#digital-nocturne

Behind him, grabbing him—groping him like he's a fresh cut of meat, Bucky is sweating, groaning, and thrusting. “Fuck,” he grunts through gritted teeth, “fuuck,” he relents.

Steve knows by the burning heat on the back of his ears and the fingers at his slick rim, just dying to get in there next to his thick shaft and really pry him loose, that the other man is watching his fat cock slide into his tight ass. Steve arches as much as he can in his dizzying corset—he's always loved being watched.

Hazily, Steve can't imagine what it's like to be Congressman Barnes right now. He wants to. All girth and length, driving forward, veins throbbing, balls aching, chasing his orgasm with clenched teeth. But he can't. There is no way to imagine anything when he's so caught up in how it feels to be fucked.

Bucky is fucking him so good.

He's losing it.

The Congressman is too, moaning, “yes,” he insists upon it, that Steve can take it, putting his back into it like Steve thought he already had been—

“AH! AH! AH!”

“—yes, you can. You fucking better,” he threatens dangerously, hands squeezing so tightly around his waist that Steve is sure his index fingers and thumbs meet around his little, tight body. “You have to. Take it. Take my cock.”

And, of course, the second he gets mean and rough it with—meaner and rougher with it, naturally it makes Steve explode with molten heat. That's what he was meant for. Shit. It makes him shiver. It makes him go boneless, loosening like the sloppy, used whore he is for it.

For Bucky.

“Con-congressmaa-MAHN!” Steve moans with abandon, forgetting himself, forgetting where they are, entirely, stupidly forgetting who can probably hear the filthy sounds of Congressman Barnes fucking into the tight, lube-glazed hole of his Secretary even without Steve wailing like a particularly enthusiastic pornstar who really fucking loves their job.

FAP-FAP-FAP.

They are beyond pornographic.

Jesus. Christ.

Tears hotly rush from Steve's clenched shut eyes, tracking down his feverish cheeks—if he had it together enough to open his pretty baby blues and show off how wet and red-rimmed they are, making them look that much bigger and prettier, batting his lashes like a fuckin’ fawn, it'd be enough. Enough to push the Congressman over the edge. Enough to get him any goddamn thing he wants. But, he can't. Blinking is fucking impossible, let alone thinking.

‘Cause the meaner, harder Bucky fucks him, the more Steve likes it. The more he likes it, the looser he gets, despite how tightly he's wrapped himself up—presenting himself like a gift-wrapped bitch in heat to his boss, complete with all the ribbons and bows. The sloppier and looser he is, the more his body lets Bucky's dick slide in deeper, guh, deeper.

It's torture.

So good.

Too good.

The Congressman's cock feels like it's all the way to his fucking throat, pounding against his sweet spot until he's garbling sobbing moans against the laquered desk he's been spread across; nothing more than molten hot butter soaking into toasted bread.

Holy fuuuck.

“That's it, that's fucking it, sweet thing,” Bucky coos roughly at him, leaning down against him, so big and heavy and hairy. Their heaving, sweaty, half-clothed bodies slllide erotically together. They move. Steve quivering. Bucky fucking. His broad, furred chest so hard against Steve's slick, laced little back. Bucky's hand paints a hot path down his Secretary's curvaceous side. Thrusting in deep, hard, rough, he can't control his mouth—he never can, it gets the Congressman into hot water sometimes, the things he lets slip on the Capitol floor when something is bullshit, his blunt words immediately recorded and spread like wildfire around social media.

Steve would be lying if he said it didn't get him hot, watching his boss lose his temper when it matters, biting out in his Brooklyn accent with his teeth just visible behind his curled, snarling lip and bold, just-try-to-fuck-with-me-and-see-what-happens eyes. That vein that stands out in his neck, too. Oh god, or the way his big, strong hands ball into fists and his biceps jerk, muscles bulging and delicious.

Fuck.

Steve whimpers.

But, of course, this version of his Congressman's slick tongue gets him hot, too—

Purring, “oh, look at you. Look at you shake on it. Is it big, honey?”

Steve can't breathe.

Bucky is infuriatingly right. It's big.

“Does it feel too big for you?”

Helpless against the surge of arousal that overtakes him, Steve sniffles. He cries out, tender and raw and so fucking small inside. He knows he's taller than Bucky in his heels and his shoulders are probably just as broad, maybe even heavier than Barnes’ are (if his mounded, heaving tits count to his advantage) but that doesn't fucking stop him from presently feeling like a trembling tabby kitten beneath a slavering doberman.

God.

He even mewls.

And that ragged, fucked-out sound he makes is enough to pour gasoline on his boss's fire as—over his shoulder, on top of him, teeth biting his neck—he rears back, straightening up, and putting. his. back. into. it.

He throws his head back, too, laughing. Reckless. But, all too soon that delicious, dangerous sound is getting caught in a moan. Moaning and running his fucking mouth, fucking. him. up., "t-tah-too bad."

He slams home and grinds in place, surely feeling Steve absolutely shake around him, clenched so tight but also so goddamn loose around his fucking big cock and how he treats him with every inch of his big dick energy.

It's overwhelming, more than—there isn't a word for how out of his fucking mind Steve goes on his congressman's cock, clawing at the table, crying on it, slobbering all over the desk, all while weakly pushing back against every thrust, wanting, needing more. Ever more. Greedy fucking thing. Can't help himself. Could barely help himself the first day he met Congressman Barnes, he wanted it so bad. He wanted to bend right over the desk that first day to show him the ill-fitting pretty lacy panties I had underneath his sensible, good-first-impression slacks; the fit and fabric of those panties ruined by how Barnes made him swell and drip into them.

But—oh, oh, AHH!—here and now is so much better than that first-day fantasy. That day-dream has become reality. He is bent over his boss's desk and he is fucking dying on it. On his cock. Over his big, important desk. Fucked out of his goddamn mind.

The pressure in his hole is so much, Bucky's so fucking hung, and his waist is squeezed so tight by his corset, his tits pushed up over the top edge, spilling out of his opened white dress shirt blouse, nipples so fucking pink and hard. There's no room for Bucky's cock in his pretty, wet, pink little hole; there's no room for thoughts in his head when Bucky's inside him. It feels so good not to think, to just be pretty and used.

To be full.

Bucky wants to swallow him whole while Steve does exactly that. He's swallowing him. Riding him. Taking him. Tip to base. Stuffed with cock, a hedonist that'd make King Adolf Frederick blush. This, in fact, might be how they go out. Together. Indulging to death. Too much. Too good.

Eat your fuckin' heart out, Stevie.

Take it.

He is fucking going for it, riding Bucky so goddamn hard, pressing his thick ass back against his pelvis as tightly as he can. Taking his whole cock like a champ and arching his back viciously, as though he intends to take more. What more could he fucking give him? Steve has it all. He's taking it all. That ass won't quit, though. Jesus. It's round and fat, eating up his dick like a dream—a very wet, soaked, and sopping dream.

Fap. Fap. Fap.

So wet it's making Barnes blush all the way to the shells of his ringing, red-hot ears.

Steve feels so good inside it should be criminal. His slick, velvet walls that grip him like a vice, rippling inside like a particularly pleased pussy-cat, muscles shivering when stroked just right—going just rough enough to purr.

Steve's been all fucking over him for enough time that he's getting pretty goddamn loose. That hole. He's been worked open. Pussy really blooming out for his thick cock. Yet, Steve's sensitive enough, constantly squirming and clenching and rippling around him, that it doesn't matter.

Nothing matters.

Barnes can not think. His intellect has been shattered to fucking pieces, going at it like rabbits for what feels like, and must be, hours. A supposed lunch time quickie that's curled it's thick, gnarled roots into them and hasn't stopped fucking spreading, invasive and dangerous, choking out everything else that isn't this—

The sound that comes out of Bucky is not fucking human. It's groaning, deep, and animal.

Jesus Christ.

He can't.

The fucking sun is going down outside, sinking low in the darkening sky; Steve is sinking and rising, rocking and bouncing, over and over and over again on his cock, big tits shaking in a burlesque fever dream. They don't make corsets that could shape anyone into the obscene proportions his little secretary has naturally, Bucky swears on his life.

Really, time has gotten so far from their grasp that even the phone has stopped incrementally ringing. Everyone else has gone home. The sun is setting. And now—

He can't.

Barnes—despite how much his smoldering nerves and burned-down-to-charcoal bones and liquified muscles still pulse with lust—is starting to go soft. He can't help it. It's not up to him. He has vacated the fucking body he has; the one Steve is using like a wind-up toy.

Now, the congressman's eyes are rolling so far back into his head that it pulls on the muscles around his eyesockets, aching, and there are tears overflowing from his far-gone, glazed eyes. There is sweat glistening on his skin, pooling in the hollow of his thrown-back throat. He is dripping.

Sweating.

Crying.

Wilting.

“Noo,” Steve whines, then, some-fucking-how collecting himself despite those earth-shattering orgasms, back to back, he barks, “no.” having the sheer audacity to sound frustrated with his boss, smacking him with his limp, flowing hand.

His cute little petulant hit lands in the center of Bucky's furred chest. It isn't hard. Bucky isn't hard. How can the strike be hard when both of them are magmatic, viscous and thick and hot? Blushing hot. Burning hot. Barnes is blushing high on his cheeks and Steve is pretty pink-red from his hairline over his nose and cheeks to his jaw down his throat to his heaving, pierced chest, and even down to the low, flat planes of his belly—an obscene, whorish, full body blusher.

Again, Jesus Christ, Bucky wants to eat him.

He wants to tear into him.

Teeth, lips, and tongue.

“D-don't you fuckin' dare,” Steve—blushing, shuddering, bouncing—orders. And to add teeth to his bark, eating Bucky instead of the reverse, he leans down. Crushingly close, he lies on his trembling forearms to cage Bucky against the squeaking, squelching of the poor, defiled leather couch underneath them. For how much his body undulates and writhes unspeakably erotically, unsteady and undone by a steady flood of pleasure, Steve's eyes are unwavering. They are hard. They are demanding; bossy, bratty, and hot, staring Barnes down.

Bucky can feel his secretary staring at his stupid, orgasm-locked expression. Vulnerable and exciting: yes, see it. See what you make of me.

Whatever Steve manages to see, or rather, not see in Bucky's rolled back eyes, it's enough to set the little brat off—

So, after a snapping, quick moment, he lifts up enough, shifting smoothly from two forearms to bracing on one. Once there, he use his freed hand and slap Bucky's handsome, wrung-out face.

Smack!

It isn't a good swat, Bucky feels exactly how weak from lust-saturation it is, seared into his tingling-numb flesh. He's so turned on he can't really feel his face. What? That can happen?

Oh, god.

Barnes moans, loud enough to shake the fucking room. Or… maybe that's just the frantic, slutty rhythm of Steve dropping it back on his cock.

Fap.Fap.Fap.

Either way, the wanna-be bitch-slap is mostly a shameless shove across his gooned-out face.

Still, he isn't done. Bucky isn't getting any harder. He really, really can't. And so, Steve uses his hand instead to humiliatingly squish Bucky's cheeks together between his thumb and forefingers, pushing out his slack, kiss-swollen lips dumbly and further smearing the waxy traces of his lipstick-sloppy kisses already printed over his pale gold skin.

While squishing his stupid face, double stupid from the pleasure and hold Steve has on him, his secretary gives the orders: “keep it up, Congressman, c'mon.” As he talks—steel in his voice, beneath the breathy sheen to it—Steve draws tight little figure eights with his slim, grabbable (so grabbable, really, that they're already nicely bruised) hips. “You know how to please, th-ahhh-that's your fucking job—” he gives him another love tap, swatting him across the face, an impatient bitch in heat “—luh-listen to the people, please the people, guh-get on their good side. Ohyeah, there. Yeah. C'mon. Stay on mine. Mmmmgh, my guh-good side.”

His words hit Bucky's burning, pounding ears, easily penetrate into his hollow head, rattle around uselessly in there, and drip out of his nose and mouth. He bleeds lust, embarrassment, and stupidity.

Steve's fucked him up.

Fucked everything out of him.

He CAN'T.

He has nothing left.

At least, the next time Steve tries for words—more obscenity crushed into his ear, Steve's lips and teeth and tongue pressed bodily against his ear, talking down to him—the little slut practically squeals. Small mercies. He can't handle the sudden assault of pleasure that pulling his tensing, trembling body back upright causes, hitting his sweet spot all over again. His abs shake. He's coming apart just as badly, even if his confident mouth seems to spell out otherwise.

But, goddamn, if Barnes were lucid, hearing him talk shit, listening to him mewl like that, he would instantly snap back that his job is, most often, to compromise, not to please but to try and get the best of both worlds. He can give and take shit. He quips bullshit that flies over the heads of his fellow representatives, just fuckin’ ask any social media political influencer—they love him. They smirk and get hot at all that he gets away with. He knows they do. But, shit, here and now, stupidified by the shimmy of Steve's big tits and arch of his little waist and tightness of his greedy hole, all that comes out of his idiotic, drooling mouth is, “mmmnghh-huuuh, uhhn, unngh, ah!”

Steve is fucking clenching around him.

God, he's so fucking—

So, so—

So tight.

And, to make it worse, setting this collapsing building on fire, Steve starts to press a sharp, manicured fingertip into the congressman's bulky pec. Clearly, he's on the cusp of accusing him of something, possibly about to make fun of the gap in their years, blaming that for his cock going soft rather than the hours and hours and round after round they've been at it. Bucky can practically hear his sultry voice, rushing through his ringing ears, c'mon, old man, need a viagra? Should I start slipping you somethin’ in your morning coffee order? You need a little blue pill, boss? Can't have you falling behind. You have a needy secretary, y'know? You gotta have something to hide behind that desk other than me, on my goddamn knees—and, and—

Guh!

A real fucking groan rips, no, claws itself out of his throat. He can't, he fucking CAN'T! His dick has gone soft even though he wants to keep fucking Steve so bad he could die. He can't see straight. His eyes keep rolling back and they're so, so full of tears that when he finally manages to blink—fighting not just to roll but still immediately then rolling back into the magnetic pull of excessive, gilded pleasure—sizzling tracks of tears roll down his burning skin, mixing with the sweat and lipstick painting him. He is a debauched masterpiece. He can't think. He doesn't have to think. He just has to manage, gritting his aching teeth, to heave himself up and steamroll Steve—minxy, sexy, fuck-bunny Steve—over.

Barely, barely, barely, he makes it. Shoving his weight around, out of fucking breath, but successfully flattening him.

Indescribably satisfyingly pinned beneath him, Steve wails, “wha—AH! Barnes, B-ahh-Barnes!”

Oh, yeah, he's going out of his pretty little mind, alright. Bucky isn't the only one, all his teeth showing. Nah.

“I swear to—” His bossy, horny little secretary tries to mouth off to him, that running mouth smeared in an outrageously alluring red, his lipstick long-since ruined, but Bucky won't give him the fucking chance.

No more.

Nah.

With his wet, softening cock out of his secretary's greedy little hole, he shuts him up about it as fast as humanly possible: stuffing three of his fingers into that big, troublesome mouth. Next time, he promises himself, blood hot as ever despite his dick, I'll gag him. Yeah, yeah, that's what he's going to have to do—he's gonna shove the biggest, fattest gag he can into his mouth and jerk himself off to the cute, helpless little gurgling noises that he knows will come out of his secretary's denied mouth, tied up across the room where he can't touch.

Now, though, risking a glance down, Bucky fucking shivers, watching Steve's empty, greedy, fucked-out hole twitch at the same time that his arousal-delayed brain finally registers that there's something in his mouth. Simultaneously, his pussy twitches—all puffy and swollen from getting fucked so ruthlessly, deliciously pink-red from that same restless abuse, and glazed with a cocktail of molten-glass-lube and creamy cum—and his tongue curls. His tongue is unreal. His mouth starts to suck. Three fingers deep. Kept full and (mostly) happy (as happy as a gluttonous slut who wants it all the time, every hour of every day, can be).

Then, beyond the odds, Bucky manages to get two fucking brain cells to rub together and spark. Or. Maybe he doesn't. Because what he does next is downright filthy—

So perverse, it doesn't even make sense.

What's left of his brain (spoiler: nothing) can't keep up.

All he has to do, sucked into a hurricane, moving shocking quickly with how shaky he feels, strength drained through his fucking limp cock, hanging, overused—sweetly, achingly abused—between his legs, is lean over and snatch the decanter of whiskey off the solid wooden coffee table filling even more of the excess space of his official, officially-huge congressional office.

In his hands, the expensive crystal glass is smooth, weighted, and cool, sloshing with enough whiskey to take down a man even (impossibly) bigger than Barnes. He uncaps it, takes a daring, burning swallow fast as a lightning strike, and slams the body of the decanter back on the table, leaving just the stopper in his hand. One end is tapered from thicker to thinner, designed elegantly to fit the cylindrical neck of the crystal decanter, and the other end is perfectly rounded to fit in the hand. It, like the leather beneath them, becomes unbearably sensual to the touch.

And so—

The congressman shoves his fingers deeper into Steve's mouth, listening to him gurgle and choke. And, yeah, he makes him fucking choke, shoving the decanter's stopper in his cum-leaking hole.

Steve chokes.

Steve squeals.

Steve's thighs jolt and jerk, rolled into a tight little ball on his back, realizing after a white-hot moment of sheer, pure shock what's happened to him. What's happening to him.

He is living for it—the dirty little thing. Of course.