USUK Literal 6c/7
anonymous
August 10 2011, 19:09:42 UTC
Scotland was close enough to America that his features remained quite clear, but the brothers on the other side of the room became rather blurry. Reassured his lacking glasses was not going to impair much at this range, America popped open the bottle of lube. “You stretch yourself or want me to do it?”
“I’m being lazy,” Scotland replied, spreading his legs and reclining against the headboard again, “ye should do the work.”
America snorted but felt a smile crawl onto his face as he warmed the lube between his fingers. Scotland propped himself straighter up again as America leaned down to start, pushing up the kilt that had slipped down again and partially obscured Scotland’s entrance during their grinding.
Scotland was relaxed as America’s finger wiggled in, and only let out a quiet grunt at the intrusion. Like Wales, Scotland wasn’t as tight as Northern Ireland, but he guessed the old nation hadn’t done this in a while. “Are you good?”
“Great,” Scotland growled, “Hurry up.”
America did. Scotland shifted and squeezed around his fingers as another slipped in, scissoring and twisting inside, searching for places that would make the man feel better. Scotland moved with him carefully, arching a little here, twisting a little there.
“Your kilt keeps slipping down,” America said, pushing it back up a third time.
“Want me t’take it off?” Scotland said, eyes closed and breathing just a bit ragged.
“Nuh-uh,” he added a second digit. Scotland huffed and reached down to grab America’s wrist and pull the fingers out. “What’re you doing?”
“Well ye don’t like it fallin’, so we’ll have to fix it, ken?” Scotland said, pushing America a little farther back on the bed. He rolled onto his stomach and propped himself up on his knees, “Now don’t ye dare complain.”
America did not. Suddenly quite a bit harder, he slid his fingers back into Scotland and continued fingering in the new position, slipping one finger in after the other until Scotland’s breathing stopped lurching every other twist.
He tried to be thorough, somewhere in his mind realizing Scotland hadn’t come here for lovemaking and wouldn’t settle for anything less than being pounded into the mattress. Or maybe that was just what America was hoping for. After four fingers were thrusting in and out easily, America pulled back and quickly lubed himself up, cock throbbing, and thrust into Scotland.
He might have gone too quickly, but Scotland didn’t say anything, just grunted again and fisted the sheets.
Scotland wasn’t like Wales or Northern Ireland. He wasn’t shy, he was genuinely quiet. His breaths were ragged as America pounded in, thrusting forcefully into him, making permanent welts in the mattress as Scotland was shoved down and down again. They were sweaty and their bodies slipped against each other, and whenever America began to slow or weaken his thrusts, Scotland, kilt now sliding the other way up his hips, thrust himself back harder and urged the young nation on.
At some point America found himself digging his nails into Scotland’s thighs and the old nation clenching and wrapping around America tighter, tighter.
Scotland came just barely before America, his hand wrapped around his dick. He shuddered when he came, groaning into the pillow while America shouted and slumped over his back.
They pulled away from each other to land on the mattress, one person’s head half on the other’s chest and legs tangled like a mess of weeds. Their chests heaved, and when breath came back to him, Scotland turned to America, bright eyes flashing and said, “Yer cleaning the fuckin’ kilt.”
“I’m being lazy,” Scotland replied, spreading his legs and reclining against the headboard again, “ye should do the work.”
America snorted but felt a smile crawl onto his face as he warmed the lube between his fingers. Scotland propped himself straighter up again as America leaned down to start, pushing up the kilt that had slipped down again and partially obscured Scotland’s entrance during their grinding.
Scotland was relaxed as America’s finger wiggled in, and only let out a quiet grunt at the intrusion. Like Wales, Scotland wasn’t as tight as Northern Ireland, but he guessed the old nation hadn’t done this in a while. “Are you good?”
“Great,” Scotland growled, “Hurry up.”
America did. Scotland shifted and squeezed around his fingers as another slipped in, scissoring and twisting inside, searching for places that would make the man feel better. Scotland moved with him carefully, arching a little here, twisting a little there.
“Your kilt keeps slipping down,” America said, pushing it back up a third time.
“Want me t’take it off?” Scotland said, eyes closed and breathing just a bit ragged.
“Nuh-uh,” he added a second digit. Scotland huffed and reached down to grab America’s wrist and pull the fingers out. “What’re you doing?”
“Well ye don’t like it fallin’, so we’ll have to fix it, ken?” Scotland said, pushing America a little farther back on the bed. He rolled onto his stomach and propped himself up on his knees, “Now don’t ye dare complain.”
America did not. Suddenly quite a bit harder, he slid his fingers back into Scotland and continued fingering in the new position, slipping one finger in after the other until Scotland’s breathing stopped lurching every other twist.
He tried to be thorough, somewhere in his mind realizing Scotland hadn’t come here for lovemaking and wouldn’t settle for anything less than being pounded into the mattress. Or maybe that was just what America was hoping for. After four fingers were thrusting in and out easily, America pulled back and quickly lubed himself up, cock throbbing, and thrust into Scotland.
He might have gone too quickly, but Scotland didn’t say anything, just grunted again and fisted the sheets.
Scotland wasn’t like Wales or Northern Ireland. He wasn’t shy, he was genuinely quiet. His breaths were ragged as America pounded in, thrusting forcefully into him, making permanent welts in the mattress as Scotland was shoved down and down again. They were sweaty and their bodies slipped against each other, and whenever America began to slow or weaken his thrusts, Scotland, kilt now sliding the other way up his hips, thrust himself back harder and urged the young nation on.
At some point America found himself digging his nails into Scotland’s thighs and the old nation clenching and wrapping around America tighter, tighter.
Scotland came just barely before America, his hand wrapped around his dick. He shuddered when he came, groaning into the pillow while America shouted and slumped over his back.
They pulled away from each other to land on the mattress, one person’s head half on the other’s chest and legs tangled like a mess of weeds. Their chests heaved, and when breath came back to him, Scotland turned to America, bright eyes flashing and said, “Yer cleaning the fuckin’ kilt.”
America laughed.
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