Never again 1/1d
anonymous
January 13 2011, 13:25:16 UTC
above part is supposed to be 1/1c MY CREYS
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When Ivan grabbed his balls, squeezing, stopping him from coming, he nearly cried.
“You are not finishing before me, дорогой,” he purred, squeezing even harder until Alfred cried out in frustration and pain as the warmth and pressure slowly began to fade away until it was hardly there at all. “And I still have quite a ways to go.”
“You fucking bastard,” Alfred gasped, feeling the hold on his balls finally lift when it was sure he was not about to come all over Ivan’s stomach. “You communist, alcoholic-fuck!” Another sharp thrust of Ivan’s hips was the only response from the smirking Russian beneath him, a smirk planted on that smug face and huge nose and-god, Alfred wanted to punch him.
The most joy Ivan had thus far acquired from this evening-other than the pleasure of dominating this American, so greedy for his cock it almost made his face hurt from smiling-was the look of absolute rage and frustration etched into his arrogant face. It truly was the cherry on top of a perfect evening.
Before Alfred could even object, Ivan sat up, pushed him onto the floor and rolled Alfred onto his stomach, pinning him down with his arms. Alfred whined at the loss of friction, at the loss of feeling and being full, and Ivan only chucked and rubbed small circles into the small of Alfred’s back in an uncharacteristically gentle movement. “Do you like it when I do this to you, Am-er-i-ka?” he asked, stressing his accent on his name, just because he knew Alfred hated it. “The feeling of being dominated, of being helpless against someone larger than you, someone stronger than you?”
He got no reply, other than the wanton wiggle of Alfred’s hips and the high-pitched whine of desire.
---
When Ivan grabbed his balls, squeezing, stopping him from coming, he nearly cried.
“You are not finishing before me, дорогой,” he purred, squeezing even harder until Alfred cried out in frustration and pain as the warmth and pressure slowly began to fade away until it was hardly there at all. “And I still have quite a ways to go.”
“You fucking bastard,” Alfred gasped, feeling the hold on his balls finally lift when it was sure he was not about to come all over Ivan’s stomach. “You communist, alcoholic-fuck!” Another sharp thrust of Ivan’s hips was the only response from the smirking Russian beneath him, a smirk planted on that smug face and huge nose and-god, Alfred wanted to punch him.
The most joy Ivan had thus far acquired from this evening-other than the pleasure of dominating this American, so greedy for his cock it almost made his face hurt from smiling-was the look of absolute rage and frustration etched into his arrogant face. It truly was the cherry on top of a perfect evening.
Before Alfred could even object, Ivan sat up, pushed him onto the floor and rolled Alfred onto his stomach, pinning him down with his arms. Alfred whined at the loss of friction, at the loss of feeling and being full, and Ivan only chucked and rubbed small circles into the small of Alfred’s back in an uncharacteristically gentle movement. “Do you like it when I do this to you, Am-er-i-ka?” he asked, stressing his accent on his name, just because he knew Alfred hated it. “The feeling of being dominated, of being helpless against someone larger than you, someone stronger than you?”
He got no reply, other than the wanton wiggle of Alfred’s hips and the high-pitched whine of desire.
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