Amictus [2b/?]
anonymous
October 6 2009, 03:13:39 UTC
“Really?” Alfred's hair is tucked behind his ear. “France didn't visit at all?”
“I-I-I don't know.” Sweat envelops America. Did it really matter if Francis visited? Would England hurt him if he had?
A hand resumes to tease the dress's bottom, occasionally scrapping fingernails on the child's skin beneath.
“You 'don't know'?” A laugh; wicked. “Did he visit or not?” Dark, blunt, punctual; answer me. Arthur sinks deeper underneath the white nightdress, searching for untainted skin to explore and own, while re-positioning the child fully in his lap. The boy's stomach is found and he feathers his fingertips across it, inducing Alfred to recoil into the man's body and glow red once again.
“I-I don't think he d-did! I haven't s-seen him . . .” America then notices his breathing increasing speed, rising temperature, sticky skin, pounding heart. Then cerulean eyes moisten at his awareness.
Arthur continues to rub Alfred's stomach. When he slumps deeper into his lap, Arthur releases his right arm from the torso, delving the sweet boy's body more. “If I find out he has been here, you will be punished.” Unintentionally, that caused Arthur to fidget at what “punishment” he could use. Relax, relax; you are a composed gentleman. There's a silent laugh at his hypocrisy. Then releasing a jittery sigh, more soft flesh - unconquered, pure - graces his palms.
America squirms, panting and clenching the man's arms, tugging on the white clothing aligning them. Gradually, he discovers his lower abdomen radiate heat and swell. Is he sick? He certainly feels like it.
This encourages Arthur; the gasping, incoherent form writhing below him. Again, such a thought enthralls his manhood - urging for relief - but he tosses his observations aside and indulges on the beautiful foreplay.
He licks the shell of Alfred's ear, jolting the child back into reality instead of tender touches and delicate words. “If I were to punish you, what should I do?”
“W-W-What . . .? I- I didn't do anyth-!” Sharp inhale; a hand grazes his private area, again, then squeezes the fat covering his pelvis and hips, another joins on the other side.
“I know, I know.” Arthur's malicious eyes gleamed. “I'll seclude you from France, New France, and everyone else. It will be just you and me, Alfred.” He rubs his head against the boy's, enjoying the taunts and Alfred's panicked words.
“D-Don't . . .” America cries, tightening his grip on England's arms. “En-Engwa-ndddnnngg!” His head flies back, a sudden surge of pleasure ripping through him; nether regions throb in heat, mouth parted, panting. England cackles at the colony. What did he . . . ?
Arthur languidly strokes Alfred's full back, fingers skirting the border of the boy's knickers, and a second set tracing the front. Husky breath drapes the sandy-haired child's ear in heat. “Shh . . . It's Arthur, Alfred.”
Dizzy, bemused, scatterbrained.
“A-Arthur . . .” Vivid blue eyes moisten. Tears gather in the corners. Then America's focus lands on the flickering lamp light; it's getting dark. His breath is still heavy, but it's starting to betray him. Slowly and surely, he wants to call his guardian Arthur, not England, because this event is intimate with just them, nothing else. It's okay, right? Yet, America utters his question he bit down on before. “Why are you doing this . . .?”
Green eyes catch the other's wet ones; smile. Arthur nibbles Alfred's ear, provoking a gasp, a squirm, but also hands fall to Alfred's sides instead of squeezing the man's arms (any longer and the boy would have broken them). He shuts his eyes, skimming his cheek next to the blonde's and punctuates his words definitely.
“I-I-I don't know.” Sweat envelops America. Did it really matter if Francis visited? Would England hurt him if he had?
A hand resumes to tease the dress's bottom, occasionally scrapping fingernails on the child's skin beneath.
“You 'don't know'?” A laugh; wicked. “Did he visit or not?” Dark, blunt, punctual; answer me. Arthur sinks deeper underneath the white nightdress, searching for untainted skin to explore and own, while re-positioning the child fully in his lap. The boy's stomach is found and he feathers his fingertips across it, inducing Alfred to recoil into the man's body and glow red once again.
“I-I don't think he d-did! I haven't s-seen him . . .” America then notices his breathing increasing speed, rising temperature, sticky skin, pounding heart. Then cerulean eyes moisten at his awareness.
Arthur continues to rub Alfred's stomach. When he slumps deeper into his lap, Arthur releases his right arm from the torso, delving the sweet boy's body more. “If I find out he has been here, you will be punished.” Unintentionally, that caused Arthur to fidget at what “punishment” he could use. Relax, relax; you are a composed gentleman. There's a silent laugh at his hypocrisy. Then releasing a jittery sigh, more soft flesh - unconquered, pure - graces his palms.
America squirms, panting and clenching the man's arms, tugging on the white clothing aligning them. Gradually, he discovers his lower abdomen radiate heat and swell. Is he sick? He certainly feels like it.
This encourages Arthur; the gasping, incoherent form writhing below him. Again, such a thought enthralls his manhood - urging for relief - but he tosses his observations aside and indulges on the beautiful foreplay.
He licks the shell of Alfred's ear, jolting the child back into reality instead of tender touches and delicate words. “If I were to punish you, what should I do?”
“W-W-What . . .? I- I didn't do anyth-!” Sharp inhale; a hand grazes his private area, again, then squeezes the fat covering his pelvis and hips, another joins on the other side.
“I know, I know.” Arthur's malicious eyes gleamed. “I'll seclude you from France, New France, and everyone else. It will be just you and me, Alfred.” He rubs his head against the boy's, enjoying the taunts and Alfred's panicked words.
“D-Don't . . .” America cries, tightening his grip on England's arms. “En-Engwa-ndddnnngg!” His head flies back, a sudden surge of pleasure ripping through him; nether regions throb in heat, mouth parted, panting. England cackles at the colony. What did he . . . ?
Arthur languidly strokes Alfred's full back, fingers skirting the border of the boy's knickers, and a second set tracing the front. Husky breath drapes the sandy-haired child's ear in heat. “Shh . . . It's Arthur, Alfred.”
Dizzy, bemused, scatterbrained.
“A-Arthur . . .” Vivid blue eyes moisten. Tears gather in the corners. Then America's focus lands on the flickering lamp light; it's getting dark. His breath is still heavy, but it's starting to betray him. Slowly and surely, he wants to call his guardian Arthur, not England, because this event is intimate with just them, nothing else. It's okay, right? Yet, America utters his question he bit down on before. “Why are you doing this . . .?”
Green eyes catch the other's wet ones; smile. Arthur nibbles Alfred's ear, provoking a gasp, a squirm, but also hands fall to Alfred's sides instead of squeezing the man's arms (any longer and the boy would have broken them). He shuts his eyes, skimming his cheek next to the blonde's and punctuates his words definitely.
“Because you are mine.”
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I'VE GOT RESERVED TICKETS TO HELL IN A HANDBASKET
WHY IS THIS HOT?
LIKE IM SCARING MYSELF WITH THE WRONG!HOT OF IT ALL!
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