[The heat of the wax is unrelenting. It does not ease as more is applied in that glossy smear, painted across his skin in some new language he can't grasp, building to a steady sunburn-blister of discomfort. Cy knows how to hurt him to the brink of his tolerance — and it is like that now, rigid handle of the brush reminding him of how full he is, how stretched by those two unyielding implements, jags of pain driven up his spine when it is purposefully shifted inside of him. The handle slides in and out, chafing against the tender ring of his hole, mixed into the sensation of cooling wax.
His whimper is smothered, swallowed, but he's made to relax his jaw in order to speak and he can feel where both saliva and tears have left damp marks on the sheet against his face.]
I'm... [Laid low in that pain, his voice sounds faraway to his own ears — dreamy, slurred and wet, breath staggered in irregular hiccups and sobs.] I'm yours. No one else will touch me.
no subject
His whimper is smothered, swallowed, but he's made to relax his jaw in order to speak and he can feel where both saliva and tears have left damp marks on the sheet against his face.]
I'm... [Laid low in that pain, his voice sounds faraway to his own ears — dreamy, slurred and wet, breath staggered in irregular hiccups and sobs.] I'm yours. No one else will touch me.