You Sound So Good Begging
Chris has a hankering. An irresistible urge demanding unspeakable, risqué things of him. It pounds through him, heavy and thick in his blood. It might be the lust talking—shouting and drowning out all logical, intelligence, and reason, but he could be convinced that all his blood is, is desire. No red blood cells, no white blood cells, no plasma, no platelets. Only lust.
It's all he has, from the messy, tangled crown of hair at his head, with even his scalp saturated with fevered sweat past his taut nipples atop his heaving pecs and beyond his aching, hurting cock, to his curled, cramping toes: lust.
Lust, lust, lust.
And, fuckk, suddenly the rising, boiling tide overflows, just to—
Chris cannot resist, mid-fucking the tight fleshlight squeezing his cock in pale imitation of the real filthy act, he's floundering; he's got one arm swinging out to the side to find purchase on his long abandoned phone. At one point, it was playing pornography, as if he doesn't have enough pent up fantasies and delicious past realities in his own head. Now, though, it's been off and so he's uselessly fumbling to turn it on and find his way to an emergency call. He all but punches Sebastian's contact card, knowing it's location despite being unreadable through his blurry vision, glazed thickly beneath his heavily lidded blue eyes.
“Pl'z,” Chris’ voice is so thick and rough within his throat, it doesn't understandably make it past his lips the first time. So, he tries again, desperation tainting his words beyond repair, “please fuckin’ tell me you're gonna be home soon." The demanding, pleading words fall from his mouth the literal second Sebastian picks up on, thankfuckinggod, the second ring. Any more suspense and Chris would lose it.
“Chris? Hello?? What?” Seb, on the other line, probably didn't hear all of that, he was talking so soon, and his voice is so shot.
Still, Chris just groans.
Shit.
It is sweltering in their lonely bedroom. And most of all, somehow, even more than his cock and fucking balls, his face is fucking hot. Burning hot. His whole body is a furnace but his face is taking the brunt of the flames. Uselessly, as it explodes and crackles inside, Chris tries to get some, any, of the mortification out of his body, clenching his muscles—his fists—but really, it just ends up as a bodily undulation.
Humiliation of just how undone he is rolls violently through him. Head already thrown back, periodically thrashed from side to side to make his bedheaded disaster worse too, Chris's neck arches farther; chest already mounded and tight, he pushes his fucking tits up with his arched spine; hips, too, Chris helplessly fucks wetly up into the suction-tight, excessively lubed, sloppy toy he's fucking. He's tired of his hand. He's exhausted by this toy. He wants Sebastian.
His head swims, lava-thick with arousal: Sebastian, Sebastian, Sebastian.
“Jesus,” Seb has caught on. It would be next to impossible for him to not, right? Chris, bruisingly, is sure he sounds fucking ruined. And, for Sebastian, it currently sounds as if he's rushing away from an area of chatter and public noise to somewhere private. Those sounds smear blissfully away in the background. Usually, Chris isn't this reckless and brash. Tonight, though, this late, he's got a couple of beers in him and more than enough pent up sexual frustration. A fucking lifetime of sexual frustration, it feels like. He's just a man. He doesn't care. He—
"Chris?"
Sebastian's voice.
Fuck.
He sounds so good.
Even caught off guard but being a wonderful, good sport about it, it sounds so good.
He's perfect.
And Chris’ mouth does it again, running away from him, unfiltered by the heat that's melted his brain out of his fucking skull—
Chris was just going to get off, quick, furious, and unsatisfying, like he has been throughout the torturous extended period of Sebastian's absence, dragging on for much longer than they're accustomed to. But... he couldn't. His body couldn't. Like it knew it was just another unsatisfactory round with his own body and lonesome imagination. He couldn't tip himself over the edge of orgasm. So, he kept going, thinking it would end. Eventually. A little edging and denial. That'd make it better, wouldn't it? Give him a bigger cliff to fall from, in theory giving him more pleasure? But he couldn't. He didn't cum.
Didn't.
Couldn't.
Jaw clenching until his teeth ached like he hurt between his legs.
He didn't.
And, now, he's stupified himself to the point of ringing Sebastian unprompted, unwarned. Resultingly, of course, his boyfriend is un-fucking-prepared, hence the running to privacy, meanwhile Chris is dripping thickly with sweat. He is so goddamn eye-crossingly, hair-pullingly, toe-curlingly hard that it hurts. He couldn't stand the throb of his own hammering heart in his fist any longer, so he fucked into a fleshlight and now—
“Miss you, baby.” He rushes out. “Jesus fuck. I miss you s'much. Drivin' me crazy over here. Miss how ya’clench around me s’tight when I say you're a good boy. Miss how glassy your eyes get when I shove m'fingers in your mouth. Miss you. Miss feelin’ you. Fuckin' you but, but god,” he groans so sharply it makes his throat twinge beneath his Adam's apple. He does not care. “W'nna sleep next to you. Wanna kiss you."
"How scandalous," Sebastian manages to cut in, a smile audible on his pretty mouth.
His voice fills Chris’ vibrating, struck-bell head so suddenly that he can't help but laugh. It feels reckless and good. He fucking laughs. But also, filter-less, he defends himself frantically, “'m so serious. I miss you so much, fuh-fuck,” Chris throws his head back, easily distracted by rhe pleasure assaulting him, so much yet not enough too. He is a fucking mess. And, god, god—he's really laughing at himself, and laughing at Seb's interjection. Humiliation has turned into humor. They are the same? This is so stupid. He's fucking dumb. He can't think. So, he thoughtlessly confesses, "s’been-so-long-your-sense-of-humor-is-guhh-turning-me-on-more-!" The words come out jumbled and strung together, almost gibberish.
Sebastian understands him, at least. He always does. God-fucking bless him.
Chris needs him. He needs him so badly. So much. So all the time.
Even when Sebastian is laughing at him.
Perhaps, especially then.
Because, over the phone, Seb laughs at him. Loud and boisterous and quickly slapping a hand over his own mouth by the sounds of it, smothering himself ‘cause it is a little bit rude to cackle at your depraved, desperate lover.
Unstoppable, Chris fucks into his toy, groaning, repeating, "I'm serious."
“I bet,” Chris can almost see Sebastian's eyes going dark, his teeth sinking into his lower lip as he murmurs, “I can hear it.” His voice is husky, getting closer to the microphone, hoping no one else hears this lewd exchange. “Someone's feeling needy, huh?” He chuckles.
Racing frantically past that second part, “hear it?” Chris asks. Fuck, his whole body blazes overwhelmingly with lust and embarrassment. He only has one way to sort of, almost get back at his lover for teasing him; so, weakly, he does: he holds his phone up to his cock, letting the wet FAP-FAP-FAP of flesh dragging against tight, lube-drenched silicone fill the speakers, transmitted, hopefully, agonizingly pleasurably to Seb's ears.
He's so wet and hard.
That arousal-drunk decision, however, backfires because immediately, unbiddenly, Chris is picturing how those dirty noises have to be making Seb squirm. And, of course, then he's recalling about how Seb squirms and blushes so pretty underneath him—remembering viscerally about how hard it can be to pin his wrists in place while he's fucking deep into him, bodyweight behind his hips, relishing in how uninhibited and cockdrunk Sebastian becomes. His pretty, gorgeous Seb.
Fuck.
He's gonna fucking die.
He wants to cum so bad but he can't.
It's right there, he just—
"Wanna—wah, hahh!" He gasps sharply, cutting himself off.
"Hmm?"
"Wanna cum," he bursts out, almost fucking roaring.
"Then cum,” he states those two words like it's so simple. Like Chris hasn't wept a hundred, boiling tears today, chasing his orgasm—hunting it fucking down with a spear and bloodlust hot in his veins. Desperate for the kill.
He'd love to claim he groans, he roars, but… no. He whines. Less fearless hunter and more surrendering prey, "want you to make me cum! Want you on top of me, taking m’ dick. Want you tellin’ me that I shouldn't cum until you do. Wanna be c’vered in you. Then, fuck, I wanna fill you up. Want it to drip out of you so I can clean you up after an’ taste you. Us. Sebastian."
“Oh my god,” it abruptly sounds like Seb is speaking through his fingers. Whether he's so mortified that he's covering his mouth in shock—a fragile Victorian boy seeing not ankles but the object of his affection bent over and spreading whorishly—or he's so painfully turned on that he's stuffed his fingers into his mouth and is sucking on them to have something, anything, it doesn't matter. It does not matter. Because, either way, Sebastian's pretty face and his dexterous fingers are filling Chris’ world and he can't. He can't. He chokes on his own spit, listening to Seb mumble, “fuck, you sound so good begging.”
“‘ll beg for th’ rest of my fuckin’ life if you get your tight ass on a plane right now.” Chris recklessly launches into an example, not thinking, just doing, helpless in his desire, “please. Please, make me feel good. No one else can like you. I can't even. It's fucking cruelty, baby, leavin’ me after I've gotten used to how good you take it. Your mouth, moanin’ and chokin’ around my cock deep in your throat; your ass, clenchin’ around me like you can't get me deep enough; your dick, ohmygod, I don't care, get home and fuck me. Suck me. Let me fuck you. Anything. Anything. I'm dying. Baby. Please.”
“You're dying because I'm gonna fucking kill you for calling me when I can't shove a hand down my pants right now.”
Chris whimpers at the thought, Seb plastered to a wall, head tipped back, hand over his fucking tight, skinny ass jeans he likes, groping himself, palming his hard dick, making a mess of himself after just a second, flushed, and pornographic. Unable to wait, desperate for him. Just as desperate for Chris as Chris is for him.
He can't.
Not a single second more.
“Seb!” He moans. “Sebastian.”
“Chris.”
“Tell me to fucking cum.”
“Cum.”
The way Chris sounds is fucking guttural.
Primal.
Release.
Yes.
Finally.
Wet and messy all over his stomach. So much of it, too. Fuck. Tears rush down his cheeks.
