1 . Name: Pregg-O my Egg-O @ 2013-06-21 07:26

Okay, first time posting here, I hope I don't fuck this up... knowing my luck I probably will, and knowing my luck, I'll be banned from this site forever.

“Aw, Spy, I – AGH!”
“How does that feel?”
“Aw fuck… fuckin ‘ell, Spook, it’s… a-a-ah!”

The masked marauder smirked, pinning down the Sniper and growling a response. It was positively titillating, the tightness of the muscles the throbbing flesh and the man’s heavy, bated breath alone. They were alone now; they haven’t been alone for the longest time. Cramped away in the large, unsavory van, their clothes were torn off and cast away like they were infested with plague, and all they could do was to observe, touch, grind against and worship each others’ lean, tepid flesh. The Spy’s still-gloved hand was grabbing the Sniper’s hard cock, twitching under the firm touch that borderlined on rough. He hissed in pain, and yet he wanted more. He wanted those smooth, silk briefs to shimmy down the Frenchman’s hips and grab them towards him.

Their abdomens pressed together, and for a moment, the Sniper heard the Spy almost moaning in ecstasy. But it couldn’t have been him; it was the creaking of the beds, more likely. He couldn’t give in so easily. After all, he was too busy handling the Sniper’s turgid manhood.
Through his half-closed lids, the Sniper let his mind wander, his breaths becoming short and interrupted. He panted like the dog he was, lusting after his lover’s bone. His cock twitched upwards, demanding more on its own. The tip of it was glistening in anticipation, the small cleft rubbed with the Spy’s thumb. He pressed down, and the Sniper could only think about how he felt on those lonesome, awkward teenage nights, when he abused his own body like that. Hidden behind closed doors, listening to whatever high-spirited song played on the radio, he would caress his awkward teenage erection, twirling and coiling on his bed. The mental images were the same; fitness magazines depicting hot, oily, mustached men in Speedos. He watched the rippling of their biceps and the crevasses between their supple abdominal muscles, but this was different. He could just reach out and feel the Spy’s skin ripple under his touch.
“Oh, God,” he exhaled, his body rocking and not even looking at the Spy, tugging off his glove with his teeth. The index finger lingered in between his pearly-white incisors, and the fabric was almost peeled off, pulled up and revealing a fine, alabaster wrist. The Sniper swallowed some heavy, pasty spit, putting the hard cock in his hands and stroking it. He cupped his testicles and fingered the skin around his head, heaving and groaning.
He was always quite loud; not a moaner or a screamer, but still loud enough to alert the curious, out-of-place ears. Even as an adolescent, his loudness was quite apparent, so he turned up the radio, blasting the mundane music and running his hands across his feverish, ashen flesh, his round spectacles rolling to the back of his forehead, across his auburn hair. He’d grab them and toss them away, sometimes breaking them as they crashed first into a wall.
But this was different. Only the Spy’s hand was left to muffle his screams of pleasure and agony. He released a groan into it, his skin coming to lick the smooth palm that he rarely saw. Meanwhile the Spy watched him, enduring the moist, tickling sensation.
“I think you’re about ready,” the Spy announced in a sultry tone of voice, and only then did the Sniper notice the man’s penis, proffered hard and wanting, just a little crooked and nudging to the side. The Sniper never minded the slight flaw; if one could call it a flaw. How could it be flawed if it gave him such pleasure?
The Spy grabbed the man’s thick hairs and pulled at them, emitting a surprised gasp from the marksman. His lip stiffened and he swallowed some hot saliva. He was suddenly aware that, behind that smooth, silky garment, lay a pair of smooth, immaculately-groomed balls. They were complete opposites in every way; one tall, rugged and lanky, under his lover, a slim, toned, groomed man who, against all reason, found him irresistible.

Before he could think another word, the man’s legs were propped on the Spy’s shoulders. His knees bent to narrow the space separating them, and the Spy took his part in the action by firmly grabbing the Sniper’s ass and pulling it closer. He looked deep into the Australian’s steely eyes, always calculating and in wait, now hot and eager, daring the Spy to make him come.
And the Spy was nothing if not a man who appreciated a challenge.
“How do you want this, Mundy?” He asked smugly, teasing the man by placing the tip of his cock into his entrance. “Slow and steady or…?”
“You know damn well how I want it.”
“Really?” The Spy asked, ticking up his eyebrow into his balaclava. “All those years in Catholic school did not have much of an effect, did they?”
The Sniper’s brow furrowed. He continued to stroke his cock at a medium pace. The Spy could be infuriating at times, and he did not want to miss out on a good fucking because of him.
“Spy, you know what I mean.”
“I’m afraid I don’t,” he said, spewing conceit. “Now answer me this, bushman…” His voice lingered in the air while an impatient finger tucked under the base of the Australian’s testicles, running over the thick hair. “Do you want me to fuck you hard?”
“Yes. Now come - !”
“All in good time. Do you want me to fuck you fast and hard and make you scream?”
“Oh, come on!” The Sniper tried to protest, even pushing his body against the Spy so the much-needed intercourse could commence. But the Spy wasn’t giving up. He inched away, no longer touching the man, who groaned in protest. His legs were still dangling like strings of pasta on the Spy’s shoulders, and he was beginning to lose his erection. He squeezed his cock tightly, trying to secure the hot blood inside.
“You know the rules, Mundy. You have to tell me what you want.”
“Well I want… that, now come on!”
“You want what, Mundy?”
“I want you to fuck me hard, alright? Now come on!”
“Just hard? Nothing else?”
“Okay, okay, fast and hard and I want to get dizzy and I want to scream and I want to twitch after we’re done, now for the love of God would you just-!” His voice cracked once the Spy entered him, a smug grin soon being replaced with an elated expression, his lips parted and his body being pushed in with force.
Their bodies rocked in unison, the Spy’s frame crashing against the Sniper’s, the marksman bucking his hips and clawing at his pillow, biting it at one point, while the Spy rubbed his lover’s manhood. He was a man who loved a challenge, and he greeted this one with zeal and impatience. But his muscles had begun to spasm, his blood quickened, and he could feel nothing but the Sniper’s tightness. His hands danced around the Sniper’s body, leaving marks and bruises over him. He did not complain about the grabbing, or the trusting. He took it all, tossing his head back and only letting out a primal roar from the back of his throat. The Spy silenced him, pressing his hand over his mouth.

“Shut up!” He commanded through a breath he barely managed to catch. He picked up the Sniper’s body once he was silent, bringing him up on his cock and balancing him, kneeling on the lumpy mattress. The Sniper pushed his pelvis on the Spy, taking in his length and thickness, letting go of his over-stimulated cock.

“Oh, fuck, this is amazing,” he managed through a gasp; “You’re amazing. Oh sweet Jesus, fuck me!”
Thrusting. Begging. Kissing. Mundy could no longer see or hear, he could only feel his lover’s heartbeat, the warmth of his lips and tongue. He felt the pool of warmth in the bit of his stomach, travelling south, and he could feel sharp thunderbolts coming from within. The warmth was expanding through his torso, through his genitalia, throbbing in his ears.
He climaxed, his cry muffled as he bent down and bit the Spy’s shoulder. He clung onto the man for dear life, his head falling on his neck and staying there with unaware, partly-opened eyes. A stream of saliva dripped down his mouth, feeling like cotton. He did not feel the Spy’s ejaculate rushing through him, but once he pulled out his manhood, he felt emptiness.
He was dropped back on the bed, sticky and sweaty. The man fell beside him. He fell asleep almost instantly, though the Sniper could only watch the top of the van’s interior, the Spy’s seed trickling down his thighs. He loved this creature of flesh and blood, in color but not printed on glossy paper. He ran his hand over the sleeping man’s arm, just to make sure he was real.
He made it a long way from listening to those silly songs, wiping off his shame with some Kleenex and hiding the fitness magazines under the bed. As he fell to sleep, he remembered a tune that symbolized his sinful, secret sessions.

When the deep purple falls over sleepy garden walls
And the stars begin to flicker in the sky
Through the mist of a memory you wander back to me
Breathing my name with a sigh