[The brush is more rigid than anything he's taken, forcing the yield of tender flesh at his hole until it's fitted snugly up against the plug — and then that, too, is nudged back into place with a jostling that sparks nerves up his spine. Pain is an electric sensation; the stretch is wide around both objects, and he can feel muscle throbbing, a deep pulse in time with his heart. They prepared enough that there is no tearing and no threat of permanent damage to his body, but the illusion of it is enough. The debasement. Treated like a toy, being played with under someone else's whim.
And his pure, aching desire for all of it hidden underneath the cry of pain he muffles against the sheet. Trying to keep quiet, to not be heard as he struggles — more furtively to enliven the burn where his ass is pried open. He wants to feel the wooden handle rub up against thicker silicone.]
It hurts... [falls out of his mouth, whining, helpless.] I'm not. You're wrong. It's your fault — that I'm like this.
[There's truth in the shell of that blame. No one else makes him feel this way, ready to be split open and fucked as eagerly as a slut.]
no subject
And his pure, aching desire for all of it hidden underneath the cry of pain he muffles against the sheet. Trying to keep quiet, to not be heard as he struggles — more furtively to enliven the burn where his ass is pried open. He wants to feel the wooden handle rub up against thicker silicone.]
It hurts... [falls out of his mouth, whining, helpless.] I'm not. You're wrong. It's your fault — that I'm like this.
[There's truth in the shell of that blame. No one else makes him feel this way, ready to be split open and fucked as eagerly as a slut.]