Re: Alfred's Little Secret (2/?)
anonymous
July 14 2011, 02:09:24 UTC
It was just a bit in the beginning, the pale white-ish liquid coming out his nipple and wetting his skin, running down his torso. He couldn’t stop shivering, his hand still working on his cock and the sound track of rough sex still ringing on his ears. He moved his hand to play with the neglected nipple, soon making the liquid drip down, and suddenly it was too much. His moans were turning into screams, his hand moving faster and harder and the other one squeezing the milk and tension out his chest. Fuck. It was too much and too good and too weird and-
With a strangled cry, he came all over his clothes, hands and thighs. And it was a mess. The cum and the liquid coming out his nipples all over him. The smell was intense, musky. He didn’t even notice the characters of his porn had also finished and were fiercely kissing. He grabbed his headset and threw it over the keyboard, panting and trying to make the shivering stop.
At least the pain had ceased. He could feel how his chest was soft again and sighed in relief; sexual and physical.
Then embarrassment took over. And he stood up quickly to wash himself up. He felt it would be a long, hot shower (and maybe he would need to turn the cold water on, in case his dick showed evidence of wanting a round two).
He felt a bit bad, while the water ran down his body, washing him. What if England started to interrogate him about the sexual deprivation? America didn’t allow them to fuck for three months already, distracting England with blowjobs while jerking himself off. But really, he needed to do something about it. And soon. England was sexually demanding, and he would love immensely to respond to such desires, but in his current situation (overweight and fucking lactating), he just didn’t feel like having sex anymore. But what if... England broke up with him? Started to fuck others like he did before they established a relationship, even if he had America?
He pursed his lips in a thin line and felt slightly depressed. He had to do something about it. And go see a doctor was out of question.
-----
The situation has gone out of his control. His chest has doubled the size and it was just too painful. Too much pressure and tension hardening his flesh and glands inside his skin and he couldn’t keep lactating himself. It was just humiliating, to bend over the sink and start to milk himself back to a more or less comfortable situation. Especially because his cock would get hard and swollen almost every time. He couldn’t stand this situation anymore. And he didn’t know what to do. It was enough to make him cry a couple times because it hurt but he didn’t want to take care of it, and it would keep him awake all night, squirming and whimpering. He had stopped gaining weight, at least. More or less, it wasn’t as tragic as it was before but his belly was still soft and pudgy and rather protuberant, still growing slowly (and that’s why he thought it had stopped), the fat still managing to make him feel pretty bad about himself, even more, without England fucking him and making him feel better because if he still fucked him so he was still attractive for him, somehow (or maybe, he was just really pretending - America pushed the thought away quickly).
And it was meeting day. He had begged Spain to let the meeting happen in America again. He didn’t give a reason to why he wanted it, but the Spaniard agreed, noticing the despair and distress of the boy. He could at least go back home instead of staying in a hotel room. In the same hotel as England, by the way. Because the nations had their fix hotel.
He put on his dress shirt, and gave himself a good look in body-length mirror. And stared at his reflection in horror.
His chest. It was visible. If anyone gave him a good look they would definitely notice something’s... Different. Shit, he had even bought a bigger shirt.
Alfred's Little Secret (4/?)
anonymous
July 14 2011, 02:16:11 UTC
sorry, the one above was supposed to be (3/?) ---
He panicked at that. He tore his shirt off and started to walk from one side to another, trying to think even if he just wanted to throw himself to the floor and flail and cry in frustration. His phone started to ring, and he jumped, then sighed in relief to see it was only the damned mobile. He grabbed it. England. Shit, he really couldn’t talk right now. He put it on silence mode and continued to freak the fuck out.
He remembered he had some bandages on the last drawer from his wardrobe, together with medicine he kept for emergencies. He rushed to it, and grabbed the roll full of the thin, but rough white fabric. He ran back to the mirror and swallowed hard. He could feel the dull ache on his chest already. His nipples were getting stiff. He frowned, and started to wrap the bandage around himself.
America winced, then whimpered. It hurt. It hurt a lot. But he needed to do it, needed to disguise his noticeable, developed chest. His eyes watered up by the end of the process, but he was successfully wrapped tightly. Painfully tight. Moving stiffly, with almost robotic movements, he put the shirt back on, then his black suit, a gray tie. Perfect. He forced a smile, which ended up more like a shit-eating grin, to his awful reflection.
He barely put his arms down completely as he made his way downstairs, then to his car.
He didn’t notice the seven lost calls on his phone. And when the damned thing started to vibrate on the pocket of his chest, against his bandages, he yelped, grabbing the steering wheel with way more strength than necessary, and saw it was England calling. Again. When he turned the call off, he saw it was the eighth call from his boyfriend, and he felt a bit bad. But they were about to meet anyway, he could use that as an excuse.
Soon, he was walking into the high, big building the meetings happened. He was surprisingly on time. Five minutes earlier, actually. And damn, he was hungry. And his chest hurt. But he couldn’t do anything about both things at the moment.
He was walking looking down, which was very uncharacteristic of him, but he wasn’t in the mood to talk to people. He didn’t even notice when his arm was violently pulled, and he was shoved against a wall. He winced and before he could open his eyes, lips were roughly against his own, so he preferred to let them close, feeling that pretty, sexy mouth move on his, absorbing the feeling of England’s tongue being shoved into his wet cavern. He put both his hands on the man’s smaller chest, grabbing his suit and he didn’t give shit if it would wrinkle, he was too busy keeping him away from his own chest, but at the same time holding him on a mortal grip. He felt hands on his hips, and then his lower lip was being bit and pulled and ah...
“Why didn’t you answer the phone, love?” He asked, his voice soft but still demanding on Alfred’s ear. It was when the man noticed he was on the hall that only had rooms that weren’t being used yet, so no one would walk around. Good.
“Be-Because...” He stammered a bit. He had a really good excuse, didn’t he? Oh, yes. “Because we were about to meet anyway.” He lied and looked down into the intense, acid green eyes.
England looked at him funny, as if searching the evidences of a lie on his clear eyes. Alfred flashed another grin and it was when England was sure he was lying, but sincerely he didn’t give a shit about America answering his phone or not, since now he had the real thing. “Sure.” He said at least, closing his eyes as he smirked.
America sighed in relief. Hand still on the suit, now just resting there, instead of grabbing the fabric.
“Have you been crying, America? Your eyes are a bit red.” And then he moved away, brushing his suit with both his hands, straightening it and getting rid of any wrinkles America had left. Now, the mix of his boy’s immensely blue, but red-ish eyes and the fact he wasn’t answering his phone worried him a bit. Some has been making America cry, or keeping him awake, and it wasn’t him, so it indeed worried him.
Alfred's Little Secret (5/?)
anonymous
July 14 2011, 02:31:14 UTC
America just rubbed his arm on his now closed eyes, laughing nervously. And a nervous laugh was a loud, obnoxious one. “Me? Crying? No way in hell. Heroes don’t cry, England.” He said, managing to indeed smile as he looked at his loved one. He didn’t want to worry him, after all. And he was just happy for seeing him again, after two weeks. Usually the meetings were monthly, but this was an emergency one.
(... He wondered if he should tell England about his problem at once. He loved England and England loved him, why don’t trust him?)
And the Englishman sighed, defeated. He couldn’t do anything against America’s sincere, broad smiles. “Okay. But this talk is not over.” He warned. “Let’s go. You happened to arrive on time once, I don’t want us to be late. That would be such a waste of your efforts.” And America sincerely didn’t know if it was a compliment or not. “Also,” He paused. “missed you.” And America giggled happily, to which he responded smiling, and they both went to the floor above, then to the meeting room. Holding hands, quietly.
During the meeting, America started to be more what he really is: loud and obnoxious and annoying and dorky. England felt relieved; he was starting to worry a little too much about the boy. He wasn’t being himself earlier. Some nations noticed the lack of England’s scolds at America’s stupid ideas and how actually he would smile at the boy, with his teacup pressed to his lips in a vain attempt to hide it. Germany’s stress seemed to double, as he had to do the Brit’s work too, censuring America’s absurd, useless plans before he ended up seducing the younger nations with his stupidity. Brazil was practically the same age as him, but his eyes were sparkling as the blond talked (yelled), and he was... a more or less influent country now. At least, he was in South America. If he could pull his neighbors countries into a war besides America, he could very well convince them that a giant hero robot was the answer for all the problems. He could maybe even pull Russia, China and India into it. Maybe even Portugal. Germany sighed, feeling his temples about to explode.
America was yelling, some nations agreeing excitedly, others wondering what was wrong with them, Greece sleeping, Russia creeping someone out, Canada was nowhere to be seen (right besides America).
Well. The meeting was a pretty common one, England and Germany noticed.
This, until America suddenly winced, interrupting his apparently endless speech. The noise coming from his throat was loud and pained. If one or two nations (just like Greece) didn’t care about him, all the attention was now centered on him. A hand on his chest pressed lightly, and he winced more. If he wasn’t in pain, he would whine about how much attention he gets when he was silent instead of talking about his awesome ideas.
“Excuse me.” He said simply, leaving the large room in a hurry. England finally put his teacup down on its saucer with a sharp clink!, his eyes wide staring at America as he ran away. God, what was wrong with the boy?
Without America to lead to meeting, Germany coughed loudly, getting the attention of most nations. “Well, since America had a problem, I’ll be leading the meeting now.” Even if America didn’t have a problem he’d be leading the meeting at some point anyway. Usually when France started to fight with England, and they’d pull America into the fight, but he guessed this little outburst was also a cue to take over.
England wasn’t pleased. But they had this one-at-once politics to go out of the room, so, unless it was an emergency, he couldn’t follow America. He sighed irritably, taking one more sip of his tea, which seemed to lose all of its relaxing attributes.
-- haha, this part was rather stupid, i'm really sorry.
Alfred's Little Secret (6/?)
anonymous
July 14 2011, 02:42:47 UTC
oh yes, it'll take a while until we get to the actual porn. and lol, just in case no one noticed, this fic is biologically wrong and there's a lot of OOC. ---
America was running to the bathroom, sighing in relief as he saw no one there. He opened his shirt, looking at his work with the bandages. He could notice the two wet spots there, and the pain was like needles being pierced into his sensitive flesh. Damn. Can’t this wait for when the meeting is over? They usually took six hours or so, and they barely went through two. He considered pulling the bandages out and squeeze the erect nubs just a bit, just to cease the pressure and the pain. But no, he couldn’t. Not there. Not when someone could walk in. Do it in any of the booths wouldn’t work either. He needed space and privacy, and he couldn’t have it there. He wandered around the bathroom for a while, whimpering and trying to think about something. He looked in the mirror again, the wet spots were bigger. He frowned. Why. Now? And the pressure the bandages were applying was probably making the excess come out already, so he guessed (hoped) that he could stand until the end of the meeting without too much pain.
After a few minutes, he walked back to the room, blessing the air conditioning for he was starting to sweat. He received several looks; wondering, curious looks. Usually he wouldn’t notice that, but his senses were oversensitive with his current, damned situation. He felt like even the countries that didn’t even notice when he was back were looking at him (and now it was his paranoia, inherited from the Cold War, talking).
But one pair of eyes among all the other made him shiver. Dangerous, acid green eyes. He could almost hear the what is your goddamn problem, lad?, and he smiled the best he could at England, as he finally crossed the rather big table, sitting on his chair.
“Well!” He said, loud enough so the others could listen. The room fell mostly silent when he got in; even Germany had stopped, so it wasn’t that hard. “I’m sorry, guys! I’m not feeling very well today. So, uh, I’m guessing Germany already took over?” He looked at said nation, who nodded stiffly at him. “So, please, keep going! I’m going to, um, sit back here and kind of rest, okay? If I’m needed, I’m right here.” He said and leaned back into his chair. The people were still looking at him, and he instinctively looked down, chin pressed against his collar bone, and checked if the slightly wetness on his chest was visible through his shirt. And it wasn’t. He sighed, glad.
He’d like to say he could make it calmly during the rest of the meeting, but with time the pain was increasing and those goddamn eyes were still watching him, lips almost always hidden behind the long ago emptied teacup. Sometimes he looked back nervously, shit-eating grinning and shrugging, but England’s glare was immutable, hard to read. It was worrisome.
Meeting was over. It took only four hours. The problem, obviously, hasn’t been solved. Some nations had their flights back in a few minutes or hours and were rushing to the get a cab and then to the airport, others were leaving to the hotel to wait until the time they would fly back home. America was sneaking out the room, trying to don’t be noticed, but England crossed his way, making him gasp and jump in surprise. “Leaving without me?” He asked, tone usually would be smug at these situations, but this time he just sounded... Unpleased.
Unpleased and worried.
“Uh. Well.” He didn’t have an excuse this time. “I’m sorry. I wanted to be alone for the rest of the day, if you don’t mind?” He grinned again, failing at smile this time.
“No, America, I’m coming with you.” He said, his voice firm and deciding. America knew he wouldn’t accept a ‘no’ as an answer, even if he had to break in his house. “We didn’t fuck for three months.”
--- uh, yes, england is/will be kind of an asshole here, but he still loves america and feels worried for him. for now at least haha.
Alfred's Little Secret (7/?)
anonymous
July 14 2011, 02:48:00 UTC
America stared at him, who stared back with a steadfast stare.
The boy sighed, defeated. He’d have to tell England. He needed to tell someone. Anyone. It was out of control. England was old and probably knew a thing or two about it, how to fix it. Yes, he could trust England. He could.
“O-Okay.” His voice was shakier than what he expected.
They both walked silently side by side. America was so uncomfortable and tense, England could feel it by just walking besides him.
Slowly, he entwined their fingers again. America first was a bit surprised, then smiled down at him, his eyes impossibly shining and glassy. Was he about to cry? England looked at him even when the boy was paying attention to their way, a bit surprised. America was acting so weird.
The car ride was also silent, but America seemed calmer now. England’s hand was on his thigh, surprisingly not in a sexual way, rather it was soothing, stroking in small circles, the low but insistent buzz coming from the radio managing to don’t make them stay in an awkward silence.
Once at home, America barely closed the door behind him and a rather eager, hungry England was shoving his hands under his suit, his lips attached to America’s unprotected neck, sucking and nibbling and making America moan even if he was trying to push the other away, just like before the meeting, his hands on England’s chest, avoiding the man to get any closer. The smaller man grew tired of it, though, tired of his younger lover’s persistence, and grabbed his hands, moving them out of the way and pressing their chests together-
He was surprised by America’s loud, high-pitched and pained yell. And stopped, looking up at him from where he was sucking his neck. He pulled away, staring wide eyed at the boy now positively holding back tears, choking on them.
“America.” He touched his face. God, what had he done? “America, love, talk to me. Why are you crying?”
“Not crying.” Was the immediate answer, which he dared to give even if after he sobbed again. This has gone too far.
“You look like you’re crying to me.” His hands, on America’s waist, went up, soothing again, caressing up his back until- He frowned, America shut his eyes tightly. “America, there’s something around your chest.” He had to say, since America didn’t feel like cooperating and just telling him what was it. But he could feel something that wasn’t America’s tender skin, even over the fabric of the shirt.
“Bandages.” His eyes were still shut tight.
“Why there are bandages on your chest?” He asked, voice serious, even more worried. He growled at the lack of America’s voice, when he indeed needed to talk. “I asked you a question, lad.”
“Let’s go upstairs. It’s a long story.” He explained, eyes still closed, holding back the tears behind his eyelids.
England stared at that beautiful, slightly blushed face, and sighed. “Okay.”
And they went upstairs. They were on America’s wide, messy room. And even if they were alone, he closed the door carefully behind them.
“So?” The Brit asked, curiosity and worry making his stomach swirl.
He sat on America’s unmade bed, and arched a fuzzy eyebrow when the boy, staring at the wall, silently started to shrug his suit off, then his shirt. As the nice, white fabric slid down, he could see Alfred’s beautiful, powerful back (ignoring the bandages). He bit his lower lip, watching how America’s fat was being held by the tight hold of the belt on his hips. God, he wished he didn’t give shit about whatever problem America had, and just let the boy fuck him, let his long, thick and fat dick tear its way inside him, then fuck him just as roughly right fucking now. But just seeing how even breathe was hard against those bandages, and how his body shivered lightly with each shallow breathe, made the growing worry coil on his stomach and heart.
Alfred's Little Secret (8/?)
anonymous
July 14 2011, 02:58:30 UTC
He didn’t say anything, waiting America feel ready. And it didn’t take much, as the American turned to him and got closer, and England could see his bandages from the front. His eyes widened automatically. Two big, wet spots were quickly spreading on the rough fabric.
When he was going to ask what the bloody hell that meant, America’s voice, rather shaky and low, made itself present. “This has been going for three months.” More or less the last time they saw each other naked, England noted mentally. “My chest, it’s... Swollen. And... And...” He didn’t find the strength to keep going, and bit his lower lip nervously, chewing on it.
“And...?” England encouraged, his body also tense, sitting on America’s soft mattress.
“Something comes out.” He said, immensely nervous, swallowing back his tears. “Mi-Milk, I suppose.” Not that long of a story, he noticed.
He removed the bandages, slowly, feeling the pain easy then increase again, his hard, swollen breasts now exposed, said liquid coming out just a bit before stopping the flow. England was... Speechless.
He opened his mouth, then closed, as if he was a fish out of the water. He didn’t know what to say or do. And before he could notice it, his cock twitched. Fuck. America was... “America,” He said, finally, the boy completely still in front of him, naked from the waist up. “you are lactating.”
America whimpered. Even if it was obvious, he has been denying and avoiding the reality. “England.” He whined, no longer holding back the tears. “It’s painful. Make it stop.” He asked, his tone low and soft, but pleadingly.
England was standing up again in a heartbeat, one of his hands around America’s neck, the other on his waist, stroking gently (dammit, America has gained more weight. More weight). “That’s okay, lad, I’ll help you out.” His cock gave another interesting twitch. He was getting turned on by America lactating, by America’s soft, big belly. The poor boy was crying, feeling pain, but his cock was just taking it as an invitation to sex. He felt bad, even. But the feeling didn’t last long, as he noticed how much fun he could have with it. He told America to climb on the bed, and so he did. “Lean on the headboard.” He instructed, getting rid of his own suit and shirt, hoping America didn’t notice the slight bulge on his trousers. He decided to undo the belt, too.
America obeyed, doing as England told him, watching as the man got rid of his suit and shirt. He looked nervously at him, but now calmer since the man didn’t feel disgusted and left. He thought Arthur had to deal with way too many things. First, his weight gaining, and now this. He felt like the worst boyfriend in the world.
He didn’t even noticed when the mattress dipped a bit with England’s light weight, as he climbed on the bed. He guessed that the predatory stare should have scared him, but how could it, when Arthur’s voice was so soothing while he asked America to relax.
He kneeled besides America, grabbing a few pillows (America had several on his bed) and placing them between the boy’s back and the headboard, making him more comfortable. “Listen, America, I need you to relax.” He said, his hands travelling down his body, squeezing his belly lightly, which made America jump and whimper, then unbuckled his belt, undoing the fly of his pants, increasing comfort. “Or the pain won’t cease.” He explained and looked into the blue eyes and held his lovingly gaze with his own, their faces reflected on each other’s irises. He leaned down, then, kissing those gaping lips, his tongue gently prodding into the other’s inviting mouth, and the touch was surprisingly gentle. No fight for dominance, just a slow, sloppy rub of tongue against tongue, lips and teeth - when they couldn’t avoid it. He put his hands on the broad shoulders and felt America’s body indeed start to relax against his soft pillows, and the boy moaned gently into their tender kiss, letting his lover take control.
Alfred's Little Secret (9/?)
anonymous
July 14 2011, 03:08:05 UTC
England’s pants started to get too tight. America was being so sweet, so pretty, he couldn’t handle it. He broke the kiss, opening his eyes to look at America’s flushed face, his own eyes still closed and mouth half-opened, still inviting. America The Beautiful, indeed. So beautiful. He leaned down for another kiss, as his hands wandered down the younger’s body. He felt America gasp into the touch this time, but didn’t pull away or used his own hands to stop England, who took this as encouragement.
He started to touch his boy’s chest. His breasts were slightly hard under his hands, the nipples stiff. He started to massage gently, palming and touching and fingering around the pink nipples. America moaned again, this time longer, needier. The vibrations from said moan went straight to England’s balls, making his cock completely hard against the thin fabric of his underwear. He moaned back this time, but softer and quicker, more like a grunt.
He finally pulled away, saliva dripping down both their chins, and his attention shifted to America’s chest. “What are you-”
“Shhh.” He said simply, shushing the boy. “You’ll feel better when I’m done.” He noticed America’s fist tightening around the messed bed sheets, and he chuckled, kissing his face and then his lips were busy kissing his chest instead.
America whimpered loudly, feeling England’s mouth there. God, it was so goddamn embarrassing. Why was he even doing that? America couldn’t bring himself to fully care at the moment, as the small mouth opened briefly, just to close around his nipple. He groaned, delighted and embarrassed, and when England started to suck, relieved. The older man stopped just as soon as he started, though, but didn’t move his mouth from its place. Instead, he was lapping his tongue around, then over the erect nub, eliciting another small moan, and then he was sucking again, making the pressure on the breast stop. America could feel the liquid coming out, the flow quite intense and continuous, dripping into England’s mouth and, fuck, he was swallowing. Swallowing it all, not letting even a drop escape. He looked down, just to notice the man, even if concentrated on suckling his nipple, looking back up at him. His cock started to make itself noticeable, too.
Shit. He couldn’t help it. He would get painfully hard when he was getting rid of the excess of milk himself, having England to do it, to suckle it off, would easily make him a quivering mass of need.
“Shit, England.” He half moaned and half whined, ripping his gaze away from the man sucking his breast.
(...He was breastfeeding England, somehow. Fuck, he was breastfeeding his goddamn lover and former father figure.)
England, noticing there was something else than just relief and pain on his voice, stopped, some of the pale milk leaking onto his skin. “Yes?” He asked, cockily.
America bit down on his lower lip again, looking at England, who looked down and then he was looking at America again, a smirk was stamped on his face. He wouldn’t need to say anything apparently, for England’s hands were already between his legs, and a moan erupted from America’s slightly sore throat. “Well, well, well.” He said, amused (and glad to notice he wasn’t the only one getting off to this, he guessed he could indeed take his fun a little further). “What do we have here?”
America’s face turned white, then blue. Save for the red cheeks and pink lips. England chuckled. “That’s okay, my boy,” He grabbed one of America’s hands, which automatically let go of the sheet, and guided it to between his own legs. America gasped when he felt how hard England was, his erection throbbing on his hand, even with the fabric between them, he could feel. “I already know how much of a slut you are.”
America’s eyes widened and he whimpered. He didn’t want to hear that, but couldn’t help it when he wanted to do something with England’s junk, so he squeezed experimentally. He felt a bit satisfied when it was enough to make England grunt, as he forcefully pulled America’s hand away. “England, let’s f-”
Alfred's Little Secret (10/?)
anonymous
July 14 2011, 03:18:31 UTC
“No.” He said bluntly, predicting America’s words. “I have something to finish, first.” He explained and pushed his forefinger against the neglected nipple, making America grit his teeth and nod furiously, agreeing.
He leaned down again, taking the other nipple into his mouth. He did like the first one, tonguing around, then teasing the tip, and when he suckled, it came out easily. His hand was back to between America’s legs, pressing and palming him over the fabric, making the golden boy squirm under his touches, and he knew he was betraying his own words, but now he positively didn’t give a fuck. The taste of America’s milk was nice, pleasant on his tongue and left him wanting for more, which he quickly gained, the flow never stopping. It was sweet. He really didn’t expect it, considering how many hamburgers America added to his diet. Maybe he drank his over-sugared coffee on the meeting, and maybe it was because of the equally ridiculous amount of milkshakes he drank. Not that he minded it. He scolded the boy more for his lack of manners than for his diet. He felt pleased to watch America eat and, consequently, gain weight. He didn’t want him to be obese nor morbidly fat, no, but he liked to have where to touch, grab and squeeze, especially when they were fucking. He also thought America looked cute, all chubby, round faced and with plump, generous thighs and arms and a wonderful ass. He had no problems with that, France could call him a sick bastard as much as he wanted for ruining America’s diet one per one.
Oh, and now his chest. His pudgy, lovely, lactating chest, providing him that delicious liquid. He just couldn’t get enough of it, sucking and squeezing and swallowing as new born baby, stopping to breath against the nipple as he let the milk drip down America’s body, the smell being welcomed into his nostrils, just like America’s moans was a well invited music to his ears. He could even start to feel the fabric of his pants getting slightly wet. He had a free hand, which he took to the already abused nipple, and used his forefinger and thumb to squeeze around it, making the liquid drip down generously. America squirmed and almost yelled.
“Are you close?” England asked in a whisper, against his rosy nipple, strangely calm.
“Y-Yes!” He shouted, throwing his head back, whimpering when everything stopped. He could no longer feel the mouth on his nipples, or the hand caressing him between his slightly sprawled legs. He opened his eyes, to see an England smirking at him, devouring him with his eyes.
Suddenly, he grabbed America’s love handles with both hands. The boy gasped, wide-eyed and he just squeezed more. Yes, America was deliciously big and soft to the touch. Not enough, though, England was sure he would look lovely with a bit more 40 or 50 pounds, with larger waist and hips. He needed to be sure to take his adorable boy to wherever he wanted to eat when they were finished. And he would feed him, grab whatever he will be eating and make America eat from his hands, then lick all of his fingers clean, getting rid of the grease there, and they wouldn’t care about the people looking at them, no, not when England knew what all of this food would be doing to America. He wanted to watch him as he slowly grew bigger, rounder, softer, fatter.
Fuck, if America had also another one of the female abilities, he could knock him up with children all the time, one after the other. Watch as through time his belly would not just grow, but grow to a perfect, firm circle, as his spine naturally arched and formed a beautiful arch at the base of his back. He would make Alfred stand on his hands and knees and fuck him and his belly would bounce as he was being rocked back and forth-
“Look at you.” He finally said, forcing himself to leave his small fantasy. “You are getting so fucking fat, America.” He leaned down and bit the fat being held by the too tight hold of the pants, even if the belt was off. He could imagine that earlier this morning, America would lying on this very same bed, the pants just under his hips, as he squirmed to get them all the way up. “Don’t you have shame? Can’t you stop stuffing your face with food?”
Alfred's Little Secret (11/?)
anonymous
July 14 2011, 03:27:57 UTC
America whimpered, his eyelids falling shut and he sunk into his pillows, feeling trapped between the headboard and England. “No- No... I-”
“You what?” Bit again, on the small fold on the beginning of his belly, right under his chest, licking the milk there off. “Such a waste. Wouldn’t you rather fill that mouth of yours with cock, boy? I know you would love it.”
“E-England! Stop!” He gasped, feeling more tears threading to fall down. He didn’t want to cry again. He swallowed them back. England huffed, he wanted to see him crying, this time. Just this once. Of course he felt worried when America cried, but this time he would be causing it, he would knew the reason and would know how to calm him afterwards, so he guessed to could give himself this little treat, this feeling of power. He loved being powerful, after all, always had. And missed it. Missed America when he was just a colony, following his every order, obeying to every little thing he said, crying, begging for mercy. And then he rebelled, and England didn’t want to think about it anymore.
“Maybe you wouldn’t love it more than your nasty burgers, but I guess it would keep you content. You are such a greedy whore, after all.” Another bite, he grabbed America’s bulge again. “A fucking fat, cheap whore you are, darling.” He pressed his palm there and, as to prove his point, America moaned wantonly, throwing his head back and England smirked. “See?”
And that made the trick. Fuck, he really was a whore, getting off by that. And he indeed was getting too fat, even if he also trying to mask it for himself. He opened his eyes, trying to look at something that wasn’t England; failing. He was crying again, feeling completely humiliated and awful. The older man smiled, kissing his cheek, over a wet tear. “There’s no problem, love. You are my little, adorable whore.”
And with that, he pulled away, watching America sob as he took his glasses off, throwing them somewhere save and pressed his hands to his face, feeling helpless, feeling dirty and feeling terrible. England pulled his pants down, freeing his hard and dripping erection, and then tangled his fingers on America’s golden hair, now kissing his face soothing just as if he wasn’t the cause of the boy’s distress, and he slowly calmed down a bit... Until he looked down at England’s hard member, and licked his lips instinctively, tasting also his salty tears.
England saw that and chuckled. But decided not to comment on that, not wanting do discourage the boy. “Want this?” A furious nod, even if the tears were streaming down his face and he was trembling slightly. “Okay, then lay down.” He didn’t understand why he had to lay down, but he didn’t fucking care. He saw England’s cock bouncing slightly as he moved, giving room to America lay. England was smaller than him, but just as thick. A meaty, not too long but not short either, perfect cock. The head had a pink shade, and pre-cum was leaking just as much as the milk on his chest had been. And America wanted it. Wanted it everywhere. On his mouth, filling his ass to the brim. He would have to be patient, though. By now he was just lying down, head on one of the pillows, watching England as he straddled him, sitting just right behind his chest, now on his naked glory. At first, he thought he was there to don’t hurt him, since he had be complaining about the pain, but now he felt much better, with all the excess of milk out of him, his chest soft and nice, and he was about to warn Arthur that he could come closer... But England just let his throbbing cock fall between his breasts. America looked at the cock pointing at his face, and then to England, who still had a smirk on his thin lips.
Alfred's Little Secret (12/?)
anonymous
July 14 2011, 03:35:48 UTC
The man rubbed his thumbs under America’s eyes, wiping away the tears there, and then grabbed America’s breasts, that were not as swollen as before, but still as protuberant, and squeezed them against his cock. America gasped, England just moaned. He couldn’t completely close America’s chest around his cock, like he would normally manage with a woman, but it felt just as nice if not better. America was so soft, his skin so nice, like a baby’s. “Shit, America...” He swore, and started to thrust shallowly, grunting, the milk making him slid between America’s tender flesh more easily. America slowly, shyly, raised his hands, doing the work England’s were doing, trapping the man’s erection on his chest, and England praised him and he even smiled a bit in return, and suddenly more liquid was dripping on England’s length, not too much, but it was there. With America taking care of that, now he could concentrate on how he was thrusting, and shifted a bit, moving his body closer to America’s face, and America caught the cue, his chin pressed against his collar bone and he stuck his tongue out, licking the tip of England’s cock every time he could reach it, with every thrust, making the older man moan in delight from both the feeling and the view. “My boy,” He said, rather pleased with his American, who could just whimper for not being able to reach his cock every time, one of his hands was on his hips as he thrust, the other one fell to Alfred’s messy hair, ruffling a bit, just in time the boy licked him again, his pink tongue lapping gently at the tip. “My beautiful boy.”
America stopped in order to look up at him and... Kind of smile. Even after all England told him. England smiled back and stopped, America automatically releasing him. England moved even closer to his face, grabbing his cock, and America’s mouth was already gaping, waiting, his tongue slightly coming out. England grinned, and slapped his face with his cock, pre-cum clinging to his cheek. America’s face was even more beautiful with cum on it. He did it a few more times, then moving the head on those stretched lips, leaving the pre-cum clinging there, and they just stretched even more, as America’s blue eyes closed, as if begging for that. “Here, lad.” He said, guiding his erection into the other’s mouth. America moaned, closing his lips around it. “Your prize.”
At first, America was the only one moving his head the best he could, sucking England on the right times, making those loud, wet, obscene noises England loved so much, tasting his own milk on the shaft. America definitely could give the best blowjobs. He had no gag reflex, he could suck in the right times. Hard. And deep throat was pretty easy for him, he also worked wonderfully well with his tongue and even teeth. England guessed that when he was watching America eat, he also felt warm inside because of it. He didn’t know if he was good at shoving so much food at once because he learned from blowjobs, or if he gave good blowjobs because of his eating habits, but he guessed (and hoped) it was the second option. He was so goddamn sure America could suck two at the same time... And still he made it feel like his mouth was so small and so wet. He pulled out and grabbed his cock, lifting it a bit, letting America lick and suck his balls, and he did so with immense pleasure, lapping his tongue on it then sucking a testicle delicately into his mouth, making a wet pop as he let it go and moving his tongue to its twin, making England groan, and then give his dick back to America, who swallowed him up greedily.
He suddenly grabbed the boy’s hair, making him stop and groan in pain around his phallus, and he loved the vibrations it sent, which ran down his spine, making him close his eyes to gain control. He couldn’t come right now. Not when he was about to fuck that wonderful mouth.
--- it's a headcanon of mine that America can give wonderful blowjobs, because he is pretty used to work his mouth with food. so um. and yes, this is a bit, ehh, long. sorry.
Alfred's Little Secret (13/?)
anonymous
July 14 2011, 03:48:37 UTC
The way he looked at America, and America looked back, he knew what was about to happen and the younger closed his eyes again, relaxing his throat and welcoming England. His hold on Alfred’s hair tightened a bit and he started to move again. He didn’t go easy this time, his hips rocking back and forth quickly, fucking that delicious mouth that was opened so willingly for him, teeth out of the way, tongue still working and he was still trying to suck. He groaned, and grabbed America’s head with both hands and thrust deeper, faster, and he shifted a bit, making his cock hit the back of America’s mouth, and instead of coming back, he slid in deeper, into his throat, until the boy’s nose was pressed against his pelvis, on his light pubic hair. He didn’t gag. He didn’t choke. Not yet, England thought, malicious. America’s blue, teary eyes opened when he noticed England was not moving and wouldn’t move either, rather just buried deep on his throat, and as much as he could stand and take it, it was blocking out his air and he just wasn’t waiting for that. He was wide-eyed, staring up at England, silently pleading, asking him to move, but England didn’t. And then he started to choke, trying to breathe but the thick cock was on the way of his sweet air.
A tear slid down his face and he started to squirm, choking more hard as he felt the thick member stretch his throat even when he didn’t want to take it anymore, the lack of new oxygen on his lungs- and England finally moved back. He coughed loudly as he gasped for air. “Sorry.” The older man said simply, not really feeling that sorry, and his cock was already against America’s lips again, and the younger nation obediently opened for him even if he was almost choked by the man, and let him mouthfuck him as much as he wanted.
America moaned again, and, had been already holding back for a while, England finally came, also moaning, and he felt America’s throat tensing as he swallowed it all, and the boy’s hand went to his cock, pumping him, only the cockhead on his mouth now, milking him dry and swallowing eagerly every drop of the salty, thick cum, looking up at England with half-lidded eyes. England was also with eyes barely opened, panting lightly and moaning shakily, still moving shallowly as America rode out his orgasm, swallowing everything. He wanted more of that mouth, but he had other plans, so he pulled away at least.
America’s face was much more flushed, and England at first thought it was because of the rough treatment, but when he looked behind him to America’s pants, wanting to get rid of them, he saw clearly that they were too wet. He looked back at America, his grin was even scaring the boy. He moved to between the younger’s legs and harshly removed his pants, throwing them on the floor along with the other clothes and the mess on his underwear and the softening cock proved what he has been thinking. America had come at some point during the oral. Slut.
“When?” England asked, that predatory stare back to his eyes as he kissed America’s belly.
America choked on his breath. “When y-you...” He stammered a bit, and gave a sharp, shaky inhale. “When you choked me.” He said, his lips beautifully swollen and red. He didn’t even need to touch his cock to reach his peak. He made a small ‘nngh’ noise when his belly was being kissed again. He was exhausted. But he knew it wasn’t over.
“Haha, wow.” England’s hands started to run by the sides of America’s body, as he kissed his belly a few more times, then opened his mouth to bite the fat there, moving down, kissing his groin. “You know, America, don’t sleep, I’m still going to fuck you.” And he heard the boy whimper, but not exactly complaining or denying. “And you are going to love it. You know why?” Another whimper, he chuckled for the billionth time. “Because you are such a fucking slut. Apparently, start to lactate wasn’t just painful and embarrassing, huh? All of this disgusting fat you have here, you also like it when I touch you here, no? You get off on it. Slut.”
Alfred's Little Secret (14/?)
anonymous
July 14 2011, 03:53:19 UTC
America turned his head, then looked at the mess on his chest and torso. He no longer felt pain on his chest, but he knew he could still drip milk if England started to touch him like that again, and he sort of wanted that. Fuck, he was really a slut. Every time he jerked off, he felt the need to squeeze his nipples, to make the milk slip out of him. It was embarrassing and painful, yes, but it was somehow so goddamn arousing, it was so twisted on his mind. “That’s okay, my boy.” He kissed the softened cock of his lover, feeling him shiver. “I won’t stop making it come out. I won’t let you feel pain again.” America was completely mortified by now. England’s words were hitting his ears and he had to curl his toes and grab the bed sheets again. He didn’t even know why, but he felt the necessity. It was humiliating. And he was enjoying it so much. “And I’m really upset that you took so much time to tell me, though. Don’t you trust me, boy?” Another kiss there.
“Sorry!” He cried out. “I was afraid it would... I don’t know, scare you!”
“No, love. I think it’s okay.” Yet another kiss, then he opened his mouth slightly, covering the base, mouthing it gently. America’s moan-whimper was high-pitched. “Where do you keep the lube?” It wasn’t the first time they did it on America’s house, but the boy would change its place randomly. England believed it was because he will use it to finger himself when alone, and got lazy or simply forgot to bring it back to the bedside table.
“It’s on the bathroom. Inside the shower, on the soap dish.” He said, and England almost snorted. For sure the boy has been fingering himself, it was even funny how obvious America was.
“Okay, stay right here.” He asked and stood up, walking to the bathroom attached to America’s room.
America just watched as the man left him alone on his bed, opened the door of his bathroom and disappeared inside it. The boy sighed, staring at the ceiling. All of this was surreal. England found out about this little... antic of his body but it didn’t scare him away. Rather, he took care of it. Another sigh and he closed his eyes, everything that just happened passing though his mind again and he couldn’t repress a smirk. The touching, the wonderful mouth on his nipples, the cock on his throat, choking him-
He looked down to see England wouldn’t have too much work bringing his erection back. Damn, he was really a slut. A fat, milk-leaking slut, he thought with a frown. His mind had already shut down for this, and he just accepted it. And his England was just so nice, still staying by his side even if he was so disgusting (as the man himself pointed out).
His hands wandered on his body, stopping at his chest, and he started to massage, feeling how soft and good to the touch it was again. The pain was gone, too, just like the pressure. He felt so, so much better. And now England knew, they would find a way to fix this. Together. And he would be in shape for his boyfriend again, and generally just a normal, hopefully attractive man. All to please England, he would do it for him.
Alfred's Little Secret (15/?)
anonymous
July 14 2011, 18:07:35 UTC
dasiodasd i almost forgot about this oh god. ---
“Ah, ah, ah.” He heard and turned his head, to where England was coming out his bathroom. “No touching yourself.” He climbed on the bed again, throwing the lube on the side they weren’t using.
“Ah, no.” America explained, his eyes tired and voice hoarse. “I was just feeling my chest. It doesn’t hurt anymore.” He paused a bit, breathing deeply. “Thank you.”
Arthur smiled at his boy, already between his legs again, and leaned down to kiss him on the lips quickly. “You’re welcome. It’s a pleasure, actually.”
Before he could sit back, America’s powerful arms were around his neck, trapping him there, and the American forced him down a bit, until their lips were together again. This time he was the one licking England’s lower lip, nibbling, asking for passage, which the older man happily gave, humming into the somewhat gently, but still pleasant and breathtaking kiss.
America was the one who broke the contact, too, pecking England’s lips a few times before finally releasing him, his arms falling limp on his sides one more time. “Love you.” He said, and added a mentally a thanks for loving me. And England at first was confused, but then smiled.
“Love you too, poppet.” And he didn’t even notice when he got lost on those blue eyes, which were staring up at him so lovingly, and they probably spent minutes holding each other’s gaze, but then England remembered what he should be doing. “Well, America, I want you to turn around, okay?” And America did so, lying with his stomach down, being watched by fierce green eyes. “Stand on your knees and hands, please.” And be obeyed, his beautiful, delicious round ass all exposed to England and England only. He felt the grin that was stretching his lips. “Good boy. Such a good boy you are, America.” He said, his hands landing on the top of America’s ass, caressing down, to where ass met thigh. He shifted a bit, sitting with his crossed legs, and grabbed both buttocks. “Now, spread your legs a bit for me, will you?” And obviously America did, as the good cheap whore he was.
England spread his asscheeks apart, seeing the puckered, tight, pink hole there. He licked his lips. It was twitching, as the boy’s body couldn’t decide whether to relax or not. But he wouldn’t soothe him this time. Not when he was licking his lips and then burying his face on the cleft of his ass.
America cried out, his whole body jerking forwards, avoiding the touch, trying to run away from it because that felt so good and he was afraid he would lose it again. But England was persistent, bringing his face closer again, the way he was grabbing America’s asscheeks telling him should stop moving like that, so he stopped. He sighed, a shaky exhale, and whimpered. “Ho-Holy shit...”
England chuckled and stuck his tongue out, letting it touch America’s entrance, and the boy tensed up abruptly.
America groaned, fighting to don’t move away from the touch again or close his legs. His head fell down, as his whimpers filled the room. He felt the wet, skilled muscle licking over his anus, teasing each nerve ending there, making more and louder moans erupt from the back his throat. By the time England started circling his twitching entrance, he was shivering non-stop, sweat forming a thin layer on his skin, his cock hardening between his legs.
Then he yelled. Loudly, shakily, trembling. His body jerked again and his limbs twitched and spasmed, and he looked down at England, from between his legs, feeling his tongue inside-
And going deeper. Fuck, deeper. Then moving out, then back in. Thrusting, somehow. Then resumed back to circling. He was quivering, shouting every time he felt the wetness moving on him, panting like a dog. Like a slut. And when England closed his mouth around his opening and sucked, he had to support himself on his arms, his hand feeling way too weak to keep him up. His body trembled violently with each suck, with every time the tongue was plugged on his ass, and he was salivating excessively, the stick thing clinging to the corner of his mouth and chin. He knew he could come by only being rimmed, England had done that before, and he was afraid that if he kept going he would-
With a strangled cry, he came all over his clothes, hands and thighs. And it was a mess. The cum and the liquid coming out his nipples all over him. The smell was intense, musky. He didn’t even notice the characters of his porn had also finished and were fiercely kissing. He grabbed his headset and threw it over the keyboard, panting and trying to make the shivering stop.
At least the pain had ceased. He could feel how his chest was soft again and sighed in relief; sexual and physical.
Then embarrassment took over. And he stood up quickly to wash himself up. He felt it would be a long, hot shower (and maybe he would need to turn the cold water on, in case his dick showed evidence of wanting a round two).
He felt a bit bad, while the water ran down his body, washing him. What if England started to interrogate him about the sexual deprivation? America didn’t allow them to fuck for three months already, distracting England with blowjobs while jerking himself off. But really, he needed to do something about it. And soon. England was sexually demanding, and he would love immensely to respond to such desires, but in his current situation (overweight and fucking lactating), he just didn’t feel like having sex anymore. But what if... England broke up with him? Started to fuck others like he did before they established a relationship, even if he had America?
He pursed his lips in a thin line and felt slightly depressed. He had to do something about it. And go see a doctor was out of question.
-----
The situation has gone out of his control. His chest has doubled the size and it was just too painful. Too much pressure and tension hardening his flesh and glands inside his skin and he couldn’t keep lactating himself. It was just humiliating, to bend over the sink and start to milk himself back to a more or less comfortable situation. Especially because his cock would get hard and swollen almost every time. He couldn’t stand this situation anymore. And he didn’t know what to do. It was enough to make him cry a couple times because it hurt but he didn’t want to take care of it, and it would keep him awake all night, squirming and whimpering. He had stopped gaining weight, at least. More or less, it wasn’t as tragic as it was before but his belly was still soft and pudgy and rather protuberant, still growing slowly (and that’s why he thought it had stopped), the fat still managing to make him feel pretty bad about himself, even more, without England fucking him and making him feel better because if he still fucked him so he was still attractive for him, somehow (or maybe, he was just really pretending - America pushed the thought away quickly).
And it was meeting day. He had begged Spain to let the meeting happen in America again. He didn’t give a reason to why he wanted it, but the Spaniard agreed, noticing the despair and distress of the boy. He could at least go back home instead of staying in a hotel room. In the same hotel as England, by the way. Because the nations had their fix hotel.
He put on his dress shirt, and gave himself a good look in body-length mirror. And stared at his reflection in horror.
His chest. It was visible. If anyone gave him a good look they would definitely notice something’s... Different. Shit, he had even bought a bigger shirt.
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---
He panicked at that. He tore his shirt off and started to walk from one side to another, trying to think even if he just wanted to throw himself to the floor and flail and cry in frustration. His phone started to ring, and he jumped, then sighed in relief to see it was only the damned mobile. He grabbed it. England. Shit, he really couldn’t talk right now. He put it on silence mode and continued to freak the fuck out.
He remembered he had some bandages on the last drawer from his wardrobe, together with medicine he kept for emergencies. He rushed to it, and grabbed the roll full of the thin, but rough white fabric. He ran back to the mirror and swallowed hard. He could feel the dull ache on his chest already. His nipples were getting stiff. He frowned, and started to wrap the bandage around himself.
America winced, then whimpered. It hurt. It hurt a lot. But he needed to do it, needed to disguise his noticeable, developed chest. His eyes watered up by the end of the process, but he was successfully wrapped tightly. Painfully tight. Moving stiffly, with almost robotic movements, he put the shirt back on, then his black suit, a gray tie. Perfect. He forced a smile, which ended up more like a shit-eating grin, to his awful reflection.
He barely put his arms down completely as he made his way downstairs, then to his car.
He didn’t notice the seven lost calls on his phone. And when the damned thing started to vibrate on the pocket of his chest, against his bandages, he yelped, grabbing the steering wheel with way more strength than necessary, and saw it was England calling. Again. When he turned the call off, he saw it was the eighth call from his boyfriend, and he felt a bit bad. But they were about to meet anyway, he could use that as an excuse.
Soon, he was walking into the high, big building the meetings happened. He was surprisingly on time. Five minutes earlier, actually. And damn, he was hungry. And his chest hurt. But he couldn’t do anything about both things at the moment.
He was walking looking down, which was very uncharacteristic of him, but he wasn’t in the mood to talk to people. He didn’t even notice when his arm was violently pulled, and he was shoved against a wall. He winced and before he could open his eyes, lips were roughly against his own, so he preferred to let them close, feeling that pretty, sexy mouth move on his, absorbing the feeling of England’s tongue being shoved into his wet cavern. He put both his hands on the man’s smaller chest, grabbing his suit and he didn’t give shit if it would wrinkle, he was too busy keeping him away from his own chest, but at the same time holding him on a mortal grip. He felt hands on his hips, and then his lower lip was being bit and pulled and ah...
“Why didn’t you answer the phone, love?” He asked, his voice soft but still demanding on Alfred’s ear. It was when the man noticed he was on the hall that only had rooms that weren’t being used yet, so no one would walk around. Good.
“Be-Because...” He stammered a bit. He had a really good excuse, didn’t he? Oh, yes. “Because we were about to meet anyway.” He lied and looked down into the intense, acid green eyes.
England looked at him funny, as if searching the evidences of a lie on his clear eyes. Alfred flashed another grin and it was when England was sure he was lying, but sincerely he didn’t give a shit about America answering his phone or not, since now he had the real thing. “Sure.” He said at least, closing his eyes as he smirked.
America sighed in relief. Hand still on the suit, now just resting there, instead of grabbing the fabric.
“Have you been crying, America? Your eyes are a bit red.” And then he moved away, brushing his suit with both his hands, straightening it and getting rid of any wrinkles America had left. Now, the mix of his boy’s immensely blue, but red-ish eyes and the fact he wasn’t answering his phone worried him a bit. Some has been making America cry, or keeping him awake, and it wasn’t him, so it indeed worried him.
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(... He wondered if he should tell England about his problem at once. He loved England and England loved him, why don’t trust him?)
And the Englishman sighed, defeated. He couldn’t do anything against America’s sincere, broad smiles. “Okay. But this talk is not over.” He warned. “Let’s go. You happened to arrive on time once, I don’t want us to be late. That would be such a waste of your efforts.” And America sincerely didn’t know if it was a compliment or not. “Also,” He paused. “missed you.” And America giggled happily, to which he responded smiling, and they both went to the floor above, then to the meeting room. Holding hands, quietly.
During the meeting, America started to be more what he really is: loud and obnoxious and annoying and dorky. England felt relieved; he was starting to worry a little too much about the boy. He wasn’t being himself earlier. Some nations noticed the lack of England’s scolds at America’s stupid ideas and how actually he would smile at the boy, with his teacup pressed to his lips in a vain attempt to hide it. Germany’s stress seemed to double, as he had to do the Brit’s work too, censuring America’s absurd, useless plans before he ended up seducing the younger nations with his stupidity. Brazil was practically the same age as him, but his eyes were sparkling as the blond talked (yelled), and he was... a more or less influent country now. At least, he was in South America. If he could pull his neighbors countries into a war besides America, he could very well convince them that a giant hero robot was the answer for all the problems. He could maybe even pull Russia, China and India into it. Maybe even Portugal. Germany sighed, feeling his temples about to explode.
America was yelling, some nations agreeing excitedly, others wondering what was wrong with them, Greece sleeping, Russia creeping someone out, Canada was nowhere to be seen (right besides America).
Well. The meeting was a pretty common one, England and Germany noticed.
This, until America suddenly winced, interrupting his apparently endless speech. The noise coming from his throat was loud and pained. If one or two nations (just like Greece) didn’t care about him, all the attention was now centered on him. A hand on his chest pressed lightly, and he winced more. If he wasn’t in pain, he would whine about how much attention he gets when he was silent instead of talking about his awesome ideas.
“Excuse me.” He said simply, leaving the large room in a hurry. England finally put his teacup down on its saucer with a sharp clink!, his eyes wide staring at America as he ran away. God, what was wrong with the boy?
Without America to lead to meeting, Germany coughed loudly, getting the attention of most nations. “Well, since America had a problem, I’ll be leading the meeting now.” Even if America didn’t have a problem he’d be leading the meeting at some point anyway. Usually when France started to fight with England, and they’d pull America into the fight, but he guessed this little outburst was also a cue to take over.
England wasn’t pleased. But they had this one-at-once politics to go out of the room, so, unless it was an emergency, he couldn’t follow America. He sighed irritably, taking one more sip of his tea, which seemed to lose all of its relaxing attributes.
--
haha, this part was rather stupid, i'm really sorry.
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---
America was running to the bathroom, sighing in relief as he saw no one there. He opened his shirt, looking at his work with the bandages. He could notice the two wet spots there, and the pain was like needles being pierced into his sensitive flesh. Damn. Can’t this wait for when the meeting is over? They usually took six hours or so, and they barely went through two. He considered pulling the bandages out and squeeze the erect nubs just a bit, just to cease the pressure and the pain. But no, he couldn’t. Not there. Not when someone could walk in. Do it in any of the booths wouldn’t work either. He needed space and privacy, and he couldn’t have it there. He wandered around the bathroom for a while, whimpering and trying to think about something. He looked in the mirror again, the wet spots were bigger. He frowned. Why. Now? And the pressure the bandages were applying was probably making the excess come out already, so he guessed (hoped) that he could stand until the end of the meeting without too much pain.
After a few minutes, he walked back to the room, blessing the air conditioning for he was starting to sweat. He received several looks; wondering, curious looks. Usually he wouldn’t notice that, but his senses were oversensitive with his current, damned situation. He felt like even the countries that didn’t even notice when he was back were looking at him (and now it was his paranoia, inherited from the Cold War, talking).
But one pair of eyes among all the other made him shiver. Dangerous, acid green eyes. He could almost hear the what is your goddamn problem, lad?, and he smiled the best he could at England, as he finally crossed the rather big table, sitting on his chair.
“Well!” He said, loud enough so the others could listen. The room fell mostly silent when he got in; even Germany had stopped, so it wasn’t that hard. “I’m sorry, guys! I’m not feeling very well today. So, uh, I’m guessing Germany already took over?” He looked at said nation, who nodded stiffly at him. “So, please, keep going! I’m going to, um, sit back here and kind of rest, okay? If I’m needed, I’m right here.” He said and leaned back into his chair. The people were still looking at him, and he instinctively looked down, chin pressed against his collar bone, and checked if the slightly wetness on his chest was visible through his shirt. And it wasn’t. He sighed, glad.
He’d like to say he could make it calmly during the rest of the meeting, but with time the pain was increasing and those goddamn eyes were still watching him, lips almost always hidden behind the long ago emptied teacup. Sometimes he looked back nervously, shit-eating grinning and shrugging, but England’s glare was immutable, hard to read. It was worrisome.
Meeting was over. It took only four hours. The problem, obviously, hasn’t been solved. Some nations had their flights back in a few minutes or hours and were rushing to the get a cab and then to the airport, others were leaving to the hotel to wait until the time they would fly back home. America was sneaking out the room, trying to don’t be noticed, but England crossed his way, making him gasp and jump in surprise. “Leaving without me?” He asked, tone usually would be smug at these situations, but this time he just sounded... Unpleased.
Unpleased and worried.
“Uh. Well.” He didn’t have an excuse this time. “I’m sorry. I wanted to be alone for the rest of the day, if you don’t mind?” He grinned again, failing at smile this time.
“No, America, I’m coming with you.” He said, his voice firm and deciding. America knew he wouldn’t accept a ‘no’ as an answer, even if he had to break in his house. “We didn’t fuck for three months.”
---
uh, yes, england is/will be kind of an asshole here, but he still loves america and feels worried for him. for now at least haha.
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The boy sighed, defeated. He’d have to tell England. He needed to tell someone. Anyone. It was out of control. England was old and probably knew a thing or two about it, how to fix it. Yes, he could trust England. He could.
“O-Okay.” His voice was shakier than what he expected.
They both walked silently side by side. America was so uncomfortable and tense, England could feel it by just walking besides him.
Slowly, he entwined their fingers again. America first was a bit surprised, then smiled down at him, his eyes impossibly shining and glassy. Was he about to cry? England looked at him even when the boy was paying attention to their way, a bit surprised. America was acting so weird.
The car ride was also silent, but America seemed calmer now. England’s hand was on his thigh, surprisingly not in a sexual way, rather it was soothing, stroking in small circles, the low but insistent buzz coming from the radio managing to don’t make them stay in an awkward silence.
Once at home, America barely closed the door behind him and a rather eager, hungry England was shoving his hands under his suit, his lips attached to America’s unprotected neck, sucking and nibbling and making America moan even if he was trying to push the other away, just like before the meeting, his hands on England’s chest, avoiding the man to get any closer. The smaller man grew tired of it, though, tired of his younger lover’s persistence, and grabbed his hands, moving them out of the way and pressing their chests together-
He was surprised by America’s loud, high-pitched and pained yell. And stopped, looking up at him from where he was sucking his neck. He pulled away, staring wide eyed at the boy now positively holding back tears, choking on them.
“America.” He touched his face. God, what had he done? “America, love, talk to me. Why are you crying?”
“Not crying.” Was the immediate answer, which he dared to give even if after he sobbed again. This has gone too far.
“You look like you’re crying to me.” His hands, on America’s waist, went up, soothing again, caressing up his back until- He frowned, America shut his eyes tightly. “America, there’s something around your chest.” He had to say, since America didn’t feel like cooperating and just telling him what was it. But he could feel something that wasn’t America’s tender skin, even over the fabric of the shirt.
“Bandages.” His eyes were still shut tight.
“Why there are bandages on your chest?” He asked, voice serious, even more worried. He growled at the lack of America’s voice, when he indeed needed to talk. “I asked you a question, lad.”
“Let’s go upstairs. It’s a long story.” He explained, eyes still closed, holding back the tears behind his eyelids.
England stared at that beautiful, slightly blushed face, and sighed. “Okay.”
And they went upstairs. They were on America’s wide, messy room. And even if they were alone, he closed the door carefully behind them.
“So?” The Brit asked, curiosity and worry making his stomach swirl.
He sat on America’s unmade bed, and arched a fuzzy eyebrow when the boy, staring at the wall, silently started to shrug his suit off, then his shirt. As the nice, white fabric slid down, he could see Alfred’s beautiful, powerful back (ignoring the bandages). He bit his lower lip, watching how America’s fat was being held by the tight hold of the belt on his hips. God, he wished he didn’t give shit about whatever problem America had, and just let the boy fuck him, let his long, thick and fat dick tear its way inside him, then fuck him just as roughly right fucking now. But just seeing how even breathe was hard against those bandages, and how his body shivered lightly with each shallow breathe, made the growing worry coil on his stomach and heart.
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When he was going to ask what the bloody hell that meant, America’s voice, rather shaky and low, made itself present. “This has been going for three months.” More or less the last time they saw each other naked, England noted mentally. “My chest, it’s... Swollen. And... And...” He didn’t find the strength to keep going, and bit his lower lip nervously, chewing on it.
“And...?” England encouraged, his body also tense, sitting on America’s soft mattress.
“Something comes out.” He said, immensely nervous, swallowing back his tears. “Mi-Milk, I suppose.” Not that long of a story, he noticed.
He removed the bandages, slowly, feeling the pain easy then increase again, his hard, swollen breasts now exposed, said liquid coming out just a bit before stopping the flow. England was... Speechless.
He opened his mouth, then closed, as if he was a fish out of the water. He didn’t know what to say or do. And before he could notice it, his cock twitched. Fuck. America was... “America,” He said, finally, the boy completely still in front of him, naked from the waist up. “you are lactating.”
America whimpered. Even if it was obvious, he has been denying and avoiding the reality. “England.” He whined, no longer holding back the tears. “It’s painful. Make it stop.” He asked, his tone low and soft, but pleadingly.
England was standing up again in a heartbeat, one of his hands around America’s neck, the other on his waist, stroking gently (dammit, America has gained more weight. More weight). “That’s okay, lad, I’ll help you out.” His cock gave another interesting twitch. He was getting turned on by America lactating, by America’s soft, big belly. The poor boy was crying, feeling pain, but his cock was just taking it as an invitation to sex. He felt bad, even. But the feeling didn’t last long, as he noticed how much fun he could have with it. He told America to climb on the bed, and so he did. “Lean on the headboard.” He instructed, getting rid of his own suit and shirt, hoping America didn’t notice the slight bulge on his trousers. He decided to undo the belt, too.
America obeyed, doing as England told him, watching as the man got rid of his suit and shirt. He looked nervously at him, but now calmer since the man didn’t feel disgusted and left. He thought Arthur had to deal with way too many things. First, his weight gaining, and now this. He felt like the worst boyfriend in the world.
He didn’t even noticed when the mattress dipped a bit with England’s light weight, as he climbed on the bed. He guessed that the predatory stare should have scared him, but how could it, when Arthur’s voice was so soothing while he asked America to relax.
He kneeled besides America, grabbing a few pillows (America had several on his bed) and placing them between the boy’s back and the headboard, making him more comfortable. “Listen, America, I need you to relax.” He said, his hands travelling down his body, squeezing his belly lightly, which made America jump and whimper, then unbuckled his belt, undoing the fly of his pants, increasing comfort. “Or the pain won’t cease.” He explained and looked into the blue eyes and held his lovingly gaze with his own, their faces reflected on each other’s irises. He leaned down, then, kissing those gaping lips, his tongue gently prodding into the other’s inviting mouth, and the touch was surprisingly gentle. No fight for dominance, just a slow, sloppy rub of tongue against tongue, lips and teeth - when they couldn’t avoid it. He put his hands on the broad shoulders and felt America’s body indeed start to relax against his soft pillows, and the boy moaned gently into their tender kiss, letting his lover take control.
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He started to touch his boy’s chest. His breasts were slightly hard under his hands, the nipples stiff. He started to massage gently, palming and touching and fingering around the pink nipples. America moaned again, this time longer, needier. The vibrations from said moan went straight to England’s balls, making his cock completely hard against the thin fabric of his underwear. He moaned back this time, but softer and quicker, more like a grunt.
He finally pulled away, saliva dripping down both their chins, and his attention shifted to America’s chest. “What are you-”
“Shhh.” He said simply, shushing the boy. “You’ll feel better when I’m done.” He noticed America’s fist tightening around the messed bed sheets, and he chuckled, kissing his face and then his lips were busy kissing his chest instead.
America whimpered loudly, feeling England’s mouth there. God, it was so goddamn embarrassing. Why was he even doing that? America couldn’t bring himself to fully care at the moment, as the small mouth opened briefly, just to close around his nipple. He groaned, delighted and embarrassed, and when England started to suck, relieved. The older man stopped just as soon as he started, though, but didn’t move his mouth from its place. Instead, he was lapping his tongue around, then over the erect nub, eliciting another small moan, and then he was sucking again, making the pressure on the breast stop. America could feel the liquid coming out, the flow quite intense and continuous, dripping into England’s mouth and, fuck, he was swallowing. Swallowing it all, not letting even a drop escape. He looked down, just to notice the man, even if concentrated on suckling his nipple, looking back up at him. His cock started to make itself noticeable, too.
Shit. He couldn’t help it. He would get painfully hard when he was getting rid of the excess of milk himself, having England to do it, to suckle it off, would easily make him a quivering mass of need.
“Shit, England.” He half moaned and half whined, ripping his gaze away from the man sucking his breast.
(...He was breastfeeding England, somehow. Fuck, he was breastfeeding his goddamn lover and former father figure.)
England, noticing there was something else than just relief and pain on his voice, stopped, some of the pale milk leaking onto his skin. “Yes?” He asked, cockily.
America bit down on his lower lip again, looking at England, who looked down and then he was looking at America again, a smirk was stamped on his face. He wouldn’t need to say anything apparently, for England’s hands were already between his legs, and a moan erupted from America’s slightly sore throat. “Well, well, well.” He said, amused (and glad to notice he wasn’t the only one getting off to this, he guessed he could indeed take his fun a little further). “What do we have here?”
America’s face turned white, then blue. Save for the red cheeks and pink lips. England chuckled. “That’s okay, my boy,” He grabbed one of America’s hands, which automatically let go of the sheet, and guided it to between his own legs. America gasped when he felt how hard England was, his erection throbbing on his hand, even with the fabric between them, he could feel. “I already know how much of a slut you are.”
America’s eyes widened and he whimpered. He didn’t want to hear that, but couldn’t help it when he wanted to do something with England’s junk, so he squeezed experimentally. He felt a bit satisfied when it was enough to make England grunt, as he forcefully pulled America’s hand away. “England, let’s f-”
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He leaned down again, taking the other nipple into his mouth. He did like the first one, tonguing around, then teasing the tip, and when he suckled, it came out easily. His hand was back to between America’s legs, pressing and palming him over the fabric, making the golden boy squirm under his touches, and he knew he was betraying his own words, but now he positively didn’t give a fuck. The taste of America’s milk was nice, pleasant on his tongue and left him wanting for more, which he quickly gained, the flow never stopping. It was sweet. He really didn’t expect it, considering how many hamburgers America added to his diet. Maybe he drank his over-sugared coffee on the meeting, and maybe it was because of the equally ridiculous amount of milkshakes he drank. Not that he minded it. He scolded the boy more for his lack of manners than for his diet. He felt pleased to watch America eat and, consequently, gain weight. He didn’t want him to be obese nor morbidly fat, no, but he liked to have where to touch, grab and squeeze, especially when they were fucking. He also thought America looked cute, all chubby, round faced and with plump, generous thighs and arms and a wonderful ass. He had no problems with that, France could call him a sick bastard as much as he wanted for ruining America’s diet one per one.
Oh, and now his chest. His pudgy, lovely, lactating chest, providing him that delicious liquid. He just couldn’t get enough of it, sucking and squeezing and swallowing as new born baby, stopping to breath against the nipple as he let the milk drip down America’s body, the smell being welcomed into his nostrils, just like America’s moans was a well invited music to his ears. He could even start to feel the fabric of his pants getting slightly wet. He had a free hand, which he took to the already abused nipple, and used his forefinger and thumb to squeeze around it, making the liquid drip down generously. America squirmed and almost yelled.
“Are you close?” England asked in a whisper, against his rosy nipple, strangely calm.
“Y-Yes!” He shouted, throwing his head back, whimpering when everything stopped. He could no longer feel the mouth on his nipples, or the hand caressing him between his slightly sprawled legs. He opened his eyes, to see an England smirking at him, devouring him with his eyes.
Suddenly, he grabbed America’s love handles with both hands. The boy gasped, wide-eyed and he just squeezed more. Yes, America was deliciously big and soft to the touch. Not enough, though, England was sure he would look lovely with a bit more 40 or 50 pounds, with larger waist and hips. He needed to be sure to take his adorable boy to wherever he wanted to eat when they were finished. And he would feed him, grab whatever he will be eating and make America eat from his hands, then lick all of his fingers clean, getting rid of the grease there, and they wouldn’t care about the people looking at them, no, not when England knew what all of this food would be doing to America. He wanted to watch him as he slowly grew bigger, rounder, softer, fatter.
Fuck, if America had also another one of the female abilities, he could knock him up with children all the time, one after the other. Watch as through time his belly would not just grow, but grow to a perfect, firm circle, as his spine naturally arched and formed a beautiful arch at the base of his back. He would make Alfred stand on his hands and knees and fuck him and his belly would bounce as he was being rocked back and forth-
“Look at you.” He finally said, forcing himself to leave his small fantasy. “You are getting so fucking fat, America.” He leaned down and bit the fat being held by the too tight hold of the pants, even if the belt was off. He could imagine that earlier this morning, America would lying on this very same bed, the pants just under his hips, as he squirmed to get them all the way up. “Don’t you have shame? Can’t you stop stuffing your face with food?”
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“You what?” Bit again, on the small fold on the beginning of his belly, right under his chest, licking the milk there off. “Such a waste. Wouldn’t you rather fill that mouth of yours with cock, boy? I know you would love it.”
“E-England! Stop!” He gasped, feeling more tears threading to fall down. He didn’t want to cry again. He swallowed them back. England huffed, he wanted to see him crying, this time. Just this once. Of course he felt worried when America cried, but this time he would be causing it, he would knew the reason and would know how to calm him afterwards, so he guessed to could give himself this little treat, this feeling of power. He loved being powerful, after all, always had. And missed it. Missed America when he was just a colony, following his every order, obeying to every little thing he said, crying, begging for mercy. And then he rebelled, and England didn’t want to think about it anymore.
“Maybe you wouldn’t love it more than your nasty burgers, but I guess it would keep you content. You are such a greedy whore, after all.” Another bite, he grabbed America’s bulge again. “A fucking fat, cheap whore you are, darling.” He pressed his palm there and, as to prove his point, America moaned wantonly, throwing his head back and England smirked. “See?”
And that made the trick. Fuck, he really was a whore, getting off by that. And he indeed was getting too fat, even if he also trying to mask it for himself. He opened his eyes, trying to look at something that wasn’t England; failing. He was crying again, feeling completely humiliated and awful. The older man smiled, kissing his cheek, over a wet tear. “There’s no problem, love. You are my little, adorable whore.”
And with that, he pulled away, watching America sob as he took his glasses off, throwing them somewhere save and pressed his hands to his face, feeling helpless, feeling dirty and feeling terrible. England pulled his pants down, freeing his hard and dripping erection, and then tangled his fingers on America’s golden hair, now kissing his face soothing just as if he wasn’t the cause of the boy’s distress, and he slowly calmed down a bit... Until he looked down at England’s hard member, and licked his lips instinctively, tasting also his salty tears.
England saw that and chuckled. But decided not to comment on that, not wanting do discourage the boy. “Want this?” A furious nod, even if the tears were streaming down his face and he was trembling slightly. “Okay, then lay down.” He didn’t understand why he had to lay down, but he didn’t fucking care. He saw England’s cock bouncing slightly as he moved, giving room to America lay. England was smaller than him, but just as thick. A meaty, not too long but not short either, perfect cock. The head had a pink shade, and pre-cum was leaking just as much as the milk on his chest had been. And America wanted it. Wanted it everywhere. On his mouth, filling his ass to the brim. He would have to be patient, though. By now he was just lying down, head on one of the pillows, watching England as he straddled him, sitting just right behind his chest, now on his naked glory. At first, he thought he was there to don’t hurt him, since he had be complaining about the pain, but now he felt much better, with all the excess of milk out of him, his chest soft and nice, and he was about to warn Arthur that he could come closer... But England just let his throbbing cock fall between his breasts. America looked at the cock pointing at his face, and then to England, who still had a smirk on his thin lips.
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America stopped in order to look up at him and... Kind of smile. Even after all England told him. England smiled back and stopped, America automatically releasing him. England moved even closer to his face, grabbing his cock, and America’s mouth was already gaping, waiting, his tongue slightly coming out. England grinned, and slapped his face with his cock, pre-cum clinging to his cheek. America’s face was even more beautiful with cum on it. He did it a few more times, then moving the head on those stretched lips, leaving the pre-cum clinging there, and they just stretched even more, as America’s blue eyes closed, as if begging for that. “Here, lad.” He said, guiding his erection into the other’s mouth. America moaned, closing his lips around it. “Your prize.”
At first, America was the only one moving his head the best he could, sucking England on the right times, making those loud, wet, obscene noises England loved so much, tasting his own milk on the shaft. America definitely could give the best blowjobs. He had no gag reflex, he could suck in the right times. Hard. And deep throat was pretty easy for him, he also worked wonderfully well with his tongue and even teeth. England guessed that when he was watching America eat, he also felt warm inside because of it. He didn’t know if he was good at shoving so much food at once because he learned from blowjobs, or if he gave good blowjobs because of his eating habits, but he guessed (and hoped) it was the second option. He was so goddamn sure America could suck two at the same time... And still he made it feel like his mouth was so small and so wet. He pulled out and grabbed his cock, lifting it a bit, letting America lick and suck his balls, and he did so with immense pleasure, lapping his tongue on it then sucking a testicle delicately into his mouth, making a wet pop as he let it go and moving his tongue to its twin, making England groan, and then give his dick back to America, who swallowed him up greedily.
He suddenly grabbed the boy’s hair, making him stop and groan in pain around his phallus, and he loved the vibrations it sent, which ran down his spine, making him close his eyes to gain control. He couldn’t come right now. Not when he was about to fuck that wonderful mouth.
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it's a headcanon of mine that America can give wonderful blowjobs, because he is pretty used to work his mouth with food. so um. and yes, this is a bit, ehh, long. sorry.
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A tear slid down his face and he started to squirm, choking more hard as he felt the thick member stretch his throat even when he didn’t want to take it anymore, the lack of new oxygen on his lungs- and England finally moved back. He coughed loudly as he gasped for air. “Sorry.” The older man said simply, not really feeling that sorry, and his cock was already against America’s lips again, and the younger nation obediently opened for him even if he was almost choked by the man, and let him mouthfuck him as much as he wanted.
America moaned again, and, had been already holding back for a while, England finally came, also moaning, and he felt America’s throat tensing as he swallowed it all, and the boy’s hand went to his cock, pumping him, only the cockhead on his mouth now, milking him dry and swallowing eagerly every drop of the salty, thick cum, looking up at England with half-lidded eyes. England was also with eyes barely opened, panting lightly and moaning shakily, still moving shallowly as America rode out his orgasm, swallowing everything. He wanted more of that mouth, but he had other plans, so he pulled away at least.
America’s face was much more flushed, and England at first thought it was because of the rough treatment, but when he looked behind him to America’s pants, wanting to get rid of them, he saw clearly that they were too wet. He looked back at America, his grin was even scaring the boy. He moved to between the younger’s legs and harshly removed his pants, throwing them on the floor along with the other clothes and the mess on his underwear and the softening cock proved what he has been thinking. America had come at some point during the oral. Slut.
“When?” England asked, that predatory stare back to his eyes as he kissed America’s belly.
America choked on his breath. “When y-you...” He stammered a bit, and gave a sharp, shaky inhale. “When you choked me.” He said, his lips beautifully swollen and red. He didn’t even need to touch his cock to reach his peak. He made a small ‘nngh’ noise when his belly was being kissed again. He was exhausted. But he knew it wasn’t over.
“Haha, wow.” England’s hands started to run by the sides of America’s body, as he kissed his belly a few more times, then opened his mouth to bite the fat there, moving down, kissing his groin. “You know, America, don’t sleep, I’m still going to fuck you.” And he heard the boy whimper, but not exactly complaining or denying. “And you are going to love it. You know why?” Another whimper, he chuckled for the billionth time. “Because you are such a fucking slut. Apparently, start to lactate wasn’t just painful and embarrassing, huh? All of this disgusting fat you have here, you also like it when I touch you here, no? You get off on it. Slut.”
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“Sorry!” He cried out. “I was afraid it would... I don’t know, scare you!”
“No, love. I think it’s okay.” Yet another kiss, then he opened his mouth slightly, covering the base, mouthing it gently. America’s moan-whimper was high-pitched. “Where do you keep the lube?” It wasn’t the first time they did it on America’s house, but the boy would change its place randomly. England believed it was because he will use it to finger himself when alone, and got lazy or simply forgot to bring it back to the bedside table.
“It’s on the bathroom. Inside the shower, on the soap dish.” He said, and England almost snorted. For sure the boy has been fingering himself, it was even funny how obvious America was.
“Okay, stay right here.” He asked and stood up, walking to the bathroom attached to America’s room.
America just watched as the man left him alone on his bed, opened the door of his bathroom and disappeared inside it. The boy sighed, staring at the ceiling. All of this was surreal. England found out about this little... antic of his body but it didn’t scare him away. Rather, he took care of it. Another sigh and he closed his eyes, everything that just happened passing though his mind again and he couldn’t repress a smirk. The touching, the wonderful mouth on his nipples, the cock on his throat, choking him-
He looked down to see England wouldn’t have too much work bringing his erection back. Damn, he was really a slut. A fat, milk-leaking slut, he thought with a frown. His mind had already shut down for this, and he just accepted it. And his England was just so nice, still staying by his side even if he was so disgusting (as the man himself pointed out).
His hands wandered on his body, stopping at his chest, and he started to massage, feeling how soft and good to the touch it was again. The pain was gone, too, just like the pressure. He felt so, so much better. And now England knew, they would find a way to fix this. Together. And he would be in shape for his boyfriend again, and generally just a normal, hopefully attractive man. All to please England, he would do it for him.
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...I think I'm going to hell.
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hope you're using your account that i made for you with all my love!
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“Ah, ah, ah.” He heard and turned his head, to where England was coming out his bathroom. “No touching yourself.” He climbed on the bed again, throwing the lube on the side they weren’t using.
“Ah, no.” America explained, his eyes tired and voice hoarse. “I was just feeling my chest. It doesn’t hurt anymore.” He paused a bit, breathing deeply. “Thank you.”
Arthur smiled at his boy, already between his legs again, and leaned down to kiss him on the lips quickly. “You’re welcome. It’s a pleasure, actually.”
Before he could sit back, America’s powerful arms were around his neck, trapping him there, and the American forced him down a bit, until their lips were together again. This time he was the one licking England’s lower lip, nibbling, asking for passage, which the older man happily gave, humming into the somewhat gently, but still pleasant and breathtaking kiss.
America was the one who broke the contact, too, pecking England’s lips a few times before finally releasing him, his arms falling limp on his sides one more time. “Love you.” He said, and added a mentally a thanks for loving me. And England at first was confused, but then smiled.
“Love you too, poppet.” And he didn’t even notice when he got lost on those blue eyes, which were staring up at him so lovingly, and they probably spent minutes holding each other’s gaze, but then England remembered what he should be doing. “Well, America, I want you to turn around, okay?” And America did so, lying with his stomach down, being watched by fierce green eyes. “Stand on your knees and hands, please.” And be obeyed, his beautiful, delicious round ass all exposed to England and England only. He felt the grin that was stretching his lips. “Good boy. Such a good boy you are, America.” He said, his hands landing on the top of America’s ass, caressing down, to where ass met thigh. He shifted a bit, sitting with his crossed legs, and grabbed both buttocks. “Now, spread your legs a bit for me, will you?” And obviously America did, as the good cheap whore he was.
England spread his asscheeks apart, seeing the puckered, tight, pink hole there. He licked his lips. It was twitching, as the boy’s body couldn’t decide whether to relax or not. But he wouldn’t soothe him this time. Not when he was licking his lips and then burying his face on the cleft of his ass.
America cried out, his whole body jerking forwards, avoiding the touch, trying to run away from it because that felt so good and he was afraid he would lose it again. But England was persistent, bringing his face closer again, the way he was grabbing America’s asscheeks telling him should stop moving like that, so he stopped. He sighed, a shaky exhale, and whimpered. “Ho-Holy shit...”
England chuckled and stuck his tongue out, letting it touch America’s entrance, and the boy tensed up abruptly.
America groaned, fighting to don’t move away from the touch again or close his legs. His head fell down, as his whimpers filled the room. He felt the wet, skilled muscle licking over his anus, teasing each nerve ending there, making more and louder moans erupt from the back his throat. By the time England started circling his twitching entrance, he was shivering non-stop, sweat forming a thin layer on his skin, his cock hardening between his legs.
Then he yelled. Loudly, shakily, trembling. His body jerked again and his limbs twitched and spasmed, and he looked down at England, from between his legs, feeling his tongue inside-
And going deeper. Fuck, deeper. Then moving out, then back in. Thrusting, somehow. Then resumed back to circling. He was quivering, shouting every time he felt the wetness moving on him, panting like a dog. Like a slut. And when England closed his mouth around his opening and sucked, he had to support himself on his arms, his hand feeling way too weak to keep him up. His body trembled violently with each suck, with every time the tongue was plugged on his ass, and he was salivating excessively, the stick thing clinging to the corner of his mouth and chin. He knew he could come by only being rimmed, England had done that before, and he was afraid that if he kept going he would-
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