[It is another testament to the work they've done, that he can bear to look at himself in this state at all — a peering through Cy's perspective at the indecency, bent forward on the bed, pulled to its edge so his feet hang off, toes curled, muscular thighs flexed to maintain the fold of that position. He has privacy to smother his face against the sheets in the wake of his own humiliation as well as a dark, aching arousal to hear the description Cy paints of the display. And obediently, too, he keeps it in his mind where it will sit in a reservoir of memory made permanent by the work of the Sharingan.
Only for Cy. So he'll forever know the state Cy has reduced him to, and this moment will never be lost.
Then he's touched and some of that composure fractures, moan muffled against the bed. His lower back strains with the deepened arch, thighs forced wider, aware of how bare and vulnerable he is between his legs when Cy strokes at his cunt and finds it slickly wet, folds slippery, radiating heat from that internal temperature of his body. The only resistance that meets the new intrusion is at the rim of his hole, a hitch of tightness before those knuckles push in on an effortless slide.]
... I remember. [A shy whisper.] I've thought about it since then.
[A confused attraction to the control Cy had wielded over such a necessary bodily function. He's surprised Cy revisits it here, but the effect is immediate — he squirms beneath the pressure of that hand low on his belly with nowhere to go, whining at the anticipation of what Cy seems to suggest. It takes no time at all of the glass to appear in that raised hand, full of crystal-clear water and beaded with condensation.]
no subject
Only for Cy. So he'll forever know the state Cy has reduced him to, and this moment will never be lost.
Then he's touched and some of that composure fractures, moan muffled against the bed. His lower back strains with the deepened arch, thighs forced wider, aware of how bare and vulnerable he is between his legs when Cy strokes at his cunt and finds it slickly wet, folds slippery, radiating heat from that internal temperature of his body. The only resistance that meets the new intrusion is at the rim of his hole, a hitch of tightness before those knuckles push in on an effortless slide.]
... I remember. [A shy whisper.] I've thought about it since then.
[A confused attraction to the control Cy had wielded over such a necessary bodily function. He's surprised Cy revisits it here, but the effect is immediate — he squirms beneath the pressure of that hand low on his belly with nowhere to go, whining at the anticipation of what Cy seems to suggest. It takes no time at all of the glass to appear in that raised hand, full of crystal-clear water and beaded with condensation.]