#mixen

PrIdE

Amaya: but?

[SUGGESTIVE]

It's different now. She got him all the way inside first. She closed the door behind him, and now Mick is confined to himself, to simple thoughts of wanting to eat and fuck and be warm and safe and free. Len is gone, the crew is gone, Mick's past is gone. She doesn't need to tell him to sit. Mick sinks to his knees, like he'd been wanting to, like he can only distantly remember resisting even though he knows it was only seconds ago. "That's my good boy," she praises him softly, and he decides to stop remembering it altogether. Amaya's legs have to spread wide to accommodate Mick's broad shoulders between them, but she doesn't seem uncomfortable with the position. Mick rests his chin on the convenient platform of the chair between her thighs. She pets over his head, and he sighs in pleasure. He should have taken his clothes off before he got in this far, Mick thinks idly as he nuzzles his stubbly cheek into the meat of Amaya's thigh while she continues to pet him. His shirt is starting to feel like it's brushing his nonexistent fur back the wrong way. But he can't find the personal direction to remove it now. As if she read his mind - and fuck, at this point maybe she did - Amaya says, "Puppies don't wear clothes." "M'not a puppy," Mick mumbles half-heartedly. She laughs at him. "Big scary studs especially don't wear clothes." Mick flushes again, a deeper heat this time that definitely shows. He buries his face in Amaya's thigh, hiding from her. But he lets her gentle scratching behind his ear sooth his too-human embarrassment at being known so easily. Once he's recovered enough, burrowed himself a little deeper down, Mick leans back from Amaya's lap just enough to begin peeling himself out of the uncomfortable accoutrements of being civilized (which is just the word for when people are domesticated).