[He turns his face away from that pointed question, struggling again, even if there is no escape from the strength in those hands. It only brings greater attention to what is buried inside of him when he shifts, tries to wriggle out of the man's lap — not an accident.]
What do you want me to say?
[Ragged words, almost all breath.]
You... sent those pictures. So it doesn't matter. [Everyone will know, won't they? In the illusion of this fantasy he won't be able to show his face there again.] Hurry up and fuck me.
[It should come out hopeless, resigned — yet it is instead low and desperate, raspy in his throat, at odds with any denial. Ruin me.]
no subject
What do you want me to say?
[Ragged words, almost all breath.]
You... sent those pictures. So it doesn't matter. [Everyone will know, won't they? In the illusion of this fantasy he won't be able to show his face there again.] Hurry up and fuck me.
[It should come out hopeless, resigned — yet it is instead low and desperate, raspy in his throat, at odds with any denial. Ruin me.]