“Tell me you want me,” he demanded. I shook my head. I wouldn’t, couldn’t or he would win and I’d be his without him ever being mine. His palm pushed against the crotch of my trousers and I rocked up into the unmoving pressure.
“Tell me what you want,” he purred, too close with hot breath on my ear, “and I’ll give it to you.” I couldn’t speak, and it was America’s fault. He was kissing me again and tugging me down into a wash of slow, pleasant, not fast enough, not enough.
When he leaned back, he pulled a moan from me, and it sounded like You. Probably was. Didn’t matter, America’s hands were on me, rough and pretty. Wood at my back, and it was harder than I’d imagined being with America, but it was America. All forgiven.
I remembered I was wearing trousers when the chains on them clinked as America tugged the zipper down. He didn’t do anything else, though, and I squirmed. He started talking into my skin, always talking, and I didn’t catch a word of it.
He had me, property of the USA, stamped by his mouth and blue blue eyes and smile and everything. America’s tongue swirled over my navel, but he didn’t go further. Stayed aching too close and too far and I wanted, bloody fucking tease.
“Pleasepleaseplease…” Me, that was me, I was sure. America’s mouth was busy on my hip, making a mark there that I would look at later and remember everything. I reached for him and caught hair, thick and soft, and déjà vu hit me again. He bit the spot between hip and thigh and I could have cried.
“Not fucking you here,” America told me. I hadn’t realized my trousers and pants were around my knees. “I’ll take you home first, and have you in my bed. Do you like that, Arthur?”
“Yes, Alfred.” Only words in my vocabulary, only words that mattered. If not in his bed, where were we? The surface under me was hard again. Wood, in the store, bad music filtering in and teenagers shopping outside. That was it.
I bit my lip to keep quiet, harder when I realized it mattered. America smiled at me, caught halfway between his normal sunshine and devious. I wanted to press it to my own mouth, take in that brightness and possession and make it mine, and he could have me for it, have whatever he wanted. He must have read my thoughts.
America was sweet to the taste, only because he would always be to me, and his hand wandered, strong pressure between my legs. He licked into my mouth, and then retreated to whisper into it.
“Show me,” he said, and I knew what he meant. My hips moved, creating friction against his hand and eyes slipping closed when long fingers covered me, skin on skin. It would get better. He was letting me get myself off on his skin, just watching, but it would be better. He would take me home, and we would do this right, and the thought was doing more for me than the hand.
I may have flailed, caught his side in my hand, and tugged him down so his chest pressed to mine. But it wasn’t America. It was a barrier between us, and I frantically moved up, more, faster. There had to be nothing. I’d torn his shirt, and mine was gone, so there should be nothing.
There should be noise, too, but all I could hear was our breathing. America had been collected before, but he’d been above me as well. He wasn’t.
And Then, And Then [2c/3]
“Tell me what you want,” he purred, too close with hot breath on my ear, “and I’ll give it to you.” I couldn’t speak, and it was America’s fault. He was kissing me again and tugging me down into a wash of slow, pleasant, not fast enough, not enough.
When he leaned back, he pulled a moan from me, and it sounded like You. Probably was. Didn’t matter, America’s hands were on me, rough and pretty. Wood at my back, and it was harder than I’d imagined being with America, but it was America. All forgiven.
I remembered I was wearing trousers when the chains on them clinked as America tugged the zipper down. He didn’t do anything else, though, and I squirmed. He started talking into my skin, always talking, and I didn’t catch a word of it.
He had me, property of the USA, stamped by his mouth and blue blue eyes and smile and everything. America’s tongue swirled over my navel, but he didn’t go further. Stayed aching too close and too far and I wanted, bloody fucking tease.
“Pleasepleaseplease…” Me, that was me, I was sure. America’s mouth was busy on my hip, making a mark there that I would look at later and remember everything. I reached for him and caught hair, thick and soft, and déjà vu hit me again. He bit the spot between hip and thigh and I could have cried.
“Not fucking you here,” America told me. I hadn’t realized my trousers and pants were around my knees. “I’ll take you home first, and have you in my bed. Do you like that, Arthur?”
“Yes, Alfred.” Only words in my vocabulary, only words that mattered. If not in his bed, where were we? The surface under me was hard again. Wood, in the store, bad music filtering in and teenagers shopping outside. That was it.
I bit my lip to keep quiet, harder when I realized it mattered. America smiled at me, caught halfway between his normal sunshine and devious. I wanted to press it to my own mouth, take in that brightness and possession and make it mine, and he could have me for it, have whatever he wanted. He must have read my thoughts.
America was sweet to the taste, only because he would always be to me, and his hand wandered, strong pressure between my legs. He licked into my mouth, and then retreated to whisper into it.
“Show me,” he said, and I knew what he meant. My hips moved, creating friction against his hand and eyes slipping closed when long fingers covered me, skin on skin. It would get better. He was letting me get myself off on his skin, just watching, but it would be better. He would take me home, and we would do this right, and the thought was doing more for me than the hand.
I may have flailed, caught his side in my hand, and tugged him down so his chest pressed to mine. But it wasn’t America. It was a barrier between us, and I frantically moved up, more, faster. There had to be nothing. I’d torn his shirt, and mine was gone, so there should be nothing.
There should be noise, too, but all I could hear was our breathing. America had been collected before, but he’d been above me as well. He wasn’t.