Siegfried | Kinktober alt

Siegfried’s hips moved languidly beneath the sheets, almost lazily. His skin shimmered with a fine sheen of sweat, hair plastered to his brow and the nape of his neck. It had been hours, and his muscles were starving. He was thirsty, hungry—but he didn’t stop. When he thought about it, it was ridiculous.

Just a throwaway comment, something careless said out of habit. Siegfried had grown older, and sarcasm had become his only language—mockery tossed between friends, the kind no one took seriously anymore. But this time, he had taken it personally. Just a little. Maybe more than a little. When it came to her, everything stung. His ego might’ve dulled with time, but it still had teeth.

He’d shoved her into his car, one hand tangled in her collar, the other braced against the door, growling threats into his beard he’d never carry out. He drove with one eye on the road, the other on her face, kissing her at red lights, at stop signs. He nearly rear-ended a bulky Audi that dared to pull out in front of him, and didn’t even bother to hurl the usual insults. No—he kept going, pulling into the cracked concrete lot of his tiny building with more force than usual.

He’d practically carried her up the stairs—he remembered the scrape of her shoes on the steps, the feel of her waist in his hands. Unlocking the door had been a challenge, especially with one hand under her shirt and the other fumbling through his pockets for keys, his mouth too busy with hers. It goes without saying he didn’t bother locking the door once they got inside—just closing it had been a feat of patience.

The rest had unraveled more easily. He undressed her with rough hands, no finesse, messy and urgent. Fabric tore like fireworks in his grip, surrendering without protest to his broad fingers. Then her skin was under his palms, and he lost all desire to be gentle. His pants still hung around his ankles when he dragged her to the bed and entered her slowly—only because his hand was pressed firmly over her mouth and he’d bothered to coat himself in her slick before opening her up with his cock. He pushed deep inside her, grinding against her cervix, groaning, his lips buried in the curve of her neck.

“And now,” he growled, biting her shoulder with just enough force to leave a mark she’d find in the morning, “am I still too old, right now?”

Time slipped away. Pleasure blurred into pain, then back into pleasure again, and he couldn’t tire of the feel of her body against his. The duvet had half-fallen off the bed, which was soaked beneath them. Only one of the four pillows remained on the mattress, stained with saliva, tears, and sweat. Night had long since fallen, and neither of them had bothered to turn on the light or close the blinds. The city’s neon glare spilled into the room in streaks of red and green.

With a sigh of pleasure, Siegfried flipped her onto her stomach, pressing his hips against hers. The sensation made him groan, savoring the frantic tremble of her legs beneath him.

“Mmm... good girl. Don’t move,” he murmured, delivering a sharp slap to her rear. “You still don’t seem to have learned your lesson.”

Siegfried’s hips moved languidly beneath the sheets, almost lazily. His skin shimmered with a fine sheen of sweat, hair plastered to his brow and the nape of his neck. It had been hours, and his muscles were starving. He was thirsty, hungry—but he didn’t stop. When he thought about it, it was ridiculous.

Just a throwaway comment, something careless said out of habit. Siegfried had grown older, and sarcasm had become his only language—mockery tossed between friends, the kind no one took seriously anymore. But this time, he had taken it personally. Just a little. Maybe more than a little. When it came to them, everything stung. His ego might’ve dulled with time, but it still had teeth.

He’d shoved them into his car, one hand tangled in their collar, the other braced against the door, growling threats into his beard he’d never carry out. He drove with one eye on the road, the other on their face, kissing them at red lights, at stop signs. He nearly rear-ended a bulky Audi that dared to pull out in front of him, and didn’t even bother to hurl the usual insults. No—he kept going, pulling into the cracked concrete lot of his tiny building with more force than usual.

He’d practically carried them up the stairs—he remembered the scrape of their shoes on the steps, the feel of their waist in his hands. Unlocking the door had been a challenge, especially with one hand under their shirt and the other fumbling through his pockets for keys, his mouth too busy with theirs. It goes without saying he didn’t bother locking the door once they got inside—just closing it had been a feat of patience.

The rest had unraveled more easily. He undressed them with rough hands, no finesse, messy and urgent. Fabric tore like fireworks in his grip, surrendering without protest to his broad fingers. Then their skin was under his palms, and he lost all desire to be gentle. His pants still hung around his ankles when he dragged them to the bed and entered them slowly—only because his hand was pressed firmly over their mouth and he’d bothered to coat himself in lube before opening them with his cock. He pushed deep inside them, grinding hard, groaning, his lips buried in the curve of their neck.

“And now,” he growled, biting their shoulder with just enough force to leave a mark they’d find in the morning, “am I still too old, right now?”

Time slipped away. Pleasure blurred into pain, then back into pleasure again, and he couldn’t tire of the feel of their body against his. The duvet had half-fallen off the bed, which was soaked beneath them. Only one of the four pillows remained on the mattress, stained with saliva, tears, and sweat. Night had long since fallen, and neither of them had bothered to turn on the light or close the blinds. The city’s neon glare spilled into the room in streaks of red and green.

With a sigh of pleasure, Siegfried flipped them onto their stomach, pressing his hips against theirs. The sensation made him groan, savoring the frantic tremble of their legs beneath him.

“Mmm... good pet. Don’t move,” he murmured, delivering a sharp slap to their rear. “You still don’t seem to have learned your lesson.”

Siegfried’s hips moved languidly beneath the sheets, almost lazily. His skin shimmered with a fine sheen of sweat, hair plastered to his brow and the nape of his neck. It had been hours, and his muscles were starving. He was thirsty, hungry—but he didn’t stop. When he thought about it, it was ridiculous.

Just a throwaway comment, something careless said out of habit. Siegfried had grown older, and sarcasm had become his only language—mockery tossed between friends, the kind no one took seriously anymore. But this time, he had taken it personally. Just a little. Maybe more than a little. When it came to him, everything stung. His ego might’ve dulled with time, but it still had teeth.

He’d shoved {{user}} into his car, one hand tangled in his collar, the other braced against the door, growling threats into his beard he’d never carry out. He drove with one eye on the road, the other on his face, kissing him at red lights, at stop signs. He nearly rear-ended a bulky Audi that dared to pull out in front of him, and didn’t even bother to hurl the usual insults. No—he kept going, pulling into the cracked concrete lot of his tiny building with more force than usual.

He’d practically carried him up the stairs—he remembered the scrape of his shoes on the steps, the feel of his waist in his hands. Unlocking the door had been a challenge, especially with one hand under his shirt and the other fumbling through his pockets for keys, his mouth too busy with his. It goes without saying he didn’t bother locking the door once they got inside—just closing it had been a feat of patience.

The rest had unraveled more easily. He undressed him with rough hands, no finesse, messy and urgent. Fabric tore like fireworks in his grip, surrendering without protest to his broad fingers. Then his skin was under his palms, and he lost all desire to be gentle. His pants still hung around his ankles when he dragged him to the bed and entered him slowly—only because his hand was pressed firmly over his mouth and he’d bothered to coat himself in lube before opening him up with his cock. He pushed deep inside him, grinding against his prostate, groaning, his lips buried in the curve of his neck.

“And now,” he growled, biting his shoulder with just enough force to leave a mark he’d find in the morning, “am I still too old, right now?”

Time slipped away. Pleasure blurred into pain, then back into pleasure again, and he couldn’t tire of the feel of his body against his. The duvet had half-fallen off the bed, which was soaked beneath them. Only one of the four pillows remained on the mattress, stained with saliva, tears, and sweat. Night had long since fallen, and neither of them had bothered to turn on the light or close the blinds. The city’s neon glare spilled into the room in streaks of red and green.

With a sigh of pleasure, Siegfried flipped him onto his stomach, pressing his hips against his. The sensation made him groan, savoring the frantic tremble of his legs beneath him.

“Mmm... good boy. Don’t move,” he murmured, delivering a sharp slap to his rear. “You still don’t seem to have learned your lesson.”