Sean didn't often think in sex. He just did and said what came to mind, and he never thought too long about consequences, or rights and wrongs. This time he didn't think about how he looked, or how he felt Viggo would feel when he begged, all he knew was he wanted to feel more. More and more, until it overwhelmed him, pleasure and pain and everything else in between.
He was all in the moment, and that was just fine with him.
Viggo was shifting him now, changing his weight, curling his hand into a fist just above the tortured head of his arousal, untouched, oversensitised, a single splash of paint-colour blurred against it. Viggo unbalanced him, pulling him back off his hands, dragging him back so that he plunged down, filled to the brim, stabbed through with pleasure and pain and Viggo. He roared, rocking backwards, his head arching across Viggo's shoulder, and he panted for a moment, getting used to the sensation, before Viggo was pushing up again, rising to meet him.
It took maybe three thrusts to make him scream, and he didn't hesitate. He screamed Viggo's name as loud as he could, screamed until his throat warbled and his head spun because he couldn't breathe, and he brought one trembling hand up, barely even touching his own erection before he came, overwhelmed and overworked, his muscles acheing, dripping with sweat.
He didn't know which way was up, but it didn't seem to matter. Viggo was behind him, against him, and that was all that he needed. He had come; come hard, and now he was still moving, still pushing down with each thrust, though there was a building ache in him to stop, to stay fucking still, to not try as hard as he was. But it was that feeling he craved; that feeling, and what came after, and he breathed out soft and slurred and barely audible, a prompt to Viggo that he could go on no longer.
"Should'a left the bloody camera on a timer, Vig."
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He was all in the moment, and that was just fine with him.
Viggo was shifting him now, changing his weight, curling his hand into a fist just above the tortured head of his arousal, untouched, oversensitised, a single splash of paint-colour blurred against it. Viggo unbalanced him, pulling him back off his hands, dragging him back so that he plunged down, filled to the brim, stabbed through with pleasure and pain and Viggo. He roared, rocking backwards, his head arching across Viggo's shoulder, and he panted for a moment, getting used to the sensation, before Viggo was pushing up again, rising to meet him.
It took maybe three thrusts to make him scream, and he didn't hesitate. He screamed Viggo's name as loud as he could, screamed until his throat warbled and his head spun because he couldn't breathe, and he brought one trembling hand up, barely even touching his own erection before he came, overwhelmed and overworked, his muscles acheing, dripping with sweat.
He didn't know which way was up, but it didn't seem to matter. Viggo was behind him, against him, and that was all that he needed. He had come; come hard, and now he was still moving, still pushing down with each thrust, though there was a building ache in him to stop, to stay fucking still, to not try as hard as he was. But it was that feeling he craved; that feeling, and what came after, and he breathed out soft and slurred and barely audible, a prompt to Viggo that he could go on no longer.
"Should'a left the bloody camera on a timer, Vig."