[It's such a rush, the power and the eroticism alike; there's something absolutely enthralling about the way this faceless woman comes undone from nothing more than the way he handles her, begging and shaking and clutching at anything she can find for purchase as her arousal bursts into climax around his clever fingers. And for a single fleeting moment he thinks of that gaggle of overeager men who'd surrounded her earlier, how they'd made their bid to have her but he's the one who came away with the prize, this gorgeous disheveled woman stimulated senseless in his arms.
Her cunt clutches tight around his fingers, a sharp squeeze that stills his motions from how firmly her inner walls trap them, but he's still got his thumb free enough to find her clit and rub around the edges of it, wagering that direct stimulation would be far too much but the indirect variety will prolong the aftershocks of her pleasure.
And if he's a little hoarse from the sight of it, his own desire bleeding into the ragged words that escape his throat — well. Treated to a marvel like this, who could blame him, really?]
Close your eyes. Close them and don't look —
[— he says, urgent, as he slips his fingers free and pivots them so that he's in front of her with her back to the wall, holding her there with one hand against her stomach while he rips off his mask with the other. It doesn't matter; there's no chance of seeing his face, not when it only takes him a moment to bury his face in her bosom and start to kiss his way down, pausing only long enough to suck at each breast in turn before sinking down onto one knee between her legs.
Yor had been pretty like this, he thinks fleetingly — not to be uncomplimentary to this anonymous woman by thinking of another while he's fucking her, but rather just in a rare moment of nostalgia. He'd liked her, and there's so much reminiscent of her in this woman now, the power in her thighs and the sweetness of her curves, and maybe that's his own Hearts suit to blame for the twinge of fondness and ache, but he'll deny it the whole way down if he's ever asked.
(Damned dark-haired beauties. He really does have a type.)
But fuck it, fuck it all, he pulls one of her legs up to hitch over his shoulder and wraps his arm around it to steady her in place, his other hand drifting between his own legs almost as an afterthought. Just a little stimulation, he just wants that extra little edge of pleasure to feed the rest of it — as he replaces the concealment of his mask with the way he buries his face between her legs, mouth to her soaking folds, making good on his own dirty talk in his drive to be memorable.]
no subject
[It's such a rush, the power and the eroticism alike; there's something absolutely enthralling about the way this faceless woman comes undone from nothing more than the way he handles her, begging and shaking and clutching at anything she can find for purchase as her arousal bursts into climax around his clever fingers. And for a single fleeting moment he thinks of that gaggle of overeager men who'd surrounded her earlier, how they'd made their bid to have her but he's the one who came away with the prize, this gorgeous disheveled woman stimulated senseless in his arms.
Her cunt clutches tight around his fingers, a sharp squeeze that stills his motions from how firmly her inner walls trap them, but he's still got his thumb free enough to find her clit and rub around the edges of it, wagering that direct stimulation would be far too much but the indirect variety will prolong the aftershocks of her pleasure.
And if he's a little hoarse from the sight of it, his own desire bleeding into the ragged words that escape his throat — well. Treated to a marvel like this, who could blame him, really?]
Close your eyes. Close them and don't look —
[— he says, urgent, as he slips his fingers free and pivots them so that he's in front of her with her back to the wall, holding her there with one hand against her stomach while he rips off his mask with the other. It doesn't matter; there's no chance of seeing his face, not when it only takes him a moment to bury his face in her bosom and start to kiss his way down, pausing only long enough to suck at each breast in turn before sinking down onto one knee between her legs.
Yor had been pretty like this, he thinks fleetingly — not to be uncomplimentary to this anonymous woman by thinking of another while he's fucking her, but rather just in a rare moment of nostalgia. He'd liked her, and there's so much reminiscent of her in this woman now, the power in her thighs and the sweetness of her curves, and maybe that's his own Hearts suit to blame for the twinge of fondness and ache, but he'll deny it the whole way down if he's ever asked.
(Damned dark-haired beauties. He really does have a type.)
But fuck it, fuck it all, he pulls one of her legs up to hitch over his shoulder and wraps his arm around it to steady her in place, his other hand drifting between his own legs almost as an afterthought. Just a little stimulation, he just wants that extra little edge of pleasure to feed the rest of it — as he replaces the concealment of his mask with the way he buries his face between her legs, mouth to her soaking folds, making good on his own dirty talk in his drive to be memorable.]