[Dream | Week 5 Day 6]
WARNING: RATED NC-17 for sexual content.
Possibly triggering, dubious consent.
The sounds of labored, panting breaths fill Steve's ears before he even opens his eyes. Lids over cloudy blue irises roll up, slowly. The sensation is evocative to complete exposure and Steve parts his lips in a silent gasp. Uninhibited pleasure overcomes him and assaults his senses, makes his thighs tremble and his head roll back. His back is forced up in a defined arc, supported by the hard dome underneath him. The surface is cool and slick with sweat that beads off of his skin. He hears a yearning, pleasured cry and it takes him a moment to realize that this passionate, pornographic noise is something that was born from his own throat.
He looks up, sees a bright and blurry figure above him. This person, genderless, nameless, is molded into the space between his muscled, parted thighs. All he knows of them is what he feels: smooth skin, strong arms, soft fingers. Their strength matches his own, and he has no choice but to submit to their powerful, commanding caresses. His mind reels with this sensation of submission; the impression of this malleability. This blissful agony is all but forced upon him by this faceless being, this unstoppable force encroaching upon his senses. He has never been touched like this before, touched in a way that he could not stop even if he wanted to.
Steve, with his eyes closed, can see himself; he is the picture of ecstasy: head thrown back with that strong throat exposed, blond hair matted with sweat, skin flushed all over, his whole body poised into the perfect position by that arc in his back, every inch of naked flesh exposed. Pink tinged skin slides over slick red, white and blue steel, and his body feels like it's on fire. Everything burns with a blinding intensity. All he knows is that the euphoria, beginning between his legs reaches everywhere. He can't bring himself to care about who this person is. It feels so good, so perfect.
A strong hand grips his wrists and pins them together above his head, pressing them into softened leather cuffs and locking them there. He struggles instinctively, but only for a moment. Having this rapturous indulgence forced upon him seems to increase it's potency tenfold. He is being held down, pleasured without consent. And he likes it.
In this moment, Steve lets go. He forgets all his reserve, his usual caution and constraint and just surrenders to this indomitable power-- and he feels wicked for it. He cries out, gasps and down right moans, low and throaty, because it's never been like this, never been this good before.
It hurts, this feral, beautiful pleasure. Perhaps that is the best part. This person, all brilliant white and strong hands, is worshiping Steve's chest; biting at his nipples without any kind of softness or tact . Finger nails are digging into his hips, drawing tiny crescents of blood. Each scratch and lick sends pure electricity though his raw, ravaged nerves; his cock, hard and throbbing between his legs, weeps in sympathy.
He whines, needy.
Helpless.
Desperate.
For more.
Harder.
Faster.
Rougher.
He doesn't hear a voice, but feels lips against his ear. They're smiling. He knows what they're saying.
Beg for it, beg to be touched.
And he does, shamelessly. He begs for everything, anything, all but sobs for the attention. The roughness.
And there, prostrated on that shining metal curve, Steve receives all he asks for.
A hand reaches, forceful and demanding on his cock, pulling and stroking. Another hand, roving lower; lower still, past the throbbing ache in his balls to touch somewhere else.
There's a press, and the most sultry, perverted noise is torn from Steve's throat as his orgasm is ripped from him.
Streaks of white mix with sweat over red, white and blue steel...
[Steve wakes up panting and sticky.
He looks at the Hitomi and cringes. Nothing to do about it now...
He looks at his shield, leaning against his bed.
He rises, sighing, and heads to the bathroom. He'll clean himself up, then polish that already gleaming, spotless shield for at least 2 hours...]
Possibly triggering, dubious consent.
The sounds of labored, panting breaths fill Steve's ears before he even opens his eyes. Lids over cloudy blue irises roll up, slowly. The sensation is evocative to complete exposure and Steve parts his lips in a silent gasp. Uninhibited pleasure overcomes him and assaults his senses, makes his thighs tremble and his head roll back. His back is forced up in a defined arc, supported by the hard dome underneath him. The surface is cool and slick with sweat that beads off of his skin. He hears a yearning, pleasured cry and it takes him a moment to realize that this passionate, pornographic noise is something that was born from his own throat.
He looks up, sees a bright and blurry figure above him. This person, genderless, nameless, is molded into the space between his muscled, parted thighs. All he knows of them is what he feels: smooth skin, strong arms, soft fingers. Their strength matches his own, and he has no choice but to submit to their powerful, commanding caresses. His mind reels with this sensation of submission; the impression of this malleability. This blissful agony is all but forced upon him by this faceless being, this unstoppable force encroaching upon his senses. He has never been touched like this before, touched in a way that he could not stop even if he wanted to.
Steve, with his eyes closed, can see himself; he is the picture of ecstasy: head thrown back with that strong throat exposed, blond hair matted with sweat, skin flushed all over, his whole body poised into the perfect position by that arc in his back, every inch of naked flesh exposed. Pink tinged skin slides over slick red, white and blue steel, and his body feels like it's on fire. Everything burns with a blinding intensity. All he knows is that the euphoria, beginning between his legs reaches everywhere. He can't bring himself to care about who this person is. It feels so good, so perfect.
A strong hand grips his wrists and pins them together above his head, pressing them into softened leather cuffs and locking them there. He struggles instinctively, but only for a moment. Having this rapturous indulgence forced upon him seems to increase it's potency tenfold. He is being held down, pleasured without consent. And he likes it.
In this moment, Steve lets go. He forgets all his reserve, his usual caution and constraint and just surrenders to this indomitable power-- and he feels wicked for it. He cries out, gasps and down right moans, low and throaty, because it's never been like this, never been this good before.
It hurts, this feral, beautiful pleasure. Perhaps that is the best part. This person, all brilliant white and strong hands, is worshiping Steve's chest; biting at his nipples without any kind of softness or tact . Finger nails are digging into his hips, drawing tiny crescents of blood. Each scratch and lick sends pure electricity though his raw, ravaged nerves; his cock, hard and throbbing between his legs, weeps in sympathy.
He whines, needy.
Helpless.
Desperate.
For more.
Harder.
Faster.
Rougher.
He doesn't hear a voice, but feels lips against his ear. They're smiling. He knows what they're saying.
Beg for it, beg to be touched.
And he does, shamelessly. He begs for everything, anything, all but sobs for the attention. The roughness.
And there, prostrated on that shining metal curve, Steve receives all he asks for.
A hand reaches, forceful and demanding on his cock, pulling and stroking. Another hand, roving lower; lower still, past the throbbing ache in his balls to touch somewhere else.
There's a press, and the most sultry, perverted noise is torn from Steve's throat as his orgasm is ripped from him.
Streaks of white mix with sweat over red, white and blue steel...
[Steve wakes up panting and sticky.
He looks at the Hitomi and cringes. Nothing to do about it now...
He looks at his shield, leaning against his bed.
He rises, sighing, and heads to the bathroom. He'll clean himself up, then polish that already gleaming, spotless shield for at least 2 hours...]