The thought echoes in time with his thundering heart, drowning gasps sputtered rhythmically without end. Too much, and it's dazed delight, not a cry to stop. Too much too much too much, he's so far out of his depth, he's so overwhelmed, he's so turned on he thinks he's going to lose his mind, and it doesn't stop.
Too much: the endlessly sadistic rhythm of Astarion's cock as it violates his throat, plumbing into depths as-yet untouched; the student forcibly teaching his gagging tutor just what it is to truly take someone else. Again and again he fucks Fenris' mouth with sadistic cruelty, his hips pumping with a bouncing rut that ensures whatever desperate breaths of air Fenris manages to inhale are incidental, not planned. Desperately he writhes beneath him, his eyes filling with tears each time the sound of gagging fills the air, his body instinctively fights against what Fenris knows to be inevitable— and yet still his lips seal tight around the swell of his prick, suctioning pressure pulling at his cock that must be maddening each time Astarion rears back. Fenris moans so eagerly in those scarce seconds when Astarion's cock draws back, drool and precome dripping down his chin as he tries to swallow him back down— greedy to the core for every drop of precome he can milk out of his master.
Too much: a hot tongue pressing wickedly against his slit even as the slick suckle of Astarion's lips coaxes his orgasm forward with every damning pulse— and Fenris sees white. His cock surges as it never has before, and every thundering wave feels more intense than the last, drawn out and wracking through his thrashing body; his baying is muffled, smothered, cut short with an undignified thrust as Astarion's cock sinks deeper.
Too much— and it is not the lesser of the three, but the one he expects the least: the sudden pump of two spit-slick fingers thrusting into him, forcing him open wide in one burning movement. Scissoring and curling and fucking him, uncaring for how he writhes, uncaring that every wicked curl leaves Fenris baying around the swell of his cock— too much, and overstimulation and brutal pleasure mount, blinding him, deafening him, burning him from the inside out—
And he returns the favor. As bitter droplets of pearl drool across Astarion's tongue, Fenris fumbles to coat his fingers, swiping them through the frothing rivulets of precome and spit that drip down his chin. His cock is swelling again, half-stiff in the snarling grasp of Astarion's lips, and make no mistake: Fenris mewls as he blindly slips his hand between his cheeks. Two fingers rub clumsily against his hole, a split-second warning before Fenris pushes them forward so hungrily.
He's so tight.
So tight, so hot, so tempting— and make no mistake, for Fenris has lost. He has lost so badly that he does not even remember there's a game going on, not anymore. He's a creature of pure sensation right now, pleasure and pain twining together and tangling within him, wracking through him, leaving him little more than overeager slut so needy for more. His wrist snaps forward rapidly, two fingers buried to the knuckle in tight heat as he fucks his master. You won, scissoring wide and curling forward, trembling as he tries to pleasure his master as best he can. You won, his throat swallowing desperately, his eyes wet with tears, so desperately hungry for that final moment of claiming. Spill in me, claim me as yours, take me, all of him such a submissive little mess.]
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The thought echoes in time with his thundering heart, drowning gasps sputtered rhythmically without end. Too much, and it's dazed delight, not a cry to stop. Too much too much too much, he's so far out of his depth, he's so overwhelmed, he's so turned on he thinks he's going to lose his mind, and it doesn't stop.
Too much: the endlessly sadistic rhythm of Astarion's cock as it violates his throat, plumbing into depths as-yet untouched; the student forcibly teaching his gagging tutor just what it is to truly take someone else. Again and again he fucks Fenris' mouth with sadistic cruelty, his hips pumping with a bouncing rut that ensures whatever desperate breaths of air Fenris manages to inhale are incidental, not planned. Desperately he writhes beneath him, his eyes filling with tears each time the sound of gagging fills the air, his body instinctively fights against what Fenris knows to be inevitable— and yet still his lips seal tight around the swell of his prick, suctioning pressure pulling at his cock that must be maddening each time Astarion rears back. Fenris moans so eagerly in those scarce seconds when Astarion's cock draws back, drool and precome dripping down his chin as he tries to swallow him back down— greedy to the core for every drop of precome he can milk out of his master.
Too much: a hot tongue pressing wickedly against his slit even as the slick suckle of Astarion's lips coaxes his orgasm forward with every damning pulse— and Fenris sees white. His cock surges as it never has before, and every thundering wave feels more intense than the last, drawn out and wracking through his thrashing body; his baying is muffled, smothered, cut short with an undignified thrust as Astarion's cock sinks deeper.
Too much— and it is not the lesser of the three, but the one he expects the least: the sudden pump of two spit-slick fingers thrusting into him, forcing him open wide in one burning movement. Scissoring and curling and fucking him, uncaring for how he writhes, uncaring that every wicked curl leaves Fenris baying around the swell of his cock— too much, and overstimulation and brutal pleasure mount, blinding him, deafening him, burning him from the inside out—
And he returns the favor. As bitter droplets of pearl drool across Astarion's tongue, Fenris fumbles to coat his fingers, swiping them through the frothing rivulets of precome and spit that drip down his chin. His cock is swelling again, half-stiff in the snarling grasp of Astarion's lips, and make no mistake: Fenris mewls as he blindly slips his hand between his cheeks. Two fingers rub clumsily against his hole, a split-second warning before Fenris pushes them forward so hungrily.
He's so tight.
So tight, so hot, so tempting— and make no mistake, for Fenris has lost. He has lost so badly that he does not even remember there's a game going on, not anymore. He's a creature of pure sensation right now, pleasure and pain twining together and tangling within him, wracking through him, leaving him little more than overeager slut so needy for more. His wrist snaps forward rapidly, two fingers buried to the knuckle in tight heat as he fucks his master. You won, scissoring wide and curling forward, trembling as he tries to pleasure his master as best he can. You won, his throat swallowing desperately, his eyes wet with tears, so desperately hungry for that final moment of claiming. Spill in me, claim me as yours, take me, all of him such a submissive little mess.]