Danny sees the grimacing-grinning teeth bared in his direction as free real estate for his tongue, so he accepts the invitation graciously with his free hand knotted in his hair at his nape, a kittenish lick to his upper lip. How many mouths has he been kissing tonight? How much dick or pussy has he had in his mouth tonight? Danny thinks he can taste all of them on his teeth, like second-hand smoke.
His hips tilt, fucking into John's kneading palm, as warm and sturdy as the dick he's fisting now. He feels like any other man Danny's ever jacked off, but those — fuck, those eyes. Twin voids, hungry and chasmic. Siren black to Danny's soft, heavy-lashed brown.
Better question: can he taste the crushed glass remnants of Danny's last soul-eating void on his teeth? In his gums? If he licked deep enough down his throat, would he taste her on his tonsils, or deeper still in his guts? Do all voids taste the same? Does submission always feel like a fucking crucifixion? Is this one going to butcher him too, rebuild him in his image? Is he good enough yet?
"Oh, I'm full of inspired ideas." He holds his stare, wrings his fingers into a tight collar at the weighty base of his cock so John's next thrust goes frustratingly nowhere. "Ain't none of 'em decent, though."
Ain't none of 'em PG. He palms his nape, his spine, follows the pathway of muscle to his ass and grips a fistful of plump cheek. He might not be a sweet little cunt, but he's got a sweet little cunt, a puckered wet hole that Danny grazes with his thumb. Danny sucks on his tongue, lazy and indulgent, wet open mouth and grazing teeth.
"If you get on your hands and knees for me, I'll show you one of them." Half-tease, half-dare, just to see if he'll do it, right here in this rocky alleyway.
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His hips tilt, fucking into John's kneading palm, as warm and sturdy as the dick he's fisting now. He feels like any other man Danny's ever jacked off, but those — fuck, those eyes. Twin voids, hungry and chasmic. Siren black to Danny's soft, heavy-lashed brown.
Better question: can he taste the crushed glass remnants of Danny's last soul-eating void on his teeth? In his gums? If he licked deep enough down his throat, would he taste her on his tonsils, or deeper still in his guts? Do all voids taste the same? Does submission always feel like a fucking crucifixion? Is this one going to butcher him too, rebuild him in his image? Is he good enough yet?
"Oh, I'm full of inspired ideas." He holds his stare, wrings his fingers into a tight collar at the weighty base of his cock so John's next thrust goes frustratingly nowhere. "Ain't none of 'em decent, though."
Ain't none of 'em PG. He palms his nape, his spine, follows the pathway of muscle to his ass and grips a fistful of plump cheek. He might not be a sweet little cunt, but he's got a sweet little cunt, a puckered wet hole that Danny grazes with his thumb. Danny sucks on his tongue, lazy and indulgent, wet open mouth and grazing teeth.
"If you get on your hands and knees for me, I'll show you one of them." Half-tease, half-dare, just to see if he'll do it, right here in this rocky alleyway.