England shifts, slides an arm around France’s waist, and rolls his hips. That is answer enough, at least to him. If the bastard’s not graced with an actual frog’s brain, he should be able to make something out of it, he thinks.
France hips roll back in response. Excellent, the frog’s not quite as dumb as one.
“And since you trimmed your nails,” and he thinks, you fucker, “I suppose the pleasure is all mine? Will be all mine?”
“All yours,” France agrees when his knee presses into England’s cock. “The fun’s all yours, mon cher. Think you can handle that?”
France’s shirt rustling again. There are still knuckles hard against his bone, but England assumes the other hand must be gone, and when, all but a second later, a palm rests flat on his belly, the riddle is solved on its own.
France fingers are skilled; they nearly make an art out of unbuttoning his shirt. France doesn’t let him wait long and then there are teeth at the hollow of his throat, dragging gasps and strangled whimpers out of the pit of his stomach before he’s got the time to clamp his mouth shut.
France laughs. “I forgot you like to like to be talked dirty to. How’s about that: come and get hard for me, moan for me,” he adds, “I want you noisy.”
If the hand wasn’t there, England tells himself, if France’s goddamn hand wouldn’t caress his belly like one pets cats, or if France’s bloody fucking knee wouldn’t rock against his cock, then he’d be able to think of something to snap back. As it is now, however, there is too much friction, too much rubbing and petting and feeling good going on. His mind barely works on consecutive thinking.
Therefore, England does the next best thing that comes to mind: he pants―and France bends down, claims his mouth, and sucks in breath and sound.
Pour le Plaisir (11/?)
France hips roll back in response. Excellent, the frog’s not quite as dumb as one.
“And since you trimmed your nails,” and he thinks, you fucker, “I suppose the pleasure is all mine? Will be all mine?”
“All yours,” France agrees when his knee presses into England’s cock. “The fun’s all yours, mon cher. Think you can handle that?”
France’s shirt rustling again. There are still knuckles hard against his bone, but England assumes the other hand must be gone, and when, all but a second later, a palm rests flat on his belly, the riddle is solved on its own.
France fingers are skilled; they nearly make an art out of unbuttoning his shirt. France doesn’t let him wait long and then there are teeth at the hollow of his throat, dragging gasps and strangled whimpers out of the pit of his stomach before he’s got the time to clamp his mouth shut.
France laughs. “I forgot you like to like to be talked dirty to. How’s about that: come and get hard for me, moan for me,” he adds, “I want you noisy.”
If the hand wasn’t there, England tells himself, if France’s goddamn hand wouldn’t caress his belly like one pets cats, or if France’s bloody fucking knee wouldn’t rock against his cock, then he’d be able to think of something to snap back. As it is now, however, there is too much friction, too much rubbing and petting and feeling good going on. His mind barely works on consecutive thinking.
Therefore, England does the next best thing that comes to mind: he pants―and France bends down, claims his mouth, and sucks in breath and sound.
--
tbc