NINETH KNOT #3
I can’t even tell how many, where they come from, who they belong to.
I don’t fucking care. They’re warm, eager, greedy, gliding over every part of me like I’m not human—just a body, a toy, a gift.
Fingers dig into the meat of my thighs, spread me wider, palm the curve of my ass, stroke the rope-sheathed length of my cock with hunger.
Fingers part my ass and a mouth—fucking holy shit—presses down there.
I can’t see who it is, but I feel the tongue contouring the rim of my hole.
It licks slow circles, then pushes in shallow, wiggling as it works me open and then the mouth sucks.
My brain blanks out for a second, just white noise and breath and heat.
There’s a smirk in that mouth, and whoever it is, they’re having a fucking feast down there.
Another person steps in front of me, cock already hard and wrapped in latex. He grips my hair and angles himself to my mouth. I can’t move, can’t turn my head, can’t even protest—not that I fucking would, honestly. My jaw is locked open, saliva dripping already, the ring gag holding me wide.
I gag when he shoves his cock in my throat without care. My eyes water.
I look at Naoya-san while my mouth is being fucked by someone else. He’s watching from his chair, legs still crossed, one finger tapping against his thigh slowly. Counting, maybe. Judging. Deciding if those people are worthy of putting their hands—or mouths—or cocks—on his thing.
The person at my ass is stretching me open now, fingers digging in, spreading lube, nails scraping a little too hard.
I moan and the cock in my mouth slides deeper, making me drool all over it, spit stringing down my chin to the floor.
Fingers circle my bound cock, teasing, and it pulses, already aching under the tight red rope.
I can’t come. No one can make me come. I only now realize what I agreed to.
Someone else joins. Another body. A slap to my thigh. Nails dragging over my ribs. More mouths. I don’t know how many there are now. Three? Four? Does it matter? My body is open territory.
Someone clamps their hands over my hips and licks a stripe up my inner thigh, right beside where the rope’s digging in deep. It burns and tingles. And then they bite, hard enough to make my back jolt in the suspension.
A different set of hands cups my ass and spreads me wider, like I wasn’t already completely fucking exposed.
My skin’s slick now, sweat clinging in patches, spit smeared everywhere.
One of them dips something cold against my hole—ice?
—and the sudden jolt of it makes my muscles seize up.
They push it in slowly, melting as it goes, burning and numbing.
Fuck.
What the fuck.
The cock that was using my mouth leaves with a pop, and another hand is already yanking my hair in the opposite direction, pulling me hard to the left.
With my neck screaming, eyes tearing, spit flying, I’m dragged face-first onto another cock, thicker and longer.
This one rubs rough over my tongue, and they fuck my mouth in lazy thrusts like they got all the time in the world.
Someone’s licking my toes. Another is tracing their tongue up my spine, where it curves between the rope harness.
I feel something trail across my chest, something feathery.
Soft ends teasing, flicking my nipples. Someone else pinches one between their fingers and twists, and I try to yell, but it’s impossible with a cock down my throat, drool gushing down my chin.
The man with the ice fingers presses in deeper, curling them in just the right spot, rubbing the ice inside me and fuck—yeah, it makes me jerk forward in the ropes, makes me grunt around the thick cock stuffed halfway down my throat.
The ice fucking hurts, stabs cold into nerves that weren’t made for that kind of thing.
When the fingers slide out, my body twitches, muscles flex, and I try to push the ice out. But it’s slow and awful, like taking a shit while hanging in the air, tied up and gagged and drooling. The angle makes it worse. The shame makes it better. Fuck, I don’t know.
And then there’s a mouth again, warm and wet and right fucking there.
I feel the soft heat of it open against my hole, lips sealing around me.
And I know—I fucking know—that the ice I just forced out slid into that mouth.
The idea of it, of someone actually catching it, sucking it down, makes me gag on the cock again.
It’s disgusting and degrading.
And it’s hot as fuck.
The cube is gone, melted or swallowed, and now that mouth is back, licking over the raw, shocked skin.
“He’s noisy,” one of them says because, yeah, I’m so turned on I can’t shut the fuck up even with my mouth in use.
The cock in my mouth pulls out halfway just so someone can spit in. Right on my tongue. Then slams in again. I groan around it, eyes watering, neck on fire from being yanked side to side like a fuck doll. No control. Just spit and gag and breathless moans.
Someone’s tweaking my nipples now, pinching and twisting, making me jolt and tremble. Another body slides up under me, licking the sensitive head of my cock and sucking the shaft below the ropes.
Behind me, the mouth leaves my hole and it clenches around nothing. Then a cock presses in. It’s not big, but it’s fast, sloppy, like they’re desperate.
Someone else comes to the front, and the cock in my mouth is pulled out and slapped against my cheek. I don’t even get a second to breathe. Another one is pushing in already.
Somewhere past the blur of cocks and fingers and tongues, past the slick sounds and the burn in my jaw and the ache in my gut, I catch a glimpse of Naoya-san again, drink in one hand now.
I don’t know when he got the drink. Maybe he went to the bar. Maybe someone brought it to him. Fuck if I know. I’m too busy choking on cock, getting slapped across the ass, stretched wide, sweating, trembling, gagging… and all that for him.
Every time I get dragged by the hair into another cock, every time my body rocks from the force of someone’s hips slamming into my ass or someone licking the underside of my trapped cock like they’re in love with the taste of it—I try to see anything on that face.
Pride. Disgust. Approval. Lust. Anything.
I can’t tell how long I’ve been tied. I know my cock’s been hard for ages and still can’t come.
I know my throat is fucking raw and still keeps getting used.
I know my ass is sore, open and wet, but I think only one person actually fucked it.
All the rest were just mouths, fingers, a fucking ice cube.
My head whips again to a new cock, and in that swing of vision, I see some pretty, small man crawling on all fours toward Naoya-san like he thinks he’s worthy.
Like he fucking thinks he’s earned this right like I did.
He reaches for his thigh, delicate fingers stretching out like Naoya-san’s some untouchable deity he can tempt.
And something ugly rises up in me.
It’s ridiculous. I’m here, suspended, wide open, being used like a communal fuckhole, and that—that—makes me jealous?
Yeah. It does.
It fucking does.
I bite down on the ugly sound crawling up my throat, pissed off and breathless. I want to call out. I want to say he’s mine, even if that’s not how this shit works.
But Naoya-san doesn’t even look at him.
He just slaps his hand away.
The look the man gives him is half-offended, half-hurt, but Naoya-san doesn’t give a single fuck, his gaze still on me.
And that feels good. Even more than the fucking in my ass.
Time passes, and the condoms disappear one by one.
They pass me between them like I’m an object. Use my mouth until it aches. Use my ass until I can’t even feel the difference between fingers or cock or toy anymore. My skin is raw from slaps, from friction, from too many hands petting and gripping and kneading.
Clamps bite at my nipples now, a steady pulse of pain that somehow blends with the deeper ache in my ass, the stinging rawness of my lips, the bruised stretch of my jaw still forced wide open around the ring gag. Someone poured wax on my back—hot, shocking, then dull as it cooled.
Everything is blurred.
Hands, mouths, fingers, teeth. Pressure. Burn. Slap. Shove. Lick. Praise. Filth. No names. No faces.
My abs twitch from overstimulation. My arms burn from being suspended so long. My cock still bound, still swollen and purple and useless.
I’m gone.
Not just high—gone.
Mind somewhere else, floating just under the surface, with no way to speak and no control over how I’m used.
I hear one of them laugh. “Last one,” someone says, and there’s a little cheer.
A sick little celebration that crawls into my ears and lodges there.
The final packet disappears from the rope on my left thigh, and then the cock is up my ass, fucking me hard and fast. There’s a grunt behind me, skin slapping skin, a final groan and nothing else.
The last one.
Then the lights shift from blood-hot red to soft green.
And just like that, they vanish. All the hands, the mouths, the hunger. Like I imagined them.
Then his hands are there.
Naoya-san’s palms cradle my face with that gentleness only he has with me—like I’m not a fucked-out mess hanging by rope, covered in spit, but something he cares about.
“You did a good job,” he says.
I blink at him, drool still sliding down my chin. My jaw aches, my head’s fuzzy. His thumbs brush under my eyes, catching sweat or tears—I’m not even sure which.
“Was it too much?”
I shake my head. Or I think I do. My body’s slow on the response, but it gets there eventually.
He touches my cheek again, studying me.
“Are your limbs numb?”
It takes a second.
I try to remember I have arms and legs. Try to shift just enough to register if they still exist. There’s no pain, no pins and needles. Not numb. Still here.
I shake my head again.
“Can you take one more?”
Fuck, yes, I nod.
Eager and pathetic.