[The feeling of adoration through their Bond tides Mettaton's monstrous need for validation over, setting him panting and still stuttering through a constant smile. His pleasure is searing hot, Emet-Selch's preference for deepthroating him congenial, as the robot's finding that his pleasure's only reflected back upon him, endless in their mutual adoration for it. All of that love he feels is so simple and pure, a love free of thought or reservation. If Emet-Selch ever sought to devote himself, Mettaton in this moment would take as much devotion as the Ascian would offer him and bask in it. But he didn't need jewelry to do that. He would always accept his feelings. If his Bonded found solace in devotion, he would give him someone to satisfy in himself. He is, after all, endlessly needy, endlessly worth serving, and with so much appreciation to give for his lover's efforts in particular. Emet-Selch always satisfies.
The attempts for air on the part of his spasming throat clenches and pulls at Mettaton's erection, and atop the swallowing, Mettaton's beside himself and near blind by the pleasure of it. Emet-Selch's commitment to their pleasure pays off in that way. His hips only pull back just enough to drag the glans along the confines of his throat, reluctant to tug his cock from the heat of Emet-Selch's body when he feels so good. These feral-leaning instincts tell him to fuck Emet-Selch completely, to inundate him totally, to fill him so excessively with his come and his cock and to make swollen his throat in a sudden burst of release, all so that he could do it all over again. Mettaton delights and squirms at the sensation of this firm pull on his cock, the addition of fingers stroking and kneading at him through his neck. He realizes he's trembling, he's barely seeing, he's so lost to ecstasy that he could already be coming and not even realize it.
Emet-Selch deserves only the best. As hard-working as he is, he deserves exactly what he wants if what he wants is a full throat and a cock to suck and swallow and suffocate around, and his goal now is to feel Mettaton erupt in rapture and orgasm, Mettaton's sure. (If his lover can even think: he's also sure that Emet-Selch is purely enjoying himself, and that pleases MTT more than sense should permit.) He shoves his hips into Emet-Selch's face, grinding and thrusting his cock as deep as he can into his throat to give him plenty to swallow around, fascinating himself over the sight and sensation of the swell in his throat where they both prod and squeeze with investigative fingers. He breaks out into repeated cries, incapable of toning down his volume in a response so close to climax that it's surprising that he's still hanging on. He sees stars, and he loves Emet-Selch more than anything.
Mettaton appreciates Emet-Selch's dedication, his trust in him and his love for him. All of them are mutual, after all. And his dedication manifests here as continuing to deliver his Bonded his cock, filling his throat and robbing him of sense, letting him lose himself to pleasure if peak satisfaction is found through losing thought.
But he remembers that period of unconsciousness and the feeling of kissing with lungs. Reflexively, the Puca pulls his oversensitive cock back, bringing the glans to Emet-Selch's lips to give him a moment to breathe, whether he likes it or not. He keeps himself nestled in his spit-slicked mouth just beyond the corona, panting and thrusting still, demanding that he be tended to even while Emet-Selch's given this chance for breath, if temporarily.]
Hades... [His voice is soft and near pleading, wanting and needing the confines of his throat but recovering in his own right from the pure, sucking stimulation of being swallowed around. It's so much that he could lose himself to his body for good, he thought.] You're... So good... I need...
[... Instead of telling him what he needs, Mettaton gets right back to it to take waht he needs: having given Emet-Selch the moment to not pass out, or having given himself the moment he needs to prepare for another go, Mettaton goes right back to easing his length inside of his lover, slower and more tenderly this time: the shaft is pushed past his lips, caring not at all if teeth drag or if his lover's still panting, and Mettaton stops the tip right before the back of his mouth. Given just a moment's warning, he presses forward: the head pops through the back of his throat, giving Mettaton a heady beat of pleasure that makes him weak-kneed.
And he fills Emet-Selch all over again, down to the root. He grinds his hips into him, presses his crotch into Emet-Selch's face and rolls his hips, sliding his cock tantalizingly, stroking himself off in the tight grip of his lover's throat. Moans and sighs are all that can escape his throat anymore, his fingers kneading at the head of Emet-Selch's erection with a mindless reverence for all his lover does for him, an indelible appreciation for the pleasure he gives him, for the fact that he can manage all of his needs for more and more and match him all the while. Who else would be so willing to give away their breath for their mutual pleasure but Emet-Selch? Who could give him such complete trust and receive it in return with such dedication? Mettaton presses down on his throat, nearly choking him some more around the head of his cock to tighten an already tight throat, even though he fills him so thoroughly that Emet-Selch can't breathe to begin with. Fingers stroke his cock through his neck, yanking another moan of absolute delight from the idol. Like this, the Puca rubs both of them off, mashes his body into Emet-Selch's face and watches his lover's rigid cock with an indecent hunger. Imagining still the sight of him erupting in climax
His commands sound breathless, airy and frenzied and loud on his voice as he cries out.]
Swallow, more, swallow some more... You're, ahh...
no subject
The attempts for air on the part of his spasming throat clenches and pulls at Mettaton's erection, and atop the swallowing, Mettaton's beside himself and near blind by the pleasure of it. Emet-Selch's commitment to their pleasure pays off in that way. His hips only pull back just enough to drag the glans along the confines of his throat, reluctant to tug his cock from the heat of Emet-Selch's body when he feels so good. These feral-leaning instincts tell him to fuck Emet-Selch completely, to inundate him totally, to fill him so excessively with his come and his cock and to make swollen his throat in a sudden burst of release, all so that he could do it all over again. Mettaton delights and squirms at the sensation of this firm pull on his cock, the addition of fingers stroking and kneading at him through his neck. He realizes he's trembling, he's barely seeing, he's so lost to ecstasy that he could already be coming and not even realize it.
Emet-Selch deserves only the best. As hard-working as he is, he deserves exactly what he wants if what he wants is a full throat and a cock to suck and swallow and suffocate around, and his goal now is to feel Mettaton erupt in rapture and orgasm, Mettaton's sure. (If his lover can even think: he's also sure that Emet-Selch is purely enjoying himself, and that pleases MTT more than sense should permit.) He shoves his hips into Emet-Selch's face, grinding and thrusting his cock as deep as he can into his throat to give him plenty to swallow around, fascinating himself over the sight and sensation of the swell in his throat where they both prod and squeeze with investigative fingers. He breaks out into repeated cries, incapable of toning down his volume in a response so close to climax that it's surprising that he's still hanging on. He sees stars, and he loves Emet-Selch more than anything.
Mettaton appreciates Emet-Selch's dedication, his trust in him and his love for him. All of them are mutual, after all. And his dedication manifests here as continuing to deliver his Bonded his cock, filling his throat and robbing him of sense, letting him lose himself to pleasure if peak satisfaction is found through losing thought.
But he remembers that period of unconsciousness and the feeling of kissing with lungs. Reflexively, the Puca pulls his oversensitive cock back, bringing the glans to Emet-Selch's lips to give him a moment to breathe, whether he likes it or not. He keeps himself nestled in his spit-slicked mouth just beyond the corona, panting and thrusting still, demanding that he be tended to even while Emet-Selch's given this chance for breath, if temporarily.]
Hades... [His voice is soft and near pleading, wanting and needing the confines of his throat but recovering in his own right from the pure, sucking stimulation of being swallowed around. It's so much that he could lose himself to his body for good, he thought.] You're... So good... I need...
[... Instead of telling him what he needs, Mettaton gets right back to it to take waht he needs: having given Emet-Selch the moment to not pass out, or having given himself the moment he needs to prepare for another go, Mettaton goes right back to easing his length inside of his lover, slower and more tenderly this time: the shaft is pushed past his lips, caring not at all if teeth drag or if his lover's still panting, and Mettaton stops the tip right before the back of his mouth. Given just a moment's warning, he presses forward: the head pops through the back of his throat, giving Mettaton a heady beat of pleasure that makes him weak-kneed.
And he fills Emet-Selch all over again, down to the root. He grinds his hips into him, presses his crotch into Emet-Selch's face and rolls his hips, sliding his cock tantalizingly, stroking himself off in the tight grip of his lover's throat. Moans and sighs are all that can escape his throat anymore, his fingers kneading at the head of Emet-Selch's erection with a mindless reverence for all his lover does for him, an indelible appreciation for the pleasure he gives him, for the fact that he can manage all of his needs for more and more and match him all the while. Who else would be so willing to give away their breath for their mutual pleasure but Emet-Selch? Who could give him such complete trust and receive it in return with such dedication? Mettaton presses down on his throat, nearly choking him some more around the head of his cock to tighten an already tight throat, even though he fills him so thoroughly that Emet-Selch can't breathe to begin with. Fingers stroke his cock through his neck, yanking another moan of absolute delight from the idol. Like this, the Puca rubs both of them off, mashes his body into Emet-Selch's face and watches his lover's rigid cock with an indecent hunger. Imagining still the sight of him erupting in climax
His commands sound breathless, airy and frenzied and loud on his voice as he cries out.]
Swallow, more, swallow some more... You're, ahh...