[He feels that hand slip low, under his belly, forcing him to take the slide of silicone until it's fitted inside of him to that deep extent — clenching his teeth around a sound of discomfort for the unprepared stretch. The plug he was wearing before feels like it did nothing at all, for how full he is now. Those cooing praises don't help, set on the backdrop of a certain cruelty that is an intoxicant in the context of the scene.
Part of Sasuke understands that the running narration of what comes next is partly practical, so that the illusion can shift to accommodate Cy's needs of it — but that second piece, the one that is clearly meant to keep him on the seat of anticipation, cuts his composure like a hot knife. Knowing what will happen beforehand makes him more sensitive to every torment, jolting when fingers abruptly push into his slippery cunt, swallowing another pitiful noise as he sees Cy slick his cock from the corner of his eyes.
Cy's presence, while he's affixed by restraints like this, is indomitable. Overwhelming. The man towers over him, radiating authority in a way that is impossible not to bend beneath. When that thumb pries his mouth open he bares his teeth — but he doesn't bite. Like he's learned. A red tongue cleans off his own slick arousal from the man's cock, leaving it shiny with spit. Then his throat is pushed into — he can't help the higher sound of protest that never makes it past his lips, stuffed down with the intrusion of Cy's dick, a yank at the hooked collar around his neck and tied-up hair taking him nowhere fast.
That possessiveness should not sound so good, but for the role he's playing it is like music, because this is all he is. He belongs to this man. He has been molded by these hands, made into a woman, subjugated to a position where his body is a vessel to give pleasure, accept pain, and produce children. Nothing else.]
no subject
Part of Sasuke understands that the running narration of what comes next is partly practical, so that the illusion can shift to accommodate Cy's needs of it — but that second piece, the one that is clearly meant to keep him on the seat of anticipation, cuts his composure like a hot knife. Knowing what will happen beforehand makes him more sensitive to every torment, jolting when fingers abruptly push into his slippery cunt, swallowing another pitiful noise as he sees Cy slick his cock from the corner of his eyes.
Cy's presence, while he's affixed by restraints like this, is indomitable. Overwhelming. The man towers over him, radiating authority in a way that is impossible not to bend beneath. When that thumb pries his mouth open he bares his teeth — but he doesn't bite. Like he's learned. A red tongue cleans off his own slick arousal from the man's cock, leaving it shiny with spit. Then his throat is pushed into — he can't help the higher sound of protest that never makes it past his lips, stuffed down with the intrusion of Cy's dick, a yank at the hooked collar around his neck and tied-up hair taking him nowhere fast.
That possessiveness should not sound so good, but for the role he's playing it is like music, because this is all he is. He belongs to this man. He has been molded by these hands, made into a woman, subjugated to a position where his body is a vessel to give pleasure, accept pain, and produce children. Nothing else.]