England pats America’s hair; his America is very clumsily clever, jabbing inside his arsehole like pressing a button, sending muffled buzz-shocks of pleasure to his bollocks, which are resting on America’s palm. They tighten with the mind-whorling stimulation, and grow so heavy that England wants to sink to the floor and take America with him,
keep America with him forever -- he’ll never escape again. No matter what, America is his prize for the centuries of pain, and he’ll guard the prize like a miser, swallow the combination to the lock and never tell a soul …
“Ah! Ah--there, luv,” he moans, nearly a song, and comes. America’s forehead wrinkles as he winces but clever boy, he coughs it all right down and keeps a sucking pressure going even for a few beats after it has become uncomfortable.
England sinks to his knees, ungracefully because of his trousers at half-mast, but there’s no mind to be paid, for he wants to kiss the choking tears from the corners of America’s eyes, to kiss his red, chafed lips, his filthy mouth that tastes of semen. America opens his mouth wide and gives it up and hugs England hard, no doubt smearing lubricant over the back of England’s very sharp suit.
Once that’s been said -- it takes a while -- England pulls back so he can get America out of his jacket. His fingers are so boneless he fumbles at the buttons. America hangs his forearms over England’s shoulders and watches.
“So. You gonna let me?” he says, and Sherlock Holmes detects the smug smile behind the words.
“Sycophant,” he accuses, but his body is not immune to that smile, and his belly is already throbbing again at the thought of America fucking him. “Yes.”
“Ha ha!”
“But!” England’s pointed finger in front of America’s nose says volumes about waiting and patience, but he’s going to back it up anyway. “I reserve the right to give directions and to tell you when you’re being inconsiderate and--”
“You don’t control the invasion, man,” America laughs, and makes more rude gestures with his hips.
England rolls his eyes. “And no silly innuendo because you know very well that it doesn’t mean a thing about sexual relations -- it just happens that it’s been a while since I’ve trusted -- since I’ve wanted to relin-- oh, never mind.”
“I’ll try,” America says. He begins to tear himself out of his own clothing. “Trust me.”
“Very well,” England says, reserving judgment. He has to slap America’s hands away so he can remove his own clothing, slap his hands away again when he tries to drag England over to the bed. Really, he’s more grabby than airport security at JFK International.
England will also reserve his own measure of control, thank you, and he crawls onto the bed without assistance and flattens himself atop it, knees-up, like a maiden bride. Perhaps it is a hint? It has been a very long time.
America cocks his head like a puppy, then shakes it. He says something like “weeeeeoooo!” and springs, making a flying, cock-wobbling leap onto the bed, bouncing on the springs and grinning like he hadn’t narrowly missed England’s groin with his knee when he’d come in for that sloppy landing.
England pokes America’s breastbone. “I’ve already lost patience.”
“B-fifty-two in your airspace,” America says.
“Stop that,” England says.
“Prepare to have your defenses penetrated, England!” England would say stop that again but America kisses him, slow, intent, slower than England might have ever expected of him, and England’s finger on America’s chest becomes a caress, ceiling patterns on his ribs. America’s hums and his smile and the focus in his eyes when he pauses to sit back on his haunches are also less ironic than England has ever seen them. It makes his heart want to seep raw emotion. Perhaps it does.
America doesn’t reveal what’s been revealed, if anything. He picks up the tube of lubricant from next to England’s head; he must have brought it with him on his flight in.
“Operation Sea Lion Two,” he says, and seems to narrowly avoid giggling as he squelches a fair amount onto his fingers. “Better grease up the cliffs of Dover if I wanna succeed where Germany didn’t.”
Rolling Over, Dover (Part 3 of 7)
keep America with him forever -- he’ll never escape again. No matter what, America is his prize for the centuries of pain, and he’ll guard the prize like a miser, swallow the combination to the lock and never tell a soul …
“Ah! Ah--there, luv,” he moans, nearly a song, and comes. America’s forehead wrinkles as he winces but clever boy, he coughs it all right down and keeps a sucking pressure going even for a few beats after it has become uncomfortable.
England sinks to his knees, ungracefully because of his trousers at half-mast, but there’s no mind to be paid, for he wants to kiss the choking tears from the corners of America’s eyes, to kiss his red, chafed lips, his filthy mouth that tastes of semen. America opens his mouth wide and gives it up and hugs England hard, no doubt smearing lubricant over the back of England’s very sharp suit.
Once that’s been said -- it takes a while -- England pulls back so he can get America out of his jacket. His fingers are so boneless he fumbles at the buttons. America hangs his forearms over England’s shoulders and watches.
“So. You gonna let me?” he says, and Sherlock Holmes detects the smug smile behind the words.
“Sycophant,” he accuses, but his body is not immune to that smile, and his belly is already throbbing again at the thought of America fucking him. “Yes.”
“Ha ha!”
“But!” England’s pointed finger in front of America’s nose says volumes about waiting and patience, but he’s going to back it up anyway. “I reserve the right to give directions and to tell you when you’re being inconsiderate and--”
“You don’t control the invasion, man,” America laughs, and makes more rude gestures with his hips.
England rolls his eyes. “And no silly innuendo because you know very well that it doesn’t mean a thing about sexual relations -- it just happens that it’s been a while since I’ve trusted -- since I’ve wanted to relin-- oh, never mind.”
“I’ll try,” America says. He begins to tear himself out of his own clothing. “Trust me.”
“Very well,” England says, reserving judgment. He has to slap America’s hands away so he can remove his own clothing, slap his hands away again when he tries to drag England over to the bed. Really, he’s more grabby than airport security at JFK International.
England will also reserve his own measure of control, thank you, and he crawls onto the bed without assistance and flattens himself atop it, knees-up, like a maiden bride. Perhaps it is a hint? It has been a very long time.
America cocks his head like a puppy, then shakes it. He says something like “weeeeeoooo!” and springs, making a flying, cock-wobbling leap onto the bed, bouncing on the springs and grinning like he hadn’t narrowly missed England’s groin with his knee when he’d come in for that sloppy landing.
England pokes America’s breastbone. “I’ve already lost patience.”
“B-fifty-two in your airspace,” America says.
“Stop that,” England says.
“Prepare to have your defenses penetrated, England!” England would say stop that again but America kisses him, slow, intent, slower than England might have ever expected of him, and England’s finger on America’s chest becomes a caress, ceiling patterns on his ribs. America’s hums and his smile and the focus in his eyes when he pauses to sit back on his haunches are also less ironic than England has ever seen them. It makes his heart want to seep raw emotion. Perhaps it does.
America doesn’t reveal what’s been revealed, if anything. He picks up the tube of lubricant from next to England’s head; he must have brought it with him on his flight in.
“Operation Sea Lion Two,” he says, and seems to narrowly avoid giggling as he squelches a fair amount onto his fingers. “Better grease up the cliffs of Dover if I wanna succeed where Germany didn’t.”