Keep Your Mouth Shut!
One Shot for FrUk
A/N: It's been awhile since I've written something serious for FrUk…you know…where they're physical… 8 D
The meeting hall was rowdy and full of chatter. The countries of the world were scattered about, ignoring the seats assigned to them, engaging in conversations ranging from the economy to the weather to culture and politics. They were all dressed appropriately for the event about to get underway in ties and fancy suits.
England sat alone at his seat where he represented the entirety of Great Britain. Being one of the founding members of the United Nations he, of course, had a seat up front. Next to him was America who was busy bragging about himself to a crowd of nations congratulating him on his recent presidential election. The world at large favoured Obama, but secretly England knew America had been divided in his personal opinion. The tightness in the race showed that.
The nation on the other side of him was France. England shuddered. Why? Why in every single global group did he always find himself sitting next to his greatest enemy? For nearly a millennium the two had duked it out with each other. France insisted he'd more often than not got the better of the Englishman but England was wiser. Glancing straightforward at the podium in front of him he could see France gossiping away to Germany. England chuckled to himself; Germany did not look amused or interested in the least bit. In fact, he looked uncomfortable watching France flaps his lips and sparkle like always. Poor Germany, England thought…oh well, better him than me.
Sighing, he found himself alone with his thoughts. Spontaneously he thought to himself, I wish I were a bunny. Ah yes, a carefree bunny. Frolicking in the grass, eating carrots and no stupid Frenchmen or Americans to be bothered by. Yes, that was the life. His daydream was interrupted by the sound of America's voice booming over the microphone. England grumbled to himself. What was America doing talking? They were in Geneva (the New York affair had been cancelled due to the Tropical Storm that had wrecked the city) so shouldn't Switzerland be leading? A European nation at the least…
America continued to blabber on as the host as the countries of the world shuffled into their designated seats. England glanced over as he felt a body plop down beside him to his left. It certainly wasn't America since he was at the front of the room. That left…ugh…France. England narrowed his oversized eyebrows in annoyance, but flicked his head away as though he couldn't have cared less.
France sighed and muttered loudly to himself, "Am I really going to have to sit here and listen to America go on and on and on for hours? I hope this is quick, I have a hair appointment…"
England couldn't help himself. He tried, he really did, but the sound of that lazy French accent drove him up the wall. He snapped lightly, "Then why in heaven's name did you come? And why on earth would you book a hair appointment on a day you knew you were going to be busy?"
France looked at his neighbour, his blue eyes blinking in surprise…not that he should've been. It wasn't irregular for the Brit to attack everything he had to say. He shrugged, "What could I do? Jacques was not available any other day." He smiled sweetly, though England detected a hint of smugness coming from him, and said "Maybe you should go to the salon, Angleterre. Though I'm not sure there is anything they could really do for you."
The Brit rolled his eyes, blocking out the ongoing speech by America, "Except for you, I'm sure. You're such a god." The sarcasm was obvious.
"Well," Francis crossed his arms and smiled, "For once I actually agree with you. Even if you don't see it as truthfully as I do."
England grumbled, "I ought to kick you in the face."
They went silent; making America's never ending speech more audible. He spoke of global poverty and how the best way to end it was to enlist Christian organizations to make fancy videos about sending money to everyone. He also proposed that they all "find oil wells" …because, in America's point of view, it's perfectly reasonable to conclude that all countries must have at least one patch of black gold under their soil. "After all," as the young nation said, "oil is just really, really , really oil bones and stuff grinded up by the earth and all that jazz." America also seemed to think it was logical that countries who somehow couldn't afford oil could easily afford to put solar panels on all housing. England sighed, rubbing his thick eyebrows as he dropped his head. A part of him hoped his former colony was kidding, but another part of him knew he wasn't.
Blocking America's nonsense from his mind once again, England looked back at France for his reaction to all of this. He twisted his lips to find the Frenchman looking at his phone rather amused. Keeping his voice as low as possible he demanded to know what France was doing.
"It's none of your business," The Frenchman hissed, tilting the phone away. He wasn't about to let the Englishman ruin his fun.
"Fine then," England crossed his left leg over his right and pretended not to care. A second later when France was distracted by the little buzzing noises coming from his phone (which England assumed were incoming text messages) he reached over quickly and snatch the phone. Aha! He is texting…with Spain!
"Hey!" France tried to grab the phone back, rather loudly too.
England laughed and twisted himself away, keeping the phone under him and out of France's reach. "What this? Texting? With Spain? Why…what could you ever possibly be saying?"
"It's none of your damn business!" France shouted, throwing his hands around the Englishman trying to get his digital device back. "It's not your phone! Give it back you stupid, black sheep!"
"Better than being a stupid frog!" England was now annoyed as well. He hated being called a black sheep. He hated being called any kind of animal. …Well, except a bunny…Oh, and a lion. Never mind, animals weren't the problem. It was France that was the problem.
By this time most of the people in the room had switched their attention from America to the fight breaking out between the two western Europeans. Even the North American had stopped to watch. Some rolled their eyes and groaned, it was just the usual for them. Others edged them on, chanting support for an all-out brawl. Others still demanded that they be quiet so the meeting could continue.
France and England paid attention to none of it, continuing to hurl insults at each other. Everything from England accusing France of all sorts of perversions to France demeaning England's cooking abilities. No stone was left unturned as the two went at it.
Suddenly, England managed to pry France off him and jumped to his feet. He pointed a threatening finger at the Frenchman and grinned evilly, "Perhaps you should be sharing your phone with me. You would be if you had actually gone through with becoming my satellite state!"
Everyone's attention was now captured. What was England talking about? France's bewildered stare made the situation more intriguing.
"That's right! Let's tell everyone, why don't we? The day you came begging me to marry you and save you from financial ruin! Do you remember that?" England made sure to amplify his voice so everyone, even the nations in the back of the house, could hear him clearly.
Francis could feel his muscles twitching nervously as chattering echoed throughout the lecture hall. They were all muttering and he was sure they were talking about him. He was used to England saying harsh things about him and others laughing but this seriously hurt his pride. He was a nation known for lavishness and expensive taste…for him to be belittled as a beggar…that was inexcusable. Of course it was true, but he'd sworn the Brit to secrecy and the few times rumours had spread about it he'd cleverly covered them up. Now the whole world knew because of a noisy Brit. He'd make England pay for this.
France sat there, fighting a red face, for the rest of the meeting, not saying a word. England could see he'd gone a little too far by the intensity and focus on the Frenchman's face. He frowned. It was rare for France to get this angry. The Brit found himself feeling a little remorseful but…he deserved it, right? He shouldn't have been texting during America's speech. England placed the phone on France's portion of the long desk and folded his hands, keeping silent. Tomorrow things would be back to normal…he was sure of it.
The first day of the three day event was nearing an end. They had listened to America, who went on for four hours, followed by Canada (who at times was barely audible), Germany, Lithuania, Brazil, and Italy (it was Veneziano's turn this year). By the time Israel's two hour argumentative essay over why he was morally just for building settlements on land that, more than arguably, didn't belong to him and how Iran was building nuclear weapons (England had gotten bored of the rant against Iran five years ago), he'd called it quits for the day.
Looking at the schedule he figured he could sleep in. In the morning Russia, Iran and Japan would be giving speeches. As much as he liked Japan the Asian could be incredibly boring. He could already imagine what Iran was going rave on about and Russia…well he'd just have to ask someone else what he spoke of.
The lobby was bustling with people crossing its royal red carpet under the wide brimmed chandelier. It was a fancy hotel with clean mirrors behind pearly white tables hosting painted vases with flowers. England carried on to where the elevators were but stopped and frowned at the crowd waiting to catch a ride to their rooms. Sighing he turned to the grand staircase that led to the mezzanine. He decided to go to the lounge first and have a drink, hoping that when he was done the elevators would be clear.
When he did finally get out of the bar he found himself alone in the elevator slowly being pulled to his room on the twenty-first floor. He wobbled to his room. He had to admit, he was a bit tipsy. When he reached his door he fumbled around in his pocket for the key. Once the door was open he kicked off his shoes and face planted himself onto the bed. A tint of a headache was coming on, but he wasn't bothered by it knowing he'd sleep well tonight.
He mumbled a caveman grunt as he pushed himself off the bed. He couldn't sleep face down in his suit. He stumbled into the bathroom for a quick change of clothing. He came back out, remembering to turn the light off, in a plain white t-shirt and blue boxers. Pulling the covers down he slid into bed. He smiled as he rested his head against the soft, cushiony pillow. It was time for bed. The whole world and its troubles were being lifted away as he drifted to sleep when…
BANG, BANG, BANG!
England shot his eyes open. Who the blood hell was pounding away at his door? Using his arms he pushed himself up and got out of bed. This had better be important, he muttered to himself. He could only image who was on the other side. With a banging like that he figured it might be America wanting to "hang out" as the youngster put it. In truth he liked the Yank, but he couldn't keep up with him if his life depended on it.
Opening the door the he grumbled, "What?" His visitor surprised the drunkenness right out of him. It was France! What on earth did he want? "What are you doing here you stupid frog? Your room isn't on this floor…Let me go to sleep. I'll deal with you tomorrow." England went to shut the door, but France prevented it by jamming his foot beside the frame.
"No," The Frenchman responded sternly, "You will not be seeing me tomorrow. You will be seeing me now."
England gulped as the memories of earlier in the day came back to him. He'd humiliated France at the U.N. meeting. He was sure the Parisian was here for that reason. Reluctantly he pulled back the door to let the Frenchman in. "Just a few moments, that's all I'm giving you. But once you're done rambling about your feelings, which by the way, I don't care about, you need leave."
France sat on the bed, "I do not think I will be doing much talking."
"Oh?" The Brit raised a brow. He was curious. If not talking then what? Crying perhaps. He snickered internally.
"Non," Francis told him. "What you said today was inexcusable."
"By your account." England swiftly cut him off, "You shouldn't have been texting. You only have yourself to blame. You started it."
"You promised you would keep quiet."
"I did not." A lie.
"You did!" France jumped up from the bed, his hands fisted. He unraveled one of them to point an accusing finger at the Brit, "You know what your problem is, Angleterre? You have a big mouth!"
England's eyes widened in pleasant surprise, "I have a big mouth? If mine is big then surely yours is gigantic."
"I mean it, England!" France was now looking serious. The seriousness of it faded with a sly grin, "But I intend to shut that mouth."
"And how will you do that?" England found himself interested to know. He needed a good laugh and here was one waiting to tickle him.
"Like this," France swept forward and shoved the island nation to the ground.
"Ack," England hit the floor on his stomach with a thud. He tried to push himself up but found he was being pinned down by something heavy on top of him. It was France! "Get off me you damn wanker!"
France found himself feeling very proud and comfortable to be sitting on the small of England's back. He felt that he fit quite snug there. He laughed seductively as the Brit continued to demand his release. "Oh I'll release you," France leaned over and cooed in his ear, "but only after I've gotten you worked up."
England fought the blush waving over his face, "W-what do you mean by that?"
"Oh, hon, hon, hon," The Frenchman dipped his fingers under the seam of England's t-shirt, sliding his tips across the Brit's warm body, "I may have begged you for marriage, but you're going beg me to fuck you."
England wigged underneath trying to free himself while fighting his arousal, "D-don't get cocky you damn pervert! I'd never do such a thing!"
"Oh, but I think you will." France's hand had slid its way up to his captive's chest where he claimed a nipple.
"Dear God," England thrashed about underneath, "Let go!"
To keep the Brit under his restraint France was forced to lean forward and wrap his free arm around England, "There is no escape, mon cher." He smiled crookedly feeling the Englishman calm down. Now would come stage two of England's desperate attempt to flee: negotiations.
"Why don't I swear never to say it again? C'mon on old chap, I'll just tell everyone I was joking…you know, for a good laugh…" The nervousness in his voice told France he was becoming frantic.
"No, the time for that has long past," France continue to hold him down.
"I'm serious, France! Let go or I'll scream!"
France couldn't resist himself, "Oh you'll scream alright…"
England took a deep breath trying to stay calm. He could feel his whole body heating up. He held that breath trying to fight the moans pushing up his throat. Damn you France, this isn't possible! He screamed in his head. How could his body be reacting to him of all people!? It must be the alcohol! It must!
Battling the pools of heat boiling inside him, England hardly noticed France pull away from him. It wasn't until he felt the fabric wrapped around his torso being push up and over his head that he understood how determined and serious France was about making this happen. Oh shit. The Frenchman undid the belt that fastened his pants to his hips and pulled it out from the fabric rings that held it. Reaching up he grabbed England's wrists and quickly tied them up behind his back. It wasn't a fantastic knot, but it was tight and would hold.
He stifled a heavy sigh feeling soft lips caress his back. Oh God, this is really happening! The delicate sensation was flowing down farther and father until it hit the most sensitive spot. In the meantime France's hands continued to feel their way around his front – what wasn't plastered to the floor, anyway.
Suddenly one of France's hands grabbed England's arms, flipping him on his back. England blinked, slightly shaken by the rapid movement and found himself staring face to face with France. They were both speechless, though France had far more confidence in his look than the Brit underneath him.
"F-Fran-" England's voice was silenced as France pressed his lips to the other's, holding his face between his hands. The Londoner was far too dazed to refuse the added tongue that went with it. He found his body becoming numbingly comfortable with the Frenchman's touch. His inner conscious made one last attempt to straighten him up. It made him pull away. He looked to the floor, flushed with embarrassment. "This isn't right…"
France gently cradled him down against the floor so he was lying back against it. The Frenchman loomed over him, a sly smirk on his face. "Oui, it is. You owe me."
"If you're going to be an arse about it…" The Brit spat, but suddenly stopped, wide-eyed. He could feel the strong hold against hardened erection. The grip made him feel needy, weak and nervous. How could his most formidable foe be turning him into a pile of mush?
The Frenchman's eyes were full of excitement. He'd found England's weak spot. Bending down he added to the sensation by placing licks and kisses along the man's neck down toward the dip at the end. He ignored the Brit's pleas for him to stop. They were beginning to sound less and less confident anyway. Everything about the scene was building his own erection. The noises England was so desperately trying to fight, the panting and wiggling, the taste of his sea-side salty skin, the feel of his stiff cock, the way England said his name…wait, what?
The sensations were becoming too much as electricity raced through England's veins. His emotions were conflicted. He loved the feeling, but hated who was doing this to him. An exotic shockwave forced him to throw his head backward as he bit his lip. His muscles were tense and his toes curled. I don't know what he did, but holy shit that was amazing. His brain berated him for enjoying it but his inner spirit begged for more. "Francis…"
Their human names were only used when they were in public. The purpose of having human names was to disguise their true identity. No, France cursed in his head. I won't let him do that. It was perfectly acceptable for Arthur Kirkland to have a relationship with Francois Bonnefoy, but it was not alright for the United Kingdom to have one with France. No, France made sure he'd make England scream his name. His true name.
Trying to brush it out of his mind (he'd be sure to go back to it later), he left England's torso and crept down lower and lower. He stopped when he reached the blue boxers that were still, for the most part, on. The tip of England's erection was poking out, due to France holding it. Swiftly he pulled them down, earning him a sharp intake of breath from the Brit. He gave the hardened length a few tugs and blew on it.
"D-don't do that." England shuddered, disapproving of the teasing behaviour. The Frenchman had done his work. The last little bit of repulse was ebbing away. His cock was now throbbing, demanding attention.
"What would you rather I do?" The Parisian smirked. He knew what the answer was. He wanted to hear England say it. The Brit blushed, too proud to cave. "Well?"
"I…" He stumbled on his words, "I…don't….I…" England looked away. He couldn't say it. He may have been hot with desire, but not enough to fully bend…not yet.
France was disappointed, but decided to make it a bit easier. It wouldn't be as fulfilling but it'd be good enough for now. "Do you want me to suck on your cock?" He asked, making sure to speak low and close enough so that his hot breath flashed across England's manhood.
The Londoner faced turned a deeper shade of red. He hesitated to answer. France saved him the discomfiture by saying, "I'll do it…and we'll see if you like it."
Despite his best efforts England couldn't control the moan that rolled out of him as Francis took in the length of his sex. He bit his lip trying to fight the urge to wiggle and flex as he was sucked hard all the way back up to the tip. Without hesitation France swirled his tongue around the slit at the top before diving back down again. The Brit had an unquenchable desire to grab France's hair, but couldn't with his hands still tied.
"Well?" France pulled himself up, staring into England's eyes with a devilish look. "Do you want more?"
Oh fuck, yes! "M-maybe…"
France slinked up leaving the cock he'd been toying with dangling, untouched. He crawled up towards Britain's face and leaned in, "Maybe?"
England tilted his face to the side, not wanting to stare into the sparkly blue eyes of his neighbouring nation. He blushed knowing he'd give in if he did. His refusal to look made him miss the mischievous grin on France's face.
"I have other ways of making you say yes, mon cher." Without thinking England immediately snapped his head back but was caught before he could focus in on France's eyes.
Down below he could feel a firm hand take hold of his length. It was a tingly, warm, but welcomed feeling. There was still a healthy coat of saliva covering it, making the first few tugs slippery and easy. Oh God, it felt so good.
France grinned, staring the Londoner down. England knew he was waiting for an answer but he held back. His body pushed him to say yes, but that last chunk of pride hanging by a string begged him to stay silent. Every pump pushed him closer and closer to the edge and he found himself shaking from pleasurable delight. Dammit, he cursed as his thighs twitched and his hips began to rise. He clenched his eyes shut as another gratifying wave pulsed through his loins.
It wasn't just the touching that was pushing him forward, but the humming France was producing in his ear as well as the body heat being passed between them from their closeness. Mmmm, all of these things were making him feel so good. He wanted more.
The blushing, the convulsion, the shortness of breath…England no longer had to say anything at all. France knew he had him. But he still wanted to hear it. Leaning forward he pressed a chaste kiss on the Brit's cheek, attracting his attention. When England looked over, France kissed him again, more deeply on the lips. Using his other hand, the Frenchman grasped the Brit's hair and yanked his head back giving him access to his neck where he bit and sucked and licked from the base all the way to the ear.
"Ah…" England could hardly keep it in. The pulling was becoming harder and more rugged, but kept a steady rhythm. His legs were turning to jello as he felt the pool of heat in his groin burst, pushing its way to surface. Unconsciously he whispered out, "I'm going to cum…"
Suddenly the urge to spill himself cooled down as the friction stopped. The hand was pulled away, leaving his cock unwrapped and cold. He repressed a whine as he opened his eyes and dropped his head (Francis was no longer tugging at his hair) to stared into the royal blue eyes of his manipulator.
"No," France grinned evilly at him, "I'm not going to let you. Not until you beg." England had nearly forgotten about France's true intensions while he was lost in ecstasy.
France returned his attention back to England's southern region, but bypassed his needy member. Maybe if the Brit asked his nicely he'd finish him off later. He was interested in probing around some other area instead. Taking his index finger he pushed it into his captive's ass. The intrusion wasn't expected and it made England jump a bit. France kissed him on the forehand, "It is just me."
"I know what it is!" England snapped, a small bit of his hardline personality had rebuilt itself after his failed orgasm. It wouldn't last. The awkward feeling of his ass being punctured by a single digit was catching up to him. A second was inserted, stretching him out a bit. The pinching he was feeling made him a bit sore, but also terribly horny for more.
When the third one was inserted he was embarrassed to have pushed onto like he had been anticipating it. He squirmed around heightening the experience as the three slender fingers pushed farther into him, exploring inside him.
After jerking and rubbing his fingers around, France pulled out. England was disappointed to be void of touch once again. Stupid France was playing him again and he hated it…but good God he had to come…and after all this there was only one way how.
"I think you have been prepared enough, hm?" The Frenchman was sounding pleased with himself. His voice was light and almost happy sounding. A definite change from the dark, controlling voice he had used earlier.
France stood up and stretched, his arms reaching up for the ceiling. He smiled looking down at the naked Brit sprawled on the flood, "It is always good to stretch before sex, no? You wouldn't want to stress a muscle."
England frowned and looked over his shoulder. He was still tied up, "Unfortunately, I don't have that liberty."
"Oh," The Frenchman shrugged. He had no intention of untying the Brit yet, "That is too bad for you, I guess."
"Quite." If England couldn't win the battle of bodies, he could at least try to get the last word in. Maybe talking would ebb away at the desperate need he was feeling to be fucked or sucked off or something! Something to finally release the tension inside him.
"Well," France sighed, "I guess I could do one nice thing for you."
"Nice?" England raised a brow. He couldn't even think of what to say. He was caught between telling Francis that finally finishing him would be nice and yelling at him for starting the whole business in the first place.
Ignoring his last comment France bent over to lift England up. He tossed him down, face first onto the bed. England landed with a clunk, "Ugh!" Stupid France.
With his hands tied behind his back there was nothing to push him up. He rolled his head to the side. He blushed feeling hands wrap around his waist. His knees were pushed in underneath his stomach so he was kneeling, but his head was still against the bed. Oh shit, he's going to take me from behind!
Fear and anticipation were building inside him as he listened to France unzip himself. Oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God… His muscles tensed when he felt the flesh of the Parisian press against his entrance. He took a sharp breath as his vital region was slowly, but strongly invaded. It was painful, but it made his blood race. He felt so full. It was also slippery, meaning France had used lubricant. Thank God. Last time he'd gone without he'd been incredibly sore from tissues inside being ripped. His instincts beckoned him to pull away and slam back into the hardening cock but France held his hips tightly.
"Well?" France asked, not moving. He kept himself in place, not because he wanted England to adjust to him but because he wanted the Brit to feel him; every inch of him. When the Londoner refused to respond he pulled back to the tip and slammed himself back inside.
"Fuuuuuuuuuck!" England clenched his jaw. He had expected France to do something like that, but wasn't expecting it to be so…tight…and raw. The pain it had produced made him wince, but the liquid in his lower region was beginning to boil again. He secretly wished Francis would do it again.
The low, inaudible grunt from the Englishman put a smile on France's face. Whether it was from pain or pleasure didn't matter (though he hoped it was the later), he was finally getting a serious reaction. He knew from past experience that the Brit liked it hard and fast, so he decided to take it slow. Sloooooooowly pulling back and sloooooooowly pushing in.
After a few rounds of slow punctures England was beginning to lose his mind. Dammit, he hated being teased! Feeling France's hard cock slowly crawl inside him was driving him mad. Every muscle that twitched every bit of flesh pushed aside to make room, he could feel it all. What was worse, his own length was straighter than a steel rod and getting no attention at all. Every time he was invaded a long string of tingles went from the base of his cock to the tip. It was in desperate need to be touched.
Abruptly the slow pace stopped and he was banged hard. Oh God, yes! He needed that. Opening his eyes he wondered why the sudden change. Had France been reading his body language? Evidently yes. France wasn't the strongest nation in the world, nor the smartest, but he was skilled in the art of the body…that was for sure. Lost in the slow but steady rhythm, England had begun unknowingly rocking his hips to meet the thrusts and gentle moaning at every bounce. Shit. Busted.
Knowing the scruffy blond underneath him was finally submitting, France knew now was the time to make good on his threat. He'd make England beg…just like he promised he would. He pulled until he was half way out, giving the effect of only being half full, so the Brit would know what he was missing making him want it all the more. "Do you want it?"
Dammit, England cursed in his mind. Him and his damn questions again. Yes, I want it! He refrained from speaking, but yelped out when Francis swiftly forced himself deep down inside, only to pull back to his teasing position. Damn frog must be enjoying this. Truthfully, he was too. It had been quite some time since he'd last had a good fucking.
France frowned. It wasn't working. Maybe not moving was giving him too much time to think and recollect himself. Okay, it was time for the assault. Pulling all the way out, right to the tip, he forced himself inside. From there it was quick and repetitive, a continuous, fast paced fucking. Over and over again, he buried himself deep inside with ferocity. At last he'd found that one sweet spot that would sent the Brit over the edge. He positioned himself to poke around the prostate gland to heighten the sexual experience while massaging the area behind his scrotum to double the intensity.
With his whole body going numb with bliss, England prepared to release himself. Ah, he anticipated letting go and freeing the bottled up pressure inside him. But alas, the Frenchman stole it from him again. Damn him! It seemed the nation of love had a keen instinct for when someone was spent. He stopped and pulled out all together.
He arched over England's bent over body and rested his head on the scruffy blond's. A little part of England's spirit died knowing what the Frenchman wanted. This time he'd have to bite his pride…he was sitting right on the edge. Too far to come down, but not far enough to convulse in pleasure. Breathing heavily with sweat trickling down his forehead he breathed his plea.
"What?" Francis lifted his head a bit. He wanted to hear it loud and clear.
"Please," the needy, hungry, lustful spirit inside him was begging…actually begging, "don't stop."
France kissed the Brit's back, "Non, non, you know what I want to hear. Say it." He had been waiting for this moment all night. England was finally going to beg him for sex. His heart fluttered with joy. The Brit would never open his big mouth again…not after this. He'd think twice before trying to make a fool of The Republic of France. He eagerly listened in as it came in full.
"Please fuck me," his captive whined, wiggling underneath him.
"Who?" He asked again.
"France!" England cried out, "Please finish me, France. I'm yours. Please."
Ah. The French nation grinned widely. That felt good. Hell. Yes. Because he was such a nice country (and terribly horny after of this) he'd grant the island nation's wish. Lifting himself back up he angled himself and pushed back inside. The long sigh of relief from England told him the Brit was satisfied to be filled again. He smirked triumphantly. How could he not? He had just tamed his oldest and more formidable foe.
A steady rhythm was worked as he found that overwhelming spot again. He worked himself towards it, brushing past it to creating that bursting sensation deep inside England's belly. But one touch was still missing. With the tension rising, England wasted no time pleading for his erection to be addressed. France conceded. He'd gotten what he wanted; he'd give a little back.
With the sturdy fucking England was getting with France pushing that sensitive part of him over and over again, combined with the Frenchman's firm grip masturbating his hardened length he finally fell apart, spilling himself onto the sheets beneath him. France followed him, flooding the Londoner's rectum with his seed.
"Well," The Englishman collapsed on the bed below him. He was panting heavily, "You've gotten your revenge. Happy?"
"Oui," France sighed, sitting next to him. He undid the belt around England's wrists, freeing him from constraint, "I hope you learned your lesson. When it comes to secret matters…ferme ta bouche. Because next time it happens…" He waved a little black recorder casually.
"What is that?" England tried to sit up. Narrowing his vision he was appalled to see it was a voice recorder. That damn France! He tapped the whole thing! "Give that to me!"
Bouncing up out of his sitting position and pulling his pants up, like he was never effected at all, he danced around to the door, laughing. He rewound the audio cassette to the part where England begged for France to fuck him. Hearing his own voice, England blushed enraged. He jumped up and reached out to grab the tape player but fell onto the floor. He was still unstable from the sex. Damn France!
The Parisian ran out of the room. His laughter could be heard down the hall. His absence left England alone with his own thoughts. He frowned feeling used and abused. He'd also have to restrain himself from saying anything negative about the Frenchman for a while.
Pulling himself back onto the bed he looked at the pools of cum spread across the sheets. Oh well. He had to admit, his bold outburst had been worth the consequence.
I'm still terrible at writing sex...my apologies.