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Summary
A muffled sob tore from Hollands lungs, annoyed as he stuttered his hips and head to a halt, tears threatening to bubble up at his lash line as he looked pathetically to his partner.
“Mmmhhhn??” There wasn't really much he could say while the gun was still in his mouth, more of just noises and annoyed grumbles in response as his cock twitched behind the confines of ifs fabric prison.
His eyes stayed focused on Healy.. Then his hand. How his thumb caressed over the rear sight, trailing dow ever so slowly.. A confused little moan escaped past the firearm in Marches mouth, watching as the man's rough thumb idled over the safety lever just for a few moments.. Before he flicked it to the firing position.
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ORHolland has a power play fantasy and healy has a gun.
