Arthur isn't quiet now, even while he bites his lip raw to hold back his cries. That might keep back the moans but it does nothing about the slap of skin-on-skin or
the stuttered breaths forced out of him each time Saito shoves in. Such a pretty boy, and prettier still with that expensive shell torn away, neatly-pressed trousers
crumpled around his thighs, a drop of blood staining his crisp white shirt.
He's not real, of course, but that hardly matters when every detail is perfect. Details that Saito could have only imagined in the real world, the way Arthur's slim
hips fit into his hands, that look of shock as Saito first slapped him then pushed him to his knees. And now, the perfect tightness around his cock, the trembling body
under him. The shocked, terrified sound as he moves his hands to Arthur's throat, wraps them there and squeezes, tighter with each thrust, each step closer to climax. Arthur struggles now, hands scrabbling at the desk under him, but Saito has control here. This might be limbo, but Saito has never met a situation he could not turn to his advantage with enough thought.
And down here, there has been plenty of time to think.
Arthur isn't the first - this Arthur isn't even the first, and a parade of images flash through Saito's mind, Arthur bound hand and foot to a broad bed, spread over the boardroom table, tied wrist to ankle and on his knees under this very desk.
And then, that same boy bloodied and bruised, begging for Saito to end it, please, no more. Begging with his very last breath.
The struggles are weaker now, rabbit-quick flutter of Arthur's pulse beating against Saito's fingers and he squeezes harder, chasing his own orgasm. Strange how the pulse quickens in those last few moments, the body clinging to life until the very last second. He empties himself into the unprotesting body with a satisfied groan then steps back, regarding the pale skin on offer, smudged with blood and desperation, draped almost decoratively over an exact replica of the desk in his own office. If he leaves, the projection will have vanished before his return, stolen away by some logic of this place. But for now Saito re-fastens his trousers and takes his place behind the desk, reaching out to run his fingers over Arthur's mussed hair.
Saito/Arthur (Non-con, murder. Partial fill.)
Arthur isn't quiet now, even while he bites his lip raw to hold back his cries. That might keep back the moans but it does nothing about the slap of skin-on-skin or
the stuttered breaths forced out of him each time Saito shoves in. Such a pretty boy, and prettier still with that expensive shell torn away, neatly-pressed trousers
crumpled around his thighs, a drop of blood staining his crisp white shirt.
He's not real, of course, but that hardly matters when every detail is perfect. Details that Saito could have only imagined in the real world, the way Arthur's slim
hips fit into his hands, that look of shock as Saito first slapped him then pushed him to his knees. And now, the perfect tightness around his cock, the trembling body
under him. The shocked, terrified sound as he moves his hands to Arthur's throat, wraps them there and squeezes, tighter with each thrust, each step closer to climax. Arthur struggles now, hands scrabbling at the desk under him, but Saito has control here. This might be limbo, but Saito has never met a situation he could not turn to his advantage with enough thought.
And down here, there has been plenty of time to think.
Arthur isn't the first - this Arthur isn't even the first, and a parade of images flash through Saito's mind, Arthur bound hand and foot to a broad bed, spread over the boardroom table, tied wrist to ankle and on his knees under this very desk.
And then, that same boy bloodied and bruised, begging for Saito to end it, please, no more. Begging with his very last breath.
The struggles are weaker now, rabbit-quick flutter of Arthur's pulse beating against Saito's fingers and he squeezes harder, chasing his own orgasm. Strange how the pulse quickens in those last few moments, the body clinging to life until the very last second. He empties himself into the unprotesting body with a satisfied groan then steps back, regarding the pale skin on offer, smudged with blood and desperation, draped almost decoratively over an exact replica of the desk in his own office. If he leaves, the projection will have vanished before his return, stolen away by some logic of this place. But for now Saito re-fastens his trousers and takes his place behind the desk, reaching out to run his fingers over Arthur's mussed hair.
Quite the perfect toy.