Chapter 24 #2
It was a simple thing, then, to lift his leg and guide the first bead to his entrance, circling, teasing, until he quivered, not from uncertainty but from appetite.
I pressed until it slipped past, the resistance yielding in a shudder that traveled all the way up his spine.
I waited, counting slow breaths, before advancing the next.
He made a sound when he felt the second, a pleased, greedy sigh that made my pulse spike.
By the third, he was pushing back into me, hips twitching in a silent, involuntary plea for more.
There was a moment, halfway through the string, when I felt him falter, something reflexive, a coiling of muscle that expressed both his limits and his willingness to have them moved.
I palmed the fourth bead, then the fifth, inserting them in increments, and with each new trespass his body adapted, accepted, and craved.
By the time I coaxed the entire string into him, Cove was trembling, a fine sweat beading on the back of his neck, his fingers digging into my thighs through the thin fabric of my slacks.
He made a sound then, something that started as a whimper and blossomed into a wet gasp, so pure and guileless that it nearly undid me.
The beads had length and were reaching deeper inside him than anything else had before; the beads, impossibly long, curved up inside him, their outline distending his pale, freckled belly, made him look both obscene and impossibly fragile—a specimen stretched to its maximal, beautiful limit.
I slid my palm over the soft swell, and he keened and twisted, half in protest, half in ecstasy. He squirmed, hips wriggling as if he wanted to crawl up out of his skin.
I held him tighter, molding him back into my chest, one hand still flat over the bulge that marked the beads’ deepest reach.
There was a part of me, monstrous and delighted, that wanted to force them deeper, to see how much more he could take before the whole fragile ecosystem of his body snapped, but I resisted, content to feel him shudder and moan as I kneaded the fullness behind his navel.
He was a trembling, gasping, open thing, and it was all for me.
He’d gone silent by the time my free hand found the other toy. I held up the slender, stainless-steel rod for him to see, holding it up in front of his half-lidded eyes, close enough for him to register exactly what he was in for.
I could see the realization erupt across his face, his pupils dilating further, jaw tensing with a feverish terror as his attention flicked between the toy and my face, searching for some signal—would I go gentle, or would I push him as far as he’d just been stretched?
“That—” he paused as a shudder rolled through him, then moaned as the movement jostled the beads inside of him. “That’s a sound, right?”
“It is. I wanted to see you absolutely stuffed to the brim today.”
“It won’t…” he swallowed thickly, “injure me?”
“No, precious. You know I would never do that to you. Daddy only wants to make you lose your mind with pleasure.”
He didn’t protest. He rarely ever did, these days.
His only answer was a hesitant roll of his hips, testing, as if even the anticipation could tip him all the way over.
I gripped his arms, guiding them back so the insides of his elbows rested against my knees to hold him still, open, on display.
Each time I took something from him, a measure of control or comfort, he yielded more easily, as if he preferred the decision be made for him.
I slicked the rod with lube between my palms, warming it up from its natural cold state, and let the trembling anticipation build until it was a living thing between us.
When I pressed the tip to his slit, Cove jerked like a string-pulled marionette, a rush of panic running through him, but there was no withdrawal, only the shivery exhale of a boy who wanted to be taken apart and trusted I would do it beautifully.
He made a sound, a negative—“no, no, I can’t”—but his cock, impossibly hard, purpled and leaking, denied the protest outright.
I gripped him around the shaft, tight enough to still the frantic pulse, then circled the rod at his tip, letting the idea of it threaten more than the thing itself.
Then, slow as erosion, I started to feed it in. The lube made it easy, and the natural channel—tight, hot, ridiculously responsive—seemed almost to suck at the metal the way the aquarium’s water sometimes swallowed up an unlucky feeder fish with quick, greedy violence.
Each trembling centimeter vanished into his cock, Cove’s heels digging helplessly into my shins as I advanced, millimeter by millimeter, watching his face flicker through pain, awe, and a sick, desperate yearning.
The beads pressed up from deep inside him, their presence apparent in the way the rod seemed to meet a resistance and then glide past, pushed subtly outwards by the intrusions piling within him.
I held my breath as I inched the sound deeper, feeling the faint give as it reached the prostatic floor, and Cove’s body shuddered around it, the tip of his cock flaring, drooling clear fluid to drip slick over my knuckles.
He made a noise—thin, keening, almost vibrato with restraint—and I rewarded him, rolling my palm deliberately over the bead-swollen curve of his lower belly, thumb pressing in small, insistent circles against the nest of pressure that must have been collecting there.
He tried to twist away, but I had him caged, his wrists pinned by nothing but the expectation that he would take it, would perform for me, and the knowledge that inside this locked little world, I could do anything I pleased with him.
When I let go of his cock, it bounced, the steel embedded deep and wagging faintly as his hips fought their own war between clenching down and wanting more.
Through the thin, stretched skin, you could see the bulge of the rod and the faint blue traceries of veins.
He sagged back against my chest, whimpering and crying, but made no move to dislodge me or the toys.
“Look at you,” I murmured, running my palm over his chest, feeling the frantic beat of his heart. “You’ve never been so full in your life. How does it feel?”
Cove shook his head minutely, a back-and-forth shiver from neck to jaw, but the rest of his body told a much different story.
He had gone somehow slack and tense at once, at the mercy of a circuitry of urge and compliance that seemed to bypass language altogether.
His hands grasped at my wrists, then let go, then clung again, indecisive, as I rolled the slender rod gently between thumb and forefinger, pushing and drawing it until the first tremor wracked his frame.
He tried to speak, failed, and then found a sound that lived somewhere between agony and bliss.
His lips worked the air, eyes wide but unseeing, the pupils huge, nearly swallowing the green out of his irises.
I stroked him, not out of mercy, but to milk every ounce of sensation from the overfull system I had engineered in him.
The beads inside him shifted as I rocked his hips further back, and each time, a corresponding pulse stuttered through his body, mirrored by the throb of his cock, and the trembling beat of his heart under my hand.
I let the moment stretch, savoring the way he seemed suspended in a perfect agony, every nerve tuned to the shifting fullness inside him.
Then, with a single, fluid motion, I drew the string of beads back a notch, just the barest fraction—a single sphere withdrawing from the impossible depth it had reached.
Cove let out a ragged, astonished gasp, his entire frame vibrating.
I could feel the muscles of his ass clenching, struggling to keep the beads inside, unwilling to let a single sphere escape.
“You’re greedy,” I whispered against his ear, letting the judgment dissolve into something almost reverent. “You want to keep it all, don’t you?”
He nodded, the motion jerky and desperate. His eyes were screwed shut as he hoarsely pleaded, “P-please, Daddy, I—please.”
With one hand pinning his arms open, I used the other to tease the beads in shallow, relentless pulses against the tender, flexing opening of his body.
Each time I drew a bead out, even by a millimeter, he whimpered as though grieving the loss, and when I slid it back in, he moaned brokenly into the crook of my arm, his breath hot and quivering against my skin.
Without warning, I yanked the entire string free in one wet, brutal motion, and Cove went rigid, a scream fracturing out of him as the beads tumbled from his body in rapid succession.
His whole frame bowed, all sinew and desperate, convulsed need, and for a second I thought he might black out from the violence of it, the way his hands clawed at my pants and then at his own thighs, scrabbling for some anchor.
I didn’t let up, didn’t soothe—just held him open and watched as every muscle in his body shuddered and seized, his cock lurching so hard that the steel rod waggled comically, grotesquely, like an antenna dialed to the static frequency of his anguish.
He was still coming even as I leaned in and, with a delicate, twisted affection, pulled the sound free.
The movement hit a snarl of resistance at the tip, and for a moment, I thought it had lodged inside him—but then the last two centimeters slid free, and with it, the first spurt of his orgasm.
It was violent and projectile, a shivering, helpless release that made his entire body convulse in my lap. He shrieked, the sound torn from some deep involuntary place, and collapsed back against me, boneless, his mouth hanging open.