“ Shh, baby, it’s okay, just a little longer.” The thick sound of slicked-up skin tugging against his ring of nerves sent shivers through his body hard enough the table seemed to fucking vibrate. “You’ve been so good for me, sweetheart- look at you all strung out for me. Look at what you do to me, Dollface; look at what you make me do to you.”
The air stung like mint after an icebath. His skin tingled, burned, like it was rubbed raw with a steel sponge; red and slick and shimmering from the thin sheen of perspiration built from the past two hours of torture. So much; too much-it had been too much when they’d kept going through his first time; maddening the second; painful the third; and now here they were deep into the sixth and Wilbur didn’t have the capacity to control his own fucking lungs anymore. Breath came in when Schlatt slid away, and then he’d fuck it right back out of him, leaving him heaving and scratching and pleading in and out of his own head. To stop or keep going, he’d lost track of, if he knew from the beginning.
What he did know was he was coming dangerously close to number seven.
The tears were constant, cheeks stinging from the saltwater burn. Nails dug into Schlatt’s shoulders, legs hooked around his back. Back when he still had thoughts, before he was just a pile of overstimulation and dry orgasms, he’d been worried fucking on a wood table would hurt. Oh boy, was he stressed about the wrong things.
“God you feel so fucking good baby, so fucking tight around me you-” Wilbur wasn’t sure if that was out loud or in Schlatt’s head, or maybe his own, but it didn’t particularly matter to him. Instead, he just fucking whined, scratching his nails further into Schlatt’s thick hair, tugging his mouth down to his neck, where the man chuckled before sending him screaming with another bite. “Oh?” he said, definitely out loud that time, as the hot air agitated the marks, sending the hairs on his neck careening up. “You like that, babe? You want more of that? What do you want, Dolly?”
This was all part of the cruel game and Wilbur knew it; knew how fucking mean it was; knew damn fucking well that Schlatt knew better than to ask for speech when he was like this. Words. Words were harder, Wilbur felt, words were Techno, words were far from his brain; he could only talk by burying his face deep in Schlatt’s chest and sobbing.
“Hm,” Schlatt cooed, like he was considering what brand of chips to buy and not if he would stop before Wilbur’s heart literally exploded, “okay, baby- you got one more in you? We’ll go one more, one more, how does that sound?”
How Schlatt was staying so fucking calm he’d never know. It didn’t make sense- he could read him, he was so in tune with him- but he was able to stay so fucking calm and-
Schlatt thrust forward. “I expect an answer when I talk nice to ya’, Doll.”
Yes yes yes yes yes, he screamed, screamed in his head, he thinks, but he still wasn’t Techno so Schlatt couldn’t hear it; and if Schlatt was feeling the scorching ice that dug under Wilbur’s pickled skin and sliced him open, he certainly didn’t act like it. So Wilbur whined, leaving open mouthed panting kisses against his chest; his chest which still had a fucking shirt on; he always kept half dressed; he must think it’s funny; that it’s funny to watch Wilbur naked and dying from his cock without him having to loosen his damn tie-
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
With that, Wilbur felt a hand smooth through his hand, blissfully cool. Schlatt stilled inside him, content to pet down his sweat-slicked hair; and for a blissful, heavy beat, all the noise in his head vanished, leaving only the faint hum of the air conditioner above them. He almost collapsed there. Collapsed from the overwhelming sense of nothing everyone else took for granted, the hollow silence of the mind. He drowned himself in quiet.
By the time it broke, he realized it was his own scream doing the shattering.
The hand in his hair tightened to an iron grip, forcing his head as another pushed on the center of his back, forcing him into an arch that nearly folded him in half as he thrust in hard enough it’d bruise. His fingers scraped for purchase- Schlatt, table, wall, paper, anything anything to keep him grounded, anything anything, please oh god- as nails dragged along the curve of his spine, settling for carving deep depressions in his hips and thighs and-
Gone. He was gone. He might have came. He might’ve just fucking ascended. He fucking didn’t know- His mind was. All he knew was. White. White. Soft. White. He could faintly hear the continued slap of skin on skin; this time mixed with rumbling growls that swam circles in his skull, but he still only knew white. Every muscle was loose, relaxed; he couldn’t feel his own skin’ just a faint, pleasant buzz. It was quiet again.
He’d like to stay there a while longer, please.
His eyes were open, unseeing, as Schlatt used him. Positioned him this way or that. Hands were everywhere. At one point he knew both his thighs were grabbed and forced apart so wide his muddled mind laughed in memories of gymnastics. He gurgled, something, probably an attempt to tell the story, but all he got from that was a thick line of drool dripping onto the hardwood desk.
Somewhere around when breathing became more difficult- a round pressure pushing down on his throat that made him croon for the pretty blue collar Schlatt got for him- he felt warmth spread from his back up his chest, until all of him felt full and light and happy and safe. He purred, something, maybe. Or just gurgled some more. He didn’t know. But it led to him being snuggled against another warm thing- it smelled like Schlatt and Schlatt was good so he hoped it was Schlatt, Schlatt, Schlatt- and crushed into the cool wood. It was nice. It was nice to just. Lay. Quiet. A warm weighted blanket that smelled like Schlatt above him; head empty. No emotions. Not even his own. Just. Blank.
He didn’t know how long he stayed there. Time didn’t exist in the white. He knew at some point the nice warm blanket- _Come back come back please I want you back_, he articulated through a series of gurgles and whines and tears more salt than water from dehydration- left him. It soon came back, but this time ran something chilly up his legs and where the warm sticky was before, leaving a gentle kiss at the top of his hip. Hands ghosted every bit of him; raising goosebumps and down-hair where they went. They weren’t probing, grabbing, just... skimming along the surface, petting like a puppy. He-he. He’s a pretty puppy, isn’t he? Pretty puppy?
“ Yes, Wil, a very pretty puppy.”
Thank you Mr. Voice man.
He heard a little gust of wind above him. “ You’re so lucky you’re cute, babe. So fucking lucky.”
“I’m your cute though. Right?”
“Yeah,” Mr. Voice main said as his lips brushed against Wil’s forehead. “You’re mine.”