Halted from the ability to moan aloud, Sean groaned instead, and barely found breath enough for that with the way that Christian moved inside him. Every tiny little rock of his hips was a horrid stimulation that burst fire and electricity through him, He could see his cock purpling in the mirror, his face red from exertion, his eyes a little too wide to be normal as his ability to take in enough oxygen was cut to almost nothing. Was this how Christian had felt when Sean had pulled the belt tight about his throat, Sean fucking him like a wild creature, overcome by greedy need?
He felt wild. Christian did too. He felt like he was on the very edge, somewhere between sanity and losing it - losing everything - like that fucking nutter Jim--another of Christian's repertoire of complete lunatics.
Words were replaced by only sounds. He couldn't even think of talking, because words were a foreign thing to him now. It was by instinct alone that he could even understand Christian's words enough to actually look at himself in the mirror, to look at Christian's erection as it slid free, catching glimpses of it there, between his own legs, watching as his hand slid all the way down and probed inside. He pushed back, desperate for cock, and heard Christian's words mock him for it, but he couldn't help himself. He wanted it, and he didn't make a sound of complaint as Christian spread him wide and drove in again, filling him with hands and cock both. As far as Sean knew right now, Christian could shove both fucking fists up there as well as his cock, and all Sean would know was that he wanted more.
The threads of unconsciousness began to tug at him, a blackness curling in, twisting with the white lines of blinding pleasure that was twinged ever more with the pain of being held by rough silk to the edges of orgasm, clutched on the edge as he strained to come. The pain was as delightful as the deleriousness of semi-consciousness, and he wanted that too. Wanted to feel everything. Just for a second, he knew, he had too much in common with his hitchhiker than should be acceptable, because if this was what dying felt like...
Jesus.
Breath rushed back in with colour, but it still wasn't enough. His head fell back, which gave Christian the angle he needed to kiss and bite the hell out of his mouth, hand twisted roughly - painfully, fuck yes - in his hair as he fucked the hell out of him. If the glass mirror was a hard place, then Christian was a rock, and Sean keened and moaned and whimpered, utterly incomprehensible, against that ruthless mouth, under the pounding assault, and loved every single damn second.
If he was going to die, then he wanted to fucking die like this.
In his head he apologised to Viggo for the thought, but it was merely glancing. Christian felt like he was fucking Viggo out of him, tearing him wider than Viggo ever had, as though to inflict new claims, ripping at his hair, cutting at his skin, bruising and biting and marking him. No sex would ever feel the same after this, and he should feel sorry, yes, grievously apologetic, but wasn't this why he was here? There was something ironic about that. Sean the sex fiend. The roles he'd played should have given his villainy away.
His mind was blurring, and all he could think about was coming. He wanted to, needed to, desperately begged to, into the recesses of Christian's mouth, without knowing what he was actually saying. His tethers - literal and metaphorical - strained with his need to come, but it was Christian's decision and Christian's alone.
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He felt wild. Christian did too. He felt like he was on the very edge, somewhere between sanity and losing it - losing everything - like that fucking nutter Jim--another of Christian's repertoire of complete lunatics.
Words were replaced by only sounds. He couldn't even think of talking, because words were a foreign thing to him now. It was by instinct alone that he could even understand Christian's words enough to actually look at himself in the mirror, to look at Christian's erection as it slid free, catching glimpses of it there, between his own legs, watching as his hand slid all the way down and probed inside. He pushed back, desperate for cock, and heard Christian's words mock him for it, but he couldn't help himself. He wanted it, and he didn't make a sound of complaint as Christian spread him wide and drove in again, filling him with hands and cock both. As far as Sean knew right now, Christian could shove both fucking fists up there as well as his cock, and all Sean would know was that he wanted more.
The threads of unconsciousness began to tug at him, a blackness curling in, twisting with the white lines of blinding pleasure that was twinged ever more with the pain of being held by rough silk to the edges of orgasm, clutched on the edge as he strained to come. The pain was as delightful as the deleriousness of semi-consciousness, and he wanted that too. Wanted to feel everything. Just for a second, he knew, he had too much in common with his hitchhiker than should be acceptable, because if this was what dying felt like...
Jesus.
Breath rushed back in with colour, but it still wasn't enough. His head fell back, which gave Christian the angle he needed to kiss and bite the hell out of his mouth, hand twisted roughly - painfully, fuck yes - in his hair as he fucked the hell out of him. If the glass mirror was a hard place, then Christian was a rock, and Sean keened and moaned and whimpered, utterly incomprehensible, against that ruthless mouth, under the pounding assault, and loved every single damn second.
If he was going to die, then he wanted to fucking die like this.
In his head he apologised to Viggo for the thought, but it was merely glancing. Christian felt like he was fucking Viggo out of him, tearing him wider than Viggo ever had, as though to inflict new claims, ripping at his hair, cutting at his skin, bruising and biting and marking him. No sex would ever feel the same after this, and he should feel sorry, yes, grievously apologetic, but wasn't this why he was here? There was something ironic about that. Sean the sex fiend. The roles he'd played should have given his villainy away.
His mind was blurring, and all he could think about was coming. He wanted to, needed to, desperately begged to, into the recesses of Christian's mouth, without knowing what he was actually saying. His tethers - literal and metaphorical - strained with his need to come, but it was Christian's decision and Christian's alone.