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With straps fitted around the back of his head, tufts of hair poking out between the metal ridges slotted alongside the coarse fabric, the tapered material settled on his mouth with open sectored spaces (although covered with a thick film of cloth) did nothing to muffle Bokuto’s low groans and whines; downy ears pressed firmly against the side of his head, with the occasional stutter of twitches, eyes unclear and misty.
He didn’t wanna cum anymore, he couldn’t, he was sure of it - regardless if his balls were still fattened and heavy, one of your hands gently cupping the underside of them, shifting them from side to side; if he was still leaving a mess in between the gaps of your fingers holding him, cum, slick and syrupy, seeping across and coating the skin of your thumb digging into his reddened slit, straining to keep up; and if he was still writhing, hips still motioning him to rut upwards into the grasp of your hand, sweating and begging you to stop-
Cut short, his breath abruptly hitches, eyes meeting yours as you still continue your languid pace of kneading your fingers against his glans, almost coaxing, bribing him to let go, “I can’t, baby- please, s’gonna hurt,” Bokuto’s words now slurring together, trying to fight off the upcoming orgasm.
But, he knows, as you softly massage against the supple of his thigh, pulling away from underneath his balls; he knows, as you smile so, so sweetly at him, cooing almost, telling him, he’s such a good boy, that, he looks so pretty when he cums, and that, you just need him to let go, for me - he can’t fight it off - giving into the surging warmth in his lower stomach, cockhead pathetically dribbling out what it had left, pooling onto the remaining loads on his stomach, tail jerking erratically.