πππ ππππ "πππ π" π£. ππππππ (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
homosexuals) wrote2023-12-22 11:36 pm
homosexuals) wrote2023-12-22 11:36 pm[UNI AU]
CAMBOY UNI AU
tell
me and i forget, teach me and i remember.
homosexuals) wrote2023-12-22 11:36 pm
β€ πππ¦πππ π¦ππ’π ππππ‘ππ π¦
one: a man has needs, of which they should never feel guilty for, and two: he gets exactly what he wants, gets off, and gets out. no hassle, no awkward extrication, no tears or meltdowns when he declines a number, and absolutely no accidentally running into one of his students and semi-outing himself for an entire semester. his nsa rules don't seem to have followed him onto the great expanse of the world wide web, that or he's just happened to stumble on the walking embodiment of earnest obedience with the trimmest waist and tightest ass he could have practically dreamt up. christ, this little dalliance he's picked up is probably the second most consistent thing to the relationship he has with his own mother at this point.
but it's worth every penny and then some, and when the clock ticks past 10:36 and his hand starts wandering south after his second shot - his free hand knows how to let the fingers do the walking.]
30 Minutes
π UNLOCK FOR $200
π₯π²π³ 250 TIP SENT β
Nice to see you again, Skippy.
Though I hope I'll get to see a whole lot more before we're through tonight.
no subject
instead, timothy laughlinβs dorm room has become a veritable sex den with its moody lighting, backdrop lit up in a fuschia that does wonders to accentuate the dips of his hip bones, the muscles in his chest and arms. the door is locked and the music is loud enough to cover any rogue noises.
itβs a tame evening - heavy petting and a little bit of show and tell. no one truly interesting in chat, other than the sweaty no names tipping small amounts to see his ass. and so he complies - on hands and knees for the camera enough to show the swell of his ass in too-short and too-tight shorts.
no tips big enough to do much more until -
ah.
he recognizes the user name. the dollar amounts. the request.
he sits pretty on the camera next, leaned back enough to show the arch of his back, his chest, even the happy little trail that starts just above those shorts. ]
I was wondering where youβd gone to.
Iβve been missing you.
Tell me what you want - canβt let you walk away empty handed after that nice little gift.
But my guess is youβre not exactly empty handed. π
no subject
so maybe it's not the same brutal pounding of some faceless twink bent over a rickety bed or curled in half against a wall, but it takes the edge off and sometimes that's the best he can hope for. he swallows the rest of his whiskey with a flex of his jaw, pushing the tumbler back further onto the desk to avoid any overzealous accidents while the beautiful body in front him and the teasing words bring a smirk to his lips.]
Smart boy.
Might be my favorite thing about you.
If you don't count your neck and the way you bounce so eager when you're calling my name.
Take your shirt off sweetheart. Nice and slow, the way I like it, you know?
no subject
I'd say someone's lying to me, mister.
[ the public cams are easier, really - he doesn't have any real direct interaction save for a few little tip options. these one on ones can be awkward, difficult, laborious. sitting for even thirty minutes and parading around like a little doll for some of these men makes his stomach churn, but this guy has always been a welcome change. a regular viewer, and lately, a regular one on one. while the sweaty-pawed others usually make him do lewd things with no payoff, this guy always seems to speak the same language as tim, even though there's nothing at all to indicate that. something about the conversation, the texts, the asks.
and so when he sees the words, he can't help the way it makes warmth start up low in his belly. sure, he can get hard and get off on just about anything on cam - he can fake it so easily, too - but this heat is real.
he slides a hand down his front, to the hem of his shirt and slowly, slowly, starts to slide it up. he reveals the happy little jut of his hip bones, the rise of his abs. ]
Slow enough?
You stroking yourself in time with me?
Maybe I should go even slower.
no subject
this chat box might just be the most honest space he has - and if he were to get a little drunker and a little more morose, there's a slew of ideas to unpack around it, like the fact that he tests out certain endearments and sometimes lets himself pretend the boy on the other end is his and his alone. someone to come home to, someone that dangerously has merged with a pretty face and thick black spectacles over pretty brown eyes and floppy brunette hair. it wouldn't be the first student that's caught his eye in a severe lack of professionalism, but it is the one he's let himself get carried away with in the safety of black against white and the unending blink of a cursor.]
To you? Never.
[that much is true. for now. but his attention is drawn elsewhere when thumbs hook against the soft fabric of his worn shirt and tug it up, inch by inch of toned flesh that ratchets up his pulse and has his cock stirring against his palm with ease.]
That'll do.
Sounds like you're a little feisty tonight. Something got you riled up?
[hawk watches the way the dim light shifts over his hips - like a fucking aircraft martial directing his gaze straight to it, making him imagine what the sweat and hot skin would taste like under his tongue.]
You know what's next. Show me what you've got under there tonight - pants off.
[boxers? tighty whities? a jock strap? nothing at all? it's always a delightful surprise - and it's all but guaranteed to make hawk's mouth water.]
no subject
that, or it's just a fantasy he's made into his reality for these sessions.
he'd like him to be broad, tall, strong, handsome. palms wide enough to fit over his throat or cuff the back of his neck. a voice low and husky, eyes cold and demanding - expecting.
what would it be like to be cared for? taken care of? it makes tim laugh out loud on his side, thankful that for now, he hasn't turned on any audio other than the music. ]
Maybe a little.
I haven't seen you in my chat in a while.
Like I said - I've missed you.
[ the shirt comes up, up, up - revealing perky little nipples, the dusting of hair on his chest, his arms, and he pulls the tee up and off screen, then tosses it into the background.
his hand glide their way back down his own chest, to the button of his denim shorts - they're too short for public eye but he rears up on his knees so that his abdomen and hips are in better view, jutted out for emphasis as he undoes the button, the zip.
there's the waistband of a dark red thong, the staple calvin klein in block print across the fabric, even as he shimmies out of his shorts, letting them slide down his thighs and stay a rucked mess at his knees. there might already be a little wet spot on the crimson fabric, a hint that he's feeling it, too.
he snaps the waistband, and if hawk's listening? the audio is on - the sound audible against his skin. a rare treat. ]
I could change into something else, if you'd like.
Your Skippy wants to please you.
no subject
I'll let you in on a little secret - I've missed you too, Skippy.
Thinking all about you when and where I shouldn't.
[not entirely a lie either. if it happens to come up when he's at his desk, watching the line of tim laughlin's neck bent over his paper while he scribbles furiously to take notes, or when he catches the taut indent of firm muscle catches his eye across campus and makes his dick throb fleetingly for the hour when the world is dark to his desires, that's no one's business.
skippy can't see the way his throat swallows hard at the reveal of those pretty, pink little nubs, hand lazily dragging against his own woven, silky tom ford boxers. he knows how sensitive they are considering he's made his boy toy with them at length until he was begging for more. but it's the slash of red his eyes narrow in on, wishing he had more than just curved, 34-inch monitor in hd to see all the details he might otherwise be missing. that dark spot, for example - it should be flattering that none of this is faked for show, and it is.
especially when he would have paid extra for that sweet little sting of fabric smacking against supple flesh.]
Not really much I'd like to see you get into right now in the way of clothes. You'd make a hell of a Calvin Klein model, though.
[body like that and hawk assumes he must be raking in the cash. or is he? and frankly: why should he care in the first place? this is why he doesn't do "entanglements", as marcus has kindly dubbed them. his fingers hover over the keyboard before punching in one-handed:]
Lie back and get comfortable, hm?
The best way to please me right now is to get that pretty red nice and wet. Dealer's choice, but I wanna see it clinging to you over every inch - you got that?
no subject
I could call and complain theyβre keeping my man away from me. Make sure they give you plenty of time off so I can take care of you.
[ itβs a nice fantasy, really. an important, handsome boyfriend to play house for. cook and clean, look after him when heβs tired from work, give him foot rubs or back massages. a simple, easy life.
tim wants more than just that, really. wants to do something important, be a part of something. but if he canβt, being cared for might be nice. it doesnβt even have to be love.
heβs not meant for that. ]
Why do I have a sneaking suspicion youβre the real Calvin Klein model here?
But fine, Mr. Model Man. Dealerβs choice?
[ thereβs a shift, his body moving for a moment and first heβs turned, on all fours to reveal the pert muscle of his ass showing around the thin sliver of fabric of the thong. he slips from his short jean shorts before he stretches once, showing the planes of his back, and he even lets out a sigh which is now more audible over the music.
thereβs some finesse to what heβs doing - keeping his face from the camera as he turns and relaxes back into the plush covers of his bed. heβs propped up enough for his chest to stay on display, to show the wide splay of his legs and the burgeoning hard on in his underwear.
he has a nondescript phone in one hand, for the chat. the other hand toys idly with one nipple, enough that it makes his hips squirm. ]
I wanna take my time for you - so ignore the clock, sir.
[ that heβs doing this for money to pay for school is something he should be ashamed of. he doesnβt make riches, but itβs enough to pay for housing and classes each semester. extra meal credits if heβs lucky, maybe some spending money for smaller items.
his scholarship just isnβt enough.
his free hand travels to his chest, stomach, and he gives one rub over his dick. ]
I want to know what you wanna see.
A gift for your return home.
no subject
[which reveals a lot more than maybe hawk means to, what with the absence of family and more time than usual for a holiday break, which isn't something that comes with the typical 9 to 5 corporate job. he doubts a camboy is diving into the particulars and thinking much about who he is outside the other side of the screen, but still. can never be too careful.
and yeah, maybe it'd be nice to come to home to someone willing to give him all of that. but that's about where it ends, because most people don't like to play pretend and stay hidden like a dirty little secret when the person they're fucking isn't fully out. won't commit beyond a couple late night romps and trips out of town if he can even fit that in. love certainly isn't on the table. hell, it's not even in the same building.
but it's hard to care when skippy is giving him everything he wants to see anyway without the strings. the arch of his beautifully muscled back, the peek of red covering that tight pink hole he'll have split open by the time his thirty minutes are up. of course it's not a two way camera, but hawk leans forward anyway, licking his lips absently and slowly teasing along the sudden swell of his dick a with a little more firmness.]
I'll pay double if it runs over.
[actually he'd pay more than that, but he's not about to shortchange anyone - and while the cynic in him wants to believe it could just be a marketing ploy to invest a couple more dollars into the charade, skippy seems a little too sincere from their past interactions. again - sweet.
hawk's eyes drag over that little shift of hips, the pinch of one of his puffy nipples and his own fingers twitch with the urge to want to be there and do it to him too.]
Christ, just look at you.
Now - normally I'd make you earn it, but I'm feeling generous on account of missing you.
Show me where you want my hand. I'd drag my thumb across that pretty head a few times to see just how eager you are to start.
no subject
I have to spoil you, too. Especially if you finally get a break.
[ it isn't that uncommon for people to take time off during the holidays - businesses that aren't directly connected to retail wind down, he's sure, and so whatever this faceless stranger does for a living must lend itself to a quiet holiday. he doesn't think too much more on it, because after all, it's convenient for tim, too. the winter break does mean he'll be able to be on cam more, which means more money.
it helps he's staying through the winter in his dorm instead of going home, for once.
all that aside, he turns his attention back to the screen, lets his hand wander down his abdomen, to the waistband of his underwear. he considers slipping his hand underneath, but he wasn't lying - he wants to take his time tonight.
and so he rubs down past it with index and middle finger, pressing against the outline of his hard-on, gripping himself over the fabric, and letting his thumb fall to the plush head of his cock. and its with the pad of his thumb he gives a few, slow swipes.
tim sighs, maybe a little too loud (actually on accident, but that hawk can hear him now adds to the electricity of it all). ]
I want your hand here.
[ another swipe at the head, a third. it spreads another pearly bead beneath, making that little damp spot grow just so.
he squeezes his dick once, then grinds his palm against himself, tilting his hand so that he may even cup the weight of his sack and give another squeeze. ]
Here.
[ his hips arch, giving a little squirm as he reacts to the pleasure of his own hand. he traces the line of muscle at his thighs, then back up to the forgotten puffy, pink nipple and gives it a flick. ]
Here.
[ and there's a moment of hesitation, a moment of consideration that, though hawk can't see his expression, may be evident in the way he idly rubs at his areola, then slides up to his throat, and faintly, because he's feeling brave (and he's got something to cover his eyes and the rest of his face should he need it), lets his jaw fall into the image, and the plump swell of his bottom lip as he sucks both fingers in once, tongue peeking between them before his head tips out of view again, and the fingers fall, glistening, to his adam's apple. ]
And here.
Am I being too greedy?
no subject
I'll pencil you in, then. And if you behave - you can expect a nice big package to go along with it.
[of the monetary and the physical kind. he knows there's a wishlist with his mystery man's presumed name on it, and a po box any of his overzealous fans won't be able to track. hawk's never endeavored to buy anything off it just yet, but they're coming up on nearly six months of this game - seems as good a time as any to celebrate. call it holiday cheer, or at least the hope for a very white christmas.
speaking of: his gaze is all but hooked to skippy's palm, nimble fingers truly dragging this out just like he asked. fuck, what he'd give to replace it with his own - to swipe mercilessly across the tip and under the sensitive frenulum until he was wet like a girl, leaking and needy. his boy wants him everywhere it seems, cock, balls, nipples - all the things hawk would usually bypass for a quick fuck and rutting into some tight ass and barely getting them both off. looking at someone perfect like this almost makes him want to reconsider sometime.
there's a soft vibration from the speaker, more than just the music flowing on the other end and hawk turns it up, more grateful than ever not to live in a condo anymore and instead a respectable walkup. the last little bit of that soft sigh makes hawk lean forward again, wishing he had a hand free to pull at a cigarette and talk back, all low gravel and domineering encouragement. but that'd be too invasive, wouldn't it?]
There's a good boy. Keep at it - let me hear you.
[still an overstep? he'll find out. but then comes another surprise - the line of the camera moves, or more accurately skippy moves in it. he's never seen anything above the taut muscle of firm shoulders and a delectable looking neck. today he gets the reward of a plush lower lip, the strong curve of a jaw and the little tease of tongue as he pulls his fingers inside before drawing them back down around his neck.]
Mm, maybe I like you greedy. And maybe I might have to fuck the cheek out of you, put you back in your place.
That's one way to get my hand around your throat - holding you down, making you beg for what I'd give you while my other one worked you up.
Think you could cum just by me playing with your nipples till they were sore? Because I do.
[there's a pause, hawk unsure if he's crossing some invisible line. he's never second guessed himself here and frankly he doesn't want to start now. so eventually he types back:]
But that's not what I want to see tonight. Put your fingers back in your mouth and suck for me. You're gonna need it.
no subject
I'd slip in under your tree if I could.
[ but the innuendo of a big package isn't lost on tim - he gets plenty of gifts from his wish list from the viewers that frequent his lives. most are gaudy little outfits, toys, accessories, but he has a few gift cards on there, too. the options of subscriptions and premier tiers, too, go a long way to insuring he has some meager regular income.
but a part of him wonders what this viewer in particular would do if a door between them could be opened.
tim sighs again, the sound a lilting little thing that ends with a low little giggle, something almost genuine when he reads the man's messages. ]
Maybe I want you to fuck me back into place.
I can still beg, too. I'm very good at that.
[ the pause has his hands idling at his throat, wet fingers sliding back to one of his peaked nipples to toy with it at the very suggestion that the man would make him cum just by playing with them alone. (he could - he absolutely could - he's sensitive there).
but his fingers pause at the little command. a warm flush works its way up his chest to his neck, and he's sure if anyone could see the rise of his cheekbones they'd be tinged a pretty pink. but he'll do what he's told - he always does what this man tells him to do.
shifting again so that he's even closer to the camera, he carefully tips his head, revealing again the jawline, the pink pout of his lips. this close, hawk can absolutely hear the stutter of his breathing, even the hard swallow as his adam's apple bobs. ]
Yes, sir.
[ and he brings his fingers back to his lips, where the other man will have full view. it's dangerous - but he's not recognizable this way still, but it's new territory, and the revelation alone makes electricity sing up his spine. he presses his fingers into his mouth and sucks loudly, lapping at each bend of a knuckle so that the other man may see the way his tongue works round each digit.
his lips glisten in the dim light, and he moans, sucking and swirling his tongue around his fingers as though there's something completely different in his mouth altogether. ]
Is this good?
no subject
[he's not a regular subscriber in the sense of a monthly reoccurring charge - because that's a commitment he's not about to tie himself down with, but there's bound to be a big tip for tim come christmas morning. and if he had it his way? that'd mean more than one thing. is he even old enough to know the lyrics to santa baby? hawk doubts he's that much older, but christmas traditions with an old fashioned family and a man who never left the fucked up ideals of the 50s and 60s will do that to a person.
his father is absolutely the last thing he wants to think of while he's halfway to pulling his cock out though, so instead he drinks in that breathy little noise, the giggle that sounds downright infectious and has the corners of his lips tugging upward like a fool, like skippy could see him and know it's reciprocated just by the sheer authenticity of it. that's what can't be replicated - the obvious eagerness to please, the genuine emotion behind all of it, the time and care and devotion skippy offers up willingly, not at all like simpering influencers who will say whatever god damn thing to rake in money or manipulate someone into putting their heart and soul into an empty vessel. not that he'd be stupid enough to do it in the first place, but skippy doesn't know he makes hawk think twice.
fuck, just look at him. no questions asked, no worry, no hesitation even if it's more intimate than they've ever been before with this new revelation. and what a reveal it is - even if he's only got his fingers to do this with for now when it'd be so much better served around something else. maybe it's the light, but skippy looks like a full body blusher too, and the idea that it's making him just as hot as hawk has his hand slipping under the waistband and palming himself hard and fast with a low growl that's drowned out by the noise of slickness and skippy's soft moans.]
Perfect - yeah, just like that.
[is it good? it's fucking glorious, is what, enough that hawk lets himself full wrap a hand around the thickness of his shaft, pumping slowly and setting up a rhythm he'll be able to maintain for awhile. the shows only just begun, after all. his responses come a little slower - one handed typing is a little awkward when he's got bigger things to focus on.]
Mouth like that and it's like you were born for my cock, Skippy.
Is that what you want? To take me all the way down until you're drooling around me?
Or maybe you're feeling a little empty down there, under all that mess you made.
Let's have a look. Take it off.
[as an afterthought:]
And keep sucking.
no subject
how many faceless men comment on his waist, comment on his slender wrists, his sleight frame, the way he moves. itβs all there - young and sporty but with the edge of something a little less polished.
but these one on ones make him want to try harder, make him want to please milton, if thatβs his real name. and maybe heβs never truly been to bed with anything more than a toy or his own fingers, but part of him thinks he could take it if it were this man.
but itβs a trick of the text, no doubt. heβs always been stupidly idealistic - after all, hadnβt mr. fuller just told him that after class? a promise of a failing grade if he kept it up on the next few assignments.
his cock throbs at the thought, and for a moment he actually feels guilty for letting his mind slip elsewhere. ]
I want to suck down your cock so that I still feel you on the back of my throat tomorrow.
Taste you well into the weekend.
I could sit pretty under your desk, if you have one. Keep you warm on those snowy nights.
[ thereβs the next command though and tim whimpers a little around his own fingers, adding a third merely for show, and maybe the promise of what heβll need later. he sets the phone down and all the while rises up to his knees. it takes the pretty line of his jaw out of the viewfinder but the lewd slurping sounds get louder - his mic, suspended above his set up. this close and heβs sure the man can hear him breathing, all but panting as his free hand falls to his hip.
the front of his thong is ruined - dampened with precum and sticking to the hard outline of his dick. he palms himself once which elicits a high pitched hiss around his wet fingers, before he begins to peel the fabric away.
thereβs the faintest - oh, christ - when his dick springs free and he turns, shimmying so that hawk can see him carefully tug the thin slip of fabric from between his toned cheeks.
slowly it comes free, and he carefully maneuvers to slip it from one leg, letting it hang damp around his knee, but just so hawk can get a peek of that waiting little pucker - untouched. heβd been hoping heβd show. ]
Empty. Waiting for you.
Iβve been an awful good boy.
I wish you were here.
Would you like to be? Here?
Tell me how youβd have me.
How well Iβm made to take your cock.
I want to be filled by you.
My hand wonβt be enough.
no subject
I do. One at home, one at work. Private office. It's quiet after hours. You'd fit right in.
My boy wants to remember what my hand is like gripping hard around his neck, huh? My fingers in his hair, scalp prickling the rest of the night?
Go home with the smell of me lingering under his nose and on his lips, making everyone wonder what he's been up to even though he looks so goddamn innocent?
You wanna feel the ache in your knees from hours of putting in your time, keeping yourself full of me?
[fuck, his breath comes out in a hard rush and his fingers squeeze tight around the base of his own throbbing dick at the idea of it, and those sounds are encouragement enough that he can almost pretend he feels that sweet mouth instead of the rough palm of his hand, marred by callouses from years of pen-holding and tennis backhands.
and then skippy splays himself out - the natural trajectory this would go if it were real. hawk would keep him on his knees, patient and sitting pretty with his own militant control on the situation even if he'd want to fuck him raw until tears were streaming down his cheeks. long enough until he yanked him back up and bent him over solid wood before laying claim to that untouched little wink of pink beckoning to be stretched out over his spit-slick cock.]
Don't ask questions you know the answer to already, Skippy.
'Course I would.
Your hand won't even come close, but you don't have to take my word for it.
[he's not the sort of man who needs to brag about what's in his pants, but he gets the sense his boy won't mistake it with insecurity as opposed to a statement of fact. knowing he's the first one tonight - maybe even today from just how empty he is makes a swell of pride and possession flare up, warm in his chest and all the way down to his belly.]
Show me how good you can take it. One at a time - just your fingers.
And you don't dare touch anything else until I say so, you got that?
I own you.
[at least for the next thirteen minutes and counting.]
Tell me who you belong to.
Whose hole is that?
Whose cock are you begging for?
no subject
maybe he's created the fantasy out of some need to make this whole gig be something more than just lewd, sweaty dollars delivered to his bank account. if he has, then it's a nice one to exist in.
he sways his hips, rocking his weight from one knee to the other as he continues to suck on his fingers, his eyes drifting shut as he imagines what this could be, were it not now, were it not him, were it not only fans and paywalls with expectations.
when he opens his eyes, he thumbs at his phone. if hawk is keen enough, he might notice the timer disappears. it's dangerous, getting emotional with things like this, getting caught up in the feigned romance. tim will always be a romantic, and will always, always dream of starry skies and gods with more favor in their eyes than malice.
he can't help it. ]
I want to be reminded that you own me by my existence alone.
My hair, my mouth, my knees, my neck -
scalded like Icarus, clinging to his Sun.
[ he sighs again, and there's a thump when he drops his phone and leans so that milton can see the muscled plane of his back, the way his waist nips in and curves to the swell of his ass as he's perched on his knees, letting them splay wider, parking the pert globes that are on display.
he uses a chair draped in black fabric to prop himself up, enough to keep his head from view but still display the arch of his neck and breadth of his shoulders. his hand comes to view next, spit-slicked fingers reaching first to trace a line down one ass cheek.
it's good he has a mic, and it's good he has a filter on it so that it pitches his voice a little higher than his actual voice. it makes it so that when he can't type, and his hands are busy? well. he can be a little more eager when he reads the responses from the other side.
and so when he speaks, he's already a little breathless, almost hazily wanton in the way he forms his words: ]
I'm your boy.
[ he slides his knees wider, so that when his hand reaches to dip between the cleft of his ass, it's easier to find that exposed pucker, circling first with his index finger to slick it all before beginning to slowly press inside. it makes his ass clech, his back tighten and he hums at the pleasant intrusion. ]
It's your hole.
[ down to the second knuckle with the first finger. and if milton on the other side isn't too preoccupied, he might even be able to see the heavy hang of his balls and the sway of his hardened dick between muscled thighs.
the first finger in, to the hilt. ]
I need your cock, sir. So bad. Please let me add another. Not enough. I need more.
Just wanna be your boy as long as you'll let me.
[ his hips squirm absently - it's not meant to be part of the show at all, just an impatient, reflexive response to the finger he's pressed into himself, hole fluttering around it in the anticipation of more. ]
Please, sir. More.
no subject
if he were of more sound mind, he might give his boy a lecture about no freebies, but he certainly doesn't wanna look like he's got a complaint in mind over it. another gift, another realization that maybe this is more mutual than he initially ever planned. fuck. well he's still milton - and shit, maybe this kid is all the way in san francisco or switzerland for all he knows.
don't get sentimental now, fuller.]
I'd remind you every fucking day. Maybe twice in one, what do you think about that?
Well unlike the Sun, I respect your ambition, Skippy. So maybe I'd soothe those burns and mend your wings.
[and there goes the phone. something about this session is so much more raw than the others, not least of all because it's the first time he's hearing him this open. it's just like what the approximation of heaven must be, filling him with the sudden lackadaisical slowing of his body and better sense like he's drunk another double of whiskey. god, he sounds wrecked already. and so does hawk, even if no one else can hear him in the privacy of his study, accompanied by the ever-growing noises of slickness as his he twists his wrist just right under the drooling head, chest heaving and toes digging into the plus carpet under his feet.]
Oh, yeah. That's right. All of it belongs to me - your body, your mind, your pleasure. Don't ever forget it.
'Cept I know you won't. You're a good boy and good boys get rewarded. Go on, another finger then.
And then another, if you can manage.
[of course he can.]
Fuck, Skippy. I'm taking my time over here too, you know. Had to slow it down so I didn't blow my load at the sight of you.
Or the sound.
Thanks for that, by the way.
[he's not really sure what possesses him to say any of that. normally this is all about the one-sided control, the demands for skippy to enact what he wants to see with the pretense that it's what hawk would do to him not so much as with him. but something in the keening noises, the sweet slur in his voice - it makes hawk decide to share for once. it's not like he's broken some invisible barrier, still just some faceless guy jerking off on the other side the internet, pretending he's got ownership over this beautiful boy for a now-undetermined sliver of time he can tuck away as something existing outside this grimy space.]
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but for now, with milton on the other end watching him, praising him? he can believe those wings could be mended.
and with that little dream, he slowly begins to add the second finger, humming lowly at the faint but pleasant stretch. he pumps two fingers in and out for a moment, careful and deliberate, both for his own pleasure but also for milton's. and only at the fourth slide does he add the third, pressing pressing pressing until he's buried to the hilt. ]
I belong to you. Thank you, sir.
[ another sigh and he scissors his fingers, moaning this time at the divine pressure. a little farther and he could find that sensitive little spot to be certain he'd fall apart, but he stops short. this isn't just about him, here. he doesn't want it to be. ]
It's the least I could do to let you hear me. A gift for a gift - early, for the holidays.
[ he sounds breathless, and there's already a sheen of sweat beginning to diamond his back, the stress of balancing himself up so the camera can have its view and the fire starting up under his skin doing all the work. ]
I want you to - [ a little gasp as he moves three fingers in and out, slow, to work himself open. ] - hear me.
Mister - ah, sir - I wanna add another for you.
[ four fingers, a stretch but not impossible. he feels like he needs the sharp bite of something else. ]
Don't cum without me. [ and when he turns to peer over his shoulder, there's the jaw again, and a pout of his bottom lip, intentional or otherwise. a huff, almost like a self-embarrassed laugh, then: ]
Sorry. Please let me cum with you, Milton. I want to.
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See you too, how good you are for me. Look how nice you take it.
But be honest - it's not full enough, is it?
And it's a hell of a lot harder doing it all by yourself, yeah?
[but christ if he doesn't just look exquisite in his exertion - the sweat glistening in the dim light along the tight planes of his back, the flex of the toned muscles reaching behind to let his hole suck those prying fingers right up into the pert curve of his ass. a veritable work of art, the kind that's been molded as if from flesh to meet his every desire somehow. that's the part he can't get over - because god knows he's fucked his way through plenty of whiny twinks and dumb bucks who are willing and warm, but definitely don't stir anything more than a few brutal thrusts of his hips before he's finding the fastest escape route. skippy's got the kind of body hawk would do more than just a quick pump and dump - he'd spend hours teasing him, working him up, hell: he even wants to hear what he'd sound like wholly undone with hawk's mouth around his most sensitive parts.]
Four? Well alright, let's see how you manage.
Bet you'd take my whole fist if I told you to. You'd be so full you might even sob - one twist and I'd make you see the sun and the stars.
[don't cum without me.
his fingers hesitate over the keyboard, fist tightening on impulse and stilling. not because he's obeying an order, hell no. normally that would earn a firm hand - a slap, a tug, a brutal reminder who's the one in charge lest anyone think it's more than just no strings. but there's something so painfully earnest about it, like he just can't help himself. like his pleasure is wholly dependent on hawk's.
there it is again. sweet.]
I won't.
[there's a pause as hawk lets what is basically an admission of surrender sink in, before quickly recovering.]
But - one more thing.
Just keep calling me sir.
[why did he give that stupid name anyway? it's not what he wants to hear moaned out as skippy gets closer and closer to that precipice where it'll be too much. but it can't be hawk - so this is what he'll have to settle for.]
Arch your back and show me how bad you need me, sweetheart.
[he wants to see the heavy swell of his balls, the peek of his flushed dick. is he dripping?]
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[ tim can only keep his eyes closed tight as he begins to add the fourth finger, the stretch almost too much and too sharp, making little stars burst behind his eyes. if this were the hard, hot heat of a man behind him, would he feel the same? or would the stars burst with even more light and color and light him up from head to toe?
he takes his time, wiggling his fingers to try and make a little more room for each little press of his little finger. ]
I'd take whatever you told me. Need whatever you'd give me. Only if I can see... Cassiopeiae with how hard you fuck me.
[ the farthest star one may see with a naked eye.
he half expects another order, or even a scolding for demanding something, but as he presspresspresses fingers deeper into his wanting hole, he all but pauses.
I won't.
fire lights up under his skin, and it's evident in the dim light that he is, indeed, a full-body flusher. it creeps up his back, his neck. these sessions are not meant to be a give and take - tim is supposed to wiggle prettily in front of the camera and give whatever the other asks, to answer the beck and call of those little words across the screen.
but why is it he suddenly wishes he felt the press of a broad back against his own? a hand along his flank. breath on his nape. but he won't. he never will.
he arches his back as he's told, angling his ass further up toward the screen, and there in the vee of his legs he is all but dripping wet, his cock leaving a slick mess on the sheets beneath his bent knees. ]
Sir - right. Sorry, sir.
[ his fingers begin to move with more confidence, beginning a slow but steady rhythm in and out, curling to maximize the stretch. ]
Oh, God - it's - it's harder on my own. Without you.
[ and it's ridiculous really, how the movement of his fingers have already gotten him worked up, hips wriggling to deepen the press of his fingers, back arching and only better revealing the flared, flushed head of his dick, the way he leaks heavy again, the white sheets showing an old, floral pattern on the mattress beneath it.
he lets out a whine, higher pitched and utterly needy when he catches that soft, sweet spot inside of him. ]
I need you, sir. Please - tell me when I can -
[ he swallows hard and gasps as he pulls those fingers out, then back in, the motion a little inelegant at this angle but he would do anything this man told him now, if that's what it took. ]
I'll be your good boy. Your sweetheart. The best - I'll wait, just -
[ another groan, a needy buck of his hips and he slows his own hand, afraid he might push himself over the edge without permission. ]
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there's a single drop of sweat he can feel trickling down his temple, breath coming in heavy pants as his fist ratchets up the speed once more as he watches skippy take what he's been given. four looks like a tight squeeze, and with the additional instructions he's been following it makes hawk's mouth water at the idea that he's more than a little bendy if he can twist himself to and fro with only a minimal strain. if he wanted to take it easy on the poor boy he knows there's a whole smorgasbord of dildos and vibrators and shit that looks like it originated from aliens on whatever the hell cassiopeia is. and sure, maybe some men like it to keep going and going and going with battery-powered assistance, but to hawk? nothing beats the feel of real manhood and a good pounding. so no, no shortcuts here.]
Mm, you're doing a hell of a job. If I was there, I'd still be enjoying the show.
[there's nothing to suggest that's a real invitation - just more of the generic dirty talk to heighten the fantasy. but if he was there, he'd have long since ripped away skippy's hand and bent him in half to finish the job. still wouldn't let him touch his cock, though, not that it seems to need much help with how pretty it's drenching his mattress - and, are those flowers? definitely not what he expected. and utterly not the point, as he rocks his hips up and fucks into his own fist, typing coming in with more urgency even as he fights to keep his spelling clear.]
You got me, Skippy. I'm right here, watching e very move.
You wanna cum yeah? You close ?
[hawk watches his hips roll, bewitched by the sight of him staving off his own needs like a good boy, and fuck if that doesn't just set him alight from within. his eyes slip shut for a brief moment, head tossed back as he feels himself hurtling towards his own climax.]
Keep fucking your fingers then. Pretend its me, putting you in your place and giving my boy what he needs.
Do it. Im here.
Jesus - fuck
[that's all he can manage before he crashes into his own orgasm, cock spurting over his fist between obscene, filthy noises of rutting into his own palm and creaking leather from his chair. but he never takes his eyes off the pretty thing on screen - and he's not done, not as he watches every tremble and twitch and the pearly white liquid he'd steal a lick of from skippy's sorely untouched cock. after an orgasm like that, anyone would be sensitive. too sensitive, even. his own breathing hasn't even begun to come down, and he's reaching absently for a kleenex when he shoots over:]
Did you think I was done with you? Not a chance.
I wasn't fair tonight. Not entirely.
Go ahead - stroke yourself off now.
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god, he wishes he could hear his voice, at the very least.
(he'll wake up tomorrow with insurmountable shame - the desperation for real, human connection so far gone that a man on the other side of a paid, pornographic chat has become his comfort for the night. his shield in the storm.) ]
I wanna cum. Please - sir, please... I promise, I'll -
[ but he sees the words do it and it's with one last press and curl of his fingers that he falls apart, his voice coming out in a spray of shit, fuck, i'm gonna - it's - oh jesus - the music in his room isn't loud enough for this - to cover the choking wail that comes out of his mouth, the way his jaw becomes visible again, mouth dropped open and wide as he groans. his body clenches, hips squirm and the wiry muscles in his thigh twitch visibly.
on the bed between his thighs he comes hard and heavy, strings of pearly white spreading across the fabric, blotting and dampening it. he can hear nothing but thunder in his ears for a moment, and when he comes to, his hand sliding from his sore, fluttering hole, he heaves in breaths that make his whole body shudder and shake.
he opens his eyes, and when he's met with the screen once more and not the warm hand in his hair or smoothing down along his sweaty back, his stomach drops a little.
he's such an idiot. ]
I...
[ he's so sensitive, all nerve endings on fire and he almost wants to beg for the man to take it back. to not ask him to touch himself now until he has a second to recoup, to quiet the fire coursing through his blood. but alas. ]
How much did I make you cum? I'm your boy - and I want to be the best boy you've had.
[ his voice is quiet, hoarse as he pants through the burning afterglow of his climax. but he obeys, just like the perfect good little pet he is. the same hand, spit slicked and sweaty, reaches down between his legs for his aching, weeping cock. he stays like that a moment, so that the man can see the spoils of their passion - hole flared and red, fluttering still as his body spasms and jolts from his orgasm.
he doesn't let the view last long. turning to fall onto one hip in the frame so that milton (no, tim decides, that is not his name) can see everything. his chest, flushed pink and sweaty, nipples hard, and hand curled perfectly around a ripened, hard cock, beginning to stroke slowly.
but every movement causes him to jump a little, like little static shocks, and he's sloppy - the camera shows all of his chin, his mouth, but nothing more. enough that hawk can undoubtedly see the way he bites hard on his bottom lip. ]
I never want you to be done with me. You're so good. I haven't earned it.
[ thus, the blistering punishment that is stroking himself off after such a wild and frenzied rush. it's already getting him worked up again, however, stroking himself. he pauses a moment to catch his breath, arching his back as he presses his thumb to his egregiously weeping slit, much like the man had said he'd do before. ]
I'm losing my mind. [ it tumbles out in an urgent whine as his hand moves again, stuttering. ]
Is your hand bigger than mine? Would you go faster? Slower? Play with my balls or just edge me here until I'm begging to be your boy, your sweetheart, your princess if I had to be?
Jesus Christ -
[ another little gasp, a whimper, and he tosses his head back, revealing the heavy bob of his adam's apple when he swallows hard around a moan. ]
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[what he wouldn't give to be able to murmur husky encouragement against his neck or licking hot against the shell of his hear. maybe he'd lift an arm and bury himself in the musky scent of sweat and sex and the pheromones that make skippy uniquely irresistible. hawk's never been one for any form of aftercare - god no, but watching him come down makes something pull in his chest and break loose inexplicably. that same urge to run his hands through his hair, to caress a cheek and tell him what a good boy he was over and over until his breathing stilled and he settled into a sweet slumber. in fact - ]
A lot. Best one I've had since I saw you last. And you are - don't second guess yourself, Skippy.
[why is he doing this? feeding into it? fuck. hawk finally pauses to wipe off his hands and dig through the drawer in his desk for the half-empty pack of cigarettes, fishing out a spare lighter while his other one is across the room in his folded slacks. the first inhale burns against his throat and lungs, a burst of flavor as he tips his head back and exhales back into control. tempting as it is, he's not gonna go for another round. this is about leaving skippy boneless and unofficially making his mark. skippy wants to be his best boy? well, maybe hawk wants to be the best - interaction he's got on this hellsite.
he tips his chair back, chin up appraisingly as he takes another drag and watches a plume of smoke caress against the screen - parting almost as nicely as the way his boy's reddened, not-nearly-abused-enough hole winks at him from however many miles away.]
Aren't you a sight for sore eyes.
Tell me how it feels, and don't skimp on the details. Too much? Is your dick as sensitive as I know your chest is when you get like this?
[it's gotta be at least sixty-five percent post-nut clarity, as the kids these days say that has hawk shifting only slightly uncomfortably at the endearment of skippy's admission. i never want you to be done with me. if this was anyone he ever followed home, he'd have his zipper up and hat pulled down before the cum even dried.
but one look at that pretty mouth, glisten of sweat across abs that look like they were fucking carved out of stone - yeah, he's a goner. what the hell, it's not the same thing. not a real commitment.]
Lotta questions out of you tonight. This an interrogation I didn't know about?
But fine - it's bigger. I'd alternate between the two until you were teetering on the edge, balls ready to burst. You'd be begging me, delirious with it - say anything I want.
[that's what he'd do. normally. inhale. exhale. bright orange glimmer and a wash of gray in front of so much flushed skin. hawk feels like he's burning up from the inside out watching him, wanting him in a way that hasn't felt this intense since - things he won't revisit.]
And you wanna know a secret, Skippy?
You wouldn't really have to beg.
Watching you fall apart is the highlight of my day. Maybe even my whole goddamn year.
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the consistency of this man - faceless and as distant as anything. but somehow, feeling raw and uncertain and vulnerable right now feels right. it shouldn't.
god, he'll regret this.
"Don't second guess yourself, Skippy." god, is it sad that a stranger believes in him more than anyone in his real life? it is.
tim huffs again, a little bemused laugh that is only swallowed back down into a low groan. ]
My body's on fire. Everything I touch feels like I'm touching live wire. Heat from my toes to my head. My dick hurts so much for wanting your hand on it, because mine's not enough. It's not. I feel empty all over again and - God -
[ he chokes a little when his thumb mistakenly catches against his frenulum, sensitive and raw, making another pearly bead gather at the slit. he lets out a shuddering breath, loosens his hand and slides it down briefly to fondle the heavy weight of his sack for a moment, a reprieve from the hypersensitivity everywhere else. ]
Too many questions for you, sir. Sorry. S'why I don't talk on here. Get carried away.
[ he grins a little, knowing the man can see it and he brings his hand back to circle his dick, alternating back and forth just as the man said he'd do. but it's unfair that this faceless man makes such a confession.
you wouldn't really have to beg. ]
Tell me how you want me to fall apart, sir. Your Skippy aims to please.
[ but he's already squirming with every stroke and touch, his breathing quickening, his voice pitching up just so, the edge of near hysteria setting in as his dick hardens cruelly in his palm. ]
I feel like - I'm going to burst. I can't - [ he's panting, his free hand fumbling wildly for something to seek purchase upon, and he merely ends up with a fistful of the blankets from the bed he's debauched. the muscles in his thighs strain, his heels dig into the plush mattress, his hips begin to buck into his own hand as he writhes, almost like a caged thing, unable to control itself. ]
Tell me what to - I need it - again - I'll... [ he bites his own lip again as another loud, heady moan begins to work its way from his throat. he is seeing the stars, and among them, he's sure, is the faint outline of of Cassiopeia, stars aligned to paint a picture of the ancient queen herself, bound to her throne, made only to experience life from far, far, away, in punishment.
how apt. ]
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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.]
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