This was never going to last long. Not for Chase, at least. Not when he was so keyed up, so oversensitive, when it had been so long since he'd been fucked at all, but especially like this. Tied up and pushed beyond what he can stand, and it's so very good. He's shaking, unable to really move, even if his reflexes crave it, to be able to arch his back and rock into House's thrusts, but he can't manage even that. It's a thrill, even as he shakes in those knots holding him together, the way that House handles his body.
Each rock of their bodies, accented by the slap of skin, makes Chase flinch. His ass is still bright red, and every hard rock that moves his body into contact with the other man's makes his skin feel like it's burning and tears high-pitched whines from his mouth. He's fucking him deeper, and Chase feels like he's starting to come apart all over again, but he tries not to. He wants to hold on, wants this to last, even if it's impossible. His voice getting louder, shifting into cries that are nearly screams. He's loud, only barely holding back from the edge and every time their bodies meet it becomes that much harder.
When House swats at his ass, Chase does scream. It's the mix of it, pleasure and pain, punishment and reward, freedom and restraint. The sound of it echoes in the room, a sharp crack and the ring of his hand on skin, and it makes Chase's eyelashes flutter, his head back as he tries to look at the ceiling through a hazy latticework of black ropes. There's something phenomenally erotic about the way that House bounces Chase's slim body over his cock. He feels small, insubstantial, almost weightless in House's hands. There are plenty of reasons that Chase loves suspensions, and this is one of them.
He jerks again at the slap, even though it's softer than the last, it still lights Chase's body up like a Christmas tree, and not necessarily in the pleasant way. He's so close, that when House tells him to come, all he has to do is stop fighting. Unclench his hands, uncurl his toes; relax and just let it hit him. He's screaming again when it does.
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Each rock of their bodies, accented by the slap of skin, makes Chase flinch. His ass is still bright red, and every hard rock that moves his body into contact with the other man's makes his skin feel like it's burning and tears high-pitched whines from his mouth. He's fucking him deeper, and Chase feels like he's starting to come apart all over again, but he tries not to. He wants to hold on, wants this to last, even if it's impossible. His voice getting louder, shifting into cries that are nearly screams. He's loud, only barely holding back from the edge and every time their bodies meet it becomes that much harder.
When House swats at his ass, Chase does scream. It's the mix of it, pleasure and pain, punishment and reward, freedom and restraint. The sound of it echoes in the room, a sharp crack and the ring of his hand on skin, and it makes Chase's eyelashes flutter, his head back as he tries to look at the ceiling through a hazy latticework of black ropes. There's something phenomenally erotic about the way that House bounces Chase's slim body over his cock. He feels small, insubstantial, almost weightless in House's hands. There are plenty of reasons that Chase loves suspensions, and this is one of them.
He jerks again at the slap, even though it's softer than the last, it still lights Chase's body up like a Christmas tree, and not necessarily in the pleasant way. He's so close, that when House tells him to come, all he has to do is stop fighting. Unclench his hands, uncurl his toes; relax and just let it hit him. He's screaming again when it does.