[The hardest part of it all, really, is the fact that when the machine is turned up like this, it makes it impossible to ignore the reality that he is, in fact, naked and strapped down and collared and getting fucked.
There is no ignoring it. There is no drifting away on darkness and silence. There's a cock pistoning into him at a pace that perhaps Adrian could match — but wouldn't — and that otherwise no human would be able to maintain, at least not for long. It sinks deep and drags along his flesh and it never falters, it never tires, it never ceases in its perfect relentless machinations, and he can't not feel every inch of it, every time, with abandon.
It's horrible. It's pleasurable. It's inevitable, which is really what fucks him up so bad about it, the machine doesn't laugh or care or toy or tease, the machine has one job and that job is to fuck him senseless until someone else decides to make it stop.
And it keeps him in the moment, pinning him there with every thrust. It forces him to think about the sweat on his brow and the wet on his lips and the air on his bared spine, the ache in his legs and the bite of the collar and Kakyoin's eyes burning holes into him, watching this intimate, obscene thing happen to him when he has no escape from being aware of the observation.
He's babbling, he realizes belatedly. Words are pouring from his mouth, wailing and begging in every language he knows, Kakyoin's name, Adrian, consonants and vowels and nonsensical sounds, choking breaths, messy sobs.
His heart is pounding. He can barely get a breath in before the machine fucks it right back out of him. And it's so hard and so hot and such intensely blinding pleasure that his other emotions start to drag lose with it, shame and humiliation and stress and upset and he's shaking his head, he's rattling his collar from it, he must look so stupid and so embarrassing and it won't even let him feel it because his body has no space for anything but the sheer physical arousal of having his body manipulated so.
His mind is in one place. His body feels separate, somehow. His body is the source of all of his choking keening pleasure and he's going out of his mind.
Up and up and up it takes him, heart pounding, eyes wet, and he's so hard it hurts and he's coiled so tight he's going to snap, and Hierophant must know it because Hierophant is inside him still, writhing inside him, Kakyoin inside him, inside him and with a bone-shattering cry he's —
There's no coming back from this one. He never even got close to the edge; he careened over it in a leap from twenty feet away.
His climax takes him hard, as hard as the machine's relentless pace, and the world behind his eyes goes red and red and supernova white as his whole body quakes with it, and he drops hard into an abyss of tempestuous sensation, wrung out and falling head over heels with nothing at all left to catch him.]
no subject
There is no ignoring it. There is no drifting away on darkness and silence. There's a cock pistoning into him at a pace that perhaps Adrian could match — but wouldn't — and that otherwise no human would be able to maintain, at least not for long. It sinks deep and drags along his flesh and it never falters, it never tires, it never ceases in its perfect relentless machinations, and he can't not feel every inch of it, every time, with abandon.
It's horrible. It's pleasurable. It's inevitable, which is really what fucks him up so bad about it, the machine doesn't laugh or care or toy or tease, the machine has one job and that job is to fuck him senseless until someone else decides to make it stop.
And it keeps him in the moment, pinning him there with every thrust. It forces him to think about the sweat on his brow and the wet on his lips and the air on his bared spine, the ache in his legs and the bite of the collar and Kakyoin's eyes burning holes into him, watching this intimate, obscene thing happen to him when he has no escape from being aware of the observation.
He's babbling, he realizes belatedly. Words are pouring from his mouth, wailing and begging in every language he knows, Kakyoin's name, Adrian, consonants and vowels and nonsensical sounds, choking breaths, messy sobs.
His heart is pounding. He can barely get a breath in before the machine fucks it right back out of him. And it's so hard and so hot and such intensely blinding pleasure that his other emotions start to drag lose with it, shame and humiliation and stress and upset and he's shaking his head, he's rattling his collar from it, he must look so stupid and so embarrassing and it won't even let him feel it because his body has no space for anything but the sheer physical arousal of having his body manipulated so.
His mind is in one place. His body feels separate, somehow. His body is the source of all of his choking keening pleasure and he's going out of his mind.
Up and up and up it takes him, heart pounding, eyes wet, and he's so hard it hurts and he's coiled so tight he's going to snap, and Hierophant must know it because Hierophant is inside him still, writhing inside him, Kakyoin inside him, inside him and with a bone-shattering cry he's —
There's no coming back from this one. He never even got close to the edge; he careened over it in a leap from twenty feet away.
His climax takes him hard, as hard as the machine's relentless pace, and the world behind his eyes goes red and red and supernova white as his whole body quakes with it, and he drops hard into an abyss of tempestuous sensation, wrung out and falling head over heels with nothing at all left to catch him.]