[The solution to not being able to see himself at work in all his glory is surely more strategically placed mirrors. Or a recording... somehow.
The rub of his tip against the back of the idol's throat has Emet-Selch tense up and stay tensed, swallowing sympathetically as though it were his throat being filled, being stretched so perfectly around the shape of him. He was meant to occupy that space, he thought, having more of a right to it than air; why else would it feel like this, why would Mettaton's throat be able to squeeze him like this? When his Bonded first pulls back from him, gasping, the Ascian unconsciously echoes the sound, leaning over enough for a brief nuzzle at the top of Mettaton's head. Less for reassurance or even encouragement, but struck with appreciation above all, of everything he was doing, of everything that he was to him. A fondness that he was desperate to express.
And such faith feels immediately rewarded by the enthusiasm Mettaton shows in returning to his cock with licks and moan.
His own breath hesitates as he watches his lover slowly lower himself onto his length, watches his cock disappear into him by degrees. In a vague, curious sort of way, Emet-Selch had wondered how Mettaton would fare in his attempts to stuff more of his length into his mouth. This transformed self with all its benefits was also a body that required things like air to survive, that could suffocate, that could choke... though the latter response doesn't seem to be much of an issue, the Ascian notes with both surprise and pleasure. While he didn't particularly want Mettaton to start gagging on his erection, he had entirely assumed his Bonded would try to fit an excessive amount of it in his throat regardless. That the result seemed to be a mere deprivation of oxygen was satisfactory, and he wasn't exactly in the state of mind to think about how Mettaton had managed it.
Not that he would've felt disappointed even if he had kept his focus to a more reasonable portion of his length, or even just the glans. Mettaton's clear enjoyment in what he was doing would've been enough on its own to sustain him.
But here Mettaton was, engulfing him in near-entirety, his throat dragging and sucking over his cock at regular intervals, surrounding him in that long-coveted heat. A sensation related but so different from when his lover had been riding him earlier, when he'd felt his length rubbing him so deeply, stroking them both. And the way he had looked in his ecstasy, hips rocking against him as their bodies were joined. And now: the glimpses Emet-Selch could get of his slick length being worked over keep his breath ragged and his cries soft, pleading. From the rhythmic dips of his head, to the grips of his hands, every movement Mettaton made broke him that little bit more. He was an absolute wreck, and he knew it, but he didn't care; he also knew climax was closing in rapidly, inescapable, and there was just holding it off for as long as he could.
Everything overwhelmed; no part of him felt neglected. He was bitten open and marked, from lip to thigh, his erection sucked and balls caressed. And emotionally, he was... cared for. Looked after and loved, trusted and attended to. That was the part that destroyed him the most.
So he stroked his face and hair and gasped and moaned and pleaded with him, not even for release, but not to leave. It always returned to that.]
no subject
The rub of his tip against the back of the idol's throat has Emet-Selch tense up and stay tensed, swallowing sympathetically as though it were his throat being filled, being stretched so perfectly around the shape of him. He was meant to occupy that space, he thought, having more of a right to it than air; why else would it feel like this, why would Mettaton's throat be able to squeeze him like this? When his Bonded first pulls back from him, gasping, the Ascian unconsciously echoes the sound, leaning over enough for a brief nuzzle at the top of Mettaton's head. Less for reassurance or even encouragement, but struck with appreciation above all, of everything he was doing, of everything that he was to him. A fondness that he was desperate to express.
And such faith feels immediately rewarded by the enthusiasm Mettaton shows in returning to his cock with licks and moan.
His own breath hesitates as he watches his lover slowly lower himself onto his length, watches his cock disappear into him by degrees. In a vague, curious sort of way, Emet-Selch had wondered how Mettaton would fare in his attempts to stuff more of his length into his mouth. This transformed self with all its benefits was also a body that required things like air to survive, that could suffocate, that could choke... though the latter response doesn't seem to be much of an issue, the Ascian notes with both surprise and pleasure. While he didn't particularly want Mettaton to start gagging on his erection, he had entirely assumed his Bonded would try to fit an excessive amount of it in his throat regardless. That the result seemed to be a mere deprivation of oxygen was satisfactory, and he wasn't exactly in the state of mind to think about how Mettaton had managed it.
Not that he would've felt disappointed even if he had kept his focus to a more reasonable portion of his length, or even just the glans. Mettaton's clear enjoyment in what he was doing would've been enough on its own to sustain him.
But here Mettaton was, engulfing him in near-entirety, his throat dragging and sucking over his cock at regular intervals, surrounding him in that long-coveted heat. A sensation related but so different from when his lover had been riding him earlier, when he'd felt his length rubbing him so deeply, stroking them both. And the way he had looked in his ecstasy, hips rocking against him as their bodies were joined. And now: the glimpses Emet-Selch could get of his slick length being worked over keep his breath ragged and his cries soft, pleading. From the rhythmic dips of his head, to the grips of his hands, every movement Mettaton made broke him that little bit more. He was an absolute wreck, and he knew it, but he didn't care; he also knew climax was closing in rapidly, inescapable, and there was just holding it off for as long as he could.
Everything overwhelmed; no part of him felt neglected. He was bitten open and marked, from lip to thigh, his erection sucked and balls caressed. And emotionally, he was... cared for. Looked after and loved, trusted and attended to. That was the part that destroyed him the most.
So he stroked his face and hair and gasped and moaned and pleaded with him, not even for release, but not to leave. It always returned to that.]