Akira should be so lucky. He can wish, but he probably only wishes because the truth of the matter is too obvious for him: Mink's not going to kill a tool that can be used and reused like this. Mink's not going to kill Akira while he has his hold on him.
If Akira disobeys him now, Mink would probably be pleased
Mink's breaths grow suddenly, sharply heavier as he keeps pushing into him, puffs out breaths in time with the jagged rhythm of his hips, and there's the faintest stench of blood lingering as it clots and dries against his skin, something that penetrates the air slowly, and lingers faintly on the edge of detection. He doesn't need to smell it to know it; he can feel the tackiness of it. He can feel how Akira's body neither resists nor accepts consistently, but constantly flinches and squirms and shudders beneath him, experiencing a pleasure more humiliating than any kind of pain; with his ruthless streak, he's never accomplished such a thing before Akira. It fascinates him to watch him try to smother it.
Does it make it that much worse?... Perhaps he knows, in the aftermath, it's one of those things he'll have to live with; that he gave up something Mink wasn't even out for, something he didn't want, and he had no control over whether it happened or not. What a curse to be burdened with.
Even when those micro-cuts, those perforations of such tender skin are being rubbed and filled with salty precum, how can anyone look past it to find pleasure in the steadiness of his movements? Even if he does hit the right spot, the pain should cut through him like a knife. But if it's the pain that makes it good, Mink wonders what a man would have to do to hurt Akira without arousing him. Would he get hard if he were cut? Stabbed? Shot?
Frankly, it's a point of fascination.
He rubs the end of his cock firmly, steadily, and his lips part for his ragged, sharp pants. His motions get more staccato; seconds off, he lets go of Akira's cock to grab his hips and shove Akira down against him mercilessly, over and over, meeting each move until he finally doubles over with an obscenely honest gasp, his long dreadlocks thumping on Akira's chest. Something inside him surges, swells finally, held off for far too long, and he bites his lower lip as he comes into him, hard.
He rides it off with small, twitching, jerking motions, his balls tensing, pulsing it all out, until he's completely still against Akira's hips.
He's silent, for a while.
And then he leans back away from him slowly, still catching his breath in those broad, deep lungs of his. The cold of the room settles over his shoulders and his abdomen, his wet flesh, like a veil. Suddenly everything that was exciting has become repulsive; the dry tacky feeling of blood on his dick, the sound of Akira's pain driven out of him, the flushed, red skin on his cheeks and the marks where Mink had struck him.
He stares down at Akira as he slowly pulls his thick cock out of him, and he looks down to catch the sight of his own come seeping out thickly, rolling down his flesh and onto the boards below.
That, too, is disgusting. But it also brings with it a feeling of victory, of sick satisfaction. Knowing it must burn as hot as any brand.
no subject
If Akira disobeys him now, Mink would probably be pleased
Mink's breaths grow suddenly, sharply heavier as he keeps pushing into him, puffs out breaths in time with the jagged rhythm of his hips, and there's the faintest stench of blood lingering as it clots and dries against his skin, something that penetrates the air slowly, and lingers faintly on the edge of detection. He doesn't need to smell it to know it; he can feel the tackiness of it. He can feel how Akira's body neither resists nor accepts consistently, but constantly flinches and squirms and shudders beneath him, experiencing a pleasure more humiliating than any kind of pain; with his ruthless streak, he's never accomplished such a thing before Akira. It fascinates him to watch him try to smother it.
Does it make it that much worse?... Perhaps he knows, in the aftermath, it's one of those things he'll have to live with; that he gave up something Mink wasn't even out for, something he didn't want, and he had no control over whether it happened or not. What a curse to be burdened with.
Even when those micro-cuts, those perforations of such tender skin are being rubbed and filled with salty precum, how can anyone look past it to find pleasure in the steadiness of his movements? Even if he does hit the right spot, the pain should cut through him like a knife. But if it's the pain that makes it good, Mink wonders what a man would have to do to hurt Akira without arousing him. Would he get hard if he were cut? Stabbed? Shot?
Frankly, it's a point of fascination.
He rubs the end of his cock firmly, steadily, and his lips part for his ragged, sharp pants. His motions get more staccato; seconds off, he lets go of Akira's cock to grab his hips and shove Akira down against him mercilessly, over and over, meeting each move until he finally doubles over with an obscenely honest gasp, his long dreadlocks thumping on Akira's chest. Something inside him surges, swells finally, held off for far too long, and he bites his lower lip as he comes into him, hard.
He rides it off with small, twitching, jerking motions, his balls tensing, pulsing it all out, until he's completely still against Akira's hips.
He's silent, for a while.
And then he leans back away from him slowly, still catching his breath in those broad, deep lungs of his. The cold of the room settles over his shoulders and his abdomen, his wet flesh, like a veil. Suddenly everything that was exciting has become repulsive; the dry tacky feeling of blood on his dick, the sound of Akira's pain driven out of him, the flushed, red skin on his cheeks and the marks where Mink had struck him.
He stares down at Akira as he slowly pulls his thick cock out of him, and he looks down to catch the sight of his own come seeping out thickly, rolling down his flesh and onto the boards below.
That, too, is disgusting. But it also brings with it a feeling of victory, of sick satisfaction. Knowing it must burn as hot as any brand.