Every sound Kurt makes -- all of them soft, slightly suppressed, like they don't quite trust that they're allowed to make noise -- is absolutely dizzying to Corrigan. He swallows them up between his mouth pressed to theirs, his tongue slipping along the perfect shape of their lips, then slipping inside, drowning in their taste, the soft sighs and barely audible whimpers. He strokes over their flat, empty stomach, remembers what it felt like to press his palm there and feel his pup moving, growing, alive and vibrant and perfect.
They pull his hand lower, and Corrigan's fingers curl around their cock with ease, familiarity. Kurt's body is even more familiar than his own by now, and much more beloved. He knows exactly how to stroke them, slow and firm, pausing to circle his thumb over the head, teasing them, wanting to hear that shudder in their breath, feel the hitch in their slender hips. The words come automatically, without thinking, soft and rich and just like they had been every long, warm summer night: "My sweet, greedy little mate."
There's a pause, almost imperceptible, waiting to see if Kurt will tense or freeze at the teasing. When they don't -- Miles had never called them names, never done anything except use their throat or hands or ass brutally and quickly and without comment -- he presses forward. "I know you know how to ask better than that, my beloved. I know how sweet you sound when you beg us to enjoy you, when you offer yourself to us. You're so good with your words, Kurt." Corrigan moves his fingers lower, sliding the pads of one over Kurt's yielding, hungry hole, circling with light, teasing touches. "Tell me what you need. Ask for it, and you'll have it, love. But ask."
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They pull his hand lower, and Corrigan's fingers curl around their cock with ease, familiarity. Kurt's body is even more familiar than his own by now, and much more beloved. He knows exactly how to stroke them, slow and firm, pausing to circle his thumb over the head, teasing them, wanting to hear that shudder in their breath, feel the hitch in their slender hips. The words come automatically, without thinking, soft and rich and just like they had been every long, warm summer night: "My sweet, greedy little mate."
There's a pause, almost imperceptible, waiting to see if Kurt will tense or freeze at the teasing. When they don't -- Miles had never called them names, never done anything except use their throat or hands or ass brutally and quickly and without comment -- he presses forward. "I know you know how to ask better than that, my beloved. I know how sweet you sound when you beg us to enjoy you, when you offer yourself to us. You're so good with your words, Kurt." Corrigan moves his fingers lower, sliding the pads of one over Kurt's yielding, hungry hole, circling with light, teasing touches. "Tell me what you need. Ask for it, and you'll have it, love. But ask."