[The combination of that shushing murmur and the sudden, blunt penetration of the crop — Sasuke cannot help the way his back curves, reactive to the ache as unyielding leather drags at sensitive skin, ass stretched to take the handle into his hole without mercy. There's not enough lube to make it an easy slide, so he feels every hard inch of the object as it's forced further, deeper. His jaw throbs in his effort to keep his mouth shut, head down, blood flushed into his face to make cheeks bright pink and overly warm compared to the room's temperature.
He has found this sort of physical pain — sexual pain — is unlike any sort of agony brought by battle. Though his threshold to bear what Cy metes out is high, there's an intimacy to the nature of this practice that sensitizes him, combined with his own tendency to let down his guard with Cy in particular, so he's gasping before that order to take a breath even comes. He feels raw with the debasement of being fucked on the handle of a riding crop, like a plaything, a toy to sit pretty on someone's lap with no choice but to simply take it until it's over.
An obedient inhale follows because he knows better than to disobey in that moment. And then there's no air at all, ears popping for the sudden shift in pressure, a pocket of lack around his head that causes him to be too-aware of the frantic drum of his own pulse. Muscles are rigid, holding himself in the compromising position until the strain becomes too much — and he feels the dull drag of the handle push as deep as his body can permit, not enough pressure on his prostate but still making his cock drool precome in a humiliating mess between his legs, staining Cy's slacks.
He fights, of course. What else would a man in his state do? His body thrashes, trying to get his knees out from beneath Cy's heavy leg, using his right hand to grab the arm of the chair in an attempt to pivot his weight, to roll off and onto the ground, even if it means he might land directly on the cruel humbler encasing his balls.]
🤡 they are so (not) normal!!!!!
He has found this sort of physical pain — sexual pain — is unlike any sort of agony brought by battle. Though his threshold to bear what Cy metes out is high, there's an intimacy to the nature of this practice that sensitizes him, combined with his own tendency to let down his guard with Cy in particular, so he's gasping before that order to take a breath even comes. He feels raw with the debasement of being fucked on the handle of a riding crop, like a plaything, a toy to sit pretty on someone's lap with no choice but to simply take it until it's over.
An obedient inhale follows because he knows better than to disobey in that moment. And then there's no air at all, ears popping for the sudden shift in pressure, a pocket of lack around his head that causes him to be too-aware of the frantic drum of his own pulse. Muscles are rigid, holding himself in the compromising position until the strain becomes too much — and he feels the dull drag of the handle push as deep as his body can permit, not enough pressure on his prostate but still making his cock drool precome in a humiliating mess between his legs, staining Cy's slacks.
He fights, of course. What else would a man in his state do? His body thrashes, trying to get his knees out from beneath Cy's heavy leg, using his right hand to grab the arm of the chair in an attempt to pivot his weight, to roll off and onto the ground, even if it means he might land directly on the cruel humbler encasing his balls.]