10 #2
"It's in." Krag stepped back, admiring his work. The flared base of the dildo sat against Erik's stretched rim, the black stone gleaming against his pink flesh. Erik's belly was distended, the hard shape of the dildo visible through his skin. "Now we're going to see how much more you can take."
He moved around to Erik's inverted face, his own cock hard and leaking. "Open up."
Erik opened his mouth, and Krag fed his cock inside.
This was different from the warrior's cock.
Krag was thicker, longer, and he didn't stop when he hit the back of Erik's throat.
He pushed deeper, forcing his way into Erik's esophagus, and Erik's throat bulged with the shape of him.
Upside down, the angle was brutal—the cock pressed against his windpipe, making every breath a struggle.
"Breathe," Krag commanded. "Breathe through your nose. You know how."
Erik breathed. Short, sharp inhalations through his nostrils, his throat stretched impossibly wide around Krag's shaft. Spit bubbled around his lips, dripped up his face—up, because he was inverted—and pooled in his hair. His eyes watered. His vision spotted.
And then Krag started to fuck his throat.
The thrusts were deep and relentless, driving the cock into Erik's esophagus until his lips were pressed against the base of Krag's shaft.
Erik's throat bulged obscenely, a thick ridge that moved with every thrust. The dildo in his ass shifted with the motion, the knots catching on his rim, the cold stone pressing against his guts.
"Glrk—glrk—glrk—" The sounds were wet and rhythmic, a counterpoint to Krag's grunts. Erik's body was a symphony of obscenity: the squelch of the dildo in his ass, the wet choke of the cock in his throat, the slap of Krag's hips against his inverted face.
Then Krag pushed too deep.
Erik's stomach convulsed. His throat spasmed around the shaft, and a rush of fluid surged up from his belly—not shit, just clear bile and spit and the water Krag had made him drink before the ritual.
It spilled out around the cock, a thin, clear stream that ran up Erik's face and dripped onto the floor.
"Good," Krag growled, not pulling out. "That's good. Purge yourself. Empty yourself for me. You're nothing but a vessel. A hole. A warm place for my cock."
He pushed deeper, and Erik gagged again, more clear fluid spilling out. But he didn't fight. He didn't try to pull away. He just opened his throat and took it, his mind a blank white void of submission.
When Krag finally pulled out, Erik hung there, gasping, his face wet with spit and bile, his throat raw, his ass impaled on the obsidian dildo. He had never felt so used. So empty. So complete.
Krag lowered him from the ceiling. The winch creaked, the ropes loosened, and Erik sank to the stone floor in a heap. His limbs were numb, his body trembling, his mind floating somewhere far above the chamber. The dildo was still inside him, a cold, hard weight in his guts.
"The floor," Krag said, his voice soft but commanding. "It's wet with the piss of a hundred rituals. Lick it clean."
Erik didn't hesitate. He pressed his tongue to the cold stone and lapped at the moisture.
The taste was ancient and foul—old piss and stale come and something coppery that might have been blood.
But he licked it. He licked the floor clean in long, broad strokes, his ass in the air, the obsidian dildo still buried inside him.
The witnesses watched. Krag watched. And Erik licked, his mind utterly silent, his body moving on instinct alone.
When Krag finally pulled him up, Erik's face was smeared with filth, his lips swollen, his eyes glassy. The dildo was removed with a wet, sucking pop, and Erik's hole gaped, a dark, ruined chasm that would never fully close again.
Krag carried him up the stairs. Not on a leash—in his arms, cradled against his massive chest like something precious. Erik curled into the warmth, his face pressed to Krag's hide, his body limp and weightless.
The throne room was warm after the cold of the deep chamber.
Krag sat on his throne of fused bone and black iron, and Erik curled in his lap like a pet, his head resting on Krag's thigh.
The brand on his ass throbbed. His hole leaked a thin trickle of grease and come onto the stone.
His throat was so raw he could barely swallow.
Krag's hand came down on his head, heavy and warm. His fingers stroked through Erik's matted hair, gentle in a way that seemed impossible for such a massive, brutal creature.
"Perfect," Krag murmured. "You're perfect, little thief. My perfect whore. My perfect hole."
Erik's voice, when he found it, was barely a whisper. "I'm nothing without your cock, Master."
Krag's hand tightened in his hair, not painfully. Possessively. "Then you'll never be without it."
Erik closed his eyes. The throne room was quiet, the torches burning low. The smell of sex and sweat and piss hung in the air—their smell, the smell of his life now. His body was wrecked, his mind was silent, his past was a distant dream he could barely remember.
He had no name. No past. No future. Only the endless, perfect present of being Krag's hole.
And it was enough. It was everything.