When Waylon woke this time it’s to a restriction of a new sort. He’s woken dozens of times, head heavy, mouth dry, and everything below his waist an agony. This time the pain is diminished but still a constant. Unlike those other waking moments, moments where his own exhaustion combined with whatever drugs had been forced into his system had been his restriction, this time it was physical.
His wrists were strapped, arms made immobile by leather restraints attached to the rusting metal of a bedframe. He wasn’t strong enough but he gave a futile tug at hem anyway and found the fatigue in his biceps and shoulders more debilitating than he could’ve guessed. He assumed his legs were much the same and so didn’t repeat the test; the smooth cuffs around his ankles were heavy enough to feel on the thin skin.
In his right leg, the leg from which he remembered prying a stake of wood, there was a dullness. He could feel the beat of his blood passing through or near it and the discomfort that radiated from the disturbance. After it had first happened he’d felt numb and without the ability to walk but mostly it had felt wet from the blood that had scoured down his shin with every step. The numb was now replaced but the wet was gone entirely.
Waylon tucked his chin to his collarbone and prepared to raise that leg to answer his half-formed questions. There was a soft sound about his ears, like the hiss of a little garden snake that slowed his head but only the sight of his wedding dress stopped the motion entirely.
There were speaks and smears of blood on it but it was unsettlingly form-fitting. Somehow Waylon’s body had become feminine through donning the once-white fabric. He wondered if his hair looked the same in the veil.
He’d seen bodies in wedding dresses before his unconsciousness. He’d seen them posed in crude mockery of love and life; in matrimony and in childbirth. He’d seen the changes and modifications made to those bodies to better suit them to their decorative roles.
Waylon no longer cared for his shin. He cared for the red flecks stained into the fabric stretched over his pelvis. The pain began to mount in relation to the clearing and dawning recognition in his mind.
He tilted his hips in one direction and all his throat could manage was a gurgle. There was a searing pain, unlike anything he’d known high between his legs, deeper and higher than anything should hurt. He felt lighter in the groin; he felt empty.
Waylon had woken in that locker after his initial drugging. He’d seen what had happened to other captives. He’d seen them cut or sawed and he’d watched them bleed and die. It was obvious what had happened to him.
It was strange to feel no denial about it, strange to have no hope that he’d gotten lucky as he had several times before in this place.
He did feel hot tears at the corners of his eyes concurrent with the increase of his heartbeat. He began gulping at air as if it could alleviate the surging panic usurping his mind. Rather, it made it impossible to hear the approaching footsteps and so he jolted when the Groom’s blemished face appeared so suddenly in his view.
“You’re awake!” the patient exclaimed.
“You slept for so long. I was so happy when you woke for our wedding but then you went right back to sleep!”
He didn’t recall any ceremony but he left that unsaid.
“I’ve been waiting and waiting. After the surgery and then after our wedding! Silly girl, we missed our wedding night!” Gluskin stepped around the bed. “But I’m so proud of you, Darling. You’ve healed so pretty.”
A hand settled on his thigh and squeezed.
“What did you do?” Waylon’s voice rasped.
Peculiar blue eyes blinked at him, too innocent a gesture for the information that followed. “I fixed you.” Gloved hands cupped his cheeks and thumbs swiped at his eyes. “Don’t cry, I know. You’re welcome and you’re so beautiful. I took away everything wrong and gave you what you needed.”
At this the former Murkoff employee began to shake. “Please.” So, too, did his voice.
“Please what, Darling?” Gluskin straightened. “You don’t believe me? You want to see?”
There was no pause for an answer, his new husband helpfully hiked up his skirt for him. First to be revealed were his shins and his right one was wound in surprisingly clean bandages. Then hands were sliding up his hips and rolling the fabric as they groped. Gluskin played at his skin there before working to lay the skirt flat for Waylon’s view.
The panties he wore were also a bright white, and flat against his genitals. He closed his eyes and wished he could put his hands over them.
Gluskin couldn’t slip those down so he ripped them and chuckled at Waylon’s inhale. “This is the fourth pair I’ve made for you, don’t worry. I can make more.”
Knuckles raked at his inner thighs. “Darling, look.”
There wasn’t much choice but to do so. He glanced to the teasing at his skin first and followed its trail up. Waylon might’ve moaned a word but the capacity for vocalization, never mind recognition for that vocalization, didn’t occur to him.
It was gruesome and so ugly, as if he’d been hacked away and melted down. Compared to what he’d always known he’d been smoothed down completely, but even that wasn’t true. He could see the slight slope of the vagina he’d been given. He knew the basics of such a surgery but from what he’d seen of Gluskin’s actions he’d assumed the psycho wouldn’t care much for the visual; how could he when his methods had involved a saw? Though the fact that he lived was proof enough that a saw hadn’t been used on him; no, with nothing hanging between his thighs it was clear the skin there had been used for those mounds.
Between them remained what was left of his penis: a red nub.
He wanted to see nothing more, let alone describe it so he turned away.
His ‘husband’ kneeled down to reinstate their eye contact. His teeth glinted in the low light. “I almost lost you for a bit, at first. But I was careful with you so you wouldn’t bleed to death. Really, the hardest part was the waiting.” He stood and Waylon could see the outline of his erection in his slacks. “You took so long but you didn’t die. That’s how I knew it would be worth waiting.”
The Groom’s hand circled below his navel before dipping down. He put two fingers on either lip and spread them. It made an obscene, wet click sound and awakened a stinging through the haphazardly formed skin there. Waylon tried to press away into the mattress to alleviate it.
Though his own effort didn’t work Gluskin chose to remove his touch on his own. When the bed shifted at his seated weight the programmer turned to watch the larger man remove his gloves and then his vest, one slow button at a time.
“What are you doing?” Waylon asked.
“Darling, we have to consummate our marriage,” was the explanation, giddy and obvious.
The bowtie and dress shirt went next. Gluskin was huge, certainly not the biggest psycho in the place but very near the top. He’d been huge even when pressed against glass and begging Waylon for help. Now he was larger and deadly because there was no escape and no barrier against his madness.
The technician hadn’t helped when asked so even if this patient hadn’t been warped by Murkoff’s experiments, even if he had some semblance of lucidity there would still have been no mercy for the bound man.
So Waylon attempted to appeal to the ‘husband.’ “We can’t. It’s hurts; I’m not healed yet.”
The look he received had Waylon attempting the leathers again. The only brow left on the disfigured face slanted down. “Yes, you are.” His voice was low but with the same old fashioned cadence to its tone. “I fixed you.” The slacks went next to reveal white shorts underneath. His erection was thick within the tight cradle of the fabric.
“I’ll get infected,” Waylon tried, stating one of his many fears aloud. He had no idea how he hadn’t succumbed to such a fate already. In his mind he added this possibility only if being impaled didn’t do the job first.
“No, no,” Gluskin assured. “We have medicine for that.” He was fully naked now. “No. You’ll get pregnant.”
Waylon’s throat constricted and he all but flung his face to the side when his captor rejoined him on the bed and leant over him. Hands wedged under his back, one arched him up while the other worked at what he assumed were the ties in the back.
The position hurt, of course, but more over it made him realize how utterly sore and stiff he was. How long had he really been out? Did Gluskin’s waiting refer to his consciousness or had he waited until his work had soon physically and highly visual healing?
Over the wide shoulders working down the dress he could see numerous orange bottles standing at attention on a tall set of drawers. The butt of a knife’s handle peeked over the edge as well. The pills had been used to keep him breathing there. The knife would keep him lying there.
The dress bunched around his hips, too narrow for his spread thighs. Gluskin, realizing this, moved down to free his right ankle from one bond only to keep it held within the one he made with his hand.
“No kicking,” he said and squeezed so hard his touch seemed to resemble grinding gears. “Your leg healed but I think you’ll have a limp. We wouldn’t want to make it worse.”
Waylon kept his leg where it was placed and did not move when the other was freed. Nor did he retaliate when the gown was pulled the remainder of the way and discarded to the floor. There’d be no point with his arms bound and knife so near. Even without those variables he was beginning to think there still would not have been a point.
Gluskin situated himself between the legs he held apart and then relinquished his grip to slide his palms up their length. When he passed over the bandages the programmer felt no pain.
He didn’t want to question it, he didn’t want to let another tendril of anxiety anchor firm in his mind but he found he had to all the same: “How long was I unconscious?”
His ‘husband’ was rubbing his hips and waist with massaging fingers and twice he dug his fingernails into the flesh, long enough to presumably leave marks. “Hm,” he hummed and then looked up. “It was hard to tell time when I was so worried about you. It was weeks, Darling.”
“Weeks,” Waylon repeated though he’d meant it as a question. He’d been kept alive by this lunatic for weeks and all for this very moment. All those pills and who knew what kind of sustenance had been poured into his body in order to accomplish this. But how could he have been here for weeks after contacting outside help? How could nobody have come when everything went to Hell?
They were answers he knew, sadly. He’d gotten his contact killed and any following help had been taken out as well. Weeks meant he was effectively dead to the world beyond the walls of Mount Massive. He’d seen no camera around so even his own evidence had been lost. Ultimately there was no chance he’d ever be able to reach a computer or phone.
He’d failed in the worst way because he’d dragged another down with him and now had no hope of justice or vengeance.
Now, he knew, he would never have a quick death. But which was worse: death or Gluskin’s lunacy?
The hands moved to his stomach and then spread out over his ribcage. Waylon tucked his chin down and wished he could’ve been relieved to find his pectorals free of gore.
Gluskin smiled into his view and placed a thumb on each nipple to get his attention. He leaned towards the technician, into his air. “Don’t be disappointed; they’ll grow.” He circled his pads about the nubs and Waylon squirmed despite himself. “I just have to fill you up with my seed. Then they’ll grow just like your belly.”
Waylon had never openly relished the sensitivity in his nipples and now he utterly loathed it. Gluskin was unrelenting with his attention and his stare was so deep the smaller man turned for the wall. His husband drew his chin back and devoted his other hand to its former teasing by spreading horizontally across his chest then rubbing back and forth between the two spots.
Then, holding his bride still, the patient kissed him. Like all lips they were soft, at least where the scabbing hadn’t overruled. Waylon hadn’t been the only one to heal over those weeks. He hadn’t looked too closely because the larger man’s face had still looked discolored and haggard. Now that he was forced into proximity he could tell it had been replaced by scarring; his eyebrow would never regrow and his lips would always be misshapen.
The grip on his chin pinched and one finger hooked under his bottom lip to forcibly separate it from the top. The opening made it easier for them to tuck together and Gluskin’s tongue to all but pour into his mouth.
It was wet and though Waylon’s throat had been constricting from dryness he felt the drool heavy over and dribbling at the corners of his lips when the kiss ended. Gluskin appreciate the sight and then dipped down to lick inside all over again.
The technician realized he might’ve spit out the saliva he’d been given weeks ago when he’d still hoped but in that moment he swallowed it down and exposed his throat when prompted.
Gluskin trailed spit there as well, zig-zagging it back and forth, up and down to leave specks of moisture in the places he lingered. He used his teeth but at no point did he bite. He sucked but not to leave bruises. The devotion didn’t keep the wincing away.
Now that his captor was moving lower with his attentions Waylon made an effort to focus his on the ceiling. There was a crack, miniscule from his distance, but he traced it with his eyes, ten times by his count before he lost it due to the cupping of his right pectoral. He’d never been one for lifting weights and so Gluskin was able to squeeze a circle of flesh within his palm.
He did the same with his other hand. His fingers pulsed a little and then he leant down, mouth open again. It wasn’t so difficult at first to start counting the crack again when faced with slow sweeps of a tongue. When the method and tempo changed it became difficult.
Gluskin sucked the nub long and then in shorter, rougher bursts. When he began to alternate this with flicking, rapid strokes from the tip of that wiggling muscle Waylon lost sight of the little fault above him entirely. His shoulders and back ached at the jolt that guided his back into a curve. A hand moved to savor the shape his spine had taken.
His spouse’s nostrils were flaring in a display of his arousal when he leaned back to present his white teeth. Despite the warmth in those breaths they still induced a chill.
Humiliated, Waylon forced his weight down while Gluskin replicated his performance for the neglected nipple. It felt the same, disturbingly good for his position. He must’ve made a sound, though, because the psycho gave a groan and surged up for a kiss that was once again mostly spit with a little more clinking teeth to shake things up.
His hips wedged the thighs around them wider and Waylon lost his breath at the heavy girth of his groom’s cock poking and tucking at his violation. Their mouth-lock broke away and its urgency was replaced with zealous nudges from the broad bridge and tip of his ‘lover’s’ nose. It was supposed to be a nuzzle but Gluskin, his eyes closed and hips undulating, seemed too far away for the tenderness that required.
Waylon moved his face from the caress, redirecting it to the perimeter around his ear. It didn’t matter that this forced his captor’s panting onto his eardrum anyway because anything to distract him from the slick prodding and dragging of a solid dick against what remained of his.
The ceiling looked too pristine just then, as if in one piece to the blurring liquid lining his eyes.
He could feel Gluskin’s erection between them. He could feel it not only just below his navel but or the inside of his thighs but as a friction on spots he’d though, and had dearly hoped, would be numb.
No, he’d had discomfort down there earlier, so he knew he could feel. What occurred now was sensation. Sensation caused by a firm pressure at what had been molded into his clitoris and the veiny width that ground between the lips just below.
Waylon was petrified.
Bodies react to stimuli. That is logic and that is fact but how could his respond after being shredded, mangled, and then slopped back together? How could a lunatic have disfigured him so and yet somehow kept him intact underneath it all?
“That feels good for you, too, Darling,” Gluskin rested back on his haunches. The pad of one of his fingers pivoted on the new clit. His thumb swept down to outline the hole.
The programmer said nothing and by the angry heat in his cheeks he knew he didn’t need to.
“Dirty girl,” he was admonished. “Do you want me to kiss you here?”
“No,” Waylon whispered.
Gluskin laughed and his Adam’s apple bobbed. “Such an innocent girl.” He repositioned himself lower and gently eased shaking thighs over his shoulders. He curled his arms to hold them in place. “I know it seems dirty.”
But he surged in with his mouth anyway and did just as he said: he planted a kiss on the knot of flesh. Then, after a hitched breath, he followed the action with one from his tongue. He licked as one would at ice cream, dragging caresses that eventually degenerated into quicker strokes.
The feel of callused fingers had been one thing and even though the situation was nightmarish the captive couldn’t avoid his body’s reaction when Gluskin’s mouth sealed over him. There was no moving his hips with their new positions. He had no way or hope in fighting and so he had to endure the slicking and sucking. He had to endure the way the lubrication heightened every stroke.
While Waylon fought to keep silent his groom let those nostrils flare and his throat hum. One of his hands relented its spot over the smaller man’s leg to alleviate the situation under his own hips.
Gluskin lifted and blew on the wet patch he’d left. “Does it feel good? You’re beautiful like this.” Fingers traced the area around his new opening. From his vantage point Waylon couldn’t see whether the flesh being teased had transformed into a labia but he could claim that at least, because of trauma or construction, it was far more sensitive than his perineum had been before. The sensitivity was one he couldn’t label as solely pleasure or pain but definitively between the two.
Gluskin pressed a finger into him and this had the younger man planting his feet and lifting his hips for escape. The intrusion was no dislodged. It wasn’t agony with the first nor the second but it was strange and obviously uncomfortable with every centimeter the dry digits took. His ‘lover’ had taken his attempt at aversion as well as any sound or steadying breath he made as pleasure.
The insertion of a third forced Waylon’s voice: “Stop!” he begged it.
“Stop?” The Groom’s voice had dropped low as did his brow over his eyes. He spread his knuckles.
Waylon gasped and without thought raised his knees to his chest which succeeded in relieving him of a few centimeters. Gluskin reclaimed them.
“You like it,” he accused.
“No?” Finally the fingers pulled free but Waylon wasn’t given the chance to calm the way his lungs screamed for air. His molester caught his ankles and twisted the right one cruelly. “I’m your husband! You can’t say ‘no’ to me! You wanted this! You little slut!”
At that moment, for all his former philosophizing, he was still more afraid of the murderous intent in those fierce eyes than the lust between his legs.
“Yes,” the technician’s voice was wet even to his own ears. “Yes, please! I—It’s too dry! Please!”
The scrutiny remained fixed even though the grip slackened.
“Please,” he tried again, hushed. “It’s dry… you have to make me wet.” His flush burned down his chest.
Immediately Gluskin’s palms fell to the back of his thighs. “You want me to kiss you more?” Waylon couldn’t answer, not when their gazes held as his husband slipped back down. “I won’t make you say it, Darling. You’ve said enough.”
His mouth opened wide and his tongue rolled so firmly Waylon hissed. He hissed at the shock of it feeling good.
Gluskin flicked his tongue across the opening he’d been torturing and that felt good. He let his spit pool and lavished it where he could and that felt good. When he wiggled it inside and spread that slickness there that felt better.
Waylon had never gotten control of his breathing but now it was erratic to the point that he believed he might hyperventilate. He could feel the tip of the little muscle within him prodding at the walls of his new vagina. He could feel when a good portion thrust inside and held there forcing Gluskin to heave his moist breath out and within. He could feel the testing undulations that followed.
How could he feel it? How could it feel it and enjoy it? His body wouldn’t be able to cum so how could it heat his entire body?
Had his work really been so terrible? Had he fucked over so many people to earn this irony?
Waylon dropped his hips into the larger man’s muscles for support. He dropped his chin to his chest and watched. He dropped the useless tension from his body. He dropped his eyelids when Gluskin’s wet touch settled and toyed with his ‘clit’ once again.
The patient’s free hand was cradling his left flank. The thumb there was rolling his skin as ardently as the other did below. Waylon kept his eyes on the way it kneaded his skin and thought how easily it could’ve been bruising it instead.
Gluskin’s eyes were closed his nose bumped steadily against his thumb as he delved. Waylon was following the rise and fall of his ribcage but with every exhale he saw how smooth the lines of his forehead were when placated. Placated might not have been the correct word; he could see how much the psycho was enjoying himself. He was delighted and every lick resonated that mirth through the smaller man’s body.
His ‘husband’ withdrew almost begrudgingly. He sat back to breathe for several moments during which Waylon struggled to do the same.
Gluskin walked his knees forward. “You’re wet now.” He reached down to place the head of his cock on the twitching entrance. He nudged but did not push inside.
“It’s not enough,” Waylon replied.
“No,” his spouse agreed. “You need to kiss me, too.”
It took three easy movements from his powerful thighs for Gluskin to be perched above him. His erection tapped on the programmer’s chin and then his lips. He parted them without fanfare and let it stretch open his mouth.
This cock, while above average in length, was unnervingly intimidating because of its girth. His lips would have split had they not been coated in saliva in their earlier lip lock. Still there was a defiant pull in them when stretched.
There were prominent veins lined from the base of his dick to the tip. The biggest of them ran along the underside of the organ and was a peculiar feature to feel on his tongue. He cradled it as the swollen tip was forced back and tucked into his throat causing it to spasm and Waylon to gag. He yanked at the leathers and let them imprint into his skin in hopes of a distraction.
Large hands moved to hold the back of his skull. They bunched the veil there and refused to lead his head rest back just yet. No, the length stuffed in completely before he was let go and it popped, almost comically, free.
Waylon sucked in air and swallowed down spit hard to ward of the coughing spell scratching at him.
Gluskin beamed at him and then, unexpectedly, unstrapped his arms. It felt as though he’d attempted to lift a train car with them but still he tried to tuck his elbows at least as far as the obstruction of his ‘husband’s’ thighs.
“You were pulling so hard,” was the observation. “Now you can use them.”
Waylon obeyed the implied order and wrapped one set of his fingers around his penis and put the other on his hip for support. Gluskin didn’t enjoy the tug of his palm for too long but he allowed it to remain encircled at the base of his cock when he drove back into Waylon’s mouth.
The movement was easier for the computer specialist now that his hand prevented the entirety of the shaft from battering his esophagus. He squeezed his eyes shut so that he did not have to look up at his molester while attempting to suck. This was not an experience he’d had before and he was desperate in his focus to keep his teeth and bile from meeting skin.
The thrusts came faster from Gluskin and he gathered his ‘wife’s’ supporting hand and spread it over his abdomen. Waylon made the error of opening his eyes in his alarm and once spotted he was too fearful to look away or to pretend he was too occupied for this caress. So he petted the lunatic’s stomach down and then up as far as he could reach.
The patient pulled from him after a few shaky thrusts. He then stood completely free of the bed to rummage in a desk drawer.
Waylon knew better than to leave the cot but he did press his knees together and eased himself up. He purposefully did not look between his thighs as he kneaded the muscles of his arms and then legs. He didn’t know if he’d ever be ready for the sight of what lay there.
Gluskin turned to him and the technician went back down at his approach. There was a bottle in his hand.
“Something to make you wet. This is what you wanted, isn’t it? You want to be wet for me and I want to make you happy.”
He knocked Waylon’s knees wide and bent them to put his hips at an upwards angle. He then made his bride cup his hands so he could pour the lubrication over them. It wasn’t obvious what it was exactly but olive oil didn’t seem too far a stretch considering he remembered a kitchen in nearby proximity.
Waylon smeared it over his palms and then obediently over the dick that impatiently pressed between them. He took his time because this was unavoidable but he could at least deny himself more pain from it. There was none when his ‘lover’s’ fingers reentered him easily with their slippery coating. He reached all three inside and crooked and spread and teased with them.
When they left his insides Waylon realized his own fingers had paused.
Gluskin loomed over him. “Now we’re both wet.”
The head of his cock touched just barely at the opening and slicked to the side. Waylon brought his hands up and onto the bulky shoulders hovering them. His nails turned practically to claws in order to keep his grip. He intended to keep his face bowed but allowed the nuzzling against it to draw him up so Gluskin could enter and claim him above and below in perfect synch.
The Groom fit almost completely inside him and Waylon couldn’t process the logistics of that. He registered instead the gradual sheathing Gluskin savored until the flared tip pushed against something at what was clearly the end of his ‘vagina’ that thrummed at the contact. It should have just been the back of a hole he’d been given.
Gluskin paused and then looked to him. His hands were holding his weight. “You’re perfect; I knew you would be. Does it feel good?”
Waylon swallowed and let the larger man think what he wanted and he let him do what he wanted. The thrusting did feel good with whatever had been created deep inside him. But had it been something created? Surely Gluskin was in no way capable of that. After all, the technician appeared to be his only paramour to have survived the transition.
So what did that mean for the state of Waylon’s mind?
There were sucking, squelching wet sounds with every meeting of their hips. They sounded the way sex often did accented by his ‘lover’s’ panting with each undulation. Each of these sounds cruelly enflamed his pelvis and it didn’t matter that he knew they were disgusting because his body recognized their connection with an act he’d once cherished.
It was a sick karma that he could recall the feeling of being inside someone just by watching Gluskin’s face, but the movement of his penis, in and out. It was hell that now he could experience it from the other end, that he could like it.
His husband straightened but did not pull free. “You’re so warm here.” His voice had lowered but different from the tone and volume of his anger. This was low and smug and satisfied.
He lifted Waylon’s hips and kept his grip tight. It made his upper body an awkward angle that would enrage his back in the morning if held too long. If he made it that long.
Waylon didn’t let his eyes stray far from the wall or ceiling or door but the glimpses of the muscle straining in Gluskin’s arms and shoulders were impressive. The patent seemed not to feel the effort it took to maintain their position. His thrusting had increased in speed but somehow not in intensity.
He didn’t jam himself in with the single mindedness and carelessness and insanity expected. Gluskin was as reverent as he’d been previously. He may not have had a lot of willing experience, in fact his files all but said so, but he was trying to make his bride happy.
Why was he trying?
Their position was changing again. His ‘lover’ supported him as he was encouraged to his hands and knees. It was better for his back but made him feel all the more vulnerable.
Gluskin had more control this way. He cupped heavy hands at the programmer’s hipbones and eased them back as his own went forward. Waylon had been weak enough on his back when he’d had no weight to manage but now his shoulders and biceps gave out quickly. The pillow was there for his face.
Fingers followed his spine and then ran under the line of his shoulder blade to get underneath. Both of Gluskin’s hands moved to his pectorals as he leant over Waylon’s form. They were rocking then and the patient seemed loath to give up the warmth of their closeness. His breath turned to sighs and mutters in his bride’s ear.
He finally did pull away to trade places with Waylon. With no point to running or resisting the ex-employee spread his thighs across his ‘husband’s’ hips and allowed his cock back into his opening.
Gluskin encouraged him to place his hands on his stomach with soft, circling thumbs at the veins in his wrists. The same fatigue was in Waylon’s thighs and so he obliged. Still, though he hurt, it was degrading and near impossible to prop himself on a dick and present himself in all his weak, cowardly, mutilated glory just to appease his thighs.
The patient solved his turmoil by doing it for him, blue eyes marveling all the while. Waylon hated how hard it had become to look elsewhere.
He hated how he was filled again, to his deepest extent. He hated the care with which it was done. He hated the pleasure that arose at the end of it.
Maybe he was forced into the rocking motion or maybe it was instinctive but either way it happened. Their hands were upon each other in support for one and enjoyment for the other.
The gentle rubbing of a thumb set upon his ‘clit’ again. It was wet and moved easily and this time there was nothing painful about it. There was no pain.
There was rocking and rolling and ugly panting. There was sweat and arching bodies. There was Waylon’s weight leaning back and then forth for reprieve, for support, for the pulsing he couldn’t stop within his pelvis.
Gluskin surged up against and around him, tight with his arms and close with his chest. He was so large that their faces were even and so their mouths smacked and held at his insistence.
What Waylon felt then he didn’t want to be an orgasm but his body shook and clenched and unclenched. He was rattled straight to his insides and the sounds he made were indicative enough.
It burned when Gluskin spilled inside him in response. His arms remained a vice around Waylon, disallowing movement as he shuddered to the end. He wanted his seed to stick, to take hold, to develop.
There were lips all over his face but their bodies did not part. There were caresses to his sides and back as he slumped forward but they did not part.
“I love you,” the Groom, his Groom, whispered. “I’ve filled you up and soon you’ll grow with our baby.”
It was awkward positioning but a large hand found its way to Waylon’s stomach. But they did not part. They would take time. They had to be sure his husband’s seed stuck.