[There isn't even anything holding his wrists down, now. Nothing to stop him from quite literally taking matters into his own hands, but for the fact that Tseng said don't and he can't think of a time he's ever had that before, that rare novelty of obedience without resentment even when it would be to his undeniable benefit to rebel.
Tseng feels big inside him — more than he's ever done to himself, and hotter, and more forceful — and each shove drives his stomach into the lip of the desk, conspicuous bruises that will leave nothing to the imagination when it comes to how he'd incurred them.
If you'd asked him an hour before this very moment, he would've said with certainty that he'd be thinking about appearances at a moment like this, and perhaps lingering over thoughts of what old Daddy dearest would have to say about his conduct. The Rufus of an hour ago hadn't anticipated how impossible it is to think of anything else but Tseng at a time like this, as he feels himself hurtling towards climax and bites his lip to try to stave it off as long as he can — in part to make it last, and in part to force Tseng to make him come, as much a challenge as anything else between them.]
Why —
[His fingers slide against the smooth plane of the desktop. Sparks fly behind his eyes as Tseng settles into the angle he wants and holds it mercilessly, again and again until the white-hot pleasure follows a predictable cadence, until he's already holding his breath against each next flash of it, already cognizant of when the remainder will hit.
(He's almost at his own breaking point; orgasm isn't far off, now. He wants it like he wants the world: either to take it himself, or to have Tseng hand it to him.)
If only, he thinks. If only he could see the look on Tseng's face, right now; it would be more than enough, though enough of what he isn't altogether sure.]
no subject
Tseng feels big inside him — more than he's ever done to himself, and hotter, and more forceful — and each shove drives his stomach into the lip of the desk, conspicuous bruises that will leave nothing to the imagination when it comes to how he'd incurred them.
If you'd asked him an hour before this very moment, he would've said with certainty that he'd be thinking about appearances at a moment like this, and perhaps lingering over thoughts of what old Daddy dearest would have to say about his conduct. The Rufus of an hour ago hadn't anticipated how impossible it is to think of anything else but Tseng at a time like this, as he feels himself hurtling towards climax and bites his lip to try to stave it off as long as he can — in part to make it last, and in part to force Tseng to make him come, as much a challenge as anything else between them.]
Why —
[His fingers slide against the smooth plane of the desktop. Sparks fly behind his eyes as Tseng settles into the angle he wants and holds it mercilessly, again and again until the white-hot pleasure follows a predictable cadence, until he's already holding his breath against each next flash of it, already cognizant of when the remainder will hit.
(He's almost at his own breaking point; orgasm isn't far off, now. He wants it like he wants the world: either to take it himself, or to have Tseng hand it to him.)
If only, he thinks. If only he could see the look on Tseng's face, right now; it would be more than enough, though enough of what he isn't altogether sure.]
You'll — do it either way —