England spits tea onto the lovely carpet and wonders why his knees have chosen this exact moment to become wobbly jelly. Likely it was all the talk they had over dinner about cocks and vital regions and who’d been jiggling what into whom and Jesus, but Hungary and Belgium were the filthiest by far.
But that doesn’t mean England wants to take that particular tome out of Fantasy and shove it willy-nilly onto the Nonfiction shelf. Things are fine as they are. He hopes.
“Surely I’ve given you no cause to complain?” England croaks, for perhaps he has -- you never know with America, after all. What might set him off.
“No, dude, ‘course not. I’d just kinda like to. Hah. Express my …” America pauses and looks away. “Self.”
England’s legs have bones again: he’s going to win this one, as always. He tells himself he’s not disappointed in the slightest. “You are well-enough expressed already, America.”
But has America -- normally an oblivious Watson at the best of times -- seen something? His eyes have narrowed and his slender limbs are tensed, no longer part of the sofa cushions but perched atop it.
“I’ll make it good. I promise.”
“I’ve heard that before.”
“No, really. You just don’t trust me, right? You should. I totally rock.” America’s hip-thrust off the sofa is vulgar and sinuous and England’s various body parts have a discussion about whether or not they are aroused by such a ridiculous thing (the consensus is yes).
But that wouldn’t be … America has mountainous strength but a mere thimbleful of self-control. He could break England in half, most likely, and so what if England might very well enjoy the process of being snapped in twain?
England decides that a direct answer is best. “You’re like a bull in the marketplace. No finesse.”
“Bulls? You’re totally thinking about Spain, aren’t you?” America says, and doesn’t spring from the couch so much as ooze off of it. He’ll make the knees of his suit shiny if he continues shuffling on them across the lovely rug like that. “And you can tell -- I’ll tell Spain that a Carnival cruise could ram his fishing fleet into smithereens before he’s made it further north than the Bay of Biscay.” His drool is going to stain the front of England’s trousers if he persists with chewing England’s zipper-pull down like that.
“You know where the Bay of Biscay is?” England’s voice is slurry and thick and he relaxes his arse-cheeks into America’s strong, clutching fingers, squeezing in time with the circles America’s tongue makes on his cock (the clear winner, by the way, of the internal debate).
England lolls his head back to his shoulders and admires the ceiling patterns, loops and whorls, all curve where America’s tongue has started drawing harsh straight lines along the underside of his cock. There is a brief and unpleasant throbby spell where America pauses to remove his glasses and mumble last time you jizzed all over ‘em dude, I’d tell you to jerk off more, but I know you’ve probably already done it twice today ‘cause you’re an old perv but he says perv as he rolls up the England’s foreskin and holds it in place with his lips.
“Thrice,” England says. He brushes America’s closed eyelids with his thumbs and musses America’s hair while America sucks him off at a lovely rhythm. England lets his hips roll in America’s squeezing fingers -- America, who is fucking his own mouth on England’s cock. He must be very jealous indeed.
England is a following fool, his head floating in a swirly, whorly heaven while his loins pulse with little waves of heat that intensify, one after the other, then again, and then even more.
One of America’s hands goes missing for a bit and returns with a glop of lubricant smeared on his middle finger. This is a new thing for America but England decides to trust the sly finger and America’s muffled question, and widens his rather loopy stance so America can probe between his thighs.
Rolling Over, Dover (Part 2 of 7)
But that doesn’t mean England wants to take that particular tome out of Fantasy and shove it willy-nilly onto the Nonfiction shelf. Things are fine as they are. He hopes.
“Surely I’ve given you no cause to complain?” England croaks, for perhaps he has -- you never know with America, after all. What might set him off.
“No, dude, ‘course not. I’d just kinda like to. Hah. Express my …” America pauses and looks away. “Self.”
England’s legs have bones again: he’s going to win this one, as always. He tells himself he’s not disappointed in the slightest. “You are well-enough expressed already, America.”
But has America -- normally an oblivious Watson at the best of times -- seen something? His eyes have narrowed and his slender limbs are tensed, no longer part of the sofa cushions but perched atop it.
“I’ll make it good. I promise.”
“I’ve heard that before.”
“No, really. You just don’t trust me, right? You should. I totally rock.” America’s hip-thrust off the sofa is vulgar and sinuous and England’s various body parts have a discussion about whether or not they are aroused by such a ridiculous thing (the consensus is yes).
But that wouldn’t be … America has mountainous strength but a mere thimbleful of self-control. He could break England in half, most likely, and so what if England might very well enjoy the process of being snapped in twain?
England decides that a direct answer is best. “You’re like a bull in the marketplace. No finesse.”
“Bulls? You’re totally thinking about Spain, aren’t you?” America says, and doesn’t spring from the couch so much as ooze off of it. He’ll make the knees of his suit shiny if he continues shuffling on them across the lovely rug like that. “And you can tell -- I’ll tell Spain that a Carnival cruise could ram his fishing fleet into smithereens before he’s made it further north than the Bay of Biscay.” His drool is going to stain the front of England’s trousers if he persists with chewing England’s zipper-pull down like that.
“You know where the Bay of Biscay is?” England’s voice is slurry and thick and he relaxes his arse-cheeks into America’s strong, clutching fingers, squeezing in time with the circles America’s tongue makes on his cock (the clear winner, by the way, of the internal debate).
England lolls his head back to his shoulders and admires the ceiling patterns, loops and whorls, all curve where America’s tongue has started drawing harsh straight lines along the underside of his cock. There is a brief and unpleasant throbby spell where America pauses to remove his glasses and mumble last time you jizzed all over ‘em dude, I’d tell you to jerk off more, but I know you’ve probably already done it twice today ‘cause you’re an old perv but he says perv as he rolls up the England’s foreskin and holds it in place with his lips.
“Thrice,” England says. He brushes America’s closed eyelids with his thumbs and musses America’s hair while America sucks him off at a lovely rhythm. England lets his hips roll in America’s squeezing fingers -- America, who is fucking his own mouth on England’s cock. He must be very jealous indeed.
England is a following fool, his head floating in a swirly, whorly heaven while his loins pulse with little waves of heat that intensify, one after the other, then again, and then even more.
One of America’s hands goes missing for a bit and returns with a glop of lubricant smeared on his middle finger. This is a new thing for America but England decides to trust the sly finger and America’s muffled question, and widens his rather loopy stance so America can probe between his thighs.