Historically, when goading for pain, he'd accompany any final acquiesce with a choked little good, good boy, good girl, that's it, as a reward for bad behavior. But this wasn't goaded; this was graciously given, a holy communion of pain and power. Bear witness. That hammered-in instinct still burns in his throat, sputtering out of him on a hysterical, punched-out gasp and a good, fuckfuckfuck, good.

His boots scrape gravel, fighting for traction as his knees bend, threatening to buckle. Even after the confetti explosion of blood disappears, the aftershock ricochets into every synapse in his brain, tiny electrical impulses that zap a live wire path down to his balls, rippling the muscles in his thighs and abdomen. There's nothing else to show for it, he realizes then, delirious and mournful. He giveth; he taketh away.

Danny chases John's tongue and the last traces of his blood into his mouth, a watery moan vibrating his teeth. His heels dig in, rocking his weight back into John and gripping an ass cheek in one clenched hand, to spread him wide for the wild, deep buck of his cock into his hot little hole, his tight convulsing cunt, this nasty fucking slut and his eyes like black oblivion. How could he not cum, hilted flush in his insides? Danny wrings John's dick through filling him, fist over cockhead, hitching hips like he wants to breed him with it, slack-jawed and open-mouthed panting against his temple. Come on, come on, sweetheart, cum for him.