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It all started with a game of truth or dare.
After a grueling meeting in Rome, Italy bribed the members of G8 back to his place for a night of fun, games and Italian liqueur. Now England was seated at a comically small table, broad shoulders crammed between the considerably broader frames of Germany and America. He drained yet another glass of amaretto, trying without success to diffuse the awkward atmosphere between him and his on again-off again allies.
Cue America swooping in to save the day, suggested they play a couple rounds and even offering to go first like the hero he was.
“Dare.” America blurted without hesitation, prompting a chorus of jeers from the other countries.
“Pour ice down your pants!” Canada suggested, uncharacteristically loud.
“Did you guys hear something?” America garbled around a mouthful of hors d’oeuvres.
“Tape your mouth shut.” Of course, England couldn’t pass by an opportunity to join in on the fun. America was about to refute when France cut in-
“Suck on my toes!!!” The Gallic nation had kicked off his dress shoes and was wiggling those nasty suckers around, permeating the air with noxious fumes.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” America actually looked queasy enough to take a break from his binging.
“Ну, my turn!” Russia interjecting eagerly. “Pluck out your eyes with tweezers!” The other party guests cast nervous glances at the Slavic country, who sat perched in an over-stuffed couch in the corner of the room. He was all smiles, completely oblivious to America’s horrified expression.
Luckily Italy came to the rescue, flashing one of his trademark goofy grins. “Pretend to be the person next to you!” He giggled, voice slurred. America raised an eyebrow, deliberating between Germany to his left and England to the right before settling on the easier option. Pretending to be posh, America lifted his glass with a raised pinky and tried on his best sour expression.
“Oh bloody el’, dreadful weather innit? Haven’t had a good wank in a fortnight, I’d shag your nan if she’d let me. Oh bugger, you’ve made me spill my tea!” That last comment came after England forcefully shoved America in the shoulder, successfully silencing him.
“That’s quite enough.”
“Dude, it’s not like anything I just said wasn’t true.”
England flashed America the ‘up yours’ gesture, which only confused the younger nation.
“Huh? Why’re you giving me a peace sign?” France chuckled, and England groaned.
“Never mind, you git. Let’s carry on.”
England decided to play it safe, not wanting to risk having to drink hot sauce or lick Germany’s armpit- the other guests were merciless. “Truth.” He declared, immediately regretting his decision when America’s eyes glimmered with mischief.
“Oh yeah? When was the last time you had a proper shag?” America pried in his mock British accent.
Ah piss.
“I beg your pardon?”
England felt his face flush as the table hushed, eager for his answer. “Umm..” he began, suddenly feeling very itchy and hot in his sweater vest. “Well, not that it’s any of your business..” Faltering, he reflected on the last several months. Things had been awfully busy lately, documents to sign, bills to review..
Back in the seventies he’d spent many nights about town, pub crawling and flirting with strangers- one time even getting pissed enough to dry hump a bar stool (thank God those were the days before smartphones). But since that era of unbridled sexual freedom England mostly kept it in his pants- save for the occasional romp with a city bird or bloke when the need arose. Between then and now, suffice to say he’d become far more accustomed to taking care of himself.
Wait.. There had been that tryst last summer, at the height of Britain’s financial woes. Dressed to the tens in his favorite ribbed leather skinny jeans and a fishnet tee, England just so happened to mosh into a middle-aged Irish tart with a penchant for twinks. She’d taken him out in an alleyway behind the pub, spanked him silly and gone down like her life depended on it. When the deed was done, the dame tucked him back into his pants and winked. “Sorry ‘bout the recessions, laddie. If you’re ever lonely, just give me a call.” She’d slipped a piece of paper in his hand with a sloppily scribbled number and a name- Patricia.
Alas, it wasn’t meant to be. He’d been adjusting his thong in the men’s room when the precious scrap slipped out of his pocket and fluttered into the toilet bowl. England still reminisced to her memory, typically with his dick in hand. To think the Irish could exhibit such fervent fidelity..
“Earth to England!” This came from America, words hardly distinguishable among a chorus of smacking noises.
Everyone’s eyes were trained on him, and England had no choice but to answer, as much as he wanted to melt into a puddle and seep through the cracks of Italy’s tasteless checkerboard tiles.
“I-I suppose it’s been a year, give or take.”
France suddenly looked on the verge of cracking up, and Japan held up a sleeve to hide his expression. Meanwhile, Germany looked genuinely sorry for the western nation’s predicament.
“What is this?” France leapt on the opportunity to torment his rival. “Quelle honte, and here I thought the English were eager to serve their country.”
He smirked, and England fought back the urge to slap him.
“Perhaps that is why we’ve had an influx of British women in recent years, escaping to my orgasmic oasis after their prospects dried up in the Motherland.”
England balked at France’s atrocious word choice before firing back- “Oh yeah?! Tell me then, why do HALF your women need toys to get themselves off?”
The other countries watched them go back at forth like they were in the front rows at a tennis match.
France snorted. “At least they’re getting off at all! Britain is full of prudes like you, so married to their work they’ve stopped seeking out satisfaction! Gone deaf to the universal melody of amour!”
Again with the melodramatic phrasing. England had heard enough, and in an effort to definitively snuff out the argument he blurted- “At least my partners don’t have to fake their orgasms!!”
Silence. France looked genuinely wounded, and for a moment England wondered if he’d gone too far. Luckily, the tension was shattered by their host, who burst into the kitchen with champagne in tow.
“Facciamo festa!” Italy cheered, giving England a perfect opportunity to slip away to the bathroom. A notorious lightweight, he was already feeling tipsy and eager to escape after suffering such humiliation at the hands of his former colony. Relieving the contents of his bladder, the island nation wondering whether or not the phrase “Splendid Isolation” also applied to his southernmost peninsula.
It wasn’t that he couldn’t get any, his abstinence was self-induced!
England was halfway out the bathroom doors, deliberating on whether or not he should return to the festivities when a figure leapt at him from the shadows. Shoving him backwards, the mysterious attacker muffled England before he could so much as protest, prompting him to bite down. Hard.
“Merde!” England knew that voice. The hand dropped from his mouth and he turned to meet the disgruntled violet gaze of France. “Is that any way to greet an old friend?” The other exclaimed, clutching his wound dramatically.
“Sneaking up on me like that? I’d say you were asking for it.” England fumed. He was surprised to see the southern nation again so soon, typically France took longer intervals between quarrels to nurse his bruised ego.
“Do not make that face, my celibate compagnon”. I followed you here to apologize.. and to make an offer, something I’m sure you will not refuse.”
England crossed his arms, silently encouraging France to go on. Luckily his rival was an excellent interpreter of body language .
“Sorry for insinuating that your women are not.. satisfied.” Something about the way France said that last word gave England the impression that he wanted the apology to be mutual. Ha! As if. “It also pains me to hear that you have been suffering from such a terrible case of les boules blues. Big brother would be more than happy to lend you a hand.”
“Ugh, please don’t tell me you’re borrowing slang from America now.” England lamented, when the implications of Frances’ offer hit home. “You mean.. you want to fool around here, in the bathroom..?” The northern country hesitated, even though it was a fairly clean space and he’d made due in plenty less accommodating areas. “W-what if the other countries hear us?“
France snorted. “I am a master of the stealthy lovemaking. If you can keep the volume down I’m sure it will not be an issue.”
France was winning this match, that much was obvious. Still, England wasn’t entirely convinced. “Tell me, what exactly are you getting out of this, frog?”
France faked a hurt expression at the accusation. “Does taking pity on a nation in need not suffice? It is an act of charity.”
England huffed out of his nose, offended at the notion that HE needed charity of all people. However, he didn’t struggle as France easily maneuvered his smaller frame until he had him pinned against the wall, kneeling down as he did so.
”S'il te plaît, let me do this for you. You can be as rough as you like, pull my hair, call me names.” France’s husky voice was accompanied by a languid stroke to the front of England’s trousers. “Now just relax and let me do all the work, mom ami.”
If England had been thinking with his head, maybe he’d of been more wary of an ulterior motive. But right then a different part of his anatomy was doing the thinking, and that part of him very much wanted to be inside France’s mouth.
Blame it on the alcohol , England thought, starting to undo his belt with shaking hands. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, silently thanking the powers that be for single stall restrooms before unbuttoning and unzipping the front of his pants. Relief washed over him as he released his aching member from its constraints.
“Ah, bonjour Angleterre Jr.” The Frenchman cooed, making England cringe.
“Just get on with it.” The younger nation tried to keep his tone light and detached, but the tremor in his thighs betrayed his need.
France placed a hand on England’s hip to steady him, before a wicked grin flashed across his features, and he pursed his lips, blowing gently on England’s tip in a way that was more teasing than titillating.
“Wha- what?!? You’re not supposed to literally blow on it-“ England hissed, grabbing a handful of Frances’s impeccably curled hair.
“Je sais , I was just blowing off the dust.” France smirked.
England rolled his eyes in annoyance, but they rolled in a different way when France enveloped the head of his cock in wet heat.
The Frenchman knew his way around a dick, that much was true. His mouth eagerly explored the intruding appendage, alternative between hard sucks and sloppy, open mouth kisses that had drool running down the side of England’s shaft. The island nation tightened his grip on France’s hair, urging him to go deeper, take more of him.
“Ngh!” England couldn’t help moaning a little when France teased the tip of his tongue into his slit and suckled firmly at the head. Sighs of pleasure provided further stimulation as he worked his way down to the base, gag reflexes be damned. They don’t call his capital the city of love for nothing, England conceded. Whereas he typically gave head to get head, France seemed to be genuinely enjoying himself.
England snapped back to reality when France took the base of his cock in hand and lazily pumped it, skin still slick with his own drool. He released England from his mouth with an exaggerated pop sound, wanting to prolong the encounter and sensing his partner was nearing the edge. Both took a moment to catch their breath, before England began craving the sensation he’d been deprived of and tried guiding his weeping prick back into the inviting warmth of France’s mouth. The stronger country held him at bay even in his horny-fueled desperate state, smugly observing England’s futile efforts.
“Are you satisfied, mon cher?” The smaller country bit his lip hard, hips fidgeting as he fought the urge to grab France’s scalp and slam him back down on his aching member. “You see, what you said earlier.. it may apply to other countries, but I make every encounter special for me and my lover. It is something I pride myself on.”
“D-do I have to answer..?” England panted, chastising himself for his lack of foresight. Leave it to France to gain the upper hand in an argument by edging his opponent.
The older country halted all ministrations and rocked back on the balls of his feet, looking up with a very serious expression. “Oui.” He said simply.
Sexually frustrated and hornier than words could express, England threw his pride to the wind. “FINE! YOU’RE THE BLOODY BEST AT SUCKING COCK, SOMEONE OUGHT TO GIVE YOU THE PURPLE HEART OF FELLATIO!! THERE, WILL YOU PLEASE LET ME FINISH??”
“You’re forgetting something~” France chided smugly. “Or is this all part of an elaborate act? Tell me, my dear Angleterre, are you faking?” He licked his lips at the sight of England’s pretty cock, so flushed and sensitive from all the teasing.
Moaning in desperation and unbridled annoyance, England shook his head frantically.
“NO!” He half-sobbed.
Satisfied at the other country’s mortification, France doubled down, taking England in all the way to the hilt and letting him use his throat as he pleased. Still aggravated by France’s power play, the Englishman had abandoned all reservations, thrusting deep and rough so France scarcely had time to breathe in between. Ahh, just the way I like it. England’s half-lidded eyes drank in the sight of France taking all his inches, sensations building up like firecrackers in his abdomen as he inched closer and closer to release.
France seemed to be loving it just as much, the masochist. He took everything in stride as England fucked his throat, moans bubbling up in his own chest at the gratification of being used. To see his old enemy surrender himself, submit to the carnal instinct he so often suppressed and devolve down to his level- that was plenty enough to justify bruised knees and a sore throat.
Moving his hands from England’s hips to his ass, France kneaded the pale flesh in his palm. The former empire grunted at the sensation, his movement becoming more uncoordinated and erratic as he arched his back into France’s inviting orifice. Finally, England’s body contracted with the force of an orgasm twelve months in the making, muffled gasps escaping from bitten lips. France held firmly onto his ass as he rode it out, drinking the release with such an eagerness England struggled to keep his knees from buckling beneath him. The older country kept licking and sucking until every drop was gone, and England grimaced from the pain of overstimulation. “Please.. stop,” he pleaded, pushing weekly at France’s shoulders.
France obeyed, letting England’s spent cock flop out as he swallowed his mouthful. The smaller country was uncharacteristically mellow post-coitus, stroking and petting France’s flaxen locks as the other tucked him back into his pants. “There, that should last you another year or so.” He winked, patting him on the thigh with the finesse of a brothel veteran. The dry humored country was too blissed-out to respond with one of his trademark witty comebacks.
A sudden knock on the stall had France scrambling to his feet, pulling the still-recovering England in front of himself like a human shield.
“Hallo? Klopf klopf.”
England’s eyes almost burst out of his skull. “It’s Germany!!” He moaned, burying his face in his hands.
“Quick, hit me!” France whispered harshly after a moment of deliberation. England responded with a look of confusion.
“Now why on God’s green earth would I-“
England was interrupted by a sucker punch to the right side of his mouth, causing the fresh bite-marks there to rip open. “Bugger!” He retaliated with a solid blow to France’s nose that had the other country staggering back, hands clutched to his face.
“England, ist that you in there?” Germany sounded confused and a little concerned. “May I please-“
Before he could finish France threw open the door, blood trickling from his left nostril and a crazed expression on his face. “Say a word of this and I’ll make the Treaty of Versailles look like a Hallmark Christmas card.” The Gallic country threatened, grabbing England by the arm and dragging him out the door. Germany’s typically stoney veneer crumbled as he watched them go.
“That was bloody brilliant!” England crowed once they were out of earshot, hands on his knees as he struggled for oxygen. “Now he’ll just think we were settling the score from our earlier scuff-“
France silenced him with a kiss, savoring the coppery taste as he soothed the younger nation’s worried lips with his tongue. “You ought to call me brilliant more often.” France purred, and England couldn’t find it in himself to push his rival away, despite knowing exactly where that mouth had just been.
“So, do you want to rejoin the party or..?” England pulled back slightly, anticipating the answer.
” Non , I can think of much better things to do.” France punctuated this with a rut to England’s leg, showcasing just how aroused he’d gotten from their escapade.
“I’ll phone the nearest hotel.”
LadyJuniper Sun 06 Oct 2024 01:54AM UTC
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Kuromame (Blackbeane) Wed 15 Jan 2025 07:42PM UTC
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