He doesn't force him to go fast. He sets the depth, but he lets Tom set the pace, letting him take the time he needs to get used to it. At some point he might want to make him gag, make his eyes stream tears, humiliate him like that. But he's starting light, now, and they aren't quite there yet.

"Good," he murmurs, his head falling loosely back again, and with the pleasure he feels that deeper rush of pride. In Hobbes. In what he can do. It, and everything else, pushes him closer, until it's all he can do to keep his hips still, and he's pulling in shallow breath through his parted lips.