fucked, used. My, how good it would be for Burr to take him home, to hide him away in his townhome, too young for him and very pregnant. How many children, could Burr plant in him, before old age rendered him infertile?

Alexander's flesh is young, supple, wanting. He seems almost shocked, at the pleasure wrung from him. Perhaps he lied, and this is his first heat, or his first with an alpha who knows the joys of bringing another pleasure. Before Alexander has caught his breath Burr is kissing him, delicately nipping, sucking at his lips, and beginning slow, delicate circles of his hips, rocking them. God bless heat pheromones, or he would not still be hard, though he had hears tell that he consorts with the devil, in the department of virility--yet even those rumors have died down, with the death of his political career.

Ah, nothing so worthwhile to steal his attention, with Alexander here, spread out before him. He is determined to fuck him one more, to get him good and truly sullied, yet right now he can do more than fuck him shallowly, for as much as he enjoys pulling the knot tight against Alexander's entrance and plunging that small distance back in. His hands creep lower, to the swell of Alexander's ass, massaging, feeling the swell of each buttocks in his hands.

Delighted, to find the slick has run so much to easy cover this second hole, and soak the bedclothes beneath them. Easy, to slip one finger in his, drinking in that little shocked gasp, the way his body jolts around his cock. Burr takes care, probing inside him--a bit of pressure through that internal wall, rubbing from both sides, as his knot rocks inside him. A second finger, circling, teasing, slipping inside, searching out that point of pleasure.

[non_stop]

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.

[slowtoanger]

Oh God, Alexander begs so pretty. Begs, even as he hurls himself into abasement, eyes-watering, head thrown back, pulling at gloriously dusky nipples. Burr licks the semen from his hands eagerly, bends even to lick at his tears. For all he begs Burr to stop, he is sure if he actually did Hamilton might fight him, tied together or no.

"Oh yes," Burr breathes, "those things they wrote about me in the papers were not even the worst of it," punctuating each phrase with a cruel twist of the finger. "I took great pleasure in finding them young and naive, inviting them to my home and showing them the pleasure that could be extracted from their bodies. As overwhelmed as you are, by the time I was done. And those older ones, who knew a bit better--I took pleasure in opening myself to them. Letting them find their release in my body, in exchange for a few political favors. How do you think there were so many burrites?"

And Burr laughs, because Hamilton cannot do anything, as Burr confirms each and every one of the old Hamilton's anxieties--things that drove the man half-mad, when he was alive. They are knotted together, and Hamilton could not get away if he wished to, yet he seems not to wish to--scrambling, against every minstration, wiggling on Burr's cock, and yes, god yes, it feels so good, those small hitching movements, the site of him.

Burr can feel his cock twitch, the effusion of something hot, and he begins fucking him in earnest, punching out what sounds he can, as his fingers work and press and massage. Oh, if only he could fuck him both those places at once, spear him in the second manner, while still knotted in the first, use something larger than his finger--perhaps he should procure a facsimile of that organ, if they ever were to do this again.

He bends, an awkward stretch, bats Hamilton's hands away, begins to suck at his nipples--to feel the evidence of pleasure rattling from his body to Burr's own. Clenching down, fluttering as Burr sucks, bites, works those nubs in his mouth. Only a little more--a few more of those high-pitched, desperate noises, of Hamilton, squirming against him, crying, for Burr to come again, spilling inside him. Feeling his cock twitch, his knot pulse, through the fingers in Hamilton's ass.

[non_stop]

"The thought maddened me," confesses Alexander. "I dreamed of your cock -- your lips --" The satisfaction in knowing Burr now finds himself undone inside Alexander is intense, as heady as coming on Burr's tongue. If his body is just an instrument of pleasure now, at least he knows that Burr could not resist, even though he tried. He tried to leave.

"I pulled at myself under my desk imagining my cock in your mouth -- your hot breath -- holding you on me while I knotted -- halfway down your throat. You looked at me and you always seemed to know." Jerks and twitches on Burr's fingers, fucking himself back down on those, even though it makes it worse on him, grinds that knot against what feels like the base of his cock, from the inside. "Only one thing I could do better than you, every time," his fingers weaving into Burr's hair as he bites one of Alexander's nipples, and for an instant Alexander has to hold himself back, sure that he could have come from that alone. "Did it with Washington, when you couldn't come close.

"Seducing older men." And he arches up, tightening spasmodically on Burr's knot, milking him for the fluid that Alexander imagines as a sort of balm inside him, a salve to slow the relentless desire.

But this time when he climaxes, he goes so tight on Burr that it actually does hurt, his body unwilling to loosen or let go, and it feels like he might tear himself on the sheer size of the knot still within him. The whimper that comes out of him is pathetic and wounded, and Burr's cock the knife still embedded in that wound.

Alexander is wrecked, limp, face smeared with tears and sweat and saliva, blood trailing from the flushed gland on his neck. He laughs, sad and breathless. "I like this shot better than the other."

[slowtoanger]

Alexander, Alexander, Alexander, Alexander--the steady manta in Burr's head at that beautiful body tightening on him, at the way he falls apart so wonderfully, beautiful and wounded and perfect.

Burr can hardly move, carved out, panting, yet still he responds to Hamilton's whimpers, rolls them so Hamilton is on top, cradles him against his chest.

"Shhh," Burr whispers, "It's alright now. You can feel it, can't you? My seed inside you. Soothing your heat--you'll be alright. You can rest--my beautiful little whore." And Burr strokes his hair, rocks him gently, as one would do a baby. His mind is still caught up on the image--Hamilton bent over Washington's desk, Burr himself, on his knees for Hamilton's cock, Hamilton, with his hand down his pants as Burr worked, oblivious, just across the room.

A little twitch, to his aching cock--oversensitive, abused. But it is too soon, and these things, pulled from Hamilton in the grips of pleasure, will have to be savored. Tucked away for another time. Burr has no intention of letting him go, now. Not after so perfect a tumble, the two of them, coming together so beautifully. Not after tasting him.

[non_stop]

He's braced for more taunts, more belittling. He can't say he doesn't deserve it, that he didn't invite every indignity visited upon him. Instead, as he starts to feel small and vulnerable, Burr switches their positions, and he melts gratefully into the position that hardly strains his cunt at all. Knees splayed to the outside of Burr's waist, and his body curled on top of Burr's, face pressed against the collar of his shirt.

Burr makes him imagine it. Closes his eyes, and when he is very still, he can feel the very slight twitches of Burr's cock as it comes inside him, comes and comes.

"Do you want it to root in me?" he asks, a murmur. "I think Benedicta wants me pregnant by you." He'd be easier to control. He'd be tied down. "She doesn't want me to go west." Doesn't think about how that's dangled his plans in front of Burr's nose. Lots of people want to go west, these days. There are opportunities in the west. Even for defiled omega sluts.

Beautiful. Is he beautiful? Does Burr find him beautiful?

"Took me clothed," sighs Alexander, without real rancor. His hand drifts down to where they're joined, and he probes, apparently feeling the knot inside him, then touching the open trousers, where he's left slick. "Someone'll have to take care of this before you go, though," and perhaps there's a little satisfaction that he's at least inconvenienced Burr in return for the power move.

He pulls his fingers away, and glances over them. Checking for blood, though Burr may not realize that. There is none, which is a relief.

Once he sees he's uninjured, just a bit sore from being so well-used, he relaxes as much as he can. He doesn't go into the ordinary light doze, the trance that most omegas experience at this time, satisfied and languorous. He is tired, so tired, but the subtle undercurrent of anxiety that permeates his entire existence won't quite fade. Especially since he's in heat. He learned early on that he could control himself in heat better than the alphas around him. Small he may be -- small enough that they were thoroughly surprised when he showed the skill of someone trained under General Washington in the war.

"You paid for the night," he mumbles, after a time, drowsy but unable to let go that last little bit, though he wants to, he longs to. "Are you going to use it?"

[slowtoanger]

"As you said, you've soiled my clothing. I don't see how I could go, without a good measure of embarrassment. Though letting all of New York see how I've taken you has its appeal. The same as you swelling with my child does--" turning heated as the end, and Burr's hand drifts down again to massage at his ass. Not probing, but claiming. "Why should you want to go to the west, when you have someone here who can satisfy you? Don't tell me you've ever been fucked like that before."

And as he speaks Burr continues his massage, deep into the tissue of his ass and back. Starts those little purrs, which omegas in heat find so appealing. "You should like to nest, shouldn't you? Hm, perhaps I should bring you some blankets. Fine things, for my whore. Soft things, and beautiful, jeweled things. Nothing compared to your own looks, of course. Perfect eyes, hair as men weave tales of. If one saw you swimming, I daresay they would take you for a siren."

Oh, but for all those things, for all that Hamilton used to enjoy dressing himself in fine things like a paradise bird's plummage, there are things he might like more, for his current situation.

"Or books--" Burr says. "I should like to surround you with books. Fine parchment, silver-tipped quills. What would you write, this time around? Still try to shake New York politics to the core, even swollen with my child?"

[non_stop]

No, he's never been fucked like that before, and damn Burr for being able to see that, anyway. Damn him for making Alexander feel so well taken care of, damn him for making Alexander want more. He's tried so hard, in this life, not to want more. He has to work at it every single day, because the nature of Alexander Hamilton was always the wanting.

He tenses a little, at the purrs. Against his instinctive reaction to burrow closer to the alpha's body, to go easy. There is too much to fear.

Burr's words invoke a bright, pale sort of yearning, like the weak sunlight after a storm. He wants... he does want to nest. And it would be so easy to be petted and kept, dressed in finery -- he can see it, he can imagine.

But it's the books that draw a hesitant, mournful sound out of him. It is so difficult to acquire books, and when he does he hides them away, hoards them in the dark spaces of his rooms. The world has learned so much more since his first life, and he wants to take it all in, and he can't. Impossible to advance politically as a bastard son of a whore, but as an alpha he could do the impossible and be admired. As an omega, the doors are closed.

He knows better than to think this is any more than talk. Burr will take great pleasure in discarding him once the night is done, and Hamilton will drink whatever it takes to prevent a child from taking root, no matter what he's starting to wish.

Burr has hit too close to what he needs, and it makes him want to fuzz out, let go, let Burr take him. And a part of him is relaxing, emitting a gentler sort of pheromone.

"I don't need a quill to do that," he says, a whisper, in Burr's ear: "Powerful men buy whores. Young omegas with sweet fresh --" and he clenches down, deliberately, "cunts. What makes you think I haven't been passed around like a party favor, riding them hard and hungry, kneeling with their hands fisted in my tale-woven hair, taking their seed on my face or my tongue -- listening to every secret, and every scrap?"

[slowtoanger]

"Yes," Burr breathes, "you would quite excel at that--" and he feels a twist in his stomach at the thought, of Alexander using his body in those ways. The power of it, giving one thing but taking another, beneath notice. Oh, to make them pay for underestimating him just due to his sex. They could be something terrible, together--unstoppable. If Burr were younger. And perhaps that power, that terrifying possibility and want is what kept them apart in the past. Fate, keeping balance, or something more sinister.

It makes Burr want to take him again--to force him down and fuck into him, even as he cries. But Alexander needs rest. They both need rest, and the night has hardly started.

And Hamilton is trying only to distract him, from that terrible, mournful sound that lodges in Burr's chest. Books. "I will bring you books, as many as you want, after I leave." Words whispered to whores often, easy to see he doesn't believe it. "If I don't, you may track me down," and he gives him his address, slips off the small silver ring he wears on his pinky. Slips it into his hand. A promise. Something that can be pawned, if Burr does not follow through.

"You should rest," Burr whispers, massages his scalp. "Your heat is not yet over, and I will not go down anytime soon." And once Hamilton is asleep, and they are separated, he can order some refreshment from Benedicta, hand feed it to Hamilton, like the precious, needy omega he is.

He has no illusions that he will be able to convince Hamilton to come home with him, after this first time. Oh, but he will be back. And he will bring books and parchment and all kind of fine gifts. The way one buys a whore, or keeps them. How much would it take, to break the man who was once opposed to him enough to die away from whatever ties him to this place?

[non_stop]

It almost works. Burr listens, and he likes it, on more levels than one.

Then something happens. Burr changes the script. His fingers have woven into Alexander's hair, rubbing slow on his scalp. He is still purring, subtly, in a way Alexander can feel better than he can hear, a vibration that gently, gently warms him, settling a restlessness that he can always feel at the pit of his chest.

And Burr changes the script. He doesn't follow the cues, the direction, the play-interaction between whore and buyer. A promise, that Alexander doesn't believe, and then a ring, slipped onto his hand, that he looks to in honest bewilderment. What does Burr mean by it? What does he want?

But his mind can't chase itself in circles when he is being petted so. After he has been so satisfied.

Burr must work some hypnosis on him, some animal magnetism, because Alexander does not respond, not with words; instead, he is soothed to a light and troubled sleep. But: a true sleep, nonetheless.

[slowtoanger]

It takes a half hour for his knot to go down. He doesn't rush it, rather he encourages it--cradled by the soft wet heat of Hamilton's body. Hard tothink much of anything, in that warm, relaxed space, omega asleep on his chest. Easy to drift off himself, if he's not careful.

But he doesn't drift off. After half an hour, when he can feel his knot beginning to soften, he shifts them. Carefully, laying Hamilton on his back on the bed, and reaching to that rag on the bedside table, gathering up the liquid that gushes free as his cock slips out. How beautiful Hamilton looks from this vantage point between his legs. How used, how ruined, how fully and completely fucked. Easy, to extend his tongue out, wake him with gentle licks. But Hamilton has been used hard. He needs sleep.

A small washbasin--washing between Hamilton's legs as he sleep, dabbing thighs and ass and cunt. He shifts, at the touch of cold water but does not wake. After Burr strips--unable to save his breeches, gets down to his shirt, sets the rest in the hall to be laundered, sees a platter of food--breads and cheese and small pieces of fruit, already left for him.

A good madame, anticipating needs and adding it to his bill. He should kiss her.

He positions himself against the headboard, Hamilton on his chest, and wakes him with small kisses, at his neck and head and face. Half awake, tearing off a small square of sweet bread, holding it to his lips, purring. He wants to take care of Hamilton. Wants to pamper him.

[non_stop]

Stirs slowly, being drawn back to himself from a great distance. Kisses and alpha-smells, purrs that draw out echoes of the same sound from low in his own throat. He feels warm and good, contentment to such a degree that it makes his skin tingle and prickle, pleasantly, along his scalp, his spine.

He is taking something between his teeth, a bit of sweet licked off of fingertips. Bites down as his eyes flicker open once, and close again as he stretches, arms drawn up over his head, drawing his body to its full length and then shifting up a little to melt back on the presence behind him.

Burr, he thinks. It's so hard to care who it is, though. (Maybe Burr notices the flicked glance to a certain spot at the headboard, a bit of leather looped and tucked against the mattress; a sheathed knife, in case. It isn't a conscious move on Alexander's part and he has no desire or intent to use it. His caution is just written into him on an almost cellular level.)

This is what Burr wants. This is what many alphas want, and Alexander has played out the fantasy before, when he wasn't in heat, of being nourished and protected by the strong alpha mate. Never thought it would be the dark-eyed man that featured in Alexander's nightmares before he knew what past lives were.

It's instinct, he tells himself. Just instinct. It shouldn't unnerve him, that he's never been in quite this state before, the fever-warm heat washing through him, but without urgency, without active need, being in a warm bath and not a boiling pot. Shouldn't be so strange that he likes it.

Eyes stay closed as he lets himself be fed, lets himself wake slowly as the heat also wakes. Little kitten-licks to catch fruit's juices left on Burr's fingers. Tipping his head to the side to draw alpha into his lungs.

[slowtoanger]

"Good boy," Burr says, as that small pink tongue darts out, chasing juice and leaving behind a trail of warmth. Alexander is so much more accommodating upon waking, further into his heat. Stretches against Burr, purrs. Content, even on noticing Burr, his surroundings. Nothing of the anxiety of before, as he melts under the ministrations.

What had changed? Further into his heat? Or had Burr done something to make him feel safe, wanted? Was it a trick of the ring, or of everything that came before--orgasms drawn out under a skilled tongue? He is breathing in Burr's scent, that much as clear, and though his eyes dart once to that stip of leather--likely concealing a weapon--he makes no move for it, seems to forget it once his eyes leave it, relaxing once more. That he should need it at all is troubling, but Burr is not naive enough to be surprised. Many whores keep weapons at hand, for unruly or drunk customers. But someone hurting Alexander--pushing him down before he is ready, or despite his struggles--

He doesn't realize it before it happens--a rush of protection and safe spilling out of his scent glands, and his noises grow deeper, more rumbly, so they might be felt more through his chest. Tangles their legs together, as he continues to bestow small pieces of food. How wonderful Alexander's lips look, curling around a bite of strawberry, suckling at Burr's fingers.

He can feel himself grow warm, forces it down.

"You're so pretty," Burr says, and runs a thumb under his eyelids. "How did you ever get to be so pretty?"

[non_stop]

The more conscious he gets, the more he realizes that he feels just really, really good. It feels like a full-body purr, like someone set him out in the fresh spring sunshine and let him take it in until he's more made of lazy warmth than he is of flesh and blood. He, for once in his life (his lives) is not in a rush. Doesn't want to push. Doesn't want to struggle.

He is aware, very, of his hips, his chest rising and falling, the length of his legs. Very aware, once he shifts position a little, of how he can press his wet (of course he's wet) cunt against Burr's thigh, not urgently, just because he likes it.

Is this what heat is supposed to feel like? Could he have had this all along? He doesn't feel like he's out of his mind with it, doesn't feel the way he's seen other omegas look -- feverish and wretched unless they were being knotted, outright begging in need. This is just pleasant. There is no particular pleasure, nothing so intense that it can't be disregarded, just a harmony and ease that he isn't sure he's ever felt, except in the sweetest of times with Eliza.

His fingers curl around his own length, not fully hard, and he holds himself, massages with his fingertips, draws his thumb over the head. Not even opening his eyes, not for more than brief glances. He bites Burr's thumb, gently, because he likes the way it feels between his teeth.

Burr's words send a rush of those tingles all along him, and his eyes definitely open now, dark and hungry. He realizes that he's arched up in pleasure, just a bit, shivering in satisfaction. He must be pretty; Burr said so. Burr has every reason not to say so, and Burr said so.

The idea of Burr's eyes on him is powerful, and this is the first thing that really stirs him to movement. He slides off Burr's lap and twists around, swinging a leg over him so he's straddling Burr's hips.

"I feel good," he says, with a little frown, and if he sounds still a little bewildered at that, who can blame him? For someone who is accustomed to the endless drum-beat of ambition, keep going, keep going, non-stop, this laziness is a foreign country. He finds he's displaying himself, spine straight and shoulders back, a proud carriage; his fingers comb through his hair, gently falling over his shoulder. He likes how Burr looks at him. "I feel like I can breathe." Like his rib cage has loosened two settings, something heavy and tight at his breastbone abruptly released.

And, in an incredulous tone: "I like this." He likes it very, very much.

[slowtoanger]

Yes, that is nice--the way Alexander rubs himself against Burr's body, leaving streaks on his thigh. Better, when he shivers at Burr's words, the way his eyes darken, the hand that wraps around his cock, the way he straddles Burr, above him, curves his spine.

Good enough to eat. The food has been set aside, and Burr grabs Alexander's hips. Squeezes. He can't help but watch, transfixed, as that hand moves up and down his length, trailing over the head, the slit. He wants to taste him. Wants more to watch, as Alexander works at himself, settled in Burr lap.

"You like it, when I call you pretty," he says. "When I call you a good boy?" And he swears he hears breath catch, hand speeding up. "Do you like being here, spread out for me like a work of art?" His hands creeping up, rubbing over his stomach, his chest. A bit dizzy, at being able to touch him. Knowing he could taste him, if he but bent forward.

"You're so pretty, Alexander. So perfect. Look at the way your hand moves on your cock, the rise and fall of your chest. Your cunt, dripping. Your very existence is pornographic--"

Working himself up, watching, growing hard. He can't take it--wants him in his mouth, now. Flips them with a growl and slides down the bed, so he is hovering over that cock. Alexander, watching him. Burr, watching Alexander.

He grips lightly, feels the weight of that cock in his hand. Maintains eye contact as he extends his tongue, licks over the head.

"You said you once dreamed of fucking my mouth, having me on my knees for you. Why not now? Why not do it now? Would you like to fuck my throat? I am amenable, open," and his breathing betrays his need, his want. Practically salivating at the prospect, of Hamilton holding him down, gagging him on cock.

[non_stop]

He is even easier to manhandle now.

"Told you," sighs Alexander, rolled onto his back, as he curls up his legs and spreads them apart, putting himself even more lewdly on display for Burr's dark, glittering eyes. "A surpassingly gifted whore." Surpassingly gifted at everything he tries. He draws his fingertips up his slit and then licks them off, and then Burr is on him, a slow lick at the oh-so-sensitive head that has Alexander shuddering, his hips lifting off the bed.

"Yes. No." He frowns in thought again, his thumb crushing Burr's bottom lip. "Not like that," he decides, and Alexander takes him by the shoulders and drags Burr down so he's on his back. And then Alexander straddles his shoulders, one hand on the headboard for balance. "Like this," he says, and he feeds his cock into Burr's very amenable mouth. Hips slowly sinking, and he leans his forehead against the headboard. "This is good, this is how I wanted to see you," he says, "sinking into you, down and down. It's only that I can't, mm," a little surge of his hips as Burr tongues at the slit at the top, a stutter in his movement and his words. "I can't knot you. I never knotted anyone's mouth, but I wanted to. I wanted to know what it felt like. Has everyone ever knotted your mouth?" As he sinks deep, deep, until he feels the working of Burr's throat. "I'd let you knot my mouth. Do you want to knot my mouth? You can, later. You can even have me fuck myself on a phallus, if you'd like -- I have some. I'd ride it, and look up at you... like that, the way you're looking at me."

Open-mouthed gasp. "Your mouth is so hot. Your lips are tight -- that's it, don't let me pull out, just," as Burr's lips seal just under the head of Alexander's cock, tightening, at his instruction. "Just that -- that -- I can believe it, I can believe you sucked every cock in New York politics. As good as a whore, and I've had plenty."

He guides one of Burr's hands between his legs. "I'm dripping," he says, breathlessly. "I've never dripped before. Is heat always like this?" Both hands braced against the headboard, now, as he rocks his hips, slow and smooth strokes into Burr's mouth.

"I couldn't ever decide how I wanted to come," Alexander continues, and hisses as Burr's fingers quest inside of him. "In your throat, so you never had the chance to spit it out? On your tongue, so I could make you swallow?" He withdraws, and presses the head of his cock against Burr's face, his lips, his cheek. "On your face, so Troup could see? Mark you as a slut." Sinking in again -- "Or on your suit, so you had to work, work at blotting it out? Pretending it didn't happen." He pulls back. "Which one? Ask me for the one you like the best."

[slowtoanger]

Burr likes giving blowjobs. Is good at them, skilled. Had learned to give and receive, on his knees, for the boys at Princeton, in that army, for Jefferson. He knows how to relax his throat, how to let someone feed him inches of cock--how not to gag on it. Knows how to suck, how to move his tongue along that delicate head. Knows how to vary pressure--how to suck hard, just before they come, to leave them weak in the knees. Knows how to swallow, knows how to beg for more.

Oh, but Hamilton is good, so good, and his only regret is that he can't speak with a cock in his mouth, to whisper more pretty things in his ear. But he tastes good, feels goon on his tongue--the quiet, slick sounds, the panting. He is hard, painfully--his cock hard against his stomach, tenting his shirt.

"My ass," Burr gasps, swallowing, when Hamilton pulls away, leaving him painfully bereft. He feels half-wild, squirming with need. He can smell it--the slick. Can feel it, dripping onto his shirt. "You could come in my ass--or in my mouth. I would drink you down. Swallow all of it." His hands scrabbling, pinching nipples, feeling skin. Wonderful, beautiful, beautiful.

Perhaps Hamilton could knot Burr's mouth some day--slip his balls his, stretch his jaw so wide he could do nothing but take it. Oh, and the thought of him fucking himself on a phallus--enough to make him whimper. Perhaps he can fuck Burr and take it at the same time. God, he would look beautiful like that. Paintings, Burr should have paintings done of him, filthy ones. Says as much, as he squirms with need.

[non_stop]

"I won't wait for that," decides Alexander. He could, but he doesn't want to. Not with Burr looking up at him like that. "I want to come now." Demanding; he's heard some omegas become demanding in heat. Evidently he's one of them. Evidently Burr doesn't hate the idea. He rubs this tip of his cock all along Burr's lips, coaxing his tongue out to dart and lick where Alexander can see it. He watches in fascination, and the climax actually takes him by surprise: suddenly his thighs are trembling and he's twitching his hips forward, thrusting into Burr's mouth without warning and shooting hard against the back of his throat. Burr does gag, a little, but then his hand comes up to cup Alexander's stones, massage at them as they empty, milk them dry.

He is still hard, only starting to soften, as he clambers down and kisses Burr, his own tongue following the path of his cock. He tastes his come. Their noses bump and he is clumsy and he doesn't worry about being perfect. He is still content.

"Later," he breathes, against Burr's mouth. "I can fuck you later. Push my come up with your tongue, I want to lick it out of your mouth." It's disgusting and he loves it, and so does Burr.

Burr's cock is sliding against the entrance to his body again, and Alexander closes his legs a little so Burr can fuck his wet thighs.

"Do you want my cunt again?" Alexander asks, nosing at his gland, nipping at it. "I always thought God must have meant that I deserve it, making me an omega -- that it must be Providence saying I deserve every cock willing to defile me. Saying I deserve to be used like a slut, made a whore. I've taken so many. Filthy sailors, merchants... Made myself popular because I didn't care if they were Negro, I'd take them, if they had the coin, and they did.

"If you've seeded me, I deserve that too. You want to keep me for that, don't you -- watch me big-bellied, young and sweet but too much of a slut to close my legs for a man who could be my grandfather." He's just rubbing his cunt on Burr's cock, now, gasping, sliding wet along the length of him.

[slowtoanger]

God, if ever there was a time Burr's body might give out, his heart, or some other vital organ, it is now. He thinks it possible to come from just that--from Alexander, eating his own spend from Burr's mouth, and then whispering filthy things, sliding his body along Burr's cock but not taking it.

"The only cock you deserve is my own," Burr growls, and grabs his neck, trying to control the torturous wiggling of that body. "Though I would gladly pay to watch you take each one. Would gladly keep you in my house, pregnant and naked."

"Ride me," Burr says, wrapping his hand around Hamilton's cock again, coaxing back towards hardness. "Fuck yourself on me, if you really want it." Ah, but a thought then, as he watches, mesmerized, the slide of his cock between Hamilton's thighs, wet with slick. He brings his other hand, the one not on Hamilton's throat around, to rub over his other hole, testing. Still stretched from earlier, or eased back towards tightness?

"Perhaps you should get that phallus, so you can take both at once. Face away from me, so I can fuck you on it, greedy little slut that you are. Do you think that would satisfy you? Two cocks, claiming your holes? Would that I could knot in both, though perhaps if you are good you might ride my face after, and I could clean you out with my tongue."

[non_stop]

His hole feels furled tight again, on first investigation, but slick has leaked here as well, and as Burr presses a fingertip inside, he finds Alexander is quite accommodating, knowing perfectly well how to relax the ring of muscle to allow all manner of intrusions.

"Then pay," Alexander encourages, breathless. "I would show you. See what your handiwork has done -- the great Alexander Hamilton, now just a pretty little thing made to be fucked."

He rolls over, drags a small wooden box from under the bed. Fumbles at it, and emerges with two choices: one obscenely thick phallus of polished leather with a bit of give to it, and another, overall slimmer, made of solid glass. He clambers over Burr, not yet sinking down on him. "Try them inside my cunt," he suggests, "see how they feel and slick them up at the same time." He kneels up, ensuring he is open and available.

[slowtoanger]

Oh, but Burr should like to use them at the same time. To insert one quickly into his cunt if only to wet it, and move it back while fucking him with the second. He reaches up, slides fingers into Hamilton's cunt, yet he need not ensure he is wet, for the obscene amount of slick that rolls down his fingers, wets his hand.

The glass one will do nicely, he thinks, to prepare him. He trails it in the slick--cold and hard, before thrusting it in suddenly, down to the hilt. Drinks in any sounds, unable to tear his eyes away from the way it disappears in him, yet as soon as Alexander seems to be gathering himself, found that spot of pleasure, he pulls away--draws it out, slick, not yet warmed, and pressed it cruelly against his ass. Presses, not hard enough to cause injury, but hard enough to breach him, feeds each inch in slowly as he prepares the second larger, pushing it into his other hole at the same time.

"How does that feel?" Burr breathes, and he feels transfixed, helpless, at the sight of Hamilton speared so wide. Yet this is not so good a view, so he shimmies down the bed until his face is beneath Hamilton, so each drop of slick down those obscene bodies lands on his face, licks around the intrusions, drinking in each shudder, shaking legs.

"Oh, now you are very pretty. Perhaps this is what I should have a painting made of. Your holes, so wonderfully stuffed. I can see the muscles quivering, Alexander. Trying to draw more inside. A body made for fucking."

[non_stop]

He isn't watching the phalluses, he's just watching Burr. How Burr's eyes drink him in. Grey hair, wrinkles at the corners of his mouth and eyes. Chin grown more prominent, eyes more sunken. He is fascinated, distracted, and doesn't pay enough attention to brace himself for the sudden penetration. Even just this one thing seems to light up his nerves all the way along his belly and thighs, a glow of hot, violated pleasure, and he trembles, buckling a little. Has to lean his weight down on it, and he gasps as it presses up against the end of him, the place where his womb begins. But as he's about to tell that to Burr, it withdraws, and then it's at his ass.

He's ready for it, relaxing the one hole, readying himself to be penetrated -- but Burr has the other, the thick and leather one, at his cunt at the same time. Both are relentless, pushing, pushing -- the head of the glass one makes it inside him, and his ass tightens around it, trying to squeeze but unable to. He can't help it, his body tightens reflexively just because of the overwhelmingly broad, leather cock in his cunt, just on the edge of too big for him. He can't hold himself up on his knees, folding down to brace himself on his hands, too. Can't stop himself from working his hips down on it, jaw dropped open, panting with little rhythmic breathy sounds.

"It hurts in me," gasps Hamilton, "the glass is so hard. It can't bend, and I have to -- you have me spitted on it," the sentence trailing into a high moan as the sensitive place inside him is crushed under the weight of the overwhelming penetration.

"Made for it," he whispers, echoes. "Made for you."

[slowtoanger]

It makes him hurt. Some deliciously vulnerable, small, quivering thing in his stomach, to see Hamilton gasping, fucking himself downward even as he keens. Burr takes pleasure in working the phalluses against each other--grinding them in small circles towards the other, fucking him hard and quick. Drawing out while the other is in, pushing in while the other is out, so there is no outlet, no relent.

He laps at him, drinking him in. Never enough, of his sweet, pheromone-thick slick. He can feel the quivering muscles against his tongue, can taste each pleasurable thrust, as Hamilton's body responds with wet.

Made for you, Hamilton says, and Burr moans, hips jerking against nothing. And he needs to be in him, needs to be inside of him now, this moment, right now. He draws both of the phalluses free as he slides back up the bed, yanks Hamilton back up by the hair, harsh, so that he falls backwards onto Burr's cock, and he begins thrusting forward immediately, slapping skin and grunting. The other phallus, the thicker one, is there, in his hand--pressing against his hole, stretched already from the glass.

"Do you think you can take it?" Burr pants. "Do you think you can take it? Split yourself open on it? For me, for me?"

[non_stop]

"Oh." He just takes Burr's cock, sinks into him smooth, like it belongs there. His ass feels open and a little bit sore, a little bit used. Can he? He hasn't taken that one in that hole, before. Has barely taken it in his body's most-used entrance.

Burr starts to fuck him, better than last time, because he doesn't tease with it. Alexander stretches, tightens as he lifts his hips to meet the thrusts, working it inside of him. Enjoying it. Savoring it. The room smells thick of pleasured omega, wanting and satisfied at once.

He has a difficult time focusing on the words. He is scattered, each thrust, each shiver of pleasure, draining the intelligence from him.

He drapes himself forward, exposing the little hole.

This changes the angle, though; he strains, strains -- "Oh, there, just there, just there, please, yes, yes," and before Burr has the chance to penetrate him with it, paroxysms ripple up his middle, and he comes hard on Burr's cock. Hard enough that he ends up braced on his knees, face pressed against the mattress, as he jolts and shivers through it.

Stimulation is just on the edge of unpleasant now, but he goes relaxed and liquid and turns his head to the side, cheek rubbing against the sheets.

"Yes," he breathes, "I can take it. I can take it. Try me."

[slowtoanger]

Burr whines, as Hamilton comes--gripping hard against Hamilton's skin, as he pushes down hard, clamps against him. He is so close to coming, with Hamilton here, like this--the way he shivers and trembles and then goes liquid. The smell of him. But he doesn't. Breathes through it, as the other hand continues to work the phallus, pushing and pushing.

His hole, growing more slack with his pleasure, and the head breaches, barely, and Burr can feel it in Hamilton--the strain, the little shivers. And Hamilton's legs are trembling now, and he is breathing hard against the sheets, perhaps drooling. Burr bucks forward, seeking pleasure, his knot small enough still to slide in and out, and he can feel the pressure of the head, even through Hamilton's body. Another push, sliding a few inches further, and Hamilton whines, begins to push himself back against it, and Burr is breathless as the sight--ass swaying, stretching, stretching.

It slips in. Hamilton cries--someplace between pleasure and pain, but he is fucking himself back, and Burr is groaning, feeling each inch of pressure against where his cock is buried, and then with his free hand he is grabbing Hamilton's hip, fucking into his roughly, driving him back on the phallus, hard, against those spots of pleasure.