#barrage

let me tell you something, one of the most iconic and that's heavily distinctive to barrage is his slutty compression shits. those amazing ones that hug every single muscle of his so nicely, almost like a second skin.

and one thing is for sure, knowing how much you like them, the whorish compression shirt stays one while he fucks you. to him it's more than just wearing clother he's comfortable in, it's about the ceratin level of control it gives him.

he knows you want to get a good look at him and at his muscular body, but he won't allow you to fully see him in a mean way. like you don't get to see the whole thing, but he doesn't find it in him of depriving you of a good view of his sculped boy as he's fucking you.

his hips snapping against the plush of your ass every time he pushes himself deeply into your soaking wet cunt, that seems to suck him in, as you cry about not being able to see him. filipping you over so you can watch the muslce ripple behind his shirt and the way the fabric pulls taut around his big biceps - and he also gets to watch your face contort with pleasure, your eyes rolling back. and the way your tits jiggle with each harsh thurst -.

BARRAGE can be a little touchy. A hand rests on your head when the two of you are by a corner or in private, gently patting you every now and then. It’s a reminder that goes both ways; you’re with him and he’s with you.

His veiny arm may be wrapped over your shoulders, although loosely. It wasn’t a strange thing to see; friendly touches are frequently passed between close teammates. But it may be perceived how he is with you as unusual.

What do you mean he’s fiddling with your belt loop, the pad of his thumb light as he caressed the skin right beneath your waist band? He’s not even doing anything.

Sometimes, he’d cup your cheek. The feeling of your soft flesh has his heart warming, and a small smile stretching his lips.

But when your hands are on him, it’s a completely different story.

He’d hold his breath subconsciously, something starved flushing his skin. Feel him up through that tight compression shirt of his and you’ll have him whimpering, muscles twitching, and he’s torn between squirming away or stepping closer.

BARRAGE would mutter your name, uncertain of what he’s asking for. He won’t remember how or when he’s become compliant under you; he’s weirdly fuzzy and giddy, and he doesn’t know anymore. His thighs squeeze together to relieve the ache, whining incoherently.

Oh, he’s doomed. Don’t even stand next to him in public; he won’t be able to control himself.