Taras groaned and leaned forward over the desk, writhing in the chair.
He pressed his hand to his crotch, but it wasn't helping. He needed to do something to take care of himself, properly, but fuck if that wasn't depraved, here in the Ministry sound room, listening to the audio feed live.
Taras could hear the unmistakable raw smacking of flesh, hard breathing and groaning, and most of what they were saying. He didn't need any fucking imagination to picture it.
Taras blamed Ilarion. That was easy to do.
He couldn't quite believe it, but at the same time, it was a relief somehow, to know that Ilarion knew how to fuck a man like the way men were meant to be fucked, none of this shit about how taking it in the ass wasn't queer, because it was.
Taras didn't want to think about what had happened to Ilarion to make him think that way, so he stopped thinking about it and unzipped his pants instead.
"This is your fucking fault," he hissed to the tape, to Ilarion, somewhere on the floor below in a small concrete room, fucking a dancer with a busted up face against the fucking wall.
The air in the sound room had grown stifling. He almost felt dizzy.
Taras took out his prick, palming the familiar weight, heavy and hot in his hand. It seemed like nowadays he had to jack off every night, like he'd gone back to being a teenager or something.
He blamed Ilarion for that too, but he also didn't think about it very much, either.
Taras moved to sit on the edge of the chair, spreading his legs, supporting himself with his free arm.
His hand worked his cock, falling into the rhythm like lifting weights, exertion and repetition.
Taras tried not to think about the sounds coming over the speakers, the roughness in Ilarion's voice as he spoke, tone and words familiar and brutal. That was impossible to ignore, so after a few moments he just went with it. It wasn't that much different than the Zone.
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timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2008-06-17 11:12 pm (UTC)He pressed his hand to his crotch, but it wasn't helping. He needed to do something to take care of himself, properly, but fuck if that wasn't depraved, here in the Ministry sound room, listening to the audio feed live.
Taras could hear the unmistakable raw smacking of flesh, hard breathing and groaning, and most of what they were saying. He didn't need any fucking imagination to picture it.
Taras blamed Ilarion. That was easy to do.
He couldn't quite believe it, but at the same time, it was a relief somehow, to know that Ilarion knew how to fuck a man like the way men were meant to be fucked, none of this shit about how taking it in the ass wasn't queer, because it was.
Taras didn't want to think about what had happened to Ilarion to make him think that way, so he stopped thinking about it and unzipped his pants instead.
"This is your fucking fault," he hissed to the tape, to Ilarion, somewhere on the floor below in a small concrete room, fucking a dancer with a busted up face against the fucking wall.
The air in the sound room had grown stifling. He almost felt dizzy.
Taras took out his prick, palming the familiar weight, heavy and hot in his hand. It seemed like nowadays he had to jack off every night, like he'd gone back to being a teenager or something.
He blamed Ilarion for that too, but he also didn't think about it very much, either.
Taras moved to sit on the edge of the chair, spreading his legs, supporting himself with his free arm.
His hand worked his cock, falling into the rhythm like lifting weights, exertion and repetition.
Taras tried not to think about the sounds coming over the speakers, the roughness in Ilarion's voice as he spoke, tone and words familiar and brutal. That was impossible to ignore, so after a few moments he just went with it. It wasn't that much different than the Zone.