The Captain's throat will surely be bruised, where the skin isn't just plain scraped raw as he strains against the collar. His eyes are sharp, dark, as he watches the Soldier flush, chest heaving, leg straining —
Until the Soldier gives a sharp yank with the metal arm, squirming like a landed fish so that as the Captain's back bows, the bare foot slides down from his solar plexus past his abdominals, his waist, down to his groin.
The strangled, desperate sound the Captain makes is not one any of the handlers watching have heard. They've heard grunts of desperation and anger, growls of frustration, even scoffs of victory. This is something else entirely, a low, grinding, animal sound as the Captain's eyes roll back for just a fraction of a second as pleasure-pain-pleasure courses through him like he's been struck by lightning. It's not like the electricity of the chair, that he knows so well. It's like something else entirely. Hot and sharp and crackling and wild.
It's driving him wild, that feeling, and now his own body twists, the collar digging angry, bloody welts into his skin and he can barely breathe but it doesn't matter because in another instant, the Captain throws himself forward, the Soldier's foot sliding away from his crotch but that's okay because he's wedged the Soldier's other leg between his own, wrapped that offending, bruised foot and leg around his waist, and he's thrown himself up at the Soldier, chest to chest, trapping the other asset's hard, red, wet erection between their stomachs. It's trapped between bare skin, the Captain's shirt half-torn, half-hitched up, the Soldier's in shreds. The Captain's face comes at the Soldier's and knocks it into the side of the shelving, but the move is clumsy and where he could bite or even headbutt, he doesn't. Instead he follows, mashing his sweaty cheek up against the Soldier's flushed temple and arches, rocking his own hardness hard into the muscular thigh between his legs, again and again.
Outside the room, a twitter goes through the handlers. There are snorts and crude jokes and derisive remarks — there have already been plenty, when the Captain's head had buried itself in the Soldier's lap — but now the tide has turned and there are more, as the Captain tries to climb the Soldier like a tree and pin him like a wrestler and hump him like a dog, restless and desperate and not at all sure what he's doing, only he's going to do what feels good, and this feels good. The Soldier between his legs, pressed up against his stomach, breathing hard against his chest, under him, feels good.
Against the Soldier's ear, his breath stutters and pants, still constricted by the collar although it's better now, with less space between them, more slack on the leash. "Put your hand down my pants," he says, an edge to it like a command. He has the upper hand now. And he knows where he wants the Soldier's free one. "Your flesh one."
He doesn't even care if the Soldier won't release the leash. He doesn't need to breathe. He's got the Soldier's thigh pressed up against him but he needs the Soldier's hand on his cock, now.
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Until the Soldier gives a sharp yank with the metal arm, squirming like a landed fish so that as the Captain's back bows, the bare foot slides down from his solar plexus past his abdominals, his waist, down to his groin.
The strangled, desperate sound the Captain makes is not one any of the handlers watching have heard. They've heard grunts of desperation and anger, growls of frustration, even scoffs of victory. This is something else entirely, a low, grinding, animal sound as the Captain's eyes roll back for just a fraction of a second as pleasure-pain-pleasure courses through him like he's been struck by lightning. It's not like the electricity of the chair, that he knows so well. It's like something else entirely. Hot and sharp and crackling and wild.
It's driving him wild, that feeling, and now his own body twists, the collar digging angry, bloody welts into his skin and he can barely breathe but it doesn't matter because in another instant, the Captain throws himself forward, the Soldier's foot sliding away from his crotch but that's okay because he's wedged the Soldier's other leg between his own, wrapped that offending, bruised foot and leg around his waist, and he's thrown himself up at the Soldier, chest to chest, trapping the other asset's hard, red, wet erection between their stomachs. It's trapped between bare skin, the Captain's shirt half-torn, half-hitched up, the Soldier's in shreds. The Captain's face comes at the Soldier's and knocks it into the side of the shelving, but the move is clumsy and where he could bite or even headbutt, he doesn't. Instead he follows, mashing his sweaty cheek up against the Soldier's flushed temple and arches, rocking his own hardness hard into the muscular thigh between his legs, again and again.
Outside the room, a twitter goes through the handlers. There are snorts and crude jokes and derisive remarks — there have already been plenty, when the Captain's head had buried itself in the Soldier's lap — but now the tide has turned and there are more, as the Captain tries to climb the Soldier like a tree and pin him like a wrestler and hump him like a dog, restless and desperate and not at all sure what he's doing, only he's going to do what feels good, and this feels good. The Soldier between his legs, pressed up against his stomach, breathing hard against his chest, under him, feels good.
Against the Soldier's ear, his breath stutters and pants, still constricted by the collar although it's better now, with less space between them, more slack on the leash. "Put your hand down my pants," he says, an edge to it like a command. He has the upper hand now. And he knows where he wants the Soldier's free one. "Your flesh one."
He doesn't even care if the Soldier won't release the leash. He doesn't need to breathe. He's got the Soldier's thigh pressed up against him but he needs the Soldier's hand on his cock, now.