There's that thud as the paddle hits the floor, hard and heavy, and it feels like some sort of punctuation, even if Chase isn't coherent enough to figure out about what. Hearing House groan like that though, low and rough and it hits him hard, makes him whine because as those pleas trail off, saying anything at all gets harder. Words take focus, and Chase can't really focus on anything that isn't how he feels. Maybe it's selfish, but House's hands are on his hips and that's all that he can think about.
Fingers are no longer touching over his red, abused ass, and instead they're on his hips. He wants to lean back into it more than he can, but the ropes have hardly any give. Which is good for suspension and bad for trying to get more of that touch on his skin. But, those fingers don't stay there long, instead working that length of rope that went between his legs, along the cleft of his ass free, and it makes him shake. His body trembling with want, anticipation, raw need. He needs this. He always has, but now it's open and obvious and undeniable, even for Chase. There's a soft cry as House presses in, pushing the rough denim of his hips against his heated ass, abusing raw nerves, but he can feel his erection and he moans softly, although it shifts into protest when House pulls away.
He can see how hard he is, see how he grabs the lube, and it might be important, but Chase is too out of his mind with everything. He needs it now, and now isn't coming soon enough. He can hear the zipper as its pulled down and it's like a promise, reassurance that House will give him what his body is aching for. He's never been this far gone before, and it's both freeing and humiliating all at once, except that Chase has never really cared too much about the later. He winces, unable to help the reaction, as House slips slick fingers between the cheeks of his ass, and he cries out as they brush against his entrance.
House is sinking a finger in, and it's slick and easy and good, but it's also not enough. He whines, trying to get House to give him more, because he can't move enough to do it himself, still held entirely at House's mercy by the ropes. There's no freedom to shift back and rock his hips. He's trying, but the motion is shallow and doesn't accomplish much. It's good, at least a little bit of a balm, but he wants more.
"Just fuck me, please Greg, I can't--" He's raw, needy, there's no patience, no tolerance, every moment feels like agony, and he's digging nails into the palms of his hands, just trying to hold on. His heart is pounding and everything just feels too hot. Of course, that doesn't make it any less of a bad idea; it's been a long time since he's been fucked, and he's so tight around House's finger, but he wants his cock pressing all the way in, wants to feel House fuck him hard and rough until his world swings back to center.
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Fingers are no longer touching over his red, abused ass, and instead they're on his hips. He wants to lean back into it more than he can, but the ropes have hardly any give. Which is good for suspension and bad for trying to get more of that touch on his skin. But, those fingers don't stay there long, instead working that length of rope that went between his legs, along the cleft of his ass free, and it makes him shake. His body trembling with want, anticipation, raw need. He needs this. He always has, but now it's open and obvious and undeniable, even for Chase. There's a soft cry as House presses in, pushing the rough denim of his hips against his heated ass, abusing raw nerves, but he can feel his erection and he moans softly, although it shifts into protest when House pulls away.
He can see how hard he is, see how he grabs the lube, and it might be important, but Chase is too out of his mind with everything. He needs it now, and now isn't coming soon enough. He can hear the zipper as its pulled down and it's like a promise, reassurance that House will give him what his body is aching for. He's never been this far gone before, and it's both freeing and humiliating all at once, except that Chase has never really cared too much about the later. He winces, unable to help the reaction, as House slips slick fingers between the cheeks of his ass, and he cries out as they brush against his entrance.
House is sinking a finger in, and it's slick and easy and good, but it's also not enough. He whines, trying to get House to give him more, because he can't move enough to do it himself, still held entirely at House's mercy by the ropes. There's no freedom to shift back and rock his hips. He's trying, but the motion is shallow and doesn't accomplish much. It's good, at least a little bit of a balm, but he wants more.
"Just fuck me, please Greg, I can't--" He's raw, needy, there's no patience, no tolerance, every moment feels like agony, and he's digging nails into the palms of his hands, just trying to hold on. His heart is pounding and everything just feels too hot. Of course, that doesn't make it any less of a bad idea; it's been a long time since he's been fucked, and he's so tight around House's finger, but he wants his cock pressing all the way in, wants to feel House fuck him hard and rough until his world swings back to center.