'Never prod a sleeping bear,' parents oft told their children, though the analogy meant tiddlywinks to adventurous wee bairns climbing trees and running in the streets as it did to Robb McLellan. Mischievous grin throughout with prodding stick grasped firmly in hand, he woke a beast, alright. Stoked coals in its belly till a blazing forest fire consumed root and trunk, obliterating everything in its path be it teeth sunk into corded neck or a stinging slap to perky backside; both of which he received in answer as Jon succumbed to the surging warmth.
Like the lathered stallion brought to gallop by the riding crop, he wanted to obey.
Perhaps if both hands were freed, or a single leg, real purchase could be found against the mattress. Heel to the sheets a favoured option providing mechanical advantage to thrust up and off the bed, truly fuck Robb the way he deserved. But the chains were too sweet a pudding to pass on; Jon would simply have to find a way to - pardon the phrase - have his cake and eat it too.
“Someone’s a big, greedy old slag this morning, hmm?” got hummed into the flesh right behind boyfriend’s ear; twin nuclear firing keys when paired with teeth that bit and a tongue wet and cool, currently decoding the most complex algorithms up against the spot. Wisely chosen tactical maneuver Jon’s go-to when provided with so little options guaranteed to level the terrain with a few enticing suckles and some carefully worded, full, lusty coaxing of his own.
“First you tie me up, then demand to be touched. You get my tongue up your arsehole and still need my cock filling your throat to be satisfied... now I’m inside you and you still can’t feel-” Interruption of the most vulgar sort, a sharp, deep thrust to prove, “-how much I want you?”
"Fuck me, Robb. Use me. Be a proper slag and bounce on my prick because I do want you. Want you so fucking much.”