[Every drag, every stroke- and for that matter, every moment of simply being in his throat- was a moment more of agitation, of keeping his neck stretched, its areas sensitive. But his body's primary concern for now, naturally, was the persistent lack of air, an inability to breathe taking precedence over a bit of roughening, no matter how thorough. And Emet-Selch's primary concern, even more naturally, was on remaining exactly where he was, in holding Mettaton in his mouth, on taking him as deeply as he could. On giving up breath and speech and thought alike.
And what were the details of bites and blood, of soreness and stretching, but aspects that would link inevitably to arousal? Here, they were sensations that existed as a part of the whole, tied up into the sensation of the stiffness he carried, shifting, in his throat. Rubbing him more and more raw with every roll of hips, every tug of his head against Mettaton's crotch. But later on, whenever the Ascian was alone, every twinge from scabbing over wounds, every swallow, every ache from bruise compressed- would just return him to this imagery, of being caught between his lover's legs, rapturously sucking him.
Arousal would be inevitable, a constant risk to court. And at this moment, bearing the pulsing insistence of his own erection, swallowing around Mettaton's own cock with moans trapped, but pleasure immense- he could see no reason why he shouldn't ever track his lover down in times of need. It would be a thought worth rousing himself for (finding himself aroused), worth consciousness and movement over lethargy and sleep. A fine way of getting the Ascian out of the house more....
Nothing could ever be more reasonable or convenient. He knew Mettaton would not deny him.
Though with arms trapped beneath him and his cock hard, Emet-Selch still, as he works a hand to some kind of freedom, doesn't try reaching for his own erection, but is instead drawn to his throat once more. And he shivers as he strokes along Mettaton's length through his neck, another gasping cry lost to his swallowed cock. And as he tenses around him, and his lover thrusts, and his head continues to be shifted in his lap, the Ascian can feel the particular bulge of the glans in his throat through his fingers- a sensation he can't even begin to get enough of. And it's something he knows he'll be able to recall in this detail with a simple stroke over the same area- and how aroused he could so easily make himself in that way too.
Saliva drips past swollen lips without a care, still tinged with a hint of blood. No matter how closely they mold to skin, they're unable to prevent it. Though with Mettaton's cock worked progressively deeper into his throat, there's less for it to drip down. And with ever more of him being taken, there became ever less chance of retreat, of pulling at all back from what had become lodged there.
But even with his mouth finally against Mettaton's body again, face pressed flush to his crotch, the length in his throat jostled by the way he continued to clench around it, by the way his Bonded's hips continue rocking against his face- he tries as well to take him deeper still. As though having the entirety of his length wasn't enough, that he could devour him even further than this. Mettaton wanted him to, after all--
His head was pounding, lungs getting quite irritable from all of this starvation, ignoring how the rest of him was more starved for his lover, for his erection rubbing slickly in his neck. He could reach so far, and the Ascian's hand clutches and strokes at him through his throat, as though he could knead him deeper still, could do more than this to touch him. Even as his wanting clouds both thoughts and control, throat spasming with more force as he begins choking on him, it's a sensation that registers with no alarm- only greater, hazy-yet-sharp satisfaction. It was more intense, therefore it was better; Emet-Selch didn't need to think to know this. Thought would've only detracted from this understanding. Of his place, of his purpose- it was to be buried here, locked between his lover's tensing thighs, sucking his cock, listening to his voice lost to cries and pleas, moans and breaths he doesn't need- yet were the only sounds that needed to exist in the world. Just as Mettaton was the only person who needed to exist, his presence brilliant enough to blot out the rest. The comfort in serving him was all he required.]
no subject
And what were the details of bites and blood, of soreness and stretching, but aspects that would link inevitably to arousal? Here, they were sensations that existed as a part of the whole, tied up into the sensation of the stiffness he carried, shifting, in his throat. Rubbing him more and more raw with every roll of hips, every tug of his head against Mettaton's crotch. But later on, whenever the Ascian was alone, every twinge from scabbing over wounds, every swallow, every ache from bruise compressed- would just return him to this imagery, of being caught between his lover's legs, rapturously sucking him.
Arousal would be inevitable, a constant risk to court. And at this moment, bearing the pulsing insistence of his own erection, swallowing around Mettaton's own cock with moans trapped, but pleasure immense- he could see no reason why he shouldn't ever track his lover down in times of need. It would be a thought worth rousing himself for (finding himself aroused), worth consciousness and movement over lethargy and sleep. A fine way of getting the Ascian out of the house more....
Nothing could ever be more reasonable or convenient. He knew Mettaton would not deny him.
Though with arms trapped beneath him and his cock hard, Emet-Selch still, as he works a hand to some kind of freedom, doesn't try reaching for his own erection, but is instead drawn to his throat once more. And he shivers as he strokes along Mettaton's length through his neck, another gasping cry lost to his swallowed cock. And as he tenses around him, and his lover thrusts, and his head continues to be shifted in his lap, the Ascian can feel the particular bulge of the glans in his throat through his fingers- a sensation he can't even begin to get enough of. And it's something he knows he'll be able to recall in this detail with a simple stroke over the same area- and how aroused he could so easily make himself in that way too.
Saliva drips past swollen lips without a care, still tinged with a hint of blood. No matter how closely they mold to skin, they're unable to prevent it. Though with Mettaton's cock worked progressively deeper into his throat, there's less for it to drip down. And with ever more of him being taken, there became ever less chance of retreat, of pulling at all back from what had become lodged there.
But even with his mouth finally against Mettaton's body again, face pressed flush to his crotch, the length in his throat jostled by the way he continued to clench around it, by the way his Bonded's hips continue rocking against his face- he tries as well to take him deeper still. As though having the entirety of his length wasn't enough, that he could devour him even further than this. Mettaton wanted him to, after all--
His head was pounding, lungs getting quite irritable from all of this starvation, ignoring how the rest of him was more starved for his lover, for his erection rubbing slickly in his neck. He could reach so far, and the Ascian's hand clutches and strokes at him through his throat, as though he could knead him deeper still, could do more than this to touch him. Even as his wanting clouds both thoughts and control, throat spasming with more force as he begins choking on him, it's a sensation that registers with no alarm- only greater, hazy-yet-sharp satisfaction. It was more intense, therefore it was better; Emet-Selch didn't need to think to know this. Thought would've only detracted from this understanding. Of his place, of his purpose- it was to be buried here, locked between his lover's tensing thighs, sucking his cock, listening to his voice lost to cries and pleas, moans and breaths he doesn't need- yet were the only sounds that needed to exist in the world. Just as Mettaton was the only person who needed to exist, his presence brilliant enough to blot out the rest. The comfort in serving him was all he required.]