Head lolled back on his shoulders, face tipped to the ceiling he fights the impulse to grind himself to completion in thirty seconds. No. He promised David a long, slow ride. So he counts. Three up, four down. Clench. Shudder. Repeat. A three count up, holding for two, four down. Slow and steady and maddening, the muscles of his abdomen clenching against the intrusion, against the slick hot perfect feeling of David when he's full, the hollow ache of him as he pulls away.