300 porny words
Sep. 7th, 2010 09:15 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
withimpunityThe first time Ray meets Walt, he knows that beneath those cornflower blue eyes and that sweet choir boy smile lies a dirty little slut. A scream when he comes, jacks off eight hours a day, kink list a mile long, filthy fucking cockslut. Ray just knows these things. Its a gift. Its why Brad says he keeps him around, but Ray knows its really because he's a morning person, which means one thing to Brad: blow-job alarm clock.
Ray likes it best when Walt begs him for it, when they’ve been teasing him and drawing it out for so long that Walt’s nearly fucking crying over it, saying whatever he thinks Ray wants to hear.
“Enough, Ray.”
Brad’s not as evil. Brad’s favorite part is watching Walt come apart underneath their hands, their mouths, their fingers. Walt goes cock-stupid (Ray’s term) when Brad finally touches him, quits making sense, all of his words running together into one stream of conscious litany of fucks and harders, stringing together both of their names like its one obscene word until finally he just stops making noise altogether. (Brad’s always amazed when that happens; he never has been able to get Ray to shut up.)
When he comes, he’s not so quiet. He screams, just like Ray imagined he would, fucking back onto Ray’s cock and into Brad’s hand, moaning like he gets paid to do it, riding it out until he can’t take anymore, and then he collapses onto Brad’s chest, semi-conscious.
Ray kisses his spine, licks the salt from his lips. “What did I tell you?” He says to Brad and flops down on the bed to Walt’s left side, tracing his thumb along the ink black design covering the top of Walt's thigh.
Brad’s mouth splits into a grin, blinding and predatory. “When you’re right, Ray, you’re right.”
Ray likes it best when Walt begs him for it, when they’ve been teasing him and drawing it out for so long that Walt’s nearly fucking crying over it, saying whatever he thinks Ray wants to hear.
“Enough, Ray.”
Brad’s not as evil. Brad’s favorite part is watching Walt come apart underneath their hands, their mouths, their fingers. Walt goes cock-stupid (Ray’s term) when Brad finally touches him, quits making sense, all of his words running together into one stream of conscious litany of fucks and harders, stringing together both of their names like its one obscene word until finally he just stops making noise altogether. (Brad’s always amazed when that happens; he never has been able to get Ray to shut up.)
When he comes, he’s not so quiet. He screams, just like Ray imagined he would, fucking back onto Ray’s cock and into Brad’s hand, moaning like he gets paid to do it, riding it out until he can’t take anymore, and then he collapses onto Brad’s chest, semi-conscious.
Ray kisses his spine, licks the salt from his lips. “What did I tell you?” He says to Brad and flops down on the bed to Walt’s left side, tracing his thumb along the ink black design covering the top of Walt's thigh.
Brad’s mouth splits into a grin, blinding and predatory. “When you’re right, Ray, you’re right.”