<blockquote>Meth whimpered, biting on his pierced lower lip as Turmoil touched him. Hot breath and fevered fingers burned along him as a long, low groan poured from Meth's throat in a husky rhapsody of utter longing. Need. Oh gods, he needed him. The feverish, frenzied throbbing that had begun in stuttering response to the catalyst of his dripping attentions was beginning to spread from the stiffened length of him to his entire frame, and only Turmoil could save him now. Groaning now, trembling in wave after uncontrollable wave, his breath quivered onward, shuddering breaths faltering from his parted mouth as he lightly bit his lower lip. "I'm ready." Then came the moment when they molded into one. He gasped lightly, his blood-red eyes flying open with shock and abrupt pleasure. He tensed his muscles around his lover, his nails dug into his thighs. Anything. And everything.</blockquote>
Control. Power. Adoration. All those things he craved, and had for so long, right here, quivering in front of him. Turmoil was exuberant, completely lost in moment. There was only one thought that managed to make itself heard among the cacaphony of chaotic thought; Harder, faster, deeper. So that's what he did. He went harder, faster, deeper. He could feel the cold air ripping at his lungs, hear the oh so beautiful sounds emanating from some far-off point in front of him, smell the sweat and the night and the lube, but he didn't give a flying fuck. It was all about the here, the now, the madness. It was as if all of the anarchy of his mind had united in the single purpose of ravaging the older arden he'd found tonight. Dissenters were duly executed. Then it came again. That amazing feeling, that strange buildup between his loins the warmth massaged him gently. He savoured the feeling, enmbraced it, but held nothing back. He closed his eyes down and slowed his pace, matching the rhythmic pulsations within him, seemingly eternal and full of force. When they abided, he just stood there in the cold night, smiling a strange smile, holding his lover in an ever-firm grip, feeling tired to the very core, but unwilling to show it. His breathing was ragged and deep, as if he wanted to steal the air away entirely. He opened his mouth to speak, but instead he just laughed, a happy, but still slightly disturbing laugh. And he just kept smiling.
<blockquote> Had Turmoil been touching him, carressing him, it would have been enough to push the prostitute over the edge. Even an individual touch. Compound them, and he was completely lost. As the other arden thrusted faster, it birthed an excruciating, exquisite pleasure in the very depths of his soul, and he uttered a long, low ululation that started as a moan and ended in a husky, melodic howl. His entire body was tingling with the near-orgasm, mouth open and panting, swollen and ravaged. Meth arched his back, spine rippling beneath the silky, damp fur that the shadow-furred male lay flush against. And as he felt warmth flood his insides, he let out a vicious snarl of feral desire, blood-red eyes glowing eerily in the darkness as alabaster fangs flashed in the moonlight. Then the orgasm came, his fingers curled into his palms - shaking, trembling, an utter rhapsody of desire slipping forth from his pierced lips. And he smiled, and he laughed, too.</blockquote>
Turmoil didn't stop laughing. Couldn't. His mind was twisting and turning in a hundred and twenty one different ways. So he just acted. He pulled out and grabbed Meth's right side and pulled, heaving him off the bench and onto the ground. He sat there, perched over his lover, still chuckling. Then, in one fell swoop, he descended upon the pretty whore, sitting on him with legs spread to the side. Still panting heavily, the jet male leaned over Meth, supporting himself with both hands on the ground. He put his mouth right next to a pierced ear and whispered: "You're mine now. You belong to me, and I'm not letting go."
<blockquote>"You're mine now. You belong to me, and I'm not letting go." He became conscious of the words three seconds after theyÂ’d been spoken, during which time his expression went from blank to that plus a thin, shriveled smile. He sat there naked on the grassy courtyard, covered in a thin film of sweat and semen, and his lips pressed faintly against Turmoil's throat. "I belong to you," he said experimentally, muffled against the other male's pelt, trying the words out, letting them unfurl on his tongue. Let's see about that, he added mentally. In all reality, he could never be owned.</blockquote>
