[At the carefully controlled strength Cy demonstrates, that glimmer of just enough to make the point, Sasuke is dizzy with want. It almost shocks him, even aware as he is of those deeper grooves of attraction cut into him now by his history, his breadth of experience, his sense of self. Trauma. That is the word Cy has used to describe it, raw and violent-sounding, real. In the moment it helps to alleviate any lick of shame he would have felt to be put into this submissive position. He's fought so desperately against loss his entire life, unwilling to be brought to his knees by anyone on the battle, unwilling to be reined, unwilling to be hurt. So it's a relief, finally, to fight and struggle and know he won't win. He doesn't have to win. He's asked for this. There's nothing at stake but his body, which he's given over to trusted, gentle hands.
In the illusion of the act, now, they aren't gentle. Sasuke imagines what it would be like to truly fight back against Cy — but the urge is withheld. Bruises are pressed to aching life, naked skin dented by hard fingers, earning another gasp of breath against the bedsheets. Cy tells him he's going to get fucked dry and it's how he imagines it, as if he has been freshly rolled onto his stomach, clothes ripped off, unprepared to take a cock. The animal urgency of dominance flows hot in him; where he's pinned uncomfortably facedown, he can feel his dick throb to pulse of blood.
Arm yanked into a useless position, left leg immobilized, shoulder burning at an angle — fear is another factor safely indulged. His hand clenches around the little silver bell, its metal shape dug into his palm.
The slap of a hand resounds in the room, obscenely loud. He can feel the sting where he's already been hit not long ago. Tensed hamstrings twitch, then clench, so that when Cy drags the line of his dick against the crease of an ass, he'll find the muscles there tightly held. The unintelligible French torches straight through him.]
Don't. [Sasuke is not someone who begs easily, nor pleads for mercy, so the words emerge as if dragged out at great cost. Quiet, low, gritty with humiliation. The stroke across the rim of his hole renews a useless struggle until the effort has him panting, warm with a fine prickle of sweat.] Stop.
no subject
In the illusion of the act, now, they aren't gentle. Sasuke imagines what it would be like to truly fight back against Cy — but the urge is withheld. Bruises are pressed to aching life, naked skin dented by hard fingers, earning another gasp of breath against the bedsheets. Cy tells him he's going to get fucked dry and it's how he imagines it, as if he has been freshly rolled onto his stomach, clothes ripped off, unprepared to take a cock. The animal urgency of dominance flows hot in him; where he's pinned uncomfortably facedown, he can feel his dick throb to pulse of blood.
Arm yanked into a useless position, left leg immobilized, shoulder burning at an angle — fear is another factor safely indulged. His hand clenches around the little silver bell, its metal shape dug into his palm.
The slap of a hand resounds in the room, obscenely loud. He can feel the sting where he's already been hit not long ago. Tensed hamstrings twitch, then clench, so that when Cy drags the line of his dick against the crease of an ass, he'll find the muscles there tightly held. The unintelligible French torches straight through him.]
Don't. [Sasuke is not someone who begs easily, nor pleads for mercy, so the words emerge as if dragged out at great cost. Quiet, low, gritty with humiliation. The stroke across the rim of his hole renews a useless struggle until the effort has him panting, warm with a fine prickle of sweat.] Stop.