One minute he was balancing on his neighbors' window ledge, holding onto their roof with one hand while peering through the slit in their bedroom curtains and whacking off furiously with the other.
(And seriously, who could blame him? Hungary in lingerie. Hungary. In little lacy green and white panties and a matching bra with its straps tugged down, one of her round, creamy breasts unfortunately obscured by her useless husband's mouth, but the other heaving wonderfully with each gasp and groan that shuddered through her. The musician's pale, tight ass was waving ridiculously at the window and Hungary had already made an excellent start on mussing up his obsessively neat hair.)
And then the next thing Prussia knew, Hungary had hiked her bra back into place, stalked to the window and flung the curtains open, (heedless of the prat's protestations of modesty), and hauled Prussia through the window with a fist twisted yanking his hair.
So now he lay flat on his back in their bed (their stupid comfortable marriage that smelled like both of them so much it seemed like just one scent instead of two commingled) with his legs in the air, while Hungary casually pushed the long metal handle of her frying pan in and out of his aching ass. She wasn't even paying attention to him, her eyes closed as she moaned appreciatively at her pretentious fag of a husband licked and sucked dutifully between her legs, the fingers of her other hand curling in his stupid shiny hair.
The first time Hungary came, shuddering around her prick of a husband's long, elegant, dexterous fingers (pansy, faggy, pianist fingers, a real man had weapons calluses, goddamnit), while her own fingers were perfunctorily and roughly prying Prussia just open enough, she had announced very clearly that the first person with a penis who had an orgasm would be promptly kicked out.
Which, Prussia thought, his back arching impressively as the now-warm handle dragged across his sweet spot yet again, was really monumentally unfair. He was being fucked by the full strength of her Magyar blade-arm, while musicboy was just eating pussy.
And humming something by Hayden. Typical. Prussia grunted in annoyance at the way the tune made Hungary whimper and squirm and lose her rhythm pounding him.
Which wasn't to say that Prussia wouldn't love the chance to slide his tongue into that wet, beautiful cunt, and the smell alone was driving him slightly mad, let alone the taste, but given Hungary's considerable skill pegging him with pan (Ha! Prussia always knew her husband was a fucking faggot, she must have been practicing on him for centuries) Prussia considered himself at a distinct disadvantage.
Hungary/Austria/Prussia, cunnlingus, pegging, gagging, HUNGARY IS ON TOP, is my point 1/2
One minute he was balancing on his neighbors' window ledge, holding onto their roof with one hand while peering through the slit in their bedroom curtains and whacking off furiously with the other.
(And seriously, who could blame him? Hungary in lingerie. Hungary. In little lacy green and white panties and a matching bra with its straps tugged down, one of her round, creamy breasts unfortunately obscured by her useless husband's mouth, but the other heaving wonderfully with each gasp and groan that shuddered through her. The musician's pale, tight ass was waving ridiculously at the window and Hungary had already made an excellent start on mussing up his obsessively neat hair.)
And then the next thing Prussia knew, Hungary had hiked her bra back into place, stalked to the window and flung the curtains open, (heedless of the prat's protestations of modesty), and hauled Prussia through the window with a fist twisted yanking his hair.
So now he lay flat on his back in their bed (their stupid comfortable marriage that smelled like both of them so much it seemed like just one scent instead of two commingled) with his legs in the air, while Hungary casually pushed the long metal handle of her frying pan in and out of his aching ass. She wasn't even paying attention to him, her eyes closed as she moaned appreciatively at her pretentious fag of a husband licked and sucked dutifully between her legs, the fingers of her other hand curling in his stupid shiny hair.
The first time Hungary came, shuddering around her prick of a husband's long, elegant, dexterous fingers (pansy, faggy, pianist fingers, a real man had weapons calluses, goddamnit), while her own fingers were perfunctorily and roughly prying Prussia just open enough, she had announced very clearly that the first person with a penis who had an orgasm would be promptly kicked out.
Which, Prussia thought, his back arching impressively as the now-warm handle dragged across his sweet spot yet again, was really monumentally unfair. He was being fucked by the full strength of her Magyar blade-arm, while musicboy was just eating pussy.
And humming something by Hayden. Typical. Prussia grunted in annoyance at the way the tune made Hungary whimper and squirm and lose her rhythm pounding him.
Which wasn't to say that Prussia wouldn't love the chance to slide his tongue into that wet, beautiful cunt, and the smell alone was driving him slightly mad, let alone the taste, but given Hungary's considerable skill pegging him with pan (Ha! Prussia always knew her husband was a fucking faggot, she must have been practicing on him for centuries) Prussia considered himself at a distinct disadvantage.