Ash hadn't entered a whole lot of suspicion into the proceedings, even if ( or because of ) every surprise Liam has concocted since they met generally results in hours of exquisite agony visited upon his person, which he strains against and cries for until he finally just gives, every time, and every time it feels like the sweetest moment of his life to date.

So with that in mind, and the fact that he does recognize the building, whatever this surprise is presumably has to do with sex, which. As per previous mention Liam has spent the past week teaching him teaching him about so many stripes of depravity he allows the blindfold to be placed over his eyes without protest other than a playfully warning little, "What are you doing~", allows, in the same way, his clothing to be peeled down and taken away, only starting to panic a little as Liam straps him onto the cross, though--considering he can tell, from the spread of his arms and legs, it's really more of an X shape, does it still count as a cross? --and even then he doesn't even consider safewording, just chases that kiss with a solicitous little whimper of disquiet.

It's not until he's had a moment to process his surroundings that he realizes there are other people in the room, maybe ...eight? ten? He's positive Liam hasn't actually left the premises even if he can't see or hear him, they're so attuned to each other, so...he trusts, whatever is happening he can bear it, even if he's abruptly starkly aware of how he's naked and spread open, and he wasn't exactly detached from that to begin with. Some signal he can't parse seems to happen, as the soft clamor of voices shift and come closer until he has the sense that he's surrounded, close enough to feel body heat, and then--then someone runs a finger down the line of his collarbone like those cartoon glove inspections for dust, someone else presses a hand flat to his abdomen, testing the tensile strength of the muscle there, and yet another completely unfamiliar set of hands is suddenly lifting his scrotum, turning it this way and that, cupping and then rolling his balls carelessly.

His heart feels like it's going to jump out of his ribs, and he's aware he's making confused, distressed noises, but he never says stop, or red, and his cock, already half hard from Liam undressing him, rises traitorously to full hardness as both his nipples are tested in tandem, circled ever so lightly with two wet forefingers until he's squirming restlessly, earning a sharp slap from the hands inspecting his balls, which in turn makes him gasp, already so--so needy. He hates this, hates the way he's being handled like fruit in a supermarket ( when it's not Liam doing it, anyway, but--if Liam put him here, then by proxy isn't it him touching Ash so thoroughly? ), but at the same time ....at the same time when the relentless light stroking of his nipples is suddenly replaced by what is at first confusing in its coolness until he has a split second to realize it's metal--when the bite of heavy clamps snaps first on one, then the other, he moans so loudly he startles himself, relief and pleasure and misery all washing through him along with a slow, radiating burn he knows will become crueler and crueler the longer they're fastened on. A little jingling sound and a sharp tug forward makes him realize there's a chain drawn between them, the dual shocks of pain whiting him out for a moment.

He comes back to himself to realize a new presence ( at least he thinks it is ) has circled around behind him, stroking one thick finger down his crease almost thoughtfully, consideringly, and again Ash has that sense that he's an item on a menu. Strong hands ( smooth, not like Liam's ) spread his cheeks, and then two dry fingers penetrate him with purpose, crooking up and scissoring and--there's no real distress in his moan this time. He sounds like a whore. Like the kind of theatrical sex sounds that can't possibly be real, except that this is.

As real as the fact that this is happening.

The fingers probe deeper, making little scooping motions as if he's a fish on a hook, and in desperation he tries to grind his hips backward, caught between that deep penetration and the attention to his balls, the quality of which has changed to so, so light it's like being brushed by spiderwebs. Neither give him anything like satisfaction, and he wails in open frustration.

Ash knows. As humiliated as he is to be so invasively probed by so many hands ( no faces to go with them; it might as well be mechanical fingers in him except for the inescapable knowledge that he can be heard and seen, all civilized layers stripped away to reveal the skin-hungry slut underneath ), the one thing he'll never doubt in all this is that Liam is letting it happen because he loves him. Whether it's to watch him pulled slowly apart by unwilling pleasure, to teach him the true depth and scope of total submission, or a place between that has no such easy delineation, Liam is giving him what he needs.

Though that only does so much to make it easier. To wit: when Liam actually speaks up Ash is so relieved to hear him he startles and then relaxes so completely that suggested third finger slips into him easily. He groans as he's stretched, forefinger, middle and thumb working in all the way up to the hand, then widening like the points of a triangle; without lubrication the loosening of those muscles burns, but--still works, too. Ash can feel his hole slowly, easily widening, and wonders if his body can be trained with as much efficiency as his mind, hole giving way easily because it's meant to be filled as often as Liam wants.

The pain of being stretched distracts him long enough that he doesn't realize one of the hands on his balls has shifted, that when it returns it brings with it more cold metal, this time fitted around and around his cock, balls drawn up tight and then something--oh god, something metal touches the slit and doesn't stop there, is threaded with clinical, professional detachment, into his cock, eased further and further inside it as his lungs heave like a bellows, trembling and trembling as he clenches down involuntarily on the fingers in his ass.

Liam is right there, he reminds himself. He's not going to let anything happen to Ash he can't take.

Once he's had a moment to adjust ( although there is no real adjusting at this point, pinioned in all the most sensitive parts of his body ) he understands what's just been done to him; though desire roils inside him, entirely detached from any higher function, he's to be given no outlet for release. Liam pretty frequently subjects him to extended denial games, so objectively he knows that delayed moment will be all the more intense, but that's if it's delayed, and not--he has no way of knowing how long this will go on, he realizes. Or what might be done to him next.

The latter, at least, is easily answered, as something plasticky tasting is abruptly pushed into his mouth with no warning, and he tries desperately to get his spasming throat to relax as it steadily presses all the way in; a hand strokes his hair and a totally unfamiliar voice tells him to suck, breath hot over his ear. He tries his best to close his lips around the synthetic cock in his mouth, unable to decide if he's relieved or not to have realized what it is, but after it's roughly pushed in and out a few times and he's gagging, face burning with asphyxiation and shame as saliva trickles down his chin, it becomes apparent it was more important to just get it wet than for him to really suck on it. The fingers in his ass pull out, and the dildo, slick with his spit but still no lube otherwise, is rammed into him with one loud pop, and his eyes roll back in his head behind the blindfold.

The pain is explosive, and so, so good he sags with it, limp on the cross until he feels someone grip the base of the dildo and twist it slowly inside him, almost out, then in again. It's ridged and the sensation makes him desperate to squirm his hips, though--every time he tries the chain drawn between his nipples yanks him forward, and his brain can't decide if it wants more or wants it to stop. So for the moment he tries to hold still, but that can't stop his voice from full throated moans that betray how much he's enjoying everything, how much he needs the shame as well as the pleasure.

Ash actually has to clamp his lips shut to keep from moaning out that oh god, god, it is better even if what he really wants is Liam; at least there's something in him to relieve the emptiness of his hole like a grasping mouth. He marvels, distractedly, at how quickly he's been taught to want this, except ...at his core, he always did, he was just waiting for Liam to give it to him. To understand the things he needed and damn everything else to inflict them on him, make him jerk and writhe with them.

Not at this moment, though, since even the lightest of chiding freezes him in place, limbs already weakening and growing heavy, even as his instincts are screaming at them to fight all the unwanted touching, expel everything already inserted into him. The need to do as he's told is far stronger, and he melts slowly back onto the cross, no longer resisting or trying to get more of the endlessly working dildo, already having loosened him to the point where it can be rotated in wider circles instead of merely pushing in and out. "No, Liam. I know better, I'm sorry."

Ash wishes he could see him just to know if he's forgiven, but he pushes on with trying to behave better instead; the admonishment for him to be good and his clear desire to obey seems to have flipped a switch: slowly, so slowly at first he's not sure his brain isn't just trying to detach to protect itself, what's being done to him increases in all ways: intensity, volume, permissiveness, and he realizes with a horrified, painfully aroused moan this has all just been a warm-up. There are two sets of mouths on his nipples now, sucking him through the clamps as oversensitive, blood-engorged flesh send what feel like dozens of needles flashing through him, and he has to ball his hands into fists to stay still. Fingers caress him through the rings of the chastity device, and his balls are lightly slapped in their confinement. He can be good. He hopes Liam likes what he sees, would ask were he allowed to speak, but knowing he isn't just shudders in place, tries to absorb and process all the stimulation to keep it from drowning him completely.

A little span of time passes: it's not very long, maybe another two minutes where the hushed tangle of voices discuss, he thinks it must be, where to take him next, and apparently an answer is settled upon fairly quickly as the dildo is twisted out of him, leaving the slutty, gaping width of his hole to clench on nothing; he knows rationally that should be a relief, but instead has to bite down on the inside of his cheek to keep from begging aloud for someone to put it back, or even give him fingers, just--anything. Which is when he feels the alien sensation of a plastic tube at his entrance, its tip inserted just far enough to shoot a glob of cold lubricant directly inside him, followed by two fingers that stretch his opening once, twice, and withdraw. He's yet to be lubed up for any of this, and so a second time he isn't relieved, just dreading what might come next.

He's prepared no further than that before a long, thick length of cock drives into him; it seems to go on and on, and he thinks he screams as it bottoms out, grinding his prostate mercilessly as its owner rotates agile hips, then withdraws nearly all the way to do it all again. Just a little shorter than Liam, and not quite the same in girth; the fact that he can tell this is nothing short of amazing, but it soon loses its grip on his conscious thoughts. Some part of the cross is snapped off at the back; his arms and legs are still firmly strapped down, and the way he's positioned with his feet slightly off the ground, he has no leverage. That seems fine, since he's not expected to participate in this, only allow himself to be slid with increasingly high impact back and forth on that absurd length of cock, hole throbbing and overstretched around it.

The moan that wells up from his chest is unstoppable, and after that he can't stop, the ceaseless uhhhnn, uhhhnnnn of how good that cock feels, the crystal-perfect humiliation and dull pain ramping him impossibly higher. The cage around his dick seems impossible constricting, made all the more unbearable when he's pulled back so he's completely impaled, and rather than pulling out again the fat, cruel head of that cock crushes without letup into his prostate, and just when he thinks he might be reaching the limit of his endurance, suddenly it's pulsing and pulsing inside him, searing his insides with hot come that like everything else since he was first split open seems like it's never going to stop. Finally, he feels the last burning splashes splattered across the top of his ass and the small of his back, and thick fingers are pushed into him and stay there for an entire minute ( Ash knows, he counts the seconds ), making sure not a single drop of the come inside him leaks out.

His denied cock aches, and the squish of come with every involuntary twitch of muscle makes him feel absolutely filthy, unable to wriggle away from his shame. From the fact that he's a whore, that once again he longs to be filled, that--something light suddenly brushes across his perineum; it could be a fingertip, the touch is too barely there to tell. It sweeps back and forth, from just behind his balls almost up to his hole, and it's with a fascinated kind of dread he realizes he's going to be touched only there, as long as the stranger who's doing the touching stays interested in his cock trying to thrash in its cage, all his muscles quivering as he makes quiet, despairing noises and tries to stay still.

Under the blindfold and already reeling from so much sensation, Ash loses all sense of spatial orientation when the cross begins to turn, unsure what's happening with it comes to a stop. It takes him a moment to even realize he's effectively horizontal, or--well, would take a moment, if he had a moment before another, bigger cock slides into him, and a second stuffs his mouth and throat full the second his lips open in a gasp. He feels so utterly used as both begin to pump in and out, intervals not matching one another at all so he barely knows when to take a breath; his prostate might be slammed into at the same time his throat is swollen around the thickest part of the length it struggles around, and remembering to breathe through his nose takes a pretty significant amount of his concentration. Or would, if he could concentrate on anything but being so roughly taken; he's sloppy wet inside already with all that come, but this cock still stretches him far enough to hurt.

Hurt seems to crawl through his entire body, in fact; his throat burns already, like he's swallowing fire instead of a mouthful of cock; his nipples are twin points of spiraling soreness, and his balls and dick are both throbbing erratically; those stroking, pressing fingers are like stinging nettles now. The ache in his ass has begun to spread the entire way down his legs, and all of this, of course, means he's lost in a haze of pleasure brought on by all that pain; only the humiliation has kept him present until now, and even that begins to fade eventually, as a hand yanks his head up by the hair - not the same person as the one embedded in his throat, he doesn't think - and drags it back as far as it will go, throat opening wider and wider, the burn so all encompassing he might just drift somewhere away from all this.

The camera shutter takes a moment to permeate that lazy fog, but when it does he's brought so starkly back to reality he wails, hole clenching in pulses as the inescapable sense of fullness from mouth to ass floods back in all at once. If it's Liam memorizing this in technicolor, he's still embarrassed, but--he'll survive. He can't know that though, and all thought of drifting off dissolves for a while as he feels each brutal thrust at both ends of him, as if there's one long circuit all the way through through his body.

He has barely enough time to swallow before the cock jerks out of his mouth, flooding with come as it does, the rest fountaining in jets across his face, down his neck. Some drips into the mouth he hasn't been able to close, and a mouth comes close to his ear, a harsh whisper that demands he clean it up. His tongue is working around the edge of his mouth as well as he can, salty, unfamiliar taste a little repulsive and a lot arousing at the same time, when his ass is rocked by a grip on his hips sawing him back and forth and back and forth, god, he's going to split in half--

At that point it's almost a blessing to feel more come shoot up inside him; once again he's plugged up long enough to ensure it all stays in, and when those fingers withdraw he finally relaxes a little, realizing aside from the heavy throb in his nipples and cock nothing further is actually being inflicted on him right now, and he sighs, slowly, then moans in a way he has absolutely no hope of keeping back, or even muffling: he's wracked with blows of pain and pleasure all at once as his mouth is forced open a second time, fingers on his top and bottom row of teeth to help accommodate the girth that stretches his lips so thin he can feel them heat up, and his ass is breached in one stroke from tip to root, hips struggling to get away until his hips are firmly clamped, and he remembers he's supposed to be still.

Ash is pretty sure he has limits. Somewhere. They're just not things Liam, intuitive as ever, is allowing; he'd protest hands around his throat - although choking on another fat length of cock doesn't seem to pose an issue for long - or anything resembling impact play, anything simply for the sake of pain that isn't a natural consequence of being bound and clamped and filled, over and over. Hurting him because he wants to be hurt, because it gets him into that space where everything goes away and he can just exist, belongs only to Liam.

Who even now is taking care of him; he can't make eye contact or smile, but for a moment the quality of the moaning torn from him continuously now has a drowsy, sweet quality to it, and after that breathing is easier. He's not even sure he's doing anything different, it just is.

When his face is once again drenched in come, pulses that feel almost careless, the way a person wouldn't particularly take much care with a rag they're wiping their hands on, he's briefly grateful for the blindfold even if its presence means he's never quite going to be able to solidify himself in space. When his ass is lifted, dragged up to the hilt again, it's the third time he's been invaded by pump after pump of come, and in the moment he's made to wait he can feel it starting to drip along the underside of one cheek, muscles so lax it washes out of him in a wave that makes him shudder and mewl again, hole trying compulsively to twitch closed. A lost cause; he's been worked open so effectively. Even as he feels himself gushing he's still slick enough to make the way easy for yet another too-long, too-wide cock, his body is putting up so little resistance that when a hand separate from the two bracing his hips slides up the inside of his thigh, followed by a finger wriggling in alongside, it aches, but he's been so continuously, diligently widened it fits. The first knuckle crooks as if to test the stretch of his rim, shortly joined a second, and third as he gasps and tries again, involuntarily, to clench up, though there's no more success than the first time. Each finger eventually withdraws, giving way to a cock that now has the extra give to rotate from the hips as it works its way with agonizing slowness back out and in again.

He's given up wondering if there will be an end to this; he doesn't know what to expect so much as he knows what's expected of him, and when hands maneuver his head into place he lets his jaw drop loose, obedient to what is, ultimately, no matter what permission has been given by proxy, Liam's will. It's the only thing that means anything now as he's cored out from end to end, the sounds he's making barely human in their abandon.

In normal conversation, Ash would affectionately eyeroll and deliver some commentary along the lines of Jesus, Verbena are weird, because really, who uses Life magic to do what Liam does to him? Opening him up and bringing him to full hardness out of nowhere, so that he might suddenly find himself bent over the kitchen table, or the back of the sofa, rough hand on the back of his neck making him instantly pliant even as his face burns from the--well, yes, indecency of it. Ready and aching to be filled with a gesture, or a word.

Since this is absolutely fucking nothing like normal conversation, his response is markedly less coherent, but there's still that warm shade of affection at the back of what drifting, insubstantial thoughts he has: the neatening and tightening of his stretched hole feels almost - almost - like Liam's touch; Ash is so attuned to the resonance of his magic. Not quite enough for it to feel anything but strange, not enough to keep his hips from twisting compulsively against the sensation and shuddering at what now feels like an unused hole somehow slick and filthy with come, but almost. As such it takes him just a moment to register that--that oh, he's...he's being tightened again because he'd simply got too loose to make a satisfying fuck, and the brief lull there had been where he'd been left loose to hang in his bonds becomes a hot, intoxicating kind of dread as he shivers with helplessness.

( In real terms, of course, he's not helpless at all; a mage is never exactly unarmed, and he could probably kill everyone in this room if he had to. The surrender, then, of every inch of his body, the yield of every kind of autonomy, means more, he thinks. Setting aside all that power and letting Liam sink both bloody hands up to the wrist in the most unprotected core of him--it's thrilling. Thrilling and safer than he feels with even the most powerful magic at his back. )

He's left to wait exactly so long that the anticipation is maddening, making him squirm on the cross until he's filled again, seemingly with no warning despite the hands that keep him still, no more than a breathing doll with sweet, tight little holes; he still cries out and snaps rigid when he's penetrated with all the same shock and sudden stretch of those first two fingers. Except that of course he's given no transition from fingers to dildo to cock, just stretched around a hot, thick length that enters and enters him as he pants and struggles and finally just goes limp and lets it happen, already slack mouth easily allowing the cock that breaches it to slide all the way down into his throat.

It feels like a long time before either cock reaches its limit, just a steady, brutal pace in and out of him with no apparent end. The hands on his hips and head occasionally adjust him for deeper access or to be moved more vigorously, but aside from that it's just--getting fucked, slowly overwhelmed by a dull, iron-hot pleasure that grows and grows and grows inside him, continues expanding impossibly until tears are struggling from under his lashes, though he's not audibly crying. The feeling is almost as strange as having his hole tightened up, to cry not from sadness or anything else so identifiable, but arousal and tension. His ass is once again filled, cheeks spread so the last spurts can spatter across them, inside and out, and come mingles in sloppy streaks with the tear tracks on his face.

He's rotated upright again, which is almost more disorienting the second time, and without warning both clamps are removed from his flushed, inflamed nipples, and he screams as circulation tries to reassert itself, quieting to whimpers when the suction of lips on each eases razor sharp pain. They're so oversensitive now he almost can't tell what hurts and what feels good, but that's soon swept away from the front of his mind as some kind of warm, faintly cinnamon smelling slick is drizzled around his sore hole, then pressed patiently, steady deep inside him.

Once again it takes a moment to really register, and then he's moaning, writhing, clenching involuntarily around the feeling of just--he doesn't know what it is, just that if he can't shift his hips to offset it he's going to die. He can't, of course, and unsurprisingly he doesn't die, only makes open mouthed, high pitched little sounds and tries to exist inside the relentless stimulation invading his body at every turn.

Ash intends to do his level best to answer, but he's neither expecting nor ready for how his body reacts to pet, which is that he manages to top all previous records for obscene sounds in this event as his hips buck involuntarily, caged cock twitching like something electrocuted. At this point being further aroused hurts, and Ash, having a deep liking for pain to begin with, has been trained in ways that capitalize on that, so between the dismissive slant of that particular endearment and the sharp sting in his groin as the cage clamps down on every movement that might ease how badly he aches, for a moment it doesn't matter how mentally he might want to be a good boy and answer what's been asked of him, he simply can't. Rather hangs suspended in a web of sensation that grips him as fiercely as the release of orgasm would, with none of the eventual relief. When he comes back to himself an unseen hand is three fingers deep in his ass, massaging that gel into his inner walls with impersonal thoroughness. It slips back out for a moment, and though at this point he should know better than to be expect any such reprieve, he can't help his moan of dismay when it returns with another sweet-smelling blob to work a little into his balls before finger-fucking the rest into his freshly tightened hole.

"It's so much," he collects himself enough to sob, self-castigating a bit for having kept Liam waiting, "it feels like I'm on fire. If I could just move, just a little--"

The bone deep tingling sensation finally spreads to his balls, increasing everything he feels but with nowhere for that sensation to peak and break, and Ash trembles with it in tiny, all over oscillations that make him break out in another round of light sweat; after what feels like a moment of weighing how pleasingly he's reacting - pleasing for Liam's continued surveyance, presumably - the sucking mouths move from his nipples, and he's patted gently dry before they're dipped in gel as well. Its inherent circulation related properties mean the blood flow to his nipples normalizes much more quickly, a feeling like the pins and needles of a limb fallen asleep inducing more involuntary trembling. He's an irredeemable mess at this point, sweaty and come-stained and blushing hot the whole way down his body, and all he wants is more. Or to be allowed to come, or for everything to stop. He has no real idea anymore, so he just floats on the idea of wanting what Liam wants, and if that means holding still and crying steadily as he lets flickering, cinnamony tongues consume him completely, that's exactly what he'll do.

There's no denying the truth of that, considering how much calmer Ash goes at just the sound of his name, the current of command in Liam's voice. He doesn't hesitate to answer, but he does pause a beat as if to demonstrate he's giving the question the respect of the consideration it deserves. "Yes, Liam. I can do that."

Ash has done his homework, knows much of the time in a relationship like theirs certain titles are used, and if Liam ever wanted one he'd easily agree - and enjoy doing it - but he's also able to endow just his name with an open sort of humility; Liam doesn't just own him in the bedroom, Ash is his to do as he likes with no matter what they're doing. And so it goes that he uses the same form of address. The cage loosens one notch, two, and then the constriction lifts entirely, yet another new sound between a moan and a gasp escaping him. He's not even sure it feels good, just that it feels not the persistent, desperate throb as he was wound continually higher and tighter.

Not that that isn't still happening. The gel is still working its way down into the most sensitive parts of his skin, but with no direct stimulation to his cock or prostate it's only a relentless sort of driving force, not one that gets him closer to orgasm. Which is ...he's apprehensive now, since he doesn't suspect that's to be the case now, either; Liam has teased him to the edge and pulled him back, played ruthlessly with his body for far longer than this just on his own, so Ash can't imagine he's anywhere near finished with him when he has all these faceless proxies. He aches to be done, to be allowed to come just so he can stop being strung so high and so hard, but at the same time, when Liam gives him a command like that--

--he feels instantly as if he can go on, that he's always more tensile than he thinks he is. Liam sees his potential, and knowing it's safe to push his own limits, that Liam won't let him take it too far even if he wants to, gives Ash the will certainly not to calm, or even back himself off much, but at the very least hang on by the proverbial fingernails. He wants to be good for Liam in front of this impassive audience; even as they're enjoying everything his mouth and ass and cock have to offer they most probably aren't all that invested in Liam and his relationship, which makes it conversely even more important for how he conducts himself to reflect well on his Dominant.

If it were just the two of them, just Liam pushing him in slow increments toward his breaking point ( only to pull him back, over and over until he's quaking and begging to come ), such a question might get a dreamy affirmative noise in response, rather than real words, though he's good at self-correcting in the moment. Too far gone at that point to want the slap or pinch that might come if he's derelict in responding properly, just to please.

With their audience present, however, no matter how long he might be spread open and pinned for hungry eyes and freely grasping, stroking hands, no matter how much cock forces his cheeks or lips apart until he gives into them, willingly used for all he's worth, he hasn't quite slipped the tether of self into subspace, and most likely won't until Liam deigns to really, truly, possess him again. Remind him with some force ( at least Ash hopes, shiveringly, for all the force he's capable of ) who really holds his leash, whose pet he really is. So without that gentle weight riding on his cognition he's able to answer with actual words, albeit with an effort and entirely in monosyllable.

"Yes. It--ah!, it feels good." Good, and driving him out of his mind it's all so light, most stimulation just below where he needs it to be, but even so he's been so wound up even brushes of reverent fingertips spike tiny bright peaks behind his eyes. He wants desperately to ask if he'll be allowed to come, now that the cage is off; even if he has ever suspicion the answer is no, at least then--he could count on that. As things are the anticipation, the maybe, slides insistently up inside him and stays there, keeping him fuller than any other way he might be fucked.

The question doesn't come, though, not feeling Liam so close. Ash can practically read his posture as if it's written across the backs of his eyelids, and it's straining not to yearn toward him as much as the all-consuming need for more of just--just anything, that has him trembling in place, hard cock continuously leaking as the sweet-smelling gel continues to do its work all through him.

Ash's pretty mouth parts, visible expression alight with anticipation and uncertainty and desire, the last so visceral he's not going to be able to help squirming much longer; his whole lower body feels heavy and hot, teasing fingers seeming to stroke him everywhere at once, the sensation so dense his cock is jumping against his belly, inside the investigatory slide of fingers that handle him like a toy. Liam will probably be pleased to know that he is legitimately struggling for a better word than good, that each time he tries to summon a coherent thought it falls apart all over again as he's teased to exquisite oversensitivity, each stroke behind his balls and soft circle around his hole making him tremble in finer and finer increments. If he were allowed to beg Liam would have told him so already; instead he bites the inside of his cheek and tries to contain his hips, writhing between wanting to pull away from all those light touches eroding the edges of his ability to think, or wanting to push back so the fingers circling where he's empty and throbbing like a bruise will dip in at least a little, just for a moment.

It does take him a moment to realize what's just been slid into his hole is something...organic?; at first he's so grateful that's all he can feel. Whatever it is isn't particularly large, but it's interestingly textured and a little twisty; if this is like the ridged dildo he won't have any trouble handling it, which seems .... unlike Liam, to be frank, so Ash is doubly motivated to concentrate on what he's saying. He shivers openly at we, can't help hoping that maybe that means Liam will touch him, and manages a sincere thank you for the praise, for whatever it is that might be about to be done to him.

He actually has one stark moment of clarity as his brain picks up on new sensation, cold sweat breaking out along his hair line as the slender piece of ginger pushed just past his entrance is lodged deeper inside, unusual structure rubbing up against his inner walls in strange places as it's worked out again. Eventually it builds up a rhythm like a slow, delirious fuck, and Ash might actually relax into it, except, of course, for a small handful of things. First: a steadily building burn began to sear through his nerves the second it was inserted, second: what it lacks in girth it more than makes up for in length, and he's already breathing harshly through his nose as its full shape takes him, burn stinging bright and spreading ceaselessly the whole way through his ass. Every time it fucks in and out of him more chemicals are released, and every time the burn deepens he can't help clenching around it, so it feels as if the pain will never recede, hooks embedded deep and yanking him higher and higher. He's not screaming yet, but he is making little sounds like oh no oh no all blurred together, sure that if anyone so much as breathes on his cock he's not going to be able to help coming.

Ash is so focused on both the out of control melting sensation he always experiences as he's loosened up, and the awful, glorious pain it sends spiraling through him, that Liam has probably taken a few pictures already before he registers the phone's camera clicking and tenses up involuntarily, clenching hard enough that for a moment he's actually too tight to keep easing open, and the intensity of sensation that floods in when he finally manages to relax does have him screaming, eyes wet again without the accompaniment of stormy sobbing.

Feeling Liam draw close to him, then, even if it's just enough to tell, nowhere near enough to touch, draws him almost over into a state where there's nothing but the pain and the ecstasy it leaves in its wake, but becoming just his body isn't quite what it takes to send him rocketing into subspace. It doesn't matter; nothing means more than Liam that close to him, flaying him open with words. He shivers, murmurs an affirmative noise and plaintive, longing "Liam....." before his Dom takes away his body heat and presence, giving Ash a moment to calm down.

Said calming period is full of the dreamy contemplation that yes, he is a little cockslut; even as he thinks with every second the ginger works him he won't be able to take the next, he's still so, so grateful and relieved to have something fucking him, and better yet fucking him open; while he's trying his best to be good and not try to predict how he might next be made an exhibit, every time he's been worked open it's been just enough for him to take something big. Liam knows what he likes, speaking of conditioned size queenism, so if he's lucky it will be something that rams him deep, relegates all that work re-tightening him to the past.

He's too hoarse to scream anymore, but there's no stopping the need to release some of that tension with sound, so instead there are just raggedy little cries as his head hangs down between his arms, too heavy to hold up on his own.

If anyone were asking his thoughts on the situation ( no one is; fucktoys don't have opinions), when this round started Ash would have said it hurt more when the ginger was actually being pounded into him, but that turns out to pale in comparison to when it stops just as he's teetering wildly on the edge. His toes curl, his calves cramp and his hips jerk helplessly, denial tying an inescapable knot at the base of his cock and yanking it tight. Yet again it takes all his fraying cognitive capacity not to beg, although--maybe Liam would like it if he did, just to enjoy saying no. The problem, then, is that such situations are often followed by a slap, the measured impact of an open hand on his face or mouth, and though he might actually crave that more than the terrible release of coming, he doesn't want anyone but Liam to hit his face. It's too much trust to give the assembled audience.

He's more than worked out by now that Liam isn't going to touch him ( even if he can't stop hoping for it ), so--he bites the inside of his cheek again, the tip of his tongue, and manages not to plead aloud. The question of whether or not he still has a voice is nevertheless answered in short order as he feels the now familiar slide of cool metal across his nipples, realizing with a cold shock of mingled fear and arousal, the clamps only came off temporarily. It's the arousal that wins out when they bite with far more sharpness than human teeth into each burning little peak, newly normalized circulation flaring in hot, agonizing waves, an entirely new kind of pain that makes him nearly makes him panic into speaking up he's so sure it's going to make him come. A fresh burst of light sweat drips salt into his eyes under the blindfold, and he moans like a whore, but doesn't quite crest over.

Another of those lulls passes wherein the unseen signals he sometimes catches the implication of just by dint of what's happening, and the ginger begins to fuck him in lazy increments that are almost worse than the previous brutal pace. More chemicals soak into thirsty inner flesh that way, and despite its relatively slender diameter, by now it's opened him enough to induce that sense of uncontrollable sluttiness, wanting desperately to be stretched further even as he's palpably, visibly loose. He's so caught up in that that he barely notices a hand has lifted his cock to be pressed flat against his stomach, out of the way so there's no impediment to another handful of clips snapped to his balls; apparently it wasn't quite correct that he couldn't scream anymore, even if it only comes out in scraped raw, higher register scratches.

A cool, soft mouth enfolds his cock, making him twitch and whimper like a hurt animal; he's honestly afraid of what will happen when ( if ) he is allowed to come; it seems like he ought to be split in half.

Hopefully this isn't against the rules, because for the moment Liam allows him even that small intimacy, the whole-body need to come retreats somewhere to the back of Ash's head; he's still painfully hard, leaking between the searing triangle drawn between his nipples and balls, and the strange left behind as his saliva-slick cock is exposed to faintly chill air, and yet he needs Liam with so much more than his body his closeness and care supersede everything else. He smiles with a dreamy contentedness that's probably like, wildly inappropriate for someone being slowly torn to pieces from every angle, and though he hasn't really been given permission to speak this is the first time since Liam stripped him that he's been so overwhelmed by an urge he can't help himself; any punishment would be worth where he goes next.

As the blindfold remains in place he only as the broadest idea of where his Dom actually is in the mysterious space around him, but he follows it best he can even when he's immediately disoriented as that mouth takes him in again, draws him to an agonizingly sweet plateau and leaves him there, unable to back his arousal down in anyway, but unable to tip over, either. When he thinks he has as much sense of where Liam is as he's going to get, he angles his head that direction and gives the expected thank you, and then adds, compulsively: I love you, that soft voice of his gravelly and drowsy with exertion even as it's snapped taut by how terribly close he is.

Ash's sexual experience has more or less quadrupled since he met Liam, ergo one thing he can say for sure now, is that nothing else feels like being stretched by fingers. Because they're more mobile than a plug, because they're not a smooth uniform shape, because they're capable of widening their diameter as far as the body can stand, or some meeting place between the three of those, a parallel to the clamps running searing heat in that same triad shape. He can tell there are two hands in him mostly because they're working in tandem to loosen his hole with more efficiency than just one could do, and the feeling is so invasive he shudders. The sound doesn't even have time to die away before a second finger is paired with the single one; the noise that gets isn't coherent enough to narrow down to verbiage. To harken back to the previous hyperbole, the squelching, sucking sounds made when he's been opened wide enough to start leaking come again around all those fingers, well. It could be called obscene, if a person were going to call the Sahara a little on the dry side.

Losing time and subspace run pretty close together, but aren't quite the same experience for Ash, so he knows minute after minute slips by where pain is all he knows, and because he's who he is ( what rhymes with sassochist! ), that's indistinguishable from pleasure. He doesn't know what he's feeling til fingers slip out of him one after the other, and then wrists and ankle cuffs are being undone, reality sharpening into focus again in details like how his legs absolutely are not going to hold him up. That turns out to be fine, he's half-walked, half carried, then lifted to be draped facedown on something covered in leather; it's definitely a seat or bench of some kind, since when his arms and legs are spread over the sides his feet touch the floor.

Feeling restraints lock him into that position is almost a relief; Ash relaxes completely in cuffs unless he's absolutely determined to struggle, and that takes conscious effort. The restraints make everything easier, he just pretends he couldn't escape if he wanted to, so he has no choice but to take what he's given.

Maybe he should be able to predict the lulls by now, but he's too delirious for that, really, so when that realization hits home all over again, a helpless little moan bubbles up, and he turns one cheek into the cool leather. What takes a moment after that is realizing the cuffs on his wrists and ankles must be attached to chains with some give, since the bench is being mechanically adjusted, lifting his hips and legs to a thirty degree angle, cock and clamped balls pressed between the bench and his body, wet, loose hole totally exposed.

He's lubed far more extensively than at any point so far; by now he knows what that means, but he's still startled to hear some kind of machine start, confusion making everything fuzzy until he feels the nudge of something slowly begin to enter him; it takes an excruciating, suspended moment to realize he was having trouble parsing what it was because the tip was so wide.

Wide and long, he discovers, though if those are the adjectives we're applying it's back to the thing where the Arctic is kind of chilly; he chokes out animal little whines and groans as it pushes further and further into him, pace steady and relentless. A machine's arm isn't going to get tired, or want him to check in, or pull out for more lube, it just fucks him so deep and thick his lashes are wet again by the time it bottoms out, salt streaking faster as the arm starts to withdraw. It's just as unbearably full on the out stroke, every nerve pummeled with sensation, and know it's going to go in again--undoubtedly this is the most intense experience he's had with anything that isn't the live wire of Liam's touch.

A little bit cruel or not, Liam's voice is just about the only thing Ash could lift his head for ( save the mercy of touch, of course, but he's gotten to a place where he accepts as well as he ever can that won't happen by any means of his ), shoulders jolted forward within the slack given by his restraints every time the machine drills its way in and he breaks out in yet another cold wash of sweat, sweetly agonized little mewls tearing up his throat every time it grinds into his prostate just long enough to draw him tight as a bowstring, then release just on the crest of any possible relief.

"I understand," he murmurs, slurry, cheek still pressed flat to the leather, lack of gaze trying to follow that rumbling dark voice. His jaw is so slack the words sound wet, spoken through a thin stream of saliva pooling at the corner of his mouth and slithering uncontrollably down; he might not even realize it's happening, aware of nothing but being fucked, and fucked, and fucked, a deep bruising burn engulfing his whole lower torso. "Thank you--" an incomprehensible high pitched sound, overwhelmed as the machine picks up a little in speed, having opened him enough that it's been judged he can handle a pace more like a human's hips could deliver, "thank you for teaching me, morair."

Their spontaneous little sir equivalent; Ash doesn't think twice about using it, or more accurately doesn't consciously think even once, it just happens, given the same way his body has been made to give.

Ash doesn't so much as imagine that enough means anything like stop entirely, so he waits, still perfectly pliable, involuntary slivers of breath leaving just the impression of muffled whimpers. As Liam has obviously worked out well before they'd even started, it's the pauses in activity that are the most difficult for him to take, and he aches almost more now that he's swollen and bruised but empty again, heart hammering against his ribcage as he gulps in air. When he feels Liam close again he stills entirely, straining to absorb whatever he can: the burr of his voice at its most controlled growl, or even the faintest reminder of his body heat--it's far harder not to beg for those than it is any of the pain-soaked pleasure he's been sinking in for what feels like hours. The sense that he's crouched down on the same level with Ash himself feels like more than he deserves, and bitten-bright lips fall slack in uncertainty as his brow furrows, the latter mostly hidden by the blindfold. When the restraints at his ankles and wrists slip free there's a second - just a literal, heartbeat's worth of second, not nearly long enough for him to panic or even worry - where he wonders if he's some mistake on his part, or one of the participants, is ending the scene early, a thought swiftly and entirely driven out of his head at the first touch of those workmanlike hands, familiar and callused and Liam's. Hands that have sunk so deeply into his will they've left indelible fingerprints, and he shudders in a long wave that seems to come from somewhere deeper than his body, lets them clean the clear, sticky lines from his mouth and stroke his jaw, lashes still fluttered shut when the blindfold comes off and what murky light there is drifts across the backs of his eyelids. He doesn't know what to do with himself, too foggy and undone to sit up and participate like a person at optimal, or even normal, consciousness levels, but too buzzy with need to be still, either; much more by compulsion than choice he turns his head into one of Liam's hands, covers everywhere he can reach with shaky little kisses. If he were even a modicum less overwhelmed he could easily have come from the sheer pleasure of that touch, that praise; as it is his even if his brain won't quite cooperate with the rest of him sustainably enough for that, when he opens them his eyes are as glassy as they get when he's really lost himself, so it's a near thing.

"I'm trying," he says, somewhat nonsensically even if it does comprise a legitimate response, muffled now by Liam's broad palm and not leather; at any further proximity they probably wouldn't be able to hear each other over the shuffle of departure in the background, and unsurprisingly despite the unlikeliness of it, Ash has completely wandered away from the idea that they're not completely alone. Rational awareness remains that he feels so shattered from everything that's just happened, but emotionally there's only all the churning left in its wake, and Liam, piecing him back together.

His eyelids are heavy, and while he wants to drop them shut again, he needs to see Liam more, to follow minutiae like breath and blinks and the bob of Adam's apple in his throat. "Can I touch you?"

( Terrible grammar error there, he must be really wrecked. He doesn't seem to notice. )

"I need to. Please--please, I need it."

Permission granted is going to result in total-body attachment, incidentally. As... an FYI. Basically a gropey barnacle of hands and lips everywhere, frantically trying to find bare skin.

Just to hear Liam tell him what to do, instead of indicating to someone else what to do to him, it's so much he can't come here fast enough, and that's very minimally because he's such a wreck it hurts to move. Assuming Liam has deigned to sit down Ash more or less crawls into his lap and gives himself so totally to that kiss it's like tearing himself open, any last layers that haven't already been stripped bare by everything else. He's dimly aware they're actually alone now rather than just feeling like it; it doesn't change much about his relationship to the atmosphere. There could be a crowd of thousands watching them and he would still want exactly the same thing, which is - please gods - more of those hands on him, spine arching unconsciously to press closer from every possible angle, more of his own hands seemingly unable to settle in one place; if he can't have bare skin it's bigger-than-words good just to feel broad chest and shoulders through shirt, the solidity and steadfastness he equates irrevocably with home.

That's already doing an immeasurable amount to ground him before that query is extended, and Ash can't help how he reacts, with a glowing swoop of heat and spill of fine tremors that make it almost impossible for him to talk until he fists both hands in the material of Liam's shirt and dips to touch their foreheads together, sweat-dark hair fall over his between them. "I'm always yours."

He's not - ...for once?? - trying to be a smartass; that quality is pretty far away right now, just--stating a fact. More nuanced understanding of what Liam actually means dawns in a moment, though, and he nods emphatically without actually moving his head. "Please. Please, I'll do anything you tell me."

As if he hasn't just abundantly proved he'll do that for the last however long.

Ash makes a happy, relieved noise reminiscent of fever soothed with cool washcloth, and moves to do just that immediately. He would have held still for Liam's perusal as long as he liked, but that command is so much better. As good as hearing he's always been Liam's, a sentiment he definitely understood to the tune of one of those glowing, almost shy smiles. Yes, he has, and will be forever, no matter how many lives either of them cycle through.

He worries one corner of his lower lip between his teeth as faintly unsteady hands settle to either side of Liam's collar, eyeline settled on the suprasternal notch between the clavicles, ( mostly because he wants to put his mouth on it ) before he meets the other man's gaze. "Thank you for letting me."

A visible second of struggling happens before his fingers agree to cooperate with him and he smooths flat palms down broad, gorgeous chest before lifting to the top button. Pace is something he's figuring out as he goes along; a significant part of him wants to ruin all these buttons immediately, if necessary with telekinesis, but even without the intensity of the circumstance, he takes too much pride in servicing Liam to do it sloppily. He works his way down efficiently, but unhurried even if the tremble in his hands gives away the desperation just under the surface, then pushes fabric to either side, sliding it down over those shoulders he loves so much, unable to resist lingering where it would be faster to simply move. The argument is there to be made that visual appreciation is part of service anyway.

Solicitous murmurs accompany when he needs Liam to move at all, although since he's perfectly within his rights to decline and leave his submissive to figure it out for himself, Ash will accommodate whatever he chooses. Either way once he's gotten down to bare skin he stays kneeling at Liam's feet, head resting on his thigh, sat back on his own heels. Because if he does anything else he's afraid he won't be able to restrain himself from climbing him like a tree. In a very literal way.

Remember that time back when they first met and Ash internally assessed he was probably "pretty okay" at sucking cock? Well. Since then he's had plenty of opportunities to practice, and it's probable he wants to please Liam in this moment more than he has at any other time in their association, so he's going to do his best to leave pretty okay behind on another planet.

Meaning, of course, he has an idea immediately; if the suggestion hadn't presented itself just now he would have been begging to be allowed before too long. ( If he had thoughts in his head other than warm contentedness warring with aching desire, both tangled around a steady stream of Liam's name, this is one of those instances where he might have quipped something like So while I'm down here, but since he is in no fit state for wit narrative will do it for him. ) 99% of said begging would be about the aforementioned pleasing Liam, yet there's that sliver left over that is simply, selfishly hungry for that familiar weight on his tongue, the length and girth of it in his throat. Cutting off his air like the hands around his throat don't quite do even if it feels similar enough for Ash to make a tiny wanting sound and swallow just to feel it under the collar those thick fingers make.

Despite the showing portion of answering this very mild question being ostensibly the point, Ash is compelled to add telling to the mix, nodding fervently as he tips his head back the littlest bit to look up, like the sincerity in his gaze would aid in convincing Liam of what he most certainly already knows. But the how, as previously expounded on, is easy; he's tall enough kneeling that he doesn't really have to angle Liam's cock down to meet his mouth, can just bend his head and take in as much as he can in one breathless go. When they're not playing, just fooling around for the fun of it, Ash is, not to put too fine a point on it, an absolute cocktease; he'll keep his tongue light, spend long swathes of time focused on Liam's thighs and hips rather than putting his mouth where it's fucking supposed to be, but--

This is. Not one of those times. He takes him from tip to root, eyes watering continuously as he reaches the point where his nose brushes pubic hair and the back of his throat is repeatedly knocked into, and it's so good and so welcome he thinks he might pass out or expire or some other hyperbolic nonsense that isn't about to happen. ( What does happen is passing very shallowly into subspace, a state that has been hovering around his consciousness awareness for a while now, not quite able to manifest until it was Liam he was directly submitting to. ) He braces himself with a hand on one thick-muscled thigh and uses the other to wetly jack Liam off so his mouth is free to show his balls the same amount of appreciation ( it's kind of blurry as to whether this is a blowjob or cock worship, incidentally ), sucking one hard into his mouth, then the other, back and forth with eyes slit in pure, uncomplicated pleasure.

Though he imagines - and desperately hopes - Liam will finish in his ass rather than his throat, he's prepared to keep sucking in long, slick sounding strokes as long as he's permitted - or forcibly removed, either one - body relaxing by degrees in a slow wave down his spinal column, making his limbs heavy and mind hazy.

Ash would demure that it's not exactly a chore to practice an act he enjoys so much, but regardless of his own tendency to downplay his accomplishments, as it were, if it's Liam declaring it he doesn't disagree. That's a completely non-sexual warming little thing he hasn't gotten around to articulating yet, but doubtless will some late night or early morning when they're in bed, lazy and wrapped up together: submitting means even on days when he can't summon much to like about himself ( even if those days are rare, everyone has them ), he can rest in what Liam thinks of him. That still feels real when he knows his own perception is distorted by a bad day at work or lingering headache, and all this is to say that earning so broken a sound both arouses and comforts him like nothing else can, save only my perfect boy. Ash feels bioluminescent, everywhere Liam touches him suffused clear and glowing bright.

The pressure at his jaw simultaneously satisfies and sharpens--everything , mouth slack and fingers tingling, clumsy with lust by the time Liam pulls his head back, eyes huge and dark in his fine-featured face, flushed all over and spilling down his chest in a wash of brighter color. His mouth is red and wrecked, a sight Liam must be more than familiar with, just as Ash knows looking at him from this angle as well as the sound of his own heart, but for all that it's familiar, the need to be dominated, to give himself entirely to Liam's will and the utterly unmatched serenity found there, is magnified infinitely by proximity, by the sense that the world will only turn properly on its axis once he's been fully and completely possessed.

So without any intent to interrupt, Ash stumbles over top of say it a bit, already trying to say just that. "Please, morair, yes, I need you."

Technically speaking this could just be a statement of fact, and it is, but because it's Ash, it also sounds a lot like begging. He's keeping good posture instinctually, relaxed in the hold on his hair with shoulders back and hands resting on spread thighs, but if it weren't procedure to hold this pose he'd probably be clinging to Liam's legs. "Please. Let me be yours."

( Symbolically, like renewing vows; Ash is, always was his, as was literally just stated, but physical intimacy makes it different. )

Ash understands the cutting edge in that low burr is part of the foundation of this entire scenario, the idea that he's let so many strangers do so much to him, encouraged it, welcomed it, purely for the pleasure that all that stimulation pressed into him--and now needs to be punished for his own sluttiness. That's part of what inspires the bone-deep shiver that goes through him as he pushes himself up by the arms and drapes himself across the bench on his back, arms dropped loose over its sides, legs spread wide.

The rest, though, is that he'd respond like this to that rough tone in any circumstance, that even on a normal day where he hasn't been primed for what seems like hours. That like this, Liam practically glowing with dark, predatory energy, Ash is caught as fast as he is. There is nothing like this for him in the world in either all its mundane aspects or the pull of the heaviest magic, the kind that asks for complete compliance from his entire soul. Nothing feels like this. Like the satisfying burn that spreads through his whole body, starting at the muscles in his thighs when he pulls his legs up to expose himself further, the ache in his cock he's so accustomed to by now it feels like it could go on forever and he could take it. As easily as he's taken faceless body after body inside him.

He's wordless, motionless but for involuntary twitches and trembles, not needing to add another please when the arch of his spine and long lines of slick skin are all but made of it.