[Adult] hungry like the wolf

[Timothy Anderson]

His mouth opened, shut; opened again. The words were there, at the very entrance of his throat. But they stuck, barbed and sour, and the humiliation built even as so too the arousal did. Tim was well aware of what Wilkes wanted, the point of it all; in that moment he hated the other man far more for that than any other transgression he'd ever made against his fellow man.

"Don't call me that," he answered lowly instead, finding comfort in the old and easy ways of anger. The stiffening of the cock being pressed against him hadn't been missed, either, and equal parts trepidation and incredulousness greeted that realization. "Just do it," he bit out miserably, for all that his hips pushed back against the other man.

He couldn't say the words. He simply couldn't – Tim had said far worse, done far worse, in the name of his investigations, in the name of his gang, in the name of his own damn anger. Even if it had been a simpering limp-wristed nancy under him instead, he might have managed to say it. That it was another man behind him, that he was the simpering limp-wristed nancy, was offensive enough to his better sensibilities.

... But the weight against him, the hand on his groin, the warm breath against his skin – all conspired to fuel his worst nature, and though he pressed his forehead so harshly against the wall that the grain would surely embed itself against his skin, he finally fairly ground the words out: "Fuck me, alright? Or can't you get it up?"

[Ambrose Wilkes]

A full-throated laugh scuffed from Rosie's throat at the absurdity of that particular piece of speculation, given that his sour little mouse was rocking his arse back on Rosie's not-inconsiderable erection like a two-bit whore. Releasing his throat, he pulled open the front of the other man's trousers with enough brute force to pop free a button, and shoved both trousers and pants over thin hips and that eager arse in two rough tugs. As the erection sprung free, he caught a hard hold of it and pressed flush against the mouse's back once more, mouth back at his ear.

"I can get it up for you, Little Mouse," he purred, and afforded the soft, hot length of him a slow stroke. "I can fuck you until you can't walk. Is that what you want? My cock in your tight, virgin arse?" No man who'd ever been fucked would have made such a spectacle of a woman's finger in his hole.

That did mean, however, that a rough ride with a bit of spit was unlikely to cut it.

Drawing away, as unruffled as when he'd first opened the door save for the tent in his trousers, Rosie jerked open the top drawer of the stand beside the bed. After a moment's rifling he plucked up a greasy little jar and then returned, a spread hand between his mouse's shoulder blades pinning him back against the wall where he belonged. He cast the lid aside upon the bed, and scooped out a thick dollop on two fingers before discarding the jar itself in the same fashion.

Twitching away the tail of the other man's shirt with his free hand, he slid his fingers down into the crease of his presented arse, and pressed grease inside his hole without preamble, one long finger for a single stroke, and then two. Looming behind him again, he rocked up against the back of his own hand, cock still trapped behind his trousers.

"Don't come," he warned in a low growl against Mouse's ear.

[Timothy Anderson]

That laugh shot through Tim's ears, traversed his spine, and shot right into his cock. It was a stupid thing, made his shame and humiliation that much worse – but it was also a wonderful thing, and he hated himself, and it. The entire evening had been a concert of errors, each unforced, each worse than the last. He could've ended this; could've treated poor Lucinda better; could've avoided the brothel entirely.

And now he was braced against the wall, begging Ambrose Wilkes to bugger him.

The suddenness of losing his trousers (partially, at any rate) well startled him from his morose thoughts. The warm touch of a hand on his cock nearly had him finish right then and there. It also pulled a poorly-muffled, half-swallowed whimpering groan from him. Even the return of his humiliation at the accuracy of Wilkes' words paled in comparison to the feelings rocking through his body.

But then Wilkes was gone, and Tim was almost certain that it really had been an act; perverse, in the poorest of taste, and all as retribution for the misunderstanding about Lucinda. A scramble to pull up his trousers was both unsuccessful and unneeded, it seemed. He half-turned, watching with anger undercut with fear as Wilkes retrieved the jar, and he offered only the barest of resistance when he was once again pushed against the wall.

If there was ever a time to make up his mind and call an end to this farce, it was at that moment.

Instead he braced himself, chest and hands, against the wall. There was nothing to be done for how he flinched at the other man's hands upon him, or how he jumped to feel those large fingers push into him. Vaguely he was aware of the kindness it represented. Though Wilkes was right, he was a virgin in this respect, Tim had always delighted in fucking a whore's arse. It was that kind of intimate familiarity that had him preemptively placing his wrist near his mouth. He wouldn't let Wilkes hear anything from him, he groused, no matter if his teeth drew his own blood for his efforts.

"Fuck you," Tim spat in response, half-turning his head – enough to catch a glimpse of Wilkes' face in the corner of his gaze. Again came the embarrassment, and he turned back to the wall, eyes shut tightly and hands curling into fists.

[Ambrose Wilkes]

That would be the end of the benevolence of preparation, then. Lips pressing thin as his nostrils flared, Rosie whipped his fingers free and wiped them on the tail of the other man's shirt. Quick work was made of his own trousers and pants, fabric parted just enough to pull the hard length of his erection free, and he offered no word of warning, no prelude apart from a soft grunt as the thick head of his cock began slipping past the snug clutch of his mouse's hole.

It would hurt; had to hurt. But he rolled as smoothly into that impossible heat as if he were fucking the professional whose room they had appropriated. "Fuck," he grit out, allowing no pause to adjust before beginning a rough rhythm around the restriction of the other other man's trousers and pants. In other circumstances he might have pushed him bodily onto the bed, might have stripped his bottom half bare and fucked him to the hilt, but this hostile maid was owed nothing more than the wall.

[Timothy Anderson]

Painful didn't do the sensation justice. Tim knew pain; had weathered all manner of blows and injuries, had chipped teeth and broken his nose and been nipped by knife blades countless times throughout the length of his life. Jammed and broken fingers, well-placed punches, a truncheon to his ribs that had left three broken and four bruised.

Nothing in his life had prepared him for the battering ram forcing itself into his arse.

His fear of making any sort of noise was unfounded, at least at first; the sensation of it stole his breath, his words, left him incapable of doing anything but lifting himself onto the balls of his feet in an effort to escape it. The action offered relief for barely a moment before Wilkes overcame the difference, and then it was simply overwhelming. Any fear that he would come too soon was unfounded. Tim's cock softened almost immediately between his thighs, and he was left gasping for air and merely trying to survive the sensation of it rolling through him.

Eyes shut tightly, ignoring the heat pricking behind them, Tim's teeth readily found the meat at the base of his thumb; it was equal desire to stifle the grunts of pain, and to distract from the alien sensation of it. It was almost worse when the pain began to fade – not disappear, not remotely, but at least shift into an ache that was far more manageable. That left only that alien sensation, and the return of that twisting heat in the pit of his stomach. He'd die before admitting his enjoyment, but as ever his cock showed the truth of it – drooling, even if only managed a sad, half-soft erection.

[Ambrose Wilkes]

The difference in their stature, while not of particular note in the general sense, conspired with the band of fabric strapped about the smaller man's legs to make of this a challenging endeavor. Rosie had been inside of other men in nearly every sort of circumstance other than the intimate softness of a bed, but a rough fuck need not be so much work, regardless of the recipient.

Frustrated, he caught a muscled arm just below the mouse's ribcage and hoisted him higher. His own hips shifted down, angling the stroke of his cock into a more direct upward press, even as the both of them were pinned sloppy and sliding against the worn paneling of the wall.

For all that he'd been ready enough to spit a stream of filth as preamble, Rosie said little now that they were in the act, his low, laboring grunts only accompanied on occasion by a soft, reverential curse. The girls in his employ he fucked with regularity out of convenience as much as anything, but it had been some long months since he'd been properly buried in the arse of someone he'd not paid for the privilege, someone who was as greedy to have him there as he was to fuck them raw. The collar of his mouse's shirt proved a barrier to the warm skin he would have liked to attach his mouth to as they rocked, but he scraped his teeth just along its edge and hitched the other man further up the wall again.

[Timothy Anderson]

Just as he'd begun to become accustomed to the overwhelming all of it, Wilkes changed the game again. The tight grip about him was enough on its own to jar Tim for the perceived intimacy of it, but ultimately it was a means to an end – his end, in more sense than one. In this position, the oversized cock violating him was able to push deeper, and as it did so a strangled whimper finally escaped the smaller man's tightened throat. The fact that he had lost (a contest in which he was the only participant) hardly occurred to him. There was little room for thought, for breath, for anything other than the cock fucking him.

Vaguely he was aware of the teeth on his throat; the thinnest shred of his sane mind worried that marks would be left there, where the collar would hide it poorly. Even if he wanted to loosen his tie, move the starched fabric and give the other man the access he clearly desired, he couldn't dare move his hands from where they braced against the wall. Likely it did little to help matters, given that he was fully off his feet now and at the mercy of the wall, Wilkes' prick, and gravity, but at least it helped him to feel grounded – or as much as was possible, all things considered.

The new angle was also putting pressure on that same spot that Lucinda's fingers had found; not as direct, but pressure all the same, sending electric shocks through Tim's body. It was another alien sensation, and the tightening of his stomach and lower muscles caught him by surprise. His fear, immediate and deep, was that he was about to piss himself. A hand reached back, fumbling for Wilkes' hip as he stuttered out, "Wait, wait, I–" But there was no end to the sensation, just that electric tremor in the pit of his stomach, between his legs, rolling from there to the rest of his body. "Don't stop," he instead half-ordered, half-begged, fingers digging into Wilkes' hip and his face pressed against the wall. It was all just shy of too much; all just shy of overwhelming again. In the same moment he thought only of ending it, he could think only of how he never wanted it to end.

And most of all, he tried very hard not to think of what made him feel this way – who it was behind him, what they were doing, and the house full of whores and johns just beyond the door to the room.

[Ambrose Wilkes]

The primal noise that wrenched from the mouse's throat stuttered Rosie's rhythm for half a thrust before he could smooth the pulse of his hips again. The vise grip of that virgin arse slackened enough that he could pump more sleekly into its dizzying heat, and even were he given to smugness, there was no room for the emotion amidst a wave of fully intoxicated infatuation and the hot, abrupt notion that he needed to be buried to the hilt in this little Mary every moment of every day.

Had that threshold not been so soundly crossed, Rosie might have ignored any pleas to relent in his decisive stretching of that ravenous little hole, but the hand slapped along his hip was enough to slow his tempo, enough to draw his brow into a pinch for fear that something had, in fact, gone terribly, uncomfortably wrong. The following demand shot straight through him, hot and thick and stiffening his already rock-hard cock, and he was grateful for the anonymity of the other man's back as he gasped open-mouthed against the nape of his neck.

In one swift, precarious movement, he slid both hands beneath the mouse's splayed thighs and pulled them up as he took a step back. Grip white-knuckled, thighs burning, he snapped into that addictive heat, bouncing the other man on his ready cock.

[Timothy Anderson]

Wilkes was insatiable, and Tim was no longer entirely certain that he was human. Moment of imperfection aside, the pace and strength with which he rutted into the smaller man was unreal; it became even more so when he was lifted, without warning or ceremony, the entirety of his body weight forcing him onto that large cock.

Each bounce forced another quiet, whimpering grunt from Tim's throat. His head fell back, mouth falling open, one arm stretched to brace against the wall still (if only by the tips of his fingers), the other lifting over his head to curl about the back of Wilkes' neck. His toes curled in his sensible shoes, and the bracing hand fluttered between the wall and his cock, for all that he hesitated to touch it. As soon as he did, he was certain, he would paint the front of himself, and then all that would be left for him was the humiliation.

Then again, the feel of it all threatened take the decision out of his hands. Every change in position had been a revelation, elicited all sorts of new sensations, and this was no different. There was still that electrifying tremble running through his body, but there was also the familiar tightening in his bollocks. "Like that, just like that, oh fuck," he moaned, the words a harsh whisper. As much as he didn't wish to be overheard by anyone else in the house, there was part of him that didn't even want Wilkes to hear the prayerful begging.

His mind lost the battle of wills with his body, and without so much as brushing against his cock, he hit his peak. His back arched, pressing his shoulders and hips further into the other man, pushing himself back harder against that hateful, delectable cock. Belatedly his hand found his cock, rapidly stroking it and sending his come into a wider spray up the front of his vest and shirt. He could feel his hole spasming on the intruding prick, heightening the entire experience. Though he grunted and gasped his way through the orgasm, Tim's mind was temporarily lost to the world, floating in a rush of pleasure and a sea of white.

[Ambrose Wilkes]

As the mouse's fingers caught against the back of his neck, Rosie smiled, his panted breath still blowing hot against the back of the other man's collar with every bounce of his spread arse. All of that fussing, and for what? To devolve into a cock-hungry tart with a few prime strokes.

And mouthy, too, in the best way, even if Rosie's little mousy was still struggling to find his full-throated voice. When he angled his hips further down to drive Rosie's still-pumping cock deeper, when his trembling hand found his own hard, bobbing cock mid-orgasm, Rosie nearly — Nearly — stumbled, head thick and cottony like he'd been given a physical blow. His teeth found the mouse's ear, tugged hard at the flushed lobe, and before he could consider what he meant or why he was speaking at all, he was rumbling, "That belongs to me," and scraping another red line just inside that crisp collar.

Hands still firm against the other man's thighs, he took an unsteady step back toward the wall, needing that little support as the tempo of his pulsing hips increased and then stuttered. For three final thrusts he slammed into that most accommodating hole, rocking them both bodily against the wall with a low grunt. Mouth open over the marks he'd made, he tensed and held, only yielding once he'd spilled every drop, a soft hiss pulled through his teeth as his softening cock dislodged in the shift of flushed limbs back to the floor.