[What noises he treats him to, Mettaton thinks. They're by no means intentional, he understands, but they arouse him nonetheless. A never-ending cycle of feedback where one of them expresses in complete transparency their desires, the other responds, the other reacts, and the other reacts with sympathetic pleasure... So on. Even as he rationalizes this effect he barely catches the tail end of his own moan, the way it vibrates against Emet-Selch's filling cock.
He tests its size in his mouth, prods its firm texture with his tongue, and remembers how this felt inside of his body. Pounding himself against him, a massage he could lose himself to that rubbed with each curve of his back and each rock of his hips, a deep, filling stroke. The head, so close to the back of his throat, is so effectively arousing to him both to feel and to consider, pressing against the back of his tongue. The echo of its texture against his body is alluring, that firm rhythm found simply by sitting on his cock and rocking his hips to his liking. Mettaton imagines that tantalizing image that he couldn't see of himself, but the idea of being able to see his arousal disappearing into his body... And the same is true for his mouth. He could bob up and down upon his length, leave behind slick saliva that Emet-Selch would be forced to see upon his arousal.
Thinking about it all almost has him choking on drool, nowhere for it to go with the limited occupancy of his mouth. Mettaton exhales deeply and slides forward, closing his eyes as he nudges the sloped glans into his throat, fighting his body's need to tense as he does so. If he could do this as a robot, surely he could do this as a human. (Surely indeed: Mettaton did not shift with perfection, deciding that a gag reflex would be fun, but not entirely desirable. He corrected it, like he corrected fingers.)
It's not an arrangement he can maintain so readily in this body. Mettaton sees white with the pressure, a broken moan pressing for release from his throat but catching, throat clenching down, tightening around the Ascian's head instead. Mettaton pulls back, gasping, his lips sliding against the tip of Emet-Selch's cock as he takes a moment to recover. But Mettaton's eager and wanting, unapologetically, and he takes the head of his cock back into his mouth quickly with a short, soft moan, rubbing at the tip with a swirl of his tongue.
The robot builds up toward his attempt to deep throat this time, slowly dipping lower with short, slow bobs, thinking that his body just needs to warm up to the sensation. For all that they're deeply impassioned, Mettaton reassures himself easily with the thought that Emet-Selch is his beloved, understands what Mettaton's human limits should be, and ultimately, he can trust him with his all. This is effective, and the idol's tongue flattens obediently as he pleasantly slides down on his lover's cock. His shoulders relax and he sighs, shifting down as the glans pops into his throat.
Mettaton hums in his pleasure this time, giving him a firm suck in his mouth as his throat closes down, but not enough to gag. It doesn't even bother him in the moment when he finds that he can't breathe, and he begins to rhythmically bob into short dips, cock pressing into the back of his throat with each. He wonders if he could lick his balls like this, but finds he can't quite get the opportunity to do it in his quick-pulsed passion, the neediness his body has for breath upon each receding pump. But the sensation of the tip of his erection against his tongue, against the back of his mouth, has Mettaton trembling: his fingers knead into thighs and his body buries itself with more dedication between his legs, fantasizing over the way he must appear to the Ascian, his lips wrapped nearly to the base of his cock.
A hand retreats from his thighs to fondle his balls, wanting to feel all of his lover at once. He wishes he could kiss him, suck bruises into his neck, feel his length rubbing into him, or pressing into his abdomen the way he might if it were Mettaton fucking him. Mettaton dizzies himself with the notion, loving every idea, loving each manner of contact he could dream of with his Bonded. Each is another claim of intimacy with him, and the hand he has left around his thigh squeezes affectionately.]
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He tests its size in his mouth, prods its firm texture with his tongue, and remembers how this felt inside of his body. Pounding himself against him, a massage he could lose himself to that rubbed with each curve of his back and each rock of his hips, a deep, filling stroke. The head, so close to the back of his throat, is so effectively arousing to him both to feel and to consider, pressing against the back of his tongue. The echo of its texture against his body is alluring, that firm rhythm found simply by sitting on his cock and rocking his hips to his liking. Mettaton imagines that tantalizing image that he couldn't see of himself, but the idea of being able to see his arousal disappearing into his body... And the same is true for his mouth. He could bob up and down upon his length, leave behind slick saliva that Emet-Selch would be forced to see upon his arousal.
Thinking about it all almost has him choking on drool, nowhere for it to go with the limited occupancy of his mouth. Mettaton exhales deeply and slides forward, closing his eyes as he nudges the sloped glans into his throat, fighting his body's need to tense as he does so. If he could do this as a robot, surely he could do this as a human. (Surely indeed: Mettaton did not shift with perfection, deciding that a gag reflex would be fun, but not entirely desirable. He corrected it, like he corrected fingers.)
It's not an arrangement he can maintain so readily in this body. Mettaton sees white with the pressure, a broken moan pressing for release from his throat but catching, throat clenching down, tightening around the Ascian's head instead. Mettaton pulls back, gasping, his lips sliding against the tip of Emet-Selch's cock as he takes a moment to recover. But Mettaton's eager and wanting, unapologetically, and he takes the head of his cock back into his mouth quickly with a short, soft moan, rubbing at the tip with a swirl of his tongue.
The robot builds up toward his attempt to deep throat this time, slowly dipping lower with short, slow bobs, thinking that his body just needs to warm up to the sensation. For all that they're deeply impassioned, Mettaton reassures himself easily with the thought that Emet-Selch is his beloved, understands what Mettaton's human limits should be, and ultimately, he can trust him with his all. This is effective, and the idol's tongue flattens obediently as he pleasantly slides down on his lover's cock. His shoulders relax and he sighs, shifting down as the glans pops into his throat.
Mettaton hums in his pleasure this time, giving him a firm suck in his mouth as his throat closes down, but not enough to gag. It doesn't even bother him in the moment when he finds that he can't breathe, and he begins to rhythmically bob into short dips, cock pressing into the back of his throat with each. He wonders if he could lick his balls like this, but finds he can't quite get the opportunity to do it in his quick-pulsed passion, the neediness his body has for breath upon each receding pump. But the sensation of the tip of his erection against his tongue, against the back of his mouth, has Mettaton trembling: his fingers knead into thighs and his body buries itself with more dedication between his legs, fantasizing over the way he must appear to the Ascian, his lips wrapped nearly to the base of his cock.
A hand retreats from his thighs to fondle his balls, wanting to feel all of his lover at once. He wishes he could kiss him, suck bruises into his neck, feel his length rubbing into him, or pressing into his abdomen the way he might if it were Mettaton fucking him. Mettaton dizzies himself with the notion, loving every idea, loving each manner of contact he could dream of with his Bonded. Each is another claim of intimacy with him, and the hand he has left around his thigh squeezes affectionately.]