random porn
The lead characters from the novel, a while after the novel's events. I've never written fisting before.
He likes it. He loves it. He hates it.
Brian curls his head down, forehead grazing the pillow, traps and deltoids tense with holding his own weight. He should let it go, melt into the mattress, but he cants his hips back and growls. Lars laughs, low and evil, the breath of his voice skating across the small of Brian's back. Lars moves his fingers again, stretching Brian more--more than he needs to take Lars's cock. No, this is something else. He's already sucked Lars off.
All the angles of Brian's body seem wrong. His knees are flexed, quads and hamstrings tense, piriformis tight as his deepest muscles give in to Lars's three fingers.
"You're not hard, are you?" Lars asks.
Brian shakes his head against the pillow, shoulder muscles tight. He barely makes a noise. "Mmm-hnn." He knows what's going on in Lars's head, that brain always busy under the three or four inches of spiked black hair. Lars wants to know why. Why does Brian want this if it doesn't get him off? "Please," Brian says, because he knows if he doesn't say something, Lars will sit there and think for the next twenty minutes.
Lars obliges with the fourth of his long, slender fingers, bunched together, but stretching more than Brian has ever felt. He lets a moan escape, and curses in his head because it makes Lars stop moving. "You okay?" Lars asks. Brian nods, then pulls his head back as far as he can, trying to control his own breathing. "I've only had this done to me once," Lars says. "I've never done it."
"I know," Brian breathes. "If you can't--"
"I can," Lars says, so fast that Brian can't offer an alternative, can't give him permission to stop. "You have to know."
And there it is. Lars has nailed it. Brian has to know if he can. He can hear the noise before he feels it, but Lars has squeezed more lubricant on them both. It's coming, and soon. Brian leans his head back down, puts weight on his neck to relieve his shoulders. "Do it." Brian bites the pillow and screams as Lars puts his hand in past the knuckles. The pain subsides with the whole hand inside.
The whole hand inside.
"Breathe," Lars says, the breath of his voice warming Brian's hip. He can feel Lars leaning on him, his cheek on the spine, hair brushing Brian's lats and lower traps. And then Lars starts moving, not only the abbreviated in and out of his wrist (Jesus, his wrist!) fucking him, but his fingers move inside, slow, gentle, purposeful.
He's not hard, but Brian comes, orgasm like a whiplash, and a scream out of his throat. Lars holds him through it, fist in his ass, head on his back, and his other hand wrapped around Brian's thigh. They don't move for several long minutes after, and then Lars says, "I'm pulling out," and he holds on to Brian with the weight of his head and the flex of his fingers as he pulls his hand free, and Brian screams into the pillow again for those few seconds, incapable of any other response.
Lars disappears for a few minutes, and Brian can hear the sound of running water before the bed dips again. Only when Lars pushes him down does he realize that he's stayed in position, flexed off the bed. Now he feels the cover as soft, the pillows as comfort rather than restriction. "You okay?" Lars asks.
Brian shudders and turns to spoon against him, pulling Lars's hand to his chest, the same hand that was in him. "I'm okay. You?"
Lars kisses the back of Brian's head. "I'm good."
Brian thinks that it was short, but it was to the point, even if it wasn't sweet. He did it. He came, in a way that felt like pain and lightening, an orgasm he never wants to repeat, but he says to Lars, "Yes, you are good."
He never says Thank you, but he doesn't have to. Not in words, at least.
He likes it. He loves it. He hates it.
Brian curls his head down, forehead grazing the pillow, traps and deltoids tense with holding his own weight. He should let it go, melt into the mattress, but he cants his hips back and growls. Lars laughs, low and evil, the breath of his voice skating across the small of Brian's back. Lars moves his fingers again, stretching Brian more--more than he needs to take Lars's cock. No, this is something else. He's already sucked Lars off.
All the angles of Brian's body seem wrong. His knees are flexed, quads and hamstrings tense, piriformis tight as his deepest muscles give in to Lars's three fingers.
"You're not hard, are you?" Lars asks.
Brian shakes his head against the pillow, shoulder muscles tight. He barely makes a noise. "Mmm-hnn." He knows what's going on in Lars's head, that brain always busy under the three or four inches of spiked black hair. Lars wants to know why. Why does Brian want this if it doesn't get him off? "Please," Brian says, because he knows if he doesn't say something, Lars will sit there and think for the next twenty minutes.
Lars obliges with the fourth of his long, slender fingers, bunched together, but stretching more than Brian has ever felt. He lets a moan escape, and curses in his head because it makes Lars stop moving. "You okay?" Lars asks. Brian nods, then pulls his head back as far as he can, trying to control his own breathing. "I've only had this done to me once," Lars says. "I've never done it."
"I know," Brian breathes. "If you can't--"
"I can," Lars says, so fast that Brian can't offer an alternative, can't give him permission to stop. "You have to know."
And there it is. Lars has nailed it. Brian has to know if he can. He can hear the noise before he feels it, but Lars has squeezed more lubricant on them both. It's coming, and soon. Brian leans his head back down, puts weight on his neck to relieve his shoulders. "Do it." Brian bites the pillow and screams as Lars puts his hand in past the knuckles. The pain subsides with the whole hand inside.
The whole hand inside.
"Breathe," Lars says, the breath of his voice warming Brian's hip. He can feel Lars leaning on him, his cheek on the spine, hair brushing Brian's lats and lower traps. And then Lars starts moving, not only the abbreviated in and out of his wrist (Jesus, his wrist!) fucking him, but his fingers move inside, slow, gentle, purposeful.
He's not hard, but Brian comes, orgasm like a whiplash, and a scream out of his throat. Lars holds him through it, fist in his ass, head on his back, and his other hand wrapped around Brian's thigh. They don't move for several long minutes after, and then Lars says, "I'm pulling out," and he holds on to Brian with the weight of his head and the flex of his fingers as he pulls his hand free, and Brian screams into the pillow again for those few seconds, incapable of any other response.
Lars disappears for a few minutes, and Brian can hear the sound of running water before the bed dips again. Only when Lars pushes him down does he realize that he's stayed in position, flexed off the bed. Now he feels the cover as soft, the pillows as comfort rather than restriction. "You okay?" Lars asks.
Brian shudders and turns to spoon against him, pulling Lars's hand to his chest, the same hand that was in him. "I'm okay. You?"
Lars kisses the back of Brian's head. "I'm good."
Brian thinks that it was short, but it was to the point, even if it wasn't sweet. He did it. He came, in a way that felt like pain and lightening, an orgasm he never wants to repeat, but he says to Lars, "Yes, you are good."
He never says Thank you, but he doesn't have to. Not in words, at least.