amrev_intrigues | Private Storyline B2

Private Storyline B2

Burr goes back. Of course he goes back. How can he not go back? They spend nights together, opening each other's flesh, wrapped, circled, ensnared. And each time he comes he brings something; little gifts, trinkets, books, blankets, quills, parchment. Things he knows Alex will like, thirsts for, an attempt to plug a hole that is always widening, desperate, grasping.

He wants to tighten them. Draw them together. To draw Hamilton to him the way he has drawn other young men. To wrap him close, the way one holds a dangerous thing, slick and pointed and sharp. Oh, but this Hamilton is not the same. Perhaps if given power he will dissolve the same, into paranoia and delusion, yet this Hamilton is desperate, fragile, breakable, for as much as he covers himself in sharp edges. Not unlike the Hamilton he once knew, and yet--

Burr will not be in the position, to fall victim to him. Too old, already ruined. Perhaps they never could have been anything more than two sharp objects, poised always to cut, before. But now, maybe--. He doesn't know. He wants Hamilton to come home with him. Better than a brothel, for all he respects Benedicta. Hamilton deserves more than only bodily pleasures, as much as his need for independence burns. No less independent there, in the brothel, than he would be with Burr, but then, the brothel is an easier dependence, to no one person. Something like independence, if one could only close their eyes and wish hard enough.

Burr takes to hiring him for the day, the night, not at the brothel but at his own home. Pays extra for it--pulling in a steadier income than he ever has before. Sits with him at dinners, puts him to bed in his own room, even, on some nights, for as much as Hamilton is perturbed by such arrangments. Burr wont admit it. Would never say it. But. He is lonely. Frustratingly lonely, painfully lonely. Everyone he knows is dead, outside a few, and here is Hamilton.

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Not quite just silent. The praise, along with Burr's whole and undivided attention, has made Alexander feel not just cried out, not just fought to exhaustion, but -- kept. Wanted. Burr only just told Alexander that you swept me off my feet, and Alexander wanted to believe it, and now he can feel it. Filthy fantasies, centered on him. Actions, centered on him. Praises, centered on him. Everything centered on him.

Burr takes Alexander's hair, and begins to fuck him. If he isn't totally unresisting now, it's that he savors it unduly when Burr's cock is deep in his mouth, and strains for it in a way he can't entirely suppress when Burr pulls away.

Never more calm, no, never. Never so safe. Never belonged so well. It's on the next thrust that Alexander resists Burr pulling him back off his cock, that Alexander, pushed to a place past contentment and into euphoria, purrs, a delicious vibration where Burr's cock is in his throat.

"Fuck," Burr swears, because Hamilton purrs, which is evil and sinful and enough for his hips to twitch off the bed, for him to drop his hair and fall backwards onto the bed, twisting against the sheets.

"Again," he chokes, "again." He is meant to be in power here, control, but Hamilton purrs so rarely, makes any kind of omega sounds and god it is good, so good, vibrating straight up his cock, from the head to his balls, making him breathless, wheezing in pleasure.

He needs to control himself, needs restraint, yet Hamilton knows none, and he can feel his cock leaking in his mouth and he grinds into that cavern, lost with it, unable to do anything but ride it, say his name like a prayer, "Hamilton, Hamilton, Alexander."

He has to push him off suddenly, as he feels his cock twitch, his balls tightening. Wraps cruel fingers over the base of his cock, sitting up suddenly, breathing through a denied orgasm. Hamilton, looking up at him, face wet, mouth still slack and open, certainly doesn't help.

"On the floor," Burr chokes, and when he does Burr unties his hands, reties them in the front, so that there is nothing keeping his sore ass from contact fully with the floors. Sweating, as he looks down at him, on second thought grabbing the other rope, tying one of his legs to the foot of the bed, forcing him open.

Burr is close, Alexander knows it, and he wishes nothing more than that Burr knot his mouth, deep in his throat, and keep him there on his knees until it’s done. He’s already imagining it, the twitch of Burr’s cock against the back of his palate, the strange and ever startling sensation of semen hitting the back of his throat in rough jets. Burr hasn’t knotted his mouth, maybe because it’s not something most omegas are even willing to contemplate — he never did that with Eliza, and certainly her mouth was on him quite often, and his on her as well. But he is no lady from a good family, no sweet wife.

He is bereft and bewildered when this chance is taken from him, surprised and a bit wounded, unsure if Burr’s actions are a rejection. “Daddy,” a breath, a whisper, unwilling to raise his voice enough to really speak but wanting to beg for it.

It isn’t, though — a rejection, that is. Once he knows that, the tension darkening his brow dissolves, and he obeys, though he winces to put his stinging skin on the hard wood floor. Twists around to let Burr have at his arms and he reaches for Burr once unbound, but then he is tied again and he makes a sound of frustration. Burr presses him back flat against the floor and the frustration turns to pain, going limp again as a fresh surge of the thrill that always accompanies pain lights him up.

Burr knows by now how flexible Alexander is, that he stretches to maintain it, that he takes some stubborn pride in the way his body accommodates those who take pleasure in it. With one leg tied to the bed, Burr can have him in any number of positions.

He wipes at his face with his bound hands, breathing, trembling. Burr only rejected him because Burr wants to have him, fuck him where he’s been so abused. It will hurt. “Please,” soft, “please.”

Edited 2022-05-20 18:20 (UTC)

There is no need to prepare him more than he already is--wet, slick running down over his ass, glistening for low candlelight. A feast, and Burr should like no better than to bring him off with his mouth, again and again and again. But this isn't about Burr, and though Alex will enjoy it, it won't further that delicious pain as much as fucking will. Hard, rough. Anything, to rub his raw ass over the floorboards, make him feel each thrust acutely and painfully. Oh, he should like him to struggle more, as much as he likes him laying there and taking it. Would like him to beg him to stop. Perhaps he will, when he feels that pain.

Burr likes to torture him a bit first; drags his cock over his entrance, fucking against him, but not pushing in. Wants to ask him to beg, to ask nicely, yet Hamilton is so accommodating, the words are spilling from him mouth before he has thrust more than a handful of times. "Poor baby," Burr coos, cruel. "Daddy will take care of you," and then he lines himself up and pushes in, one hard, deep thrust that rocks Hamilton against the floor.

Raises himself, so that each thrust pushes him down down, picks up Hamilton's other leg and hikes it up, over his hip, stretching him painfully, and making all his weight rest there on the swell of his ass.

He doesn't know what he was asking for -- more or less of this, for it to stop or for it to escalate.

He draws in a hiss as Burr toys with bruised flesh, and has to bite his lip at the first true press inside. His cunt is as tender as the rest of him -- more tender, because it was so sensitive in the first place. The insides of his thighs bear the marks of Burr's treatment of him, still flushed bright red, and his mouth falls open for him to gasp as Burr seats himself inside. His body is in a confusion of signals, and his cunt even more so, from the pained lips to the desperate craving of deep within. He tries to flinch away, but the bound leg brings him up short, and then as Burr glides deeper, he angles himself up to take it, instead, though it puts all the weight where he is bruised.

"It hurts, it hurts," he breathes, and squirms against Burr's hold on his free leg. "Oh god--" Messy, wet sounds as Burr withdraws and starts to thrust, and every one of those thrusts pushes air from Alexander's body. Every one drives him incrementally away from Burr, but unless Alexander wants himself yanked from ankle to hip, he has to actually tense enough to drag himself back towards the bed, meaning that he has to rub himself more raw against the floor.

He burns with humiliation at the sounds of pain that Burr punches out of him, and at the obscene squelch as Burr fucks him where he is soaked wet, his own arousal made obvious to them both. He tries to find purchase with bound hands above his head, but there's nothing there, nothing he can reach. Ends up thrashing half out of hurt, fighting Burr's grip, and half because the angle Burr has chosen isn't the one that hits him where he needs it, and nothing he does will make Burr change. Because his pleasure, right now, is having Alexander in pain, and Alexander has no control.

He is inviting more punishment, he knows. He can't help it. Burr has never reduced him this way, by combining the pain with a not-quite-enough temptation of pleasure, the messiness and ecstasy of being mercilessly fucked without the skilled attentions Burr usually lavishes on him.

Hamilton begs. He begs, cries at the pain, tries to squirm away for as much as he must also fight to keep the pain off his leg. And it feels so good, the squirming, his struggles, and Burr can feel his eyes go lidded, so turned on, so hard. He thrusts faster, harder, just to hear him cry, hitting against the entrance to his womb again and again. He isn't giving him the pleasure he wants, begs for, drinks in the satisfaction of using him like this, the whore he is. Something to be fucked and thrown away.

Burr growls, as Hamilton squirms, fights against him. Draws his hand back and slaps Alexander hard against the face once, twice. "What's the matter?" he spits, "a whore can't take a little fucking?" He struggles more, turns his face to the side when Burr hits him, so Burr wraps a hand cruelly around his jaw, forces him forward as Burr spits in his face. "Filthy, disgusting. Listen to how wet you are."

Oh, but for all this is good play be doesn't want his ass to get truly raw. Wants only to deepen bruises. So it is that Burr draws out, picks him up and flips him down onto his face, so that his leg is twisted, not too tight but enough to be uncomfortable. So that Burr is pressing him down into the floorboards, and with each thrust his pelvis slams against that reddened skin, his balls slapping against his red and abused cunt. So that he can hiss in his ear, vile, awful things, that make Hamilton buck.

When Burr thrusts into him, Alexander shockingly -- to himself and, he imagines, to Burr -- comes immediately. Something about it is just right, and he's been straining for it for so long, pleading and fighting and Burr's cock just has to caress the right places inside him, just once, and he's completely gone. It drags a scream out of his raw throat, an uncontrollable rush of even more fluid, a series of spasms like a hook digging in somewhere behind his navel and yanking hard. At first, he thinks that he's wet himself, because that certainly hasn't happened before, but he doesn't smell urine and it didn't come from his cock -- no, his cock is spilling onto the floor, semen smearing under him.

Burr wasn't trying to make him come. Was, in fact, trying not to make him come, and Alexander was so needy for it that he got there anyway. And the instant he has the breath he's dropping his head in submission -- "Daddy, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, please don't hurt me, I'm sorry," a sob breaking out of him, and then another, as he kneels in the filthy evidence of his own pleasure.

Hamilton comes quickly, as Burr fucks back into him, gushes slick and spend around Burr's cock without warning. As Hamilton screams, lost to his pleasure, cramps around him and smears his cock in that feminine release, Burr finds himself coming too--Hamilton's begging, his cries for mecy pushing him over the edge, and he thrusts in hard once, stays there, knotted, pumping him full of release even as Hamilton drips, squelching as he shifts.

Hazy from pleasure, as he carefully pulls Hamilton up, keeping them tied, back to chest, and leans against the bed.

"Shhhh, you did so well." Burr whispers, lapping at the back of his neck. "You don't need to apologize. You came everywhere," a little laugh, disbelief. "Can't you feel?" He asks, as he tugs the bindings free from Hamilton's wrists, kisses over them before guiding those hands between them, to feel over Burr's balls, coated in Hamilton's spend. "Good boy," he coos, and he continues to pepper kisses, little licks, "such a good boy, my boy. Does it feel good, having Daddy's cock buried in you? Does it feel good, to drip Daddy's come?"

The aftershocks still work through him, endless aftershocks, and he cannot believe it -- rippling through him like little earthquakes. Paroxysms, the doctors call it, and it is hardly a fitting description, given what Burr has done to him. He's still a little out of his mind with it, spine curving as another shivers along his core.

He can hardly focus enough to know that he's being unbound. Being knotted is an ache that makes him feel more solid, more real, rather than the untethered, wild thing he had become.

"I've never," and another flutter, compressing him on the knot. "What did you do to me?" A little slurred. He twists far enough to nuzzle Burr, brush over his lips in a terrible and off-center and still-exactly-what-he-needs kiss. "Daddy," he murmurs, drunk with it, as he runs his fingers along his slit. "You're dripping with mine, too."

"Oh yes," Burr purrs, "but it was nothing I did. So wonderful and sweet," and he runs his fingers there beside Hamilton's, scoops up what he can and brings those fingers up, rests them on Hamilton's lips, inviting him to taste.

"Had you never done that before? I guess it is true, that no one can fuck you like I can. That no one knows your body like me, not even you." Nips them, at the base of his neck, just enough to hurt, and then lathes the place with his tongue. Lazy, wandering hands, fiddling with his nipples, his cock. Chasing that release too, and bringing it to his own mouth, making sure Hamilton is watching as he sucks his fingers clean.

"It couldn't be anyone else's child," he whispers. "Not after a fucking like that. There can be no doubt in your mind."

And of course he does, dipping his head forward to take those fingers in his mouth, suckle all the liquid off of them. Sighs, soft, as he can feel the aftershocks diminishing.

"Like it when you make me helpless," mumbles Alexander. "Hate feeling helpless with you."

On the surface, not a thought that makes any sense. This is what spills from him when he isn't planning his words, not choosing them with care. He means: he likes it when Burr does this to him. He hates it when he feels he has to depend on Burr for everything.

"If I purr again, will you knot my mouth?" is the next thought that comes, on the heels of the first.

"Already wanting, are you?" Burr asks, and he brings his finger around, the ones still wet with his own saliva, to dip into Hamilton's mouth. Push far back, towards his throat. "Perhaps I didn't fuck you hard enough the first time. You did beg so well, crying for me to stop. Perhaps I should fuck you harder." And he pulls his fingers free, moves them down between their bodies, where his other hole is, stained with spend.

"Not very grateful, are you?" And he pushes the tip of one finger in, fighting those clenching muscles, unprepared. "Maybe I didn't spank you hard enough. Tell me, is your ass sore? Your cunt?"

He tips his head back against Burr's shoulder. Glances back, as best he can. "Burr," he says, and he is quiet and liquid, and a sort of aimless kind of sad. "Take care of me. Please?" It isn't a use of his safeword, but it is a soft and sincere request. A quiet, slow unfurling.

He is not in love with Burr, no, he is not swept off his feet, but in this moment, he considers, for the first time, that he could open his heart. He is so vulnerable, even more so now that Burr knows what he carries. Burr has power; he could take the child from Alexander, if it was demonstrated in a court of law that he was the one who took Alexander at his last heat. And a part of Alexander, the agonized and angry and petty part of him, doesn't put it past Burr.

The rest of him considers trust. Considers giving the gift of himself, all of himself, and considers whether that gift would be cherished.

He takes a breath, and admits something that makes him feel the most vulnerable yet -- See, a heat is an uncontrollable reflex, urges that are obviously overwhelming. But this is something he has resisted, has only done as minimally as he can, has been fine without, an urge that is quintessentially omega and amounts to admitting that he's different now in more than just body. "I want to nest," he whispers. "Here." He is so scared of this, and scared of what Burr excites in him, and scared of his future. But the safety here... He wants to burrow in it.

It is not a safeword, but Burr knows Alexander well enough to treat it as such.

"Of course," he says, gently. Removes his finger, and ever so carefully turns them, until Hamilton is facing him and he can lift them both, stagger towards the bed and allow himself to fall, Hamilton on top, still knotted to him. Not much longer until he wont be able to lift him. Already his muscles ache, from the long repetitive motions.

He knows this is precious, that he is being offered something, delicate and breakable, and with the wrong move some part of Alex could seal off to him forever. He cradles him, as one cradles a child, gentle, rocking motions, one hand on Alexander's back as he pulls the spare blankets up from the foot of the bed, wraps them. His knot, starting to go down, yet they are still sealed firmly together. Not worth hurting him, to pull it out.

Begins petting over his head, down his neck, his back. Reaches to the table where they keep the salve, massages it into his hands and sleeps them beneath the blankets, rubbing slowly into his ass and thighs. "There," Burr whispers, "I have you. I've got you. You're so precious, so perfect. So good. Tell me what you need," peppering kisses over his face, eyelids.

And Alexander doesn't want the knot out. Burr is perfect, his response is perfect, and when Hamilton starts to cry, it is only because of that perfection.

He doesn't remember ever refusing like that before. Cajoling a client away from what he doesn't want, yes; flatly refusing, yes; refunding and walking away. But -- just asking? Just asking, because he trusts in the answer? Never. Never.

So he cries. He makes little snuffling noises against Burr's throat, wanting nothing more than the smell of him, at first. This is when the tears start to flow, and then he doesn't stop them, and they intensify, as he is cradled and comforted and held. Twice in one night is practically unheard of, but he purrs even as he cries, a complex mixture of anguish and contentment in his smell.

When Burr says tell me what you need, Hamilton mewls, lifts his head and kisses Burr, hard, desperate and yearning. He isn't aroused, this isn't a sexual need, not exactly. He just kisses him, over and over again, fierce, boiling over with emotion he cannot contain or understand. Burr's knot is going down, and he squeezes it with his body, not wanting to let it go. When it slips free, he makes sad little whimpering noises, and clings to Burr.

"I want a cave," he admits. "I want to be able to touch all the sides." The canopy of the bed isn't low and close enough. The desire for a small, dark space is stereotypically an omegan response of fear and insecurity, but, paradoxically, Alexander wants it because he is comfortable and secure here. He doesn't know what to make the cave of -- if he were at the brothel, he would probably bodily drag a table on top of the bed and drape it in blankets and hide underneath.

But if Burr tries to get up, Alexander clings on to him. "Please don't take him away," he bursts out. "If I say he's yours, promise you won't take him away."

"You are both mine," Burr whispers. "I would keep you both, and fight all of New York to do so." Little comforting purrs, nuzzling at him, scenting him, waiting for a little contentment to sweep his frame, a little less fear, before disentangling himself to find more blankets, and arrange them in some way around the bed. They have rope, and he ties one end to the far side of the canopy, the other end to the other, and drapes the blankets through, so that they hang low over the bed, and the inside is dark and warm and cave-like.

Little, breathless feelings, that Hamilton wishes to do this here, now. A think he has so often refused to. He feels safe. Must feel safe, with Burr. He wants Burr to keep the child. Doesn't want Burr to go away.

If Hamilton lets him Burr slides under the blankets, slithers down to Hamilton's feet, warms them on his stomach and begins to rub, massaging. The soles, and up his ankles and calves. Pressing small kisses as he works upward, and all the while purring.

Alexander shivers in confused pleasure at the sound of that. He shouldn't like it as much as he does.

"I didn't have anyone else for the week after my heat," he tells Burr, lowly. "He is not anyone else's."

He had resolved over and over not to tell this to Burr, to keep what little power he had by denying him a father's right. And here he is.

He burrows into the blankets left on the bed, submerging himself entirely for several long minutes, before nudging them to one side and another, pushing it out into a little bowl the way he saw his mother do. The mattress already dips in the middle, because of the way it is supported on ropes below the bed that need a bit of tightening.

Of course Burr belongs here. It all smells of him, and now smells of Alexander, too. He halfway wants to pin Burr down and lick him all over, but it is nice, too, to spread himself like a feast for his lover.

He feels good. Sighs with it, releasing some of the anxious cares that have dogged him since he realized what was happening to him.

"I don't know why you're in love with me," he says, to Burr, and it isn't plaintive. Maybe even a little playful. "I'm unfaithful, loudmouthed, obnoxious... afraid." Burr has come up far enough that Alexander can reach down and stroke fingers through his hair. "Surely, with a tongue like yours, you could have any number of pretty whores who are much more accommodating."

"But not the prettiest," Burr purrs, licking a long strip up his thigh, nuzzling there between his legs. "Not the smartest whore, with the quickest mind." Swept away in Hamilton, drunk off him. The sweet, beautiful things he says. Had no one else, that the child in Hamilton is from his own seed, that they laid together once and Burr had gotten him with child. That Burr loves.

"The whore who tastes the sweetest," he says, and extends his tongue, licking up both sides of his cunt, lapping at the trail of his own, earlier spend. "not Alexander Hamilton." And when did his name begin to sound pornographic in Burr's mind?

"Who would be so eager, to spread their legs for someone old enough to be their grandfather?" Burr asks, before he sets to lapping, employing all those tricks he knows to bring him off as quickly as possible. Sucking hear the top of his slit, teasing his tongue along the entrance as his hands seek out Alexander's cock, stroking over the head.

"You deserve endless pleasure," Burr says as he pulls away, mouth wet. Panting. "Let me give it to you. Let me worship you."

"I'm old enough to be my own grandfath--nn," and his head tosses to the side. Burr knows exactly the right spots. The most clumsy of men will just hammer at him until they come; then there is another sort, who know to feel for the spot deep inside, know to vary and angle their thrusts. Still another, who know and understand the importance of the little nub near the front of a woman's slit, and who are willing to give Alexander's cock the attention it needs. Any of those might enjoy burying their head between a woman's thighs.

Alexander himself had been a very attentive lover, and by (what he now realizes was) the end of his life, he knew Eliza extraordinarily well. She often experienced female paroxysms. And yet, Alexander had still started to suspect that she'd been faking it, especially early in his time as a whore, because sex wasn't nearly as enjoyable as it seemed to her.

Burr gets him there. Love obviously makes a difference too, but Burr hadn't even found that necessary. He had Alexander coming on his tongue in moments, and he still can do just the same, without even heat to ease the way. He's the only one who has ever cultivated and attuned the exquisitely sensitive places just barely within him, not just trying to get past them as fast as possible. He is the only one who has found Alexander too tight for penetration, when he is nervous or too in his own mind or preoccupied, and who, instead of using his tightness for pleasure, took the time to loosen and distract him until he could be penetrated with glorious ease.

"You said I could have a guest room, if I did not wish to be your lover," says Alexander -- "but there is no world where your lips and your tongue and your fingers and your -- your cock, Aaron," a breathy sound, "are here, and I don't try to have them all the time. You could find anyone, young or old. They would but have to grace your bed to crave their return..." Bites his lip. "It won't take much, I'm so sensitive now. Even a brush of air will make my nipples go tight. I think you could have me grinding on your thigh, and if you caressed them even with the most delicacy I would climax for you. I would grovel for it. But you just give it to me--"

A slow breath in. The pleasure rolls over him, drawn from where Burr tongues just inside him out to where he caresses the tip of Alexander's cock. It seems as though Burr is some magician, subtly channeling the energies of Alexander's body. His hips lift, and he comes in a slow, warm wave, so long that he can breathe through it, hook his leg over Burr's shoulder and sigh as the delicious sensation ripples down his body.

Burr laps up what issues from him greedily--from his cunt to his cock to his stomach, where ribbons of his semen have landed. Burr laps at him even when he is clean, and then moves up to his nipples, lathes his tongue around them, latches on and hums, so the delicious vibrations will be transferred there to sensitive flesh.

"But I don't want anyone else," Burr says, between sucks. "How could I want anyone else, when you make such delicious sounds. Unfold yourself for me so prettily, grow wet so rapidly. When your body is so in tune with mine. You have such control over my cock, Alexander. One look from you and it grows hard, responds to your command. You could have it whenever you wanted. Ride it whenever you wanted, in whatever manner suited you."

Nips once, lightly, to draw blood to the surface. Is it true, what he had said? That he could come just from this, the stimulation to his nipples? Already Burr wants to drive in to him, to bury his cock in that welcoming warm passage, yet the appeal of this other thing is too great.

"How about a third?" Burr asks.

Touching his nipples prompts immediate reaction. Alexander goes still, quivering, and his flesh prickles with visible goosebumps. As promised, the tender little numbs pebble up, tighten under Burr's tongue, and Alexander melts completely, his legs falling open, his hand loosely burying itself in Burr's hair. Humming makes him twitch, full-body, arching up.

"They are so swollen," Alexander pleads, "they ache for you, be gentle, please." it is as though he can feel every bit of the texture of Burr's tongue, each whorl of his fingertip. The sensations are so keen that he whimpers, head falling back back.

"Oh it's much worse for you," he manages. "It's much more sensitive, I -- it's swollen because of you," because of this child inside him.

"Yes," Burr says hotly, "swollen because I have gotten you with child. Because my seed took root in your fertile body--" things he can not get enough of. That should not be said in midst of sex, yet make him mad with desire all the same.

Dipping his head again, miming fucking with his tongue, thrusting against the nub before sucking it once more--small, rhythmic little movements.

"I've ruined you," he says, pulling back again. "Stolen your virtue like a young innocent maiden. Pregnant out of wedlock because I could not help myself." And his hand goes lower, back between Hamilton's legs, feeling the run of his slick, wet already since he licked it clean. Gathers some up on his fingers and goes back, works around his ass more gently this time, pushing and stretching and massaging before he slips in a finger inside, gasping as those muscles spasm around him, pull him deeper.

Wants to keep talking, but Hamilton is pulling his head back down, until he is latched once more on his nipple, and making those wonderful sounds, and Burr cannot help himself then, he can't--his body laid out before him every sweet torture. Shifts his hips, fucking his fingers in and out, until Hamilton's thigh is between his legs, and then he is grinding, rubbing, rutting like an animal in heat.

If those words awaken a terrible desire in Burr, they do the same in Alexander. He can't explain why the idea of Burr having such control over his body is so intensely erotic. Little changes, within him, permanent alterations, his chest swelling with milk and his womb swelling with life.

"Because you wanted the sweetest and freshest omega whore you could find," and he tries to grind himself against Burr's hand, but it steals further down, to his ass.

"Aaron," his voice gone high, and he turns his head to bite down on his own wrist. Burr quests into him, with long and seeking fingers, stimulates and manipulates him, and he isn't sure if he should be embarrassed or proud that his body already strains for release. He is intimately aware, again, that his ass and thighs sting terribly, soothed only a bit by the balm rubbed in, and that the finger deep inside him, gripped by the muscles of his body, makes little trickles of pleasure flow through him, like he is a dry streambed awakened by the rain.

Even Burr is overwhelmed by this. Even Burr seeks satisfaction. Hips bear down so he knows he's leaving slick on the heel of Burr's hand, his wrist. It feels to him that his breasts are coming in right now, swelling at the command of Burr's caressing tongue.

Alexander makes a high and desperate sound and comes, comes on nothing, comes on the finger buried within him, with an empty cunt, an untouched cock, so sensitive that he needs nothing more.

A little sigh of wonder, at Hamilton's body, so eager, so willing. Feeling the little shakes of pleasure, the way he swells beneath him--gasping for air, riding that sensation. Clenches down on his fingers, and Burr purrs, purrs purrs purrs, wants to communicate down to the lowest parts of him contentment, satisfaction. Feels the wetness grow against his palm, his fingers, continuing to rock as he chases his own release, caressing and whispering sweet things.

When Burr starts to come, it is a slow, lazy thing, from watching the flutter of Hamilton's eyes, the way his chest gradually slows, and the little flush on his cheekbones fades to pink. A stab of hot pleasure, and slower waves, that make his muscles relax, difficult to hold himself up. He takes his cock in hand and those tremors sieze his lower body, rubs the head over Hamilton's fold as he spills, massaging the come in, scooping it with his fingers and pushing it into Hamilton's entrance before collapsing down beside him. Reaching lazily for the washbasin on the bedside table, the rag, to wipe them clean.

"So good," he whispers. "You are so good. Oh, if only we had been amenable to each other all those years ago. I should have liked to marry you."

The mention of that causes a flicker in Alexander's scent, a moment of tension. It isn't distress, just -- like the concept catches at him oddly.

"What a strange thing to say." He yawns, and his stomach growls. "Why have a marriage if neither married can be got with child?" He can see the logical flaw in that as soon as he says it: Washington's marriage had no children, and Madison's. Marriages can be between those too old to have children, or those who are barren.

"It would be an odd world, where two men, alphas, could be together that way." Marriage, as defined, can be done one of many ways. An alpha and an omega; a man and a woman; these are the most acceptable. But a beta woman can marry an alpha woman, and a beta man can marry an omega man. Blackstone had some sort of complicated chart and there are books of legal theory on the matter, which essentially boil down to -- it's not seemly for those of the same gender to marry, and for there to be a marriage without one who can be gotten with child, and the other who can get them with child. Always seemed dubious, to Alexander, but he convinced himself it was for the best.

"But I always wanted a family. Children. Perhaps you should have been the omega..."

Private Storyline B2

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