Rumba - Part Three
anonymous
July 12 2009, 13:54:06 UTC
(Can a mod delete the other 'Part 3'? Anon fails at multi-tasking during work.)
Aggressive, hungry lips follow the track, and France nips Spain's throat. With his hands free he pulls and rubs and strokes everywhere until Spain is arching against him in want, panting, and Spain's fingers suddenly sink into his hair, fingertips rubbing against his scalp and France shudders with excitement. Is it rape? Is it consensual? The line is blurred, and France's fingers have found Spain's nipples and are twisting them, sharp pain follow by his mouth on them, soothing kisses followed by long sucks as France memorizes every texture, every taste, every spot that makes Spain squirm.
The shirt is ruched up as high as it can go. France gathers himself enough make Spain help him take it off, and sanity makes a brief reappearance in the brunette's gaze as he remembers where they are. Anyone could be watching them.
"Doesn't matter." France has undone his pants, doesn't wear underwear, and guides Spain's hand to his cock, expression momentarily blissful as the calloused fingers brush against his flesh. He flashes a smile, the devil in his voice. "Let them watch." Better to tell the world what is mine. He’s irrationally possessive and maybe he won’t want to think of the way he’s acting, won’t want to remember, after the night is done, because he’s France and he doesn’t keep lovers. It’s not his way, and it’s not really the way of any nation either.
But tomorrow is tomorrow, and Spain’s tongue sweeps his lower lip uncertainly, leaving it shiny and swollen, and his long fingers are gripping France’s cock, moving with increasing enthusiasm up and down. France watches Spain’s focused expression, finding it erotic. He presses his thumb past the parted lips and Spain meets his gaze. Spain is old too, knows what to expect, even though there is a measure of wonder and even guilt somewhere in there, because Spain is a good Catholic boy.
France changes fingers. Slides the index and pointer finger until he’s rubbing Spain’s tongue. Spain’s eyes close and his lips tighten as he begins to suck at the digits. His hand on France’s manhood is sure and confident, he’s given in to the situation, and France has to put his free arm against the wall because his balance isn’t so great that moment, his hips pushing up and his breath is hitched as he imagines those pretty, swollen lips around his cock instead of his fingers.
Fuck. France pulls the fingers out, so near to coming undone that he feels almost threatened by it. He hasn’t even gotten to Spain’s pants, for God’s sake. It’s a situation he remedies swiftly, only to find out Spain doesn’t wear underwear either, and he laughs, pressing his cheek against Spain’s throat, his facial hair ticklish across Spain’s over sensitized skin.
It’s not ideal, but he uses the saliva to ease passage as his hand lands on the curved divide of Spain’s ass and presses against the hole there, fingertip popping in easily. Spain inhales sharply but his touching continues. His eyes are open now, looking at France with trust and France almost feels like a heel.
At least he would, if he didn’t feel so damn triumphant.
Aggressive, hungry lips follow the track, and France nips Spain's throat. With his hands free he pulls and rubs and strokes everywhere until Spain is arching against him in want, panting, and Spain's fingers suddenly sink into his hair, fingertips rubbing against his scalp and France shudders with excitement. Is it rape? Is it consensual? The line is blurred, and France's fingers have found Spain's nipples and are twisting them, sharp pain follow by his mouth on them, soothing kisses followed by long sucks as France memorizes every texture, every taste, every spot that makes Spain squirm.
The shirt is ruched up as high as it can go. France gathers himself enough make Spain help him take it off, and sanity makes a brief reappearance in the brunette's gaze as he remembers where they are. Anyone could be watching them.
"Doesn't matter." France has undone his pants, doesn't wear underwear, and guides Spain's hand to his cock, expression momentarily blissful as the calloused fingers brush against his flesh. He flashes a smile, the devil in his voice. "Let them watch." Better to tell the world what is mine. He’s irrationally possessive and maybe he won’t want to think of the way he’s acting, won’t want to remember, after the night is done, because he’s France and he doesn’t keep lovers. It’s not his way, and it’s not really the way of any nation either.
But tomorrow is tomorrow, and Spain’s tongue sweeps his lower lip uncertainly, leaving it shiny and swollen, and his long fingers are gripping France’s cock, moving with increasing enthusiasm up and down. France watches Spain’s focused expression, finding it erotic. He presses his thumb past the parted lips and Spain meets his gaze. Spain is old too, knows what to expect, even though there is a measure of wonder and even guilt somewhere in there, because Spain is a good Catholic boy.
France changes fingers. Slides the index and pointer finger until he’s rubbing Spain’s tongue. Spain’s eyes close and his lips tighten as he begins to suck at the digits. His hand on France’s manhood is sure and confident, he’s given in to the situation, and France has to put his free arm against the wall because his balance isn’t so great that moment, his hips pushing up and his breath is hitched as he imagines those pretty, swollen lips around his cock instead of his fingers.
Fuck. France pulls the fingers out, so near to coming undone that he feels almost threatened by it. He hasn’t even gotten to Spain’s pants, for God’s sake. It’s a situation he remedies swiftly, only to find out Spain doesn’t wear underwear either, and he laughs, pressing his cheek against Spain’s throat, his facial hair ticklish across Spain’s over sensitized skin.
It’s not ideal, but he uses the saliva to ease passage as his hand lands on the curved divide of Spain’s ass and presses against the hole there, fingertip popping in easily. Spain inhales sharply but his touching continues. His eyes are open now, looking at France with trust and France almost feels like a heel.
At least he would, if he didn’t feel so damn triumphant.
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