[if skippy's internal struggle was something he could read, hawk might second guess himself. might be torn between never logging back into this account again, running away from any emotional intimacy and connection - distant as it is - or soothing his boy that it's gonna be fine. he's young (presumably), and whatever he's going through will work itself out. but maybe that's the teacher in him, the one that wants to shape the idealistic and unsound souls into something strong and confident and ready to address the world of washington with their heads screwed on straight before walking into the lion's den. it makes him think of tim again, struggling between the realities of a cruel world and probably looking for the same type of clarity and guidance skippy needs from soft hands and encouraging words.
the hand with his cigarette has temporarily stilled, ash building up as he considers the next move, drinks in every honest admission that spills from his boy's lips as he pushes him through the ringer. it's only when a chunk of it falls on his desk does he stop his gaze from boring into his screen - fixed on the flash of pearly white teeth and that tantalizing jawline all the way down to the cherry red head of his now tortured, overwrought cock. even now he obeys, making hawk feel like he's right in the room with him and watching his delicious suffering on a knife's edge between pleasure and discomfort.]
It won't be enough. I knew that the moment I told you to do this, but I couldn't help myself. Wanted to see what you'd do with it, and you're really shooting for the moon here. All the stars too.
[the apology falls a bit on deaf ears - for he'd known from the beginning there was no malice in his asking. a kneejerk reaction from years of prying questions into his comings and goings from his father and faculty and especially the nosy administrators with everyone else's skeletons in their own closets to pluck out ad nauseam for their gossiping brownie points. don't let it happen again - he should say, but instead his fingers move of their own volition and type out something else instead.]
Carried away looks good on you. My boy's a curious one, isn't he? And you trust me. You'd do anything I asked.
[not a question, a statement of fact. something has shifted in the course of this session, whether he likes it or not, but strangely it makes him want to press forward on this new thread of excitement and possession. skippy's body is struggling to hold on, thighs trembling and feet flexing against his ruined mattress, a pleasing chorus of moans and panting that hawk will tuck away when it's just him and his hand for weeks to come and skippy's not online.]
Keep stroking - faster, and twist your wrist at the tip. Use your hips and fuck up into your fist. That's it - yeah. Does it hurt? How long do you think you could keep it up? All night? You'd do it for me, too, just like I said. But good boys get what they deserve. You can let go now, Skippy. Cum for me.
[hawk leans back again in the chair, stubbing out his cigarette against baccarat crystal - a gift from dean smith for his 5th year at georgetown - and puts his whole focus on the boy in front of him. his own breathing has long since returned to normal, only now it feels like its escaped him entirely, held in until skippy gets his second release and final release of the night.]
no subject
the hand with his cigarette has temporarily stilled, ash building up as he considers the next move, drinks in every honest admission that spills from his boy's lips as he pushes him through the ringer. it's only when a chunk of it falls on his desk does he stop his gaze from boring into his screen - fixed on the flash of pearly white teeth and that tantalizing jawline all the way down to the cherry red head of his now tortured, overwrought cock. even now he obeys, making hawk feel like he's right in the room with him and watching his delicious suffering on a knife's edge between pleasure and discomfort.]
It won't be enough. I knew that the moment I told you to do this, but I couldn't help myself.
Wanted to see what you'd do with it, and you're really shooting for the moon here. All the stars too.
[the apology falls a bit on deaf ears - for he'd known from the beginning there was no malice in his asking. a kneejerk reaction from years of prying questions into his comings and goings from his father and faculty and especially the nosy administrators with everyone else's skeletons in their own closets to pluck out ad nauseam for their gossiping brownie points. don't let it happen again - he should say, but instead his fingers move of their own volition and type out something else instead.]
Carried away looks good on you. My boy's a curious one, isn't he?
And you trust me.
You'd do anything I asked.
[not a question, a statement of fact. something has shifted in the course of this session, whether he likes it or not, but strangely it makes him want to press forward on this new thread of excitement and possession. skippy's body is struggling to hold on, thighs trembling and feet flexing against his ruined mattress, a pleasing chorus of moans and panting that hawk will tuck away when it's just him and his hand for weeks to come and skippy's not online.]
Keep stroking - faster, and twist your wrist at the tip. Use your hips and fuck up into your fist.
That's it - yeah. Does it hurt? How long do you think you could keep it up? All night? You'd do it for me, too, just like I said.
But good boys get what they deserve.
You can let go now, Skippy.
Cum for me.
[hawk leans back again in the chair, stubbing out his cigarette against baccarat crystal - a gift from dean smith for his 5th year at georgetown - and puts his whole focus on the boy in front of him. his own breathing has long since returned to normal, only now it feels like its escaped him entirely, held in until skippy gets his second release and final release of the night.]