[The illusion of shame is a bright blaze inside of him when he's dragged into this new position, unable to lift his face, forced head-down against the evidence of his own release where it has spilled onto the sheets in a dark, wet stain. He hears the chime; there's a hitching sob of breath, letting himself cry but trying to keep it subtle, which is not that difficult in practice because it is what he would have done if this was real.
It's not real, but it's close enough — wet lips parting to lap up the pool of come where it dirties the sheet, face hot with his own exhalations so close to the bed. This time he doesn't struggle. Fear is the motivator, or so he pretends, taking on that role of the bent and the broken as he cleans the mess up with his mouth.
His ass is burning from the abuse of the brush. When he's finished, he puts his forehead down against the mattress as if to rest — to hide his face and the humiliation awash in his expression. Only when he hears those slick sounds does he try to lift his head.]
What are you doing? [A low whisper, shaky.] ... Isn't this enough?
no subject
It's not real, but it's close enough — wet lips parting to lap up the pool of come where it dirties the sheet, face hot with his own exhalations so close to the bed. This time he doesn't struggle. Fear is the motivator, or so he pretends, taking on that role of the bent and the broken as he cleans the mess up with his mouth.
His ass is burning from the abuse of the brush. When he's finished, he puts his forehead down against the mattress as if to rest — to hide his face and the humiliation awash in his expression. Only when he hears those slick sounds does he try to lift his head.]
What are you doing? [A low whisper, shaky.] ... Isn't this enough?