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No joy but lacks salt that is not dashed with pain and weariness and fault
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Everything changed.
He yanked off the bright scarf, tugged at the sweater vest, needing to feel the heat on the skin under this stupid shirt.
Jesus.
He was gasping for air. He was going to drown. He was going to die.
He was going to Hell.
Instead of pulling off the vest and shirt, Hotch snaked his hands under them, finally feeling the warm skin. He grabbed the waist, turned it and shoved the thin body against the nearest surface. His free hand undid his own trousers and fished out his dick.
"Push down your pants."
Hotch couldn't roll on the condom fast enough as he watched the whore comply. The exposed skin stared back and Hotch found himself push the eager body into the door and reach down. He felt the toy and pulled it out; a sharp hiss filled the air.
"You're good at taking orders, I'll give you that."
The whore grunted, hands splayed on the hard wood, holding on. Discarding the toy, Hotch leaned in and pressed on.
"You wanted this."
Another grunt came and Hotch guided his cock in where the toy had been. The whore moaned, body tensed until Hotch slid home. Hotch bit down his groan but the foreign feel of clothes and the way they clung to the slim body stripped Hotch off his last ounce of control.
"Jesus Christ."
The whore pressed back, urging, and Hotch moved, ached inside the body so warm and willing. Hotch gasped but couldn't get enough air. His hands gripped the arms, the hips, the hair, everywhere, just so he could push through this pain he knew would make the whole ordeal that much sweeter.
The orgasm was sluggish and vicious, made his body twist and left his throat dry. The whore stilled under him, said nothing, waiting. Without pulling out, Hotch reached around and found the cock, still hot and hard, and his hand started moving. The whore jerked his head back, whining, whimpering, but no actual words came out. Hotch rewarded the man with a faster, firmer pace.
"Gonna make it hurt."
His teeth sank in the exposed throat.
"Gonna feel you come."
Another hard pump and the wail came, sudden and high, and Hotch felt the warm goo on his hand. The tensed muscles gripped him, clenching, pulling him in even more, and Hotch felt sick because he was getting hard again.
Hotch pulled out, leaned back and felt his leg wobble. His palm found the door and he held on as he turned to dispose the condom.
"Figured you'd dig this."
Hotch winced at the contrast in their voice. The pitch was too low.
The whore turned. "Saw him last week while I waited for a cab."
Hotch felt his knees weaken.
"Should have mentioned you're into retro geeks."
The whore was pushing himself back inside the khaki slacks; shirt and sweater vest still rolled up above the thin waist, and Hotch saw it. The costume.
"Get out."
"What?" The whore's eyes met his. Too blue. Too jaded.
"Take your money and get out."
"But..." The whore eyed Hotch's half-hard cock.
"I said get out!"
The whore jumped and Hotch felt like a scum. He turned away and tugged himself back in the trousers. "Please."
Hotch felt the whore move behind him. When the whore was back, he heard a low 'sorry' as the whore walked past him to the door.
Aren't we all?
Once alone Hotch turned and spotted the bright scarf on the floor, abandoned, forgotten. The sight was salt on his wounds, all nine of them.
Everything stayed the same.