Later, maybe, he'd asked her if she was sorry that she was doing this to him, or if she was sorry that she had put him here. It was still her fault, all of it; it'd been her voice, and her touch, and her face that he'd followed here. Was she sorry for the hours he'd been strapped to this bed, screaming for help?
But Aomine couldn't ask about that. He'd forgotten it all. There was fire in his veins, a sluggish sensation like lava, and all he could bring himself to care about was how his tongue felt like it was melting and that dampness was collecting in the hollow under his chin. He didn't even consider the fact that his state could be attributed to anything other than the woman resting on his shoulders, or that the numbness in his brain might be a part of it; instead, he eagerly followed her guidance, his lips bumping against the stiff, hot little button of skin. He sucked in a breath, and then licked her there, too, and closed his lips around to suckle on it like he had suckled on her breasts, gentle at first but too eager and needful to control himself for very long.
Needless to say, her fingers made him jumped. He whimpered against her cunt, his hips twisting, and the drag of the sheet over his cockhead was almost torturous, a drag that titillated but provided no real relief at all. He'd forgotten as well that they were being watched and didn't realize what it must have looked like, all his pitiful squirming with his cock swaying under the blanket, but the need was crawling over him now, smothering him, and he sucked and lapped at her clit desperately, his bedframe rattling from how he pulled at it.
He wanted to hear her moan again. He wanted to touch her, but if he couldn't do that, he wanted to hear more of those sounds.
It wouldn't be enough, he knew that it wouldn't, but still--
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Date: 2015-10-11 04:18 am (UTC)Later, maybe, he'd asked her if she was sorry that she was doing this to him, or if she was sorry that she had put him here. It was still her fault, all of it; it'd been her voice, and her touch, and her face that he'd followed here. Was she sorry for the hours he'd been strapped to this bed, screaming for help?
But Aomine couldn't ask about that. He'd forgotten it all. There was fire in his veins, a sluggish sensation like lava, and all he could bring himself to care about was how his tongue felt like it was melting and that dampness was collecting in the hollow under his chin. He didn't even consider the fact that his state could be attributed to anything other than the woman resting on his shoulders, or that the numbness in his brain might be a part of it; instead, he eagerly followed her guidance, his lips bumping against the stiff, hot little button of skin. He sucked in a breath, and then licked her there, too, and closed his lips around to suckle on it like he had suckled on her breasts, gentle at first but too eager and needful to control himself for very long.
Needless to say, her fingers made him jumped. He whimpered against her cunt, his hips twisting, and the drag of the sheet over his cockhead was almost torturous, a drag that titillated but provided no real relief at all. He'd forgotten as well that they were being watched and didn't realize what it must have looked like, all his pitiful squirming with his cock swaying under the blanket, but the need was crawling over him now, smothering him, and he sucked and lapped at her clit desperately, his bedframe rattling from how he pulled at it.
He wanted to hear her moan again. He wanted to touch her, but if he couldn't do that, he wanted to hear more of those sounds.
It wouldn't be enough, he knew that it wouldn't, but still--