Terribly easy to abuse the moment, especially when invited.
No, he thought, feverishly. I was begged.
Terribly easy to wheel the dancer around and slam him up against the wall with tenderly brutality, pinning him under the weight of his uniformed body.
His jackbooted leg interfered with Merkurii's stance, kicking it wider, and his mouth was already devouring the the hollow of his throat, the skin behind his ear, as his fingers sought the dancer's belt, ripping it open without preamble and shoving his contraband Levis down his thighs.
The dancer exhaled in a rough moan.
His own belt required only a practiced, lefthanded moment, and his cock was freed, jutting up from between the wings of grey suiting, hard and mottled like hot marble, slick with its own enthusiasm.
Lasha grasped his cock and ran it through the cleft that bisected the dancer's muscular buttocks, seasoning the flesh to his presence by force of habit.
"Fuck your politik, kommissar," spat Barshov, breathless, "and give me the gun. Shove up and fuck."
"You're impatient, little brother. Black eyes must be like oysters to you. Did Oleksei shove a dozen roses up your ass?"
Isaev leaned into the dancer, the penetration deep and sudden, and he swore, taken aback.
"Feel familiar?" hissed Barshov.
Lasha's eyes narrowed.
"All too familiar," he retorted, voice all treacle, softly gritted with sand.
It shouldn't have been so easy, slipping up and inside him, raw, unslicked. Shouldn't have felt like a known retreat, a warm and lingering harbor.
"I know the shape of you," breathed the dancer. "I carry it inside me."
"What the hell does that mean?" managed Lasha, as his eyes rolled back briefly, and he fought to master his senses.
"It means that when you know who's knocking," murmured Barshov, "you let him in."
The dancer arched toward him, opening further and pulling him tighter, deeper.
Head and flank, drawn back toward lips and prick, and Lasha gave him both.
Fucking hard and fast, like rapid, blotting catharsis, clenching his teeth as he rode his writhing, muscled mount.
His hips slapped in audible time, and Barshov cried out, long and low.
"I want to feel you," murmured Ilarion, hotly against his ear. "By braille," he finished, in a whisper.
He slowed, grinding upward, hard and elliptical, claiming every inch of territory inside Barshov, who clung to the purchaseless concrete and groaned unballetically at his motions.
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timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2008-06-17 08:44 pm (UTC)Terribly easy to abuse the moment, especially when invited.
No, he thought, feverishly. I was begged.
Terribly easy to wheel the dancer around and slam him up against the wall with tenderly brutality, pinning him under the weight of his uniformed body.
His jackbooted leg interfered with Merkurii's stance, kicking it wider, and his mouth was already devouring the the hollow of his throat, the skin behind his ear, as his fingers sought the dancer's belt, ripping it open without preamble and shoving his contraband Levis down his thighs.
The dancer exhaled in a rough moan.
His own belt required only a practiced, lefthanded moment, and his cock was freed, jutting up from between the wings of grey suiting, hard and mottled like hot marble, slick with its own enthusiasm.
Lasha grasped his cock and ran it through the cleft that bisected the dancer's muscular buttocks, seasoning the flesh to his presence by force of habit.
"Fuck your politik, kommissar," spat Barshov, breathless, "and give me the gun. Shove up and fuck."
"You're impatient, little brother. Black eyes must be like oysters to you. Did Oleksei shove a dozen roses up your ass?"
Isaev leaned into the dancer, the penetration deep and sudden, and he swore, taken aback.
"Feel familiar?" hissed Barshov.
Lasha's eyes narrowed.
"All too familiar," he retorted, voice all treacle, softly gritted with sand.
It shouldn't have been so easy, slipping up and inside him, raw, unslicked. Shouldn't have felt like a known retreat, a warm and lingering harbor.
"I know the shape of you," breathed the dancer. "I carry it inside me."
"What the hell does that mean?" managed Lasha, as his eyes rolled back briefly, and he fought to master his senses.
"It means that when you know who's knocking," murmured Barshov, "you let him in."
The dancer arched toward him, opening further and pulling him tighter, deeper.
Head and flank, drawn back toward lips and prick, and Lasha gave him both.
Fucking hard and fast, like rapid, blotting catharsis, clenching his teeth as he rode his writhing, muscled mount.
His hips slapped in audible time, and Barshov cried out, long and low.
"I want to feel you," murmured Ilarion, hotly against his ear. "By braille," he finished, in a whisper.
He slowed, grinding upward, hard and elliptical, claiming every inch of territory inside Barshov, who clung to the purchaseless concrete and groaned unballetically at his motions.