Page 68 of Rears & Vices

“Now, Vitya. Now.”

Vitya was all black-eyed, focused intent. With one hand he held the carriage still. The other helped with his insistent breach.

“Only just,” Everard began— “God.”

The man’s prick, God help him, was as thick as the rest of him.

Vitya halted, his breaths coming harsh through his nose, his lips pressed tight. They bloomed red as he let them go and exhaled, slow. He stretched to kiss Everard’s grimace, a question as careful as his fingertips were, tentative over Everard’s thigh, his bollocks, his prick, stroking him softly.

“Good?”

Everard breathed. “Yes.” He hooked one leg round Vitya’s hip. Pushed off the press’s shoulder with his palms. With a steady, insistent slide forward and one rather loud groan, he brought Vitya further into him—all the way.

Vitya jerked against him, his eyes wide.

“You,” he gasped. “I meant to…”

“I know what you meant,” Everard said. “You meant it slow and decent.” He laughed. “This enough lead for you?”

Vitya pulled Everard up, cradling his shoulders in spread palms, wrapping him close; this time, his kiss was more like himself, startling and sweet. Devouring.

A contented quiet settled in: shuddering breaths, soft noises. Everard accustomed himself to the intrusion of hot, pulsing warmth, and pulled close every bit of Vitya he could touch. His muscles slowly became liquid again. Vitya sensed it, and let him go; gooseflesh pricked up all over Everard’s skin in the absence of proximity, at the renewed touch of cold iron on the small of his back, on his hands.

Then Vitya gripped the carriage again, wrists tucked in tight to Everard’s waist.

“It will have to be gentler,” he repeated, almost apologetic. “But I will do what you want.”

“I want you however, Vitya.”

Vitya began to move, sliding Everard forth and back in tiny increments upon his prick. Beneath him, the wheels squeaked and groaned. It was both erotic and unnerving; Vitya’s rapt vigilance betrayed his own fascination. His pace quickened, slides lengthening; Everard felt increasingly less like he was being fucked, being entered, and more as though he were an object: one of Vitya’s self-infliction, of Vitya’s pleasure.

He liked it. Perhaps a little too much.

“Déu meu,” he gasped. “Wait, I’m too close, I’ll⁠—”

Vitya stopped, buried halfway. He hardly seemed to breathe. Everard breathed for him, and then some.

Slowly, Vitya resumed, hips twitching the barest amount. The carriage moved by inches.

It had an effect opposite to what Everard expected.

“Oh, Jesus, God,” he groaned.

The height of the press; the angle of approach; the persistent thick presence of Vitya’s prick, or perhaps its curve; whatever combination of circumstance this made sent shocks of pleasure driving into Everard with every small thrust.

Vitya didn’t stop. Neither buried himself, nor withdrew.

It was maddening.

It was driving Everard to climax with surprising speed.

“Why are you— Vitya, fuck me—else I’ll not be able to hold back⁠—”

Vitya looked intent. He smiled a tiny smile. He did not let up.

So much for leading.

“For god’s sake, thrust, else I will…”