Work Text:
Jay's breath hitched in his throat as a second finger slipped past the tight ring of his anus. Slick though it was, his body was in revolt and his insides fluttered around the offending digits in their best attempt to push the intrusion out. The fingers twisted, pushed back against the insistent press of his intestines and scissored, forcing his ass to open a little wider around them. It was uncomfortable; The noise of protest that bubbled involuntarily from his mouth was slick with the spit that he couldn't swallow and the bit in his mouth kept him from muffling the sound. The fingers flexed inside of him in response.
Something popped behind him -- a hollow plastic sound -- followed by a wet splat. Cold fluid slithered down his tailbone, across his trembling hole to drip from his taint. Some of it made it as far as his balls. The fingers slid out again. The tips of well manicured nails scratched gently over his sphincter, then slid deeper, passed the first knuckle to the second, carrying some of the lubricant with them. He could smell the latex smell of it underneath the wood polish and varnish of the table he was laid across, the rounded edge of which pressed hard and unforgiving into his stomach. A puddle of drool slicked the surface beneath his cheek and chin. He could smell that, too.
The fingers inside of him scissored him open again, and a third slid into the gap they forged. His ass clamped down desperately -- too fast, he hadn't gotten used to just two yet -- and for a moment the fingers stilled, allowing the spasms that squeezed them to continue unchallenged. A warm hand smoothed apologetically over the small of his back, slid over the curve of his hip and around to stroke his belly. Careful words ghosted across the burning shell of his ear, whispered placations from the person working him open, faceless behind the blindfold obscuring his vision. When the fingers parted again, they parted more carefully. It still ached.
The hand on his belly pressed a little harder, moved back to his hip and pulled. His ass tipped further upward. The table -- and his shoulders and neck -- took most of his weight, but the bindings on his body made balancing on his knees awkward. His nails, sharp and jagged from constant chewing, dug pinpoints of pain into the soft juncture just above his knees in an effort to distract from the strain rocking his upper thighs. The warm burn of the rope lashing his wrists to his legs was a delicious counterpoint to the sharp discomfort, but it would only help for so long before it, too, became too much.
Another plastic pop behind him and more cold lubricant dripped directly into his asshole, between the stretching fingers. His entire body jerked. A high, distressed whine garbled its way into the slick mess beneath his face. It didn't hurt, per say, but the discomfort it caused teetered on the edge. The fingers relaxed again, drawing out just a bit, pushing back in, setting a gentle rhythm. Every slide forward pushed them a little deeper, passed the first knuckle, back to the second, further down until the webbing between the ring and pinky finger pressed against his hole. They stayed there for a moment, twisting gently from side to side. He felt the extra lubricant seeping out between the fingers and the clench of his ass as he was filled and it was displaced-- he could hear it too, a wet sucking, squelching sound that pulsed through his neglected dick.
The fingers drew back again until only the pads touched him. More lube drizzled over the digits: he heard it as it was squeezed from the tube and he felt it slide down his lover's skin to seep against his loosened hole. When the fingers pressed back in, the pinky slid in with them. His ass opened more easily now, swallowing the intrusion up to the third knuckle -- the swell where fingers met palm. He couldn't stop the low keening noises he made as, with a little force, the bulge of the knuckles slipped inside of him too, and the hand slid down to mid palm where the web of the thumb stopped it from sinking further into him. He breathed shallowly through his nose; He knew, objectively, that his lover's hand was average sized, but it felt impossibly large buried in his bowls.
He muffled his lover's name around the bit between his teeth and their free hand smoothed back down the arch of his spine. The corners of his mouth ached, the hinge of his jaw ached, his legs were trembling violently now, the muscles on fire, and he was reasonably certain he had rope burn across his wrists and the lower parts of his thighs. He felt impaled. His dick was weeping pre-cum onto the cushion his lover had allowed him to kneel on.
Words of praise were murmured into his hair, almost too quietly for him to hear. They pulled their hand back enough that the knobs of their knuckles distended his hole again, then shoved their hand back in. The force of it rocked Jay forward a little. The motion was repeated, a little faster, a little more roughly. His sphincter burned, forced open, held open, and he wondered if it would ever close up properly again, after this. Every thrust sent him sliding forward against the table, lubricated by the spit leaking generously from his mouth. His dick bounced and bobbed with the motion, his sack swung back and forth between his legs.
What must he look like to his partner? His imagination supplied images, dirty, filthy things -- him kneeling, bound, helpless, hole stretched like a rubber band, expanding and contracting with every thrust. His face was probably a flushed, splotchy mess but for once in his life he didn't care.
He focused on the image, on the feeling of fingers and the burn of the stretch and the warmth of his partner leaning over him. He focused on them even as the rest of the pain in his body seemed to seep into itself, blending together with the pleasure of being used, the satisfaction of his helplessness and the ache of being filled. He could feel his heart hammering in his ribs, his breath coming in quick, desperate sobs. He felt like he was floating and the only thing tethering him to reality was the in-and-out of the hand in his ass. He was losing himself in the sensations and it was perfect.
Then, on one forward thrust, the fingers curled and pressed.
They missed hitting his prostate head on the first time, but managed to brush it. The touch sent sparks shooting down his spine and he heard himself whine over the white noise of his pulse beating its tattoo in his ears. The second time their aim was true, and he arched off of the table as best as his restraints would allow, desperate, sobbing.
"Ah, there we go." They murmured and pressed inwards again, grinding their fingers against the little bundle of nerves. Jay could barely hear them over the rushing of blood in his ears and his own noises. Everything else was gone, his world a blank void consisting only of those fingers, his prostate and the orgasm he could feel rushing at him like an oncoming storm. He wasn't going to last much longer this way: One thrust, two, three, and then the storm hit, ripping his breath from him.
The hand withdrew, suddenly, and left him empty, his asshole stretched loose and raw and fluttering around nothing. He could feel his lover's eyes on him, watching his body grasp for something that was no longer there. Then, fingers plucked delicately at the blindfold until it fell away, then at the buckle on the bit. When it slid free of his mouth he worked the pain out of his jaw. The ropes hobbling him were next and he collapsed in a sated pile on the floor while his lover ran sticky, soothing fingers though his already disgusting hair and smiled at him as though he had hung the moon.
"Ok?" They asked, and he nodded, turning his face into their hands and nuzzling the skin, too sated and tired to try and articulate his appreciation. They laughed, low and warm, and curled up on the floor next to him. They would really have to get cleaned up before the others got back and found them like this, but for now cuddles -- the other best part of sex -- were in order. He sighed, closed his eyes, and smiled.