Victuuri | complete

Overstimulation !

I don't know where he finds the energy, but it's a little contagious. The way his lips brush against mine, transferring electricity like live wires, I could die and come back again. And then his hands shamelessly sneak beneath my pajamas. I jolt and shiver beneath his smooth caress.

"Oh, fuck," he moans in my ear, the overstimulation sending me plummeting over the edge of self-control.

"A-ah," I gasp, his hand getting dangerously close to the hardening want in my pants.

If it were possible, I'd say Victor has just increased the speed of my descent along that hypothetical cliff of self-control. I am intimately familiar with the feeling of collision and submersion beneath the sea of rhapsody at the bottom. I realize, as if awakening from a dream, that I'm just imagining the aureate sensations of sex— the hungry kiss of Victor's lips slowly ebbing my attention back to reality.

Did the room get hotter while I was off in la la land? Has Victor's hand been vigorously pulling me off the entire time as well? These clothes are suddenly like a sweltering prison. I struggle to pull free of my clothes without breaking Victor's concentration, but he is eager to help my furtive endeavor.

He pulls away, long enough to strip of his own clothes, the new swathes of skin each like their own glimmering reward as it comes into view. How is he still this damn attractive to me— shouldn't I be tired of this eventually? I don't need an answer right this second, though. I just need his cock, I think, fumbling with the pajamas as they go.

"Yuuri," he groans softly, "I want to make love to you."

I can hardly do more than nod, words formulating and dying in my throat. They surface only as guttural moans of pleasure. But I remember I have to tease him.

"Fuck me, Daddy," I beg, meaning it more than I intended.

"Yeah?" Victor doesn't even give me the opportunity to respond or prepare myself in anyway.

He hovers above me at just the right dominating angle, and inserts himself unapologetically without lubricant. I'm going to wake the baby, dammit. He'll pay for this in chores tomorrow, because Lord knows I won't be able to do them, I think in between bursts of erupting pain. But if I can keep quiet— fuck.

"Victor," I hiss, body bucking with his in an attempt to lessen the pain. "Fuck!"

I inwardly curse myself for the loud outburst.

"Watch your language," he dares tease me. "And you'll wake the baby if you keep shouting."

Even stretched out from previous experience, as I am, his cock is still too thick for me to just take a harsh fucking. I know I'm bleeding by this point. It actually feels akin to being fucked with a cactus as the micro-tears form. But his hand is still dutifully wrapped around my own length and the dirty, fiery desire in my stomach likes this severity.

"Vitya," I moan, softer, resigning and letting pleasure overtake the ever-present pain.

This is starting to become nice in a gratifying, albeit harsh, kind of way. His free hand travels up my body slowly until it finds my chin. He caresses my face, slipping his tongue into my mouth for a long tango. The overstimulation confuses my nerves. I'm being pleasured and ripped apart and I'm burning up, but my circuitry can't decide which feeling should take precedence. Naturally, the more I try to focus on one, the more the others scream for attention.

Speaking of screaming—?

"Is that the baby monitor?" we pause to ask in breathless unison.