Somewhat in character blog for ghost oc; also known as where i put my not so clean ideas. Call me Isaac, early 20s, he/him, trans man. Minors beware, this is an nsfw blog
I'm Isaac, a lot of people in the ministry call me brother Isaac, buuuut I never joined officially the clergy, or at all, I just live here.
I'm just a handyman that got a bit too comfortable, I spent most days here fixing everything they broke, until one day they just asked me to move in. No rent, fixing stuff, watching drama, what else could you ask for in life?
Information about me? Sure, go ahead and shoot:
Age: old enough to drink and I think that's all that matters
Full name: What are you? A cop? Just call me Isaac
Hobbies: Fixing and making stuff, nothing too interesting, but I do make a bit of everything
Likes: Again? I'm starting to think you might be a cop with all the questions. But if I have to answer, spending time with the ghouls is nice
Dislikes: You can guess one of the things I hate. Also, any hate will NOT be tolerated here, my job might be fixing things, but if you are racist, homophobic, transphobic or any other trash like that, I won't hesitate to start breaking
OOC: All posts in character will be tagged as such, DMs and asks are open for everyone! I'm trying to make friends here!
My main is @, the divider was made by me, if you want one just let me know! I love doing custome requests!
My first Primo fic - Primo enthusiasts, true old man fuckers, I hope you enjoy :)
Tagging @vintageandroid and @from-the-pinnacle as requested (a while ago now, apologies!)
Thank you Primo advisor and beta @avocado-writing <3
You try to focus on anything else: the rain thrumming on the window, or the crackling of the fire, or the scratch of the blanket draped over your knees. You force circular, steady breaths as your stare up at the ceiling, leaning against his chest. Despite his frail frame, he makes a comfortable place to sit. It would be more comfortable without three of his fingers inside you, but you're not exactly complaining.
You've been warming them for a while now. At least ten minutes, but you try not to think about that either. You don't succeed, and Primo knows.
"Relax," he rasps, as he feels the throb of your wrist under his other fingers. "You will need to if you are to take all of me. That is what you want, isn't it?"
You clench around him and hear an amused exhale, the edge of which tickles your neck. You stifle a whimper as he moves beneath you, to lean over and grab the tea sitting on the nearby table. His nobbled fingers and their bumped joints fill you like nothing else you'd ever experienced and, even with the slightest movement, the ridges of his digits create friction in the most unexpected places.
"Drink," he commands. "It will help."
He lifts it and shakily pours it into your mouth. His head comes to rest on your shoulder as you swallow it down, his lips happy to feel the flow of your blood pumping and the swell of your throat as you drink against his cheek. The concoction is bitter and earthy and, if the splash of lemon had been added to mask the flavour, it isn't working. You resist the urge to gag, knowing he will be displeased if you waste any of it, and keep swallowing down every drop.
The teacup clinks onto its saucer and Primo gets himself comfortable again, still knuckle-deep inside you. As he shuffles backwards into his cushion, you whine, craving more relief, but as you open your mouth to plead, your insides twist. It settles in your stomach like heavy syrup and your gut tries to fight back. You feel sick, dizzy and then— calm.
A tingling warmth spreads from your centre and your muscles relax. Within seconds, your limbs feel like liquid and you sink into him a little more. He applies more pressure over your pulse, measuring how it slows under his calloused fingertips.
"Good. Very good."
Without warning, his fingers curl and begin a shallow, excruciatingly slow exploration. You purr for your Papa and your muscles try to tighten around him but they are noticeably weaker. In your frustration, you attempt to push yourself back into him but there are no more of his fingers for you to take.
"You are getting restless, I know," he says with a rare hint of sympathy. "Let us try a little, but if that heart of yours starts working too hard, we stop."
Even the suggestion of it makes your pulse thump a bit harder in his grasp but he allows you to wriggle in his lap and work yourself on his fingers. He gives an approving hum as you experimentally rock yourself, gasping as he strokes inside of you. He knows none of this will prepare you for his full size - as do you - but he does enjoy having you like this. So compliant, so fixated, and determined to struggle through your pursuit of gratification.
Happy with your current restraint, reflected in your heart rate, his monitoring hand retreats and lifts you slightly while he rearranges himself. As he settles you back down in his lap, flexing his fingers as they reach inside you again, you feel the weight of his cock resting on you. You moan in anticipation of it and your heart flutters in your chest, not going unnoticed by Papa.
"Patience. Calm," he says, less monotone than his previous instructions, as his hand presses on your chest.
With your arms outstretched behind you to hold on to something, you lean back and grind in his lap, rubbing against the intimidating shaft. You are restricted somewhat by his hold on you which does not relent until you force yourself to resist your need and slow down. He taps your heart in approval but the way his breath rattles in his chest tells you he may be fighting a battle of his own.
This suspicion is confirmed as you feel his hips start to move beneath you, rocking up to rub himself up your spine. You shudder as he spreads sticky arousal up your back as his breathing quickens with each movement. His usual dismissive and stoic demeanour is dangerously close to slipping and with each passing second, his own pulse races faster.
Yours can only follow suit, now free to rut in his lap as he becomes more distracted. Both of you pant and mewl, falling out of sync with the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece as Primo momentarily forgets his own rules. Your ability to break his focus only spurs on your defiance of the deal, the crack in his facade adding to your bravery in pushing its limits and creating a surreal sort of delirium in which he is as agitated as you. You crane your neck to try to catch a glimpse of your usually composed Papa starting to crumble under his baser instinct, unable to truly picture it even with the unmistakable sounds escaping him. But as he feels you turn, it brings his attention back to the task at hand.
His fingers are ripped out of you and he grabs both of your wrists, wrenching them behind you and pinning them against your spine so fast your shoulders feel like they may snap. With such a simple flourish, your body locks in place and falls completely into his control. Pain shoots up your arms as they protest your new position, but it is quickly overshadowed by the contortions in your core, missing his digits working you open.
"Papa!" You plead, but he responds only with a twist of your captured limbs.
He had allowed too much and now he must balance the scales, making you wallow in the consequences. Your wrists are crushed into one of his hands as his other finds your neck. A delicate press of his fingers there makes it clear you will be expected to learn to be comfortable here before he continues. As you sob in between heaving breaths, the only comfort he offers is a small circling motion around the throbbing vein to massage you into submission.
You are not sure how long he keeps you like this. When he does finally relax his control, parts of your body under strain have started to tingle with numbness. He taps out your rhythm, gradually slowing with enough focus and eased by his loosening grip. After stabilising yourself, you feel him shuffling behind you, followed by the sound of liquid pouring into porcelain. The teacup appears again and he administers another dose.
Knowing the taste does not prepare you any better for it; it is even more worse than you remember and you almost retch while trying to swallow the larger chunks of mushroom. He continues to tip it past your lips even as you cough and splutter, your throat and lungs burning. Once empty, you hear the cup being placed back on the table and, as your stomach flips, an unpleasant wave washes over you.
You start to tell him you may not be able to keep it down, but your words come out slurred and broken. The room tilts and shrinks around you as your vision blurs. An unsettling claustrophobia takes hold as the walls close in and you feel a disconnect from your body. Your brain is steeped in fear but, the more you try to fight it, the less you are able to move. As Primo begins to stroke the crown of your head, you slump back into him.
The calmness does not overwhelm you this time. Your physical reactions settle but something more insidious takes root. Everything feels cloudy and your own weight feels cumbersome yet somehow distant from your consciousness. The aches and pains remain but take up less space; present but not bothering you as they probably should. The sounds in the room - the patter of rain and Primo's uncharacteristically soothing mutters - are warped as if you are underwater, being drowned out by the heartbeat pulsating in your ears.
Papa dabs at the sweat collecting on your brow and the softness of his touch grounds you. Colour returns to the world and clarity seeps back in. You feel a warmth spread as the dulling of your nerves fades, encouraged by his hand lightly scraping along your inner thigh. Your awareness ebbs and flows as time seems to stand still, only edged forward by each attempt you make to suck in air. You are jostled in place before feeling something lift you, and then you simply float.
His hands materialise around your wrists again, binding them in place in such a way, with surprising strength, to keep you hovering above his lap by pushing them upwards. Your feet are on the ground taking some of your weight but the plush rug you stand on feels far from solid. It is enough to anchor you, allowing him to puppeteer you however he pleases with no effort at all.
The next sensation happens far away from you. You groan in confusion as you try to place the pleasant sort of pressure but, being far too groggy to make sense of anything, you accept it and let it in. As your attention is drawn to a tension growing deep within, it is pulled away just as quickly as you attempt to follow the low tone of the voice behind you. Noise turns into words and, with the realisation that they are offers of praise, you tunnel in on them. The ever-present condescension does not deter you.
"Still with me?" You nod slowly which is met with an amused smack of his lips. "You are lucky that Papa knows how to take care of you."
"Yes. Thank you, Papa." Your instinctive reply inspires a rumbling in his chest which moves through you both. "So polite," he teases. "Bene."
This crumb of approval makes your skin buzz. But it's more than that. A scrap of him tossed to you without much thought is an acknowledgement that shows he can be pleased - that you can please him - only strengthens your desire to chase more of it. You're unsure if you could ever earn more than his tolerance but, a reminder that underneath it all he is just a man also reminds you he could be convinced to feel. Maybe it would only ever be the sort of affection earned by an obedient pet, one which is persistently annoying enough to endear themselves to him, but that, you think, would be more than fulfilling.
A squeeze on your wrist makes you aware he is measuring you again. He cannot see your face in this position: the dopey, strung out smile with eyes glazing over in a comfortable bliss. However, either through the thud of your blood or your pliable state, he senses your serenity. He decides to toy with it.
"You know, I assumed we would need this," he says offhandedly as he presents a blurry bottle to you. You blink a few times to bring it into focus but the text on its label, already partially shrouded by shadow in the dim light, dances in your vision. He tilts it in his hand and watches your head follow. "But perhaps we see how well you do without."
"Hmm?"
He waits, amused by your confusion, and holds the object steady until you can decipher it. There is a slight increase in your blood's cadence as you stop simply giving in to your helplessness and fight to control your senses, but it is nothing compared to the spike in adrenaline as you recognise the bottle of lube Primo is mockingly waving in your face. The sound of him chuckling as your heart rate climbs is deeply unsettling. He clears his throat and sighs before shushing your panicked murmurs, despite preparing to make them worse.
"No more," he says. "It seems pointless to worry… after all, you are managing very well so far. Did you even notice?"
It takes a beat for you to understand him but, helped by a quick buck from his chair, the haze clears once again. Like a flick of a switch, you are more aware of everything, including the first couple of inches of his cock inside you and his tip pushing through the loosened muscles. An attempt to squirm is only met with a painful tightening of his grip to keep you in place.
"Shhhh. I think you can take a bit more before you will… really feel it."
He eases you down a bit further, but stops as you start to fight it. "None of that," he says, followed by a heavy pause. "Unless, you want to stop."
Barely able to breathe, you shake your head as hard as you can.
"So, do you need the extra help? Or not?"
You are just lucid enough to wonder if this may be a test. You whine in frustration; at your own indecision and lamenting the inability to move. He is wrapped around you so tightly, around each one of your senses, like gnarled vines, making it impossible to think straight. Your lungs crackle as you struggle to catch your breath and your heart feels ready to burst from your chest.
You hardly recognise your own voice as you attempt to beg for relief. Garbled and shaking, it comes out as a pathetic, timid drone. He waits for you to compose yourself, allowing you to thrash for a moment, only speaking as your choked cries subside.
"Ahh, I suppose you have earned my… pity," he concedes, only a little proud that his reputation as a sadist clearly precedes him. Although he would like to test the limits of his tea, perhaps it would be too cruel, even for him.
He pulls out of you with little warning. You groan at the sudden emptiness and rough movement, but settle back into his lap and offer more thanks which earns another grunt of approval. He reaches for the lube and begins preparing himself, jostling you as he lathers his length. The cold drips of it sizzle on your hot skin and only builds the already simmering anticipation. Primo begins leisurely applying a generous amount, humming low as he coats himself.
As he positions himself and you feel his tip press forward, you both notice a distinct lack of resistance. Guiding you once more by your wrists in a vice-like grip, he lowers you onto his cock with ease until you are taking those same few inches again. He relishes the way your pulse steadies while still, then slowly climbs as you wait for more, completely at his mercy.
He feeds himself into you a bit further until the stretch makes you cry out and your nails dig into where he holds you. You hear him suck in air, either from the sting of it, or from your warmth now taking almost half of his length. Subtly he begins to rock you, leveraging your wrists to begin carefully sliding you up and down his length, making sure he gives you no more than a tease of his tip reaching new depths.
As he gradually speeds up, your mewling only become more incessant. Already feeling so full, you would still ask for more if you could only find your voice. But, just as your body starts to buzz with pleasure, another haze overcomes you and the world around you yet again starts to slip away. Your core throbs as reality fades into the distance and your form goes slack. Primo relaxes his hold just enough to let you sway a little. You don't even fight it.
Everything goes black. For how long, you don't know but when you come too, it is with a shuddering squeal as physical sensation returns. He moves you faster and, you think, delves further than before. However, you don't feel a struggle to stretch around him as expected, only a satiating fullness which pushes out the swelling headache and quiet nausea. As spit collects in your mouth, the bitter taste of his tea coats your tongue and seems to throw you back and forth between succumbing to its sedative effects and feeling painfully heightened rapture.
Somewhere between the waves, Primo is beginning to shift impatiently in his chair. You mould around him so perfectly to squeeze and throb around his cock, and he can feel your body working hard to let him in. It feels like you're trying to drag more of him inside you and, while he still isn't convinced you will actually succeed in taking every solid inch, he gets closer to hoping you will.
In a brief moment of clarity, you feel all of it and an almost primal shriek rips your mouth open. Your heart thumps so hard it feels like it might break through your ribcage and, as if he senses it, he places a hand over your chest to feel it kicking violently against his touch. Of course, this makes him stop. He scratches over the skin like he could sink his hand in to take it, to feel it beating in the palm of his hand. There's a chance that, if he were to pluck it from your chest right now, you wouldn't even notice.
There's murmuring. Whispered jibes. Heavy breathing and a voice miles away from where you are. Your head becomes too heavy to hold up.. You have a vague sense of still being on your feet, somehow. Maybe it's related to the circulation being cut off at your wrists. He still taps out your rhythm. It's the only reason you know it is still there.
This time, the wait stretches on forever. Time slows down and you feel every delayed second, the ticking clock on the mantel now mocking you while also signalling the gradual return of sensation. While held in place, the lack of friction allows pain to slowly permeate. It begins with a dull ache, then a formidable fullness, followed by a building pressure around the intrusion. The escalation is consistent enough to for you to map it spreading through your every nerve but as the fog lifts and with no limit in sight, your resolve wavers.
Not quite ready to quit, you take a risk by asking for relief.
"I can't— please, Papa. Please. I need—" Your voice falters, its shrillness cracking into disjointed noise. "Too much," you gasp with the last bit of air in your lungs.
"Hmm. You want to stop now? What a shame. Disappointing to get so close."
You shake your head in protest. Something wet drips from your nose and you taste salt on your lips. He takes measure of you again.
Extremely elevated. A frantic, panicked drumming.
"Making you wait no longer seems to be having a… calming effect," he concedes. "You want to move? You need to fuck yourself on my cock?"
You feel his sadistic grin appear, hearing his lips curl into a sneer. You try to picture the expression in your mind, distracted slightly by the insistent twinge between your legs.
"I suppose I will have to help you," he continues without waiting for a reply. "And when I say help, I mean… do all the work for you."
He sighs but this time without disdain or disappointment, happy to play with his dumbstruck rag doll regardless of how actively you can participate. Eager in fact to see just how far he can go and just how much you can take. Stubborn pride is a quality he understands, sometimes admires. But, it is such as an easy trait to take advantage of.
Awareness of your weight being shifted starts in your feet again, being rocked from heel to toe at that same steady pace. Your loud sigh is matched by the man in control of it as you both find relief, settling into a simple rhythm which chips away at the discomfort of the previous inertia. Still only taking a fraction of what he can give, you are overwhelmed by your need finally being met and in no time at all, you feel a coiling in your belly.
Moans and sobs are torn from your throat, hoarse with gratitude in the short time it takes for pleasure to consume you. It snaps through every muscle and nerve as you teeter over the edge, pushed closer as Papa escalates from cautiously sliding you down his length to letting you bounce a little in his lap. He lets himself go a little more, expletives and filthy grunts escaping as you wail for him and his hips occasionally bucking forward of their own accord.
Your body begins to work against him involuntarily as your orgasm takes hold, jerking and shuddering in his grasp. For the first time this evening, despite the tea and his hard work, you close around him fully as you climax, so hard it momentarily slows him down. However, either growing too inpatient for it to subside or needing more of you squeezing around his cock, he doesn't allow you any time to recover.
With your voice just reaching its highest pitch, before you can think about trying to catch your breath, Primo pulls you down on to him until your thighs almost touch and begins to thrust up into you with as much vigour as his body will allow. His hands move to your hips for better leverage, clawing into flesh as he buries himself in you. Even when lifted to be brought brutally back down, his cock remains seated unnaturally deep. The only range in feeling now is from uncomfortably full to being impaled, all of which feels like it might tear you open from the inside out.
Just as you worry that your incessant whining, dangerously close to screaming, may slow him down, you manage to use what little air you can breathe in to call out to him.
"Fuck, Papa!"
He acknowledges it with a rumbling groan. Roughly tugging on your waist to slam you down, you crash into hip bone with a slap of skin on skin. He chokes on his own sob, the feeling of being completely enveloped for the first time in even distant memory breaking him in a way neither of you expect.
Remaining motionless for even a moment is agonising so, as Primo's ability to continue inflicting his will slips, you make use of this new freedom, rolling and winding your hips to your own rhythm. As his energy dwindles, each moan coming out weaker and more strained, yours is renewed along with a brazen confidence being stoked by Papa's encouragement. You find his hands and place one over your heart and push the other further down your stomach.
"Satanas," he barks as you find a faster pace, sliding easily up and down part of his length.
His fingers fall between your thighs, enough for you to use them to rub against. They twitch, trying to touch you properly with absentminded strokes but remain unfocused as he jolts and spasms beneath you. The concerted effort it takes to spread your sticky arousal with his lazy fingers, hindered by his rapidly depleting energy as well as the way you writhe on him, only makes you more determined.
Safe in his clutches and with your body as accustomed to his size as possible, you meet his erratic, shallow thrusts as much as you can and as hard your tiring muscles will allow. It is enough to wind Papa each time you sink down into him but his flexing fingers and increasingly fragile gasps tell you not to stop. His own heart now trying to burst from his chest, he lets out a languid cry as he feels himself leaking inside you, his girth and you clenching hard, narrowing around it keeping it in place to completely coat his tip.
Primo had learned long ago it was best not to expect anything from his aging body. Either with a partner or without, he was quite content and grateful for any pleasure he could find, and had many different ways to define and measure it. Time had taught him what experience should have, and humbled him into accepting that ejaculation as an end goal was just not feasible. An orgasm without it is just as good and, whether or not he manages to produce anything to trickle out, he thanks Satan all the same.
But what he is feeling now is more than a trickle. In the heat of you and with the added lubrication, he shouldn't be able to tell, but he can and the usual slow build to a muted peak does not compare to what is currently brewing. You are in control now, and he is being dragged along for the ride to long forgotten heights.
With a few final gasps, the dam breaks and he feels a relative flood, but you either don't notice, or don't care. His body goes rigid as it focuses on producing a couple of weak, dribbling spurts, but you don't stop, lost in the way his cock twists and curves and burrows and so close to your own climax. It draws out his release more than he thought possible and suddenly, shockingly, he is praying he can hold out a bit longer for you.
Nails biting down hard into your abdomen as he stutters in his chair help you get there, finding your own release soon after as intensely as you have ever felt it. A euphoric wail quickly breaks into exhausted whimpers, your body collapsing under the weight of it. As soon as it starts to fade, your muscles scream to remind you of the punishment they have been put through. You lean back on to Papa who is only slightly more lucid but thankfully can muster the strength to pull you into a sort of cradling embrace.
Unfortunately, as aftershocks and adrenaline calms, his softening cock gently kicking inside you becomes too uncomfortable for you both and, with considerable difficulty, he helps you stand and pulls himself out. You groan at the sudden the emptiness and, when he guides you to sit on his lap, a hollow, pulsating ache takes over.
He runs his hands down your shoulders through a sheen of sweat, not seeming to mind that you might be falling asleep on his chest. One comes to rest around your neck, now well practiced in finding the pulse point, even as it weakens. You listen to his heartbeat starting to mellow and you nuzzle into his robes, a wry smile forming as you sit in the evidence of how much you both enjoyed yourselves.
You could not say when you might feel able to walk or stand again and, although you do wonder how he feels being trapped under you, neither of you can really do much about it. Not able to keep your eyes open any longer, you cling to him and hope that he lets you stay like this for a while. You let the gentle rise and fall of his chest and the whistling wind outside lull you to sleep.
You wake some time later, eyes too tired to open, suddenly aware of the low tone of Papa's voice. He doesn't sound like he is talking to you and, the more you try to listen, the harder your head pounds. Sensing that there is someone else in the room standing over you, you should try to sit up or at least see who it is, but even thinking about it is too draining to continue.
Multiple pairs of hands take hold of you and you are gently lifted from Papa's lap, you think by at least two people. They carry you, plodding gingerly in an attempt not to disturb you too much, into an adjacent room. You mutter in confusion but they ignore you, placing you to sit on the edge of what feels like a firm mattress.
Still dazed, you manage to open your eyes to be met with the unsettling stare of a ghoul holding an open bottle of water up to your mouth. You try to take it but they instead help you take a few gulps as the other ghoul turns down the sheets. They both help you under a quilt and tuck you in and, apparently unsure how to wish you goodnight, one settles for an awkward pat on the head.
One of them points to the supplies on the bedside table: the half-empty bottle of water, some painkillers and a couple of individually wrapped biscuits are the only items you can make out. They nod to each other and head towards the door after switching off a nearby lamp. In the pitch black, ready for a well-earned rest, you're asleep again before the door creaks shut.
Thank you for reading! <3 Reblogs super appreciated!
My first Primo fic - Primo enthusiasts, true old man fuckers, I hope you enjoy :)
Tagging @vintageandroid and @from-the-pinnacle as requested (a while ago now, apologies!)
Thank you Primo advisor and beta @avocado-writing <3
You try to focus on anything else: the rain thrumming on the window, or the crackling of the fire, or the scratch of the blanket draped over your knees. You force circular, steady breaths as your stare up at the ceiling, leaning against his chest. Despite his frail frame, he makes a comfortable place to sit. It would be more comfortable without three of his fingers inside you, but you're not exactly complaining.
You've been warming them for a while now. At least ten minutes, but you try not to think about that either. You don't succeed, and Primo knows.
"Relax," he rasps, as he feels the throb of your wrist under his other fingers. "You will need to if you are to take all of me. That is what you want, isn't it?"
You clench around him and hear an amused exhale, the edge of which tickles your neck. You stifle a whimper as he moves beneath you, to lean over and grab the tea sitting on the nearby table. His nobbled fingers and their bumped joints fill you like nothing else you'd ever experienced and, even with the slightest movement, the ridges of his digits create friction in the most unexpected places.
"Drink," he commands. "It will help."
He lifts it and shakily pours it into your mouth. His head comes to rest on your shoulder as you swallow it down, his lips happy to feel the flow of your blood pumping and the swell of your throat as you drink against his cheek. The concoction is bitter and earthy and, if the splash of lemon had been added to mask the flavour, it isn't working. You resist the urge to gag, knowing he will be displeased if you waste any of it, and keep swallowing down every drop.
The teacup clinks onto its saucer and Primo gets himself comfortable again, still knuckle-deep inside you. As he shuffles backwards into his cushion, you whine, craving more relief, but as you open your mouth to plead, your insides twist. It settles in your stomach like heavy syrup and your gut tries to fight back. You feel sick, dizzy and then— calm.
A tingling warmth spreads from your centre and your muscles relax. Within seconds, your limbs feel like liquid and you sink into him a little more. He applies more pressure over your pulse, measuring how it slows under his calloused fingertips.
"Good. Very good."
Without warning, his fingers curl and begin a shallow, excruciatingly slow exploration. You purr for your Papa and your muscles try to tighten around him but they are noticeably weaker. In your frustration, you attempt to push yourself back into him but there are no more of his fingers for you to take.
"You are getting restless, I know," he says with a rare hint of sympathy. "Let us try a little, but if that heart of yours starts working too hard, we stop."
Even the suggestion of it makes your pulse thump a bit harder in his grasp but he allows you to wriggle in his lap and work yourself on his fingers. He gives an approving hum as you experimentally rock yourself, gasping as he strokes inside of you. He knows none of this will prepare you for his full size - as do you - but he does enjoy having you like this. So compliant, so fixated, and determined to struggle through your pursuit of gratification.
Happy with your current restraint, reflected in your heart rate, his monitoring hand retreats and lifts you slightly while he rearranges himself. As he settles you back down in his lap, flexing his fingers as they reach inside you again, you feel the weight of his cock resting on you. You moan in anticipation of it and your heart flutters in your chest, not going unnoticed by Papa.
"Patience. Calm," he says, less monotone than his previous instructions, as his hand presses on your chest.
With your arms outstretched behind you to hold on to something, you lean back and grind in his lap, rubbing against the intimidating shaft. You are restricted somewhat by his hold on you which does not relent until you force yourself to resist your need and slow down. He taps your heart in approval but the way his breath rattles in his chest tells you he may be fighting a battle of his own.
This suspicion is confirmed as you feel his hips start to move beneath you, rocking up to rub himself up your spine. You shudder as he spreads sticky arousal up your back as his breathing quickens with each movement. His usual dismissive and stoic demeanour is dangerously close to slipping and with each passing second, his own pulse races faster.
Yours can only follow suit, now free to rut in his lap as he becomes more distracted. Both of you pant and mewl, falling out of sync with the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece as Primo momentarily forgets his own rules. Your ability to break his focus only spurs on your defiance of the deal, the crack in his facade adding to your bravery in pushing its limits and creating a surreal sort of delirium in which he is as agitated as you. You crane your neck to try to catch a glimpse of your usually composed Papa starting to crumble under his baser instinct, unable to truly picture it even with the unmistakable sounds escaping him. But as he feels you turn, it brings his attention back to the task at hand.
His fingers are ripped out of you and he grabs both of your wrists, wrenching them behind you and pinning them against your spine so fast your shoulders feel like they may snap. With such a simple flourish, your body locks in place and falls completely into his control. Pain shoots up your arms as they protest your new position, but it is quickly overshadowed by the contortions in your core, missing his digits working you open.
"Papa!" You plead, but he responds only with a twist of your captured limbs.
He had allowed too much and now he must balance the scales, making you wallow in the consequences. Your wrists are crushed into one of his hands as his other finds your neck. A delicate press of his fingers there makes it clear you will be expected to learn to be comfortable here before he continues. As you sob in between heaving breaths, the only comfort he offers is a small circling motion around the throbbing vein to massage you into submission.
You are not sure how long he keeps you like this. When he does finally relax his control, parts of your body under strain have started to tingle with numbness. He taps out your rhythm, gradually slowing with enough focus and eased by his loosening grip. After stabilising yourself, you feel him shuffling behind you, followed by the sound of liquid pouring into porcelain. The teacup appears again and he administers another dose.
Knowing the taste does not prepare you any better for it; it is even more worse than you remember and you almost retch while trying to swallow the larger chunks of mushroom. He continues to tip it past your lips even as you cough and splutter, your throat and lungs burning. Once empty, you hear the cup being placed back on the table and, as your stomach flips, an unpleasant wave washes over you.
You start to tell him you may not be able to keep it down, but your words come out slurred and broken. The room tilts and shrinks around you as your vision blurs. An unsettling claustrophobia takes hold as the walls close in and you feel a disconnect from your body. Your brain is steeped in fear but, the more you try to fight it, the less you are able to move. As Primo begins to stroke the crown of your head, you slump back into him.
The calmness does not overwhelm you this time. Your physical reactions settle but something more insidious takes root. Everything feels cloudy and your own weight feels cumbersome yet somehow distant from your consciousness. The aches and pains remain but take up less space; present but not bothering you as they probably should. The sounds in the room - the patter of rain and Primo's uncharacteristically soothing mutters - are warped as if you are underwater, being drowned out by the heartbeat pulsating in your ears.
Papa dabs at the sweat collecting on your brow and the softness of his touch grounds you. Colour returns to the world and clarity seeps back in. You feel a warmth spread as the dulling of your nerves fades, encouraged by his hand lightly scraping along your inner thigh. Your awareness ebbs and flows as time seems to stand still, only edged forward by each attempt you make to suck in air. You are jostled in place before feeling something lift you, and then you simply float.
His hands materialise around your wrists again, binding them in place in such a way, with surprising strength, to keep you hovering above his lap by pushing them upwards. Your feet are on the ground taking some of your weight but the plush rug you stand on feels far from solid. It is enough to anchor you, allowing him to puppeteer you however he pleases with no effort at all.
The next sensation happens far away from you. You groan in confusion as you try to place the pleasant sort of pressure but, being far too groggy to make sense of anything, you accept it and let it in. As your attention is drawn to a tension growing deep within, it is pulled away just as quickly as you attempt to follow the low tone of the voice behind you. Noise turns into words and, with the realisation that they are offers of praise, you tunnel in on them. The ever-present condescension does not deter you.
"Still with me?" You nod slowly which is met with an amused smack of his lips. "You are lucky that Papa knows how to take care of you."
"Yes. Thank you, Papa." Your instinctive reply inspires a rumbling in his chest which moves through you both. "So polite," he teases. "Bene."
This crumb of approval makes your skin buzz. But it's more than that. A scrap of him tossed to you without much thought is an acknowledgement that shows he can be pleased - that you can please him - only strengthens your desire to chase more of it. You're unsure if you could ever earn more than his tolerance but, a reminder that underneath it all he is just a man also reminds you he could be convinced to feel. Maybe it would only ever be the sort of affection earned by an obedient pet, one which is persistently annoying enough to endear themselves to him, but that, you think, would be more than fulfilling.
A squeeze on your wrist makes you aware he is measuring you again. He cannot see your face in this position: the dopey, strung out smile with eyes glazing over in a comfortable bliss. However, either through the thud of your blood or your pliable state, he senses your serenity. He decides to toy with it.
"You know, I assumed we would need this," he says offhandedly as he presents a blurry bottle to you. You blink a few times to bring it into focus but the text on its label, already partially shrouded by shadow in the dim light, dances in your vision. He tilts it in his hand and watches your head follow. "But perhaps we see how well you do without."
"Hmm?"
He waits, amused by your confusion, and holds the object steady until you can decipher it. There is a slight increase in your blood's cadence as you stop simply giving in to your helplessness and fight to control your senses, but it is nothing compared to the spike in adrenaline as you recognise the bottle of lube Primo is mockingly waving in your face. The sound of him chuckling as your heart rate climbs is deeply unsettling. He clears his throat and sighs before shushing your panicked murmurs, despite preparing to make them worse.
"No more," he says. "It seems pointless to worry… after all, you are managing very well so far. Did you even notice?"
It takes a beat for you to understand him but, helped by a quick buck from his chair, the haze clears once again. Like a flick of a switch, you are more aware of everything, including the first couple of inches of his cock inside you and his tip pushing through the loosened muscles. An attempt to squirm is only met with a painful tightening of his grip to keep you in place.
"Shhhh. I think you can take a bit more before you will… really feel it."
He eases you down a bit further, but stops as you start to fight it. "None of that," he says, followed by a heavy pause. "Unless, you want to stop."
Barely able to breathe, you shake your head as hard as you can.
"So, do you need the extra help? Or not?"
You are just lucid enough to wonder if this may be a test. You whine in frustration; at your own indecision and lamenting the inability to move. He is wrapped around you so tightly, around each one of your senses, like gnarled vines, making it impossible to think straight. Your lungs crackle as you struggle to catch your breath and your heart feels ready to burst from your chest.
You hardly recognise your own voice as you attempt to beg for relief. Garbled and shaking, it comes out as a pathetic, timid drone. He waits for you to compose yourself, allowing you to thrash for a moment, only speaking as your choked cries subside.
"Ahh, I suppose you have earned my… pity," he concedes, only a little proud that his reputation as a sadist clearly precedes him. Although he would like to test the limits of his tea, perhaps it would be too cruel, even for him.
He pulls out of you with little warning. You groan at the sudden emptiness and rough movement, but settle back into his lap and offer more thanks which earns another grunt of approval. He reaches for the lube and begins preparing himself, jostling you as he lathers his length. The cold drips of it sizzle on your hot skin and only builds the already simmering anticipation. Primo begins leisurely applying a generous amount, humming low as he coats himself.
As he positions himself and you feel his tip press forward, you both notice a distinct lack of resistance. Guiding you once more by your wrists in a vice-like grip, he lowers you onto his cock with ease until you are taking those same few inches again. He relishes the way your pulse steadies while still, then slowly climbs as you wait for more, completely at his mercy.
He feeds himself into you a bit further until the stretch makes you cry out and your nails dig into where he holds you. You hear him suck in air, either from the sting of it, or from your warmth now taking almost half of his length. Subtly he begins to rock you, leveraging your wrists to begin carefully sliding you up and down his length, making sure he gives you no more than a tease of his tip reaching new depths.
As he gradually speeds up, your mewling only become more incessant. Already feeling so full, you would still ask for more if you could only find your voice. But, just as your body starts to buzz with pleasure, another haze overcomes you and the world around you yet again starts to slip away. Your core throbs as reality fades into the distance and your form goes slack. Primo relaxes his hold just enough to let you sway a little. You don't even fight it.
Everything goes black. For how long, you don't know but when you come too, it is with a shuddering squeal as physical sensation returns. He moves you faster and, you think, delves further than before. However, you don't feel a struggle to stretch around him as expected, only a satiating fullness which pushes out the swelling headache and quiet nausea. As spit collects in your mouth, the bitter taste of his tea coats your tongue and seems to throw you back and forth between succumbing to its sedative effects and feeling painfully heightened rapture.
Somewhere between the waves, Primo is beginning to shift impatiently in his chair. You mould around him so perfectly to squeeze and throb around his cock, and he can feel your body working hard to let him in. It feels like you're trying to drag more of him inside you and, while he still isn't convinced you will actually succeed in taking every solid inch, he gets closer to hoping you will.
In a brief moment of clarity, you feel all of it and an almost primal shriek rips your mouth open. Your heart thumps so hard it feels like it might break through your ribcage and, as if he senses it, he places a hand over your chest to feel it kicking violently against his touch. Of course, this makes him stop. He scratches over the skin like he could sink his hand in to take it, to feel it beating in the palm of his hand. There's a chance that, if he were to pluck it from your chest right now, you wouldn't even notice.
There's murmuring. Whispered jibes. Heavy breathing and a voice miles away from where you are. Your head becomes too heavy to hold up.. You have a vague sense of still being on your feet, somehow. Maybe it's related to the circulation being cut off at your wrists. He still taps out your rhythm. It's the only reason you know it is still there.
This time, the wait stretches on forever. Time slows down and you feel every delayed second, the ticking clock on the mantel now mocking you while also signalling the gradual return of sensation. While held in place, the lack of friction allows pain to slowly permeate. It begins with a dull ache, then a formidable fullness, followed by a building pressure around the intrusion. The escalation is consistent enough to for you to map it spreading through your every nerve but as the fog lifts and with no limit in sight, your resolve wavers.
Not quite ready to quit, you take a risk by asking for relief.
"I can't— please, Papa. Please. I need—" Your voice falters, its shrillness cracking into disjointed noise. "Too much," you gasp with the last bit of air in your lungs.
"Hmm. You want to stop now? What a shame. Disappointing to get so close."
You shake your head in protest. Something wet drips from your nose and you taste salt on your lips. He takes measure of you again.
Extremely elevated. A frantic, panicked drumming.
"Making you wait no longer seems to be having a… calming effect," he concedes. "You want to move? You need to fuck yourself on my cock?"
You feel his sadistic grin appear, hearing his lips curl into a sneer. You try to picture the expression in your mind, distracted slightly by the insistent twinge between your legs.
"I suppose I will have to help you," he continues without waiting for a reply. "And when I say help, I mean… do all the work for you."
He sighs but this time without disdain or disappointment, happy to play with his dumbstruck rag doll regardless of how actively you can participate. Eager in fact to see just how far he can go and just how much you can take. Stubborn pride is a quality he understands, sometimes admires. But, it is such as an easy trait to take advantage of.
Awareness of your weight being shifted starts in your feet again, being rocked from heel to toe at that same steady pace. Your loud sigh is matched by the man in control of it as you both find relief, settling into a simple rhythm which chips away at the discomfort of the previous inertia. Still only taking a fraction of what he can give, you are overwhelmed by your need finally being met and in no time at all, you feel a coiling in your belly.
Moans and sobs are torn from your throat, hoarse with gratitude in the short time it takes for pleasure to consume you. It snaps through every muscle and nerve as you teeter over the edge, pushed closer as Papa escalates from cautiously sliding you down his length to letting you bounce a little in his lap. He lets himself go a little more, expletives and filthy grunts escaping as you wail for him and his hips occasionally bucking forward of their own accord.
Your body begins to work against him involuntarily as your orgasm takes hold, jerking and shuddering in his grasp. For the first time this evening, despite the tea and his hard work, you close around him fully as you climax, so hard it momentarily slows him down. However, either growing too inpatient for it to subside or needing more of you squeezing around his cock, he doesn't allow you any time to recover.
With your voice just reaching its highest pitch, before you can think about trying to catch your breath, Primo pulls you down on to him until your thighs almost touch and begins to thrust up into you with as much vigour as his body will allow. His hands move to your hips for better leverage, clawing into flesh as he buries himself in you. Even when lifted to be brought brutally back down, his cock remains seated unnaturally deep. The only range in feeling now is from uncomfortably full to being impaled, all of which feels like it might tear you open from the inside out.
Just as you worry that your incessant whining, dangerously close to screaming, may slow him down, you manage to use what little air you can breathe in to call out to him.
"Fuck, Papa!"
He acknowledges it with a rumbling groan. Roughly tugging on your waist to slam you down, you crash into hip bone with a slap of skin on skin. He chokes on his own sob, the feeling of being completely enveloped for the first time in even distant memory breaking him in a way neither of you expect.
Remaining motionless for even a moment is agonising so, as Primo's ability to continue inflicting his will slips, you make use of this new freedom, rolling and winding your hips to your own rhythm. As his energy dwindles, each moan coming out weaker and more strained, yours is renewed along with a brazen confidence being stoked by Papa's encouragement. You find his hands and place one over your heart and push the other further down your stomach.
"Satanas," he barks as you find a faster pace, sliding easily up and down part of his length.
His fingers fall between your thighs, enough for you to use them to rub against. They twitch, trying to touch you properly with absentminded strokes but remain unfocused as he jolts and spasms beneath you. The concerted effort it takes to spread your sticky arousal with his lazy fingers, hindered by his rapidly depleting energy as well as the way you writhe on him, only makes you more determined.
Safe in his clutches and with your body as accustomed to his size as possible, you meet his erratic, shallow thrusts as much as you can and as hard your tiring muscles will allow. It is enough to wind Papa each time you sink down into him but his flexing fingers and increasingly fragile gasps tell you not to stop. His own heart now trying to burst from his chest, he lets out a languid cry as he feels himself leaking inside you, his girth and you clenching hard, narrowing around it keeping it in place to completely coat his tip.
Primo had learned long ago it was best not to expect anything from his aging body. Either with a partner or without, he was quite content and grateful for any pleasure he could find, and had many different ways to define and measure it. Time had taught him what experience should have, and humbled him into accepting that ejaculation as an end goal was just not feasible. An orgasm without it is just as good and, whether or not he manages to produce anything to trickle out, he thanks Satan all the same.
But what he is feeling now is more than a trickle. In the heat of you and with the added lubrication, he shouldn't be able to tell, but he can and the usual slow build to a muted peak does not compare to what is currently brewing. You are in control now, and he is being dragged along for the ride to long forgotten heights.
With a few final gasps, the dam breaks and he feels a relative flood, but you either don't notice, or don't care. His body goes rigid as it focuses on producing a couple of weak, dribbling spurts, but you don't stop, lost in the way his cock twists and curves and burrows and so close to your own climax. It draws out his release more than he thought possible and suddenly, shockingly, he is praying he can hold out a bit longer for you.
Nails biting down hard into your abdomen as he stutters in his chair help you get there, finding your own release soon after as intensely as you have ever felt it. A euphoric wail quickly breaks into exhausted whimpers, your body collapsing under the weight of it. As soon as it starts to fade, your muscles scream to remind you of the punishment they have been put through. You lean back on to Papa who is only slightly more lucid but thankfully can muster the strength to pull you into a sort of cradling embrace.
Unfortunately, as aftershocks and adrenaline calms, his softening cock gently kicking inside you becomes too uncomfortable for you both and, with considerable difficulty, he helps you stand and pulls himself out. You groan at the sudden the emptiness and, when he guides you to sit on his lap, a hollow, pulsating ache takes over.
He runs his hands down your shoulders through a sheen of sweat, not seeming to mind that you might be falling asleep on his chest. One comes to rest around your neck, now well practiced in finding the pulse point, even as it weakens. You listen to his heartbeat starting to mellow and you nuzzle into his robes, a wry smile forming as you sit in the evidence of how much you both enjoyed yourselves.
You could not say when you might feel able to walk or stand again and, although you do wonder how he feels being trapped under you, neither of you can really do much about it. Not able to keep your eyes open any longer, you cling to him and hope that he lets you stay like this for a while. You let the gentle rise and fall of his chest and the whistling wind outside lull you to sleep.
You wake some time later, eyes too tired to open, suddenly aware of the low tone of Papa's voice. He doesn't sound like he is talking to you and, the more you try to listen, the harder your head pounds. Sensing that there is someone else in the room standing over you, you should try to sit up or at least see who it is, but even thinking about it is too draining to continue.
Multiple pairs of hands take hold of you and you are gently lifted from Papa's lap, you think by at least two people. They carry you, plodding gingerly in an attempt not to disturb you too much, into an adjacent room. You mutter in confusion but they ignore you, placing you to sit on the edge of what feels like a firm mattress.
Still dazed, you manage to open your eyes to be met with the unsettling stare of a ghoul holding an open bottle of water up to your mouth. You try to take it but they instead help you take a few gulps as the other ghoul turns down the sheets. They both help you under a quilt and tuck you in and, apparently unsure how to wish you goodnight, one settles for an awkward pat on the head.
One of them points to the supplies on the bedside table: the half-empty bottle of water, some painkillers and a couple of individually wrapped biscuits are the only items you can make out. They nod to each other and head towards the door after switching off a nearby lamp. In the pitch black, ready for a well-earned rest, you're asleep again before the door creaks shut.
Thank you for reading! <3 Reblogs super appreciated!
My first Primo fic - Primo enthusiasts, true old man fuckers, I hope you enjoy :)
Tagging @vintageandroid and @from-the-pinnacle as requested (a while ago now, apologies!)
Thank you Primo advisor and beta @avocado-writing <3
You try to focus on anything else: the rain thrumming on the window, or the crackling of the fire, or the scratch of the blanket draped over your knees. You force circular, steady breaths as your stare up at the ceiling, leaning against his chest. Despite his frail frame, he makes a comfortable place to sit. It would be more comfortable without three of his fingers inside you, but you're not exactly complaining.
You've been warming them for a while now. At least ten minutes, but you try not to think about that either. You don't succeed, and Primo knows.
"Relax," he rasps, as he feels the throb of your wrist under his other fingers. "You will need to if you are to take all of me. That is what you want, isn't it?"
You clench around him and hear an amused exhale, the edge of which tickles your neck. You stifle a whimper as he moves beneath you, to lean over and grab the tea sitting on the nearby table. His nobbled fingers and their bumped joints fill you like nothing else you'd ever experienced and, even with the slightest movement, the ridges of his digits create friction in the most unexpected places.
"Drink," he commands. "It will help."
He lifts it and shakily pours it into your mouth. His head comes to rest on your shoulder as you swallow it down, his lips happy to feel the flow of your blood pumping and the swell of your throat as you drink against his cheek. The concoction is bitter and earthy and, if the splash of lemon had been added to mask the flavour, it isn't working. You resist the urge to gag, knowing he will be displeased if you waste any of it, and keep swallowing down every drop.
The teacup clinks onto its saucer and Primo gets himself comfortable again, still knuckle-deep inside you. As he shuffles backwards into his cushion, you whine, craving more relief, but as you open your mouth to plead, your insides twist. It settles in your stomach like heavy syrup and your gut tries to fight back. You feel sick, dizzy and then— calm.
A tingling warmth spreads from your centre and your muscles relax. Within seconds, your limbs feel like liquid and you sink into him a little more. He applies more pressure over your pulse, measuring how it slows under his calloused fingertips.
"Good. Very good."
Without warning, his fingers curl and begin a shallow, excruciatingly slow exploration. You purr for your Papa and your muscles try to tighten around him but they are noticeably weaker. In your frustration, you attempt to push yourself back into him but there are no more of his fingers for you to take.
"You are getting restless, I know," he says with a rare hint of sympathy. "Let us try a little, but if that heart of yours starts working too hard, we stop."
Even the suggestion of it makes your pulse thump a bit harder in his grasp but he allows you to wriggle in his lap and work yourself on his fingers. He gives an approving hum as you experimentally rock yourself, gasping as he strokes inside of you. He knows none of this will prepare you for his full size - as do you - but he does enjoy having you like this. So compliant, so fixated, and determined to struggle through your pursuit of gratification.
Happy with your current restraint, reflected in your heart rate, his monitoring hand retreats and lifts you slightly while he rearranges himself. As he settles you back down in his lap, flexing his fingers as they reach inside you again, you feel the weight of his cock resting on you. You moan in anticipation of it and your heart flutters in your chest, not going unnoticed by Papa.
"Patience. Calm," he says, less monotone than his previous instructions, as his hand presses on your chest.
With your arms outstretched behind you to hold on to something, you lean back and grind in his lap, rubbing against the intimidating shaft. You are restricted somewhat by his hold on you which does not relent until you force yourself to resist your need and slow down. He taps your heart in approval but the way his breath rattles in his chest tells you he may be fighting a battle of his own.
This suspicion is confirmed as you feel his hips start to move beneath you, rocking up to rub himself up your spine. You shudder as he spreads sticky arousal up your back as his breathing quickens with each movement. His usual dismissive and stoic demeanour is dangerously close to slipping and with each passing second, his own pulse races faster.
Yours can only follow suit, now free to rut in his lap as he becomes more distracted. Both of you pant and mewl, falling out of sync with the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece as Primo momentarily forgets his own rules. Your ability to break his focus only spurs on your defiance of the deal, the crack in his facade adding to your bravery in pushing its limits and creating a surreal sort of delirium in which he is as agitated as you. You crane your neck to try to catch a glimpse of your usually composed Papa starting to crumble under his baser instinct, unable to truly picture it even with the unmistakable sounds escaping him. But as he feels you turn, it brings his attention back to the task at hand.
His fingers are ripped out of you and he grabs both of your wrists, wrenching them behind you and pinning them against your spine so fast your shoulders feel like they may snap. With such a simple flourish, your body locks in place and falls completely into his control. Pain shoots up your arms as they protest your new position, but it is quickly overshadowed by the contortions in your core, missing his digits working you open.
"Papa!" You plead, but he responds only with a twist of your captured limbs.
He had allowed too much and now he must balance the scales, making you wallow in the consequences. Your wrists are crushed into one of his hands as his other finds your neck. A delicate press of his fingers there makes it clear you will be expected to learn to be comfortable here before he continues. As you sob in between heaving breaths, the only comfort he offers is a small circling motion around the throbbing vein to massage you into submission.
You are not sure how long he keeps you like this. When he does finally relax his control, parts of your body under strain have started to tingle with numbness. He taps out your rhythm, gradually slowing with enough focus and eased by his loosening grip. After stabilising yourself, you feel him shuffling behind you, followed by the sound of liquid pouring into porcelain. The teacup appears again and he administers another dose.
Knowing the taste does not prepare you any better for it; it is even more worse than you remember and you almost retch while trying to swallow the larger chunks of mushroom. He continues to tip it past your lips even as you cough and splutter, your throat and lungs burning. Once empty, you hear the cup being placed back on the table and, as your stomach flips, an unpleasant wave washes over you.
You start to tell him you may not be able to keep it down, but your words come out slurred and broken. The room tilts and shrinks around you as your vision blurs. An unsettling claustrophobia takes hold as the walls close in and you feel a disconnect from your body. Your brain is steeped in fear but, the more you try to fight it, the less you are able to move. As Primo begins to stroke the crown of your head, you slump back into him.
The calmness does not overwhelm you this time. Your physical reactions settle but something more insidious takes root. Everything feels cloudy and your own weight feels cumbersome yet somehow distant from your consciousness. The aches and pains remain but take up less space; present but not bothering you as they probably should. The sounds in the room - the patter of rain and Primo's uncharacteristically soothing mutters - are warped as if you are underwater, being drowned out by the heartbeat pulsating in your ears.
Papa dabs at the sweat collecting on your brow and the softness of his touch grounds you. Colour returns to the world and clarity seeps back in. You feel a warmth spread as the dulling of your nerves fades, encouraged by his hand lightly scraping along your inner thigh. Your awareness ebbs and flows as time seems to stand still, only edged forward by each attempt you make to suck in air. You are jostled in place before feeling something lift you, and then you simply float.
His hands materialise around your wrists again, binding them in place in such a way, with surprising strength, to keep you hovering above his lap by pushing them upwards. Your feet are on the ground taking some of your weight but the plush rug you stand on feels far from solid. It is enough to anchor you, allowing him to puppeteer you however he pleases with no effort at all.
The next sensation happens far away from you. You groan in confusion as you try to place the pleasant sort of pressure but, being far too groggy to make sense of anything, you accept it and let it in. As your attention is drawn to a tension growing deep within, it is pulled away just as quickly as you attempt to follow the low tone of the voice behind you. Noise turns into words and, with the realisation that they are offers of praise, you tunnel in on them. The ever-present condescension does not deter you.
"Still with me?" You nod slowly which is met with an amused smack of his lips. "You are lucky that Papa knows how to take care of you."
"Yes. Thank you, Papa." Your instinctive reply inspires a rumbling in his chest which moves through you both. "So polite," he teases. "Bene."
This crumb of approval makes your skin buzz. But it's more than that. A scrap of him tossed to you without much thought is an acknowledgement that shows he can be pleased - that you can please him - only strengthens your desire to chase more of it. You're unsure if you could ever earn more than his tolerance but, a reminder that underneath it all he is just a man also reminds you he could be convinced to feel. Maybe it would only ever be the sort of affection earned by an obedient pet, one which is persistently annoying enough to endear themselves to him, but that, you think, would be more than fulfilling.
A squeeze on your wrist makes you aware he is measuring you again. He cannot see your face in this position: the dopey, strung out smile with eyes glazing over in a comfortable bliss. However, either through the thud of your blood or your pliable state, he senses your serenity. He decides to toy with it.
"You know, I assumed we would need this," he says offhandedly as he presents a blurry bottle to you. You blink a few times to bring it into focus but the text on its label, already partially shrouded by shadow in the dim light, dances in your vision. He tilts it in his hand and watches your head follow. "But perhaps we see how well you do without."
"Hmm?"
He waits, amused by your confusion, and holds the object steady until you can decipher it. There is a slight increase in your blood's cadence as you stop simply giving in to your helplessness and fight to control your senses, but it is nothing compared to the spike in adrenaline as you recognise the bottle of lube Primo is mockingly waving in your face. The sound of him chuckling as your heart rate climbs is deeply unsettling. He clears his throat and sighs before shushing your panicked murmurs, despite preparing to make them worse.
"No more," he says. "It seems pointless to worry… after all, you are managing very well so far. Did you even notice?"
It takes a beat for you to understand him but, helped by a quick buck from his chair, the haze clears once again. Like a flick of a switch, you are more aware of everything, including the first couple of inches of his cock inside you and his tip pushing through the loosened muscles. An attempt to squirm is only met with a painful tightening of his grip to keep you in place.
"Shhhh. I think you can take a bit more before you will… really feel it."
He eases you down a bit further, but stops as you start to fight it. "None of that," he says, followed by a heavy pause. "Unless, you want to stop."
Barely able to breathe, you shake your head as hard as you can.
"So, do you need the extra help? Or not?"
You are just lucid enough to wonder if this may be a test. You whine in frustration; at your own indecision and lamenting the inability to move. He is wrapped around you so tightly, around each one of your senses, like gnarled vines, making it impossible to think straight. Your lungs crackle as you struggle to catch your breath and your heart feels ready to burst from your chest.
You hardly recognise your own voice as you attempt to beg for relief. Garbled and shaking, it comes out as a pathetic, timid drone. He waits for you to compose yourself, allowing you to thrash for a moment, only speaking as your choked cries subside.
"Ahh, I suppose you have earned my… pity," he concedes, only a little proud that his reputation as a sadist clearly precedes him. Although he would like to test the limits of his tea, perhaps it would be too cruel, even for him.
He pulls out of you with little warning. You groan at the sudden emptiness and rough movement, but settle back into his lap and offer more thanks which earns another grunt of approval. He reaches for the lube and begins preparing himself, jostling you as he lathers his length. The cold drips of it sizzle on your hot skin and only builds the already simmering anticipation. Primo begins leisurely applying a generous amount, humming low as he coats himself.
As he positions himself and you feel his tip press forward, you both notice a distinct lack of resistance. Guiding you once more by your wrists in a vice-like grip, he lowers you onto his cock with ease until you are taking those same few inches again. He relishes the way your pulse steadies while still, then slowly climbs as you wait for more, completely at his mercy.
He feeds himself into you a bit further until the stretch makes you cry out and your nails dig into where he holds you. You hear him suck in air, either from the sting of it, or from your warmth now taking almost half of his length. Subtly he begins to rock you, leveraging your wrists to begin carefully sliding you up and down his length, making sure he gives you no more than a tease of his tip reaching new depths.
As he gradually speeds up, your mewling only become more incessant. Already feeling so full, you would still ask for more if you could only find your voice. But, just as your body starts to buzz with pleasure, another haze overcomes you and the world around you yet again starts to slip away. Your core throbs as reality fades into the distance and your form goes slack. Primo relaxes his hold just enough to let you sway a little. You don't even fight it.
Everything goes black. For how long, you don't know but when you come too, it is with a shuddering squeal as physical sensation returns. He moves you faster and, you think, delves further than before. However, you don't feel a struggle to stretch around him as expected, only a satiating fullness which pushes out the swelling headache and quiet nausea. As spit collects in your mouth, the bitter taste of his tea coats your tongue and seems to throw you back and forth between succumbing to its sedative effects and feeling painfully heightened rapture.
Somewhere between the waves, Primo is beginning to shift impatiently in his chair. You mould around him so perfectly to squeeze and throb around his cock, and he can feel your body working hard to let him in. It feels like you're trying to drag more of him inside you and, while he still isn't convinced you will actually succeed in taking every solid inch, he gets closer to hoping you will.
In a brief moment of clarity, you feel all of it and an almost primal shriek rips your mouth open. Your heart thumps so hard it feels like it might break through your ribcage and, as if he senses it, he places a hand over your chest to feel it kicking violently against his touch. Of course, this makes him stop. He scratches over the skin like he could sink his hand in to take it, to feel it beating in the palm of his hand. There's a chance that, if he were to pluck it from your chest right now, you wouldn't even notice.
There's murmuring. Whispered jibes. Heavy breathing and a voice miles away from where you are. Your head becomes too heavy to hold up.. You have a vague sense of still being on your feet, somehow. Maybe it's related to the circulation being cut off at your wrists. He still taps out your rhythm. It's the only reason you know it is still there.
This time, the wait stretches on forever. Time slows down and you feel every delayed second, the ticking clock on the mantel now mocking you while also signalling the gradual return of sensation. While held in place, the lack of friction allows pain to slowly permeate. It begins with a dull ache, then a formidable fullness, followed by a building pressure around the intrusion. The escalation is consistent enough to for you to map it spreading through your every nerve but as the fog lifts and with no limit in sight, your resolve wavers.
Not quite ready to quit, you take a risk by asking for relief.
"I can't— please, Papa. Please. I need—" Your voice falters, its shrillness cracking into disjointed noise. "Too much," you gasp with the last bit of air in your lungs.
"Hmm. You want to stop now? What a shame. Disappointing to get so close."
You shake your head in protest. Something wet drips from your nose and you taste salt on your lips. He takes measure of you again.
Extremely elevated. A frantic, panicked drumming.
"Making you wait no longer seems to be having a… calming effect," he concedes. "You want to move? You need to fuck yourself on my cock?"
You feel his sadistic grin appear, hearing his lips curl into a sneer. You try to picture the expression in your mind, distracted slightly by the insistent twinge between your legs.
"I suppose I will have to help you," he continues without waiting for a reply. "And when I say help, I mean… do all the work for you."
He sighs but this time without disdain or disappointment, happy to play with his dumbstruck rag doll regardless of how actively you can participate. Eager in fact to see just how far he can go and just how much you can take. Stubborn pride is a quality he understands, sometimes admires. But, it is such as an easy trait to take advantage of.
Awareness of your weight being shifted starts in your feet again, being rocked from heel to toe at that same steady pace. Your loud sigh is matched by the man in control of it as you both find relief, settling into a simple rhythm which chips away at the discomfort of the previous inertia. Still only taking a fraction of what he can give, you are overwhelmed by your need finally being met and in no time at all, you feel a coiling in your belly.
Moans and sobs are torn from your throat, hoarse with gratitude in the short time it takes for pleasure to consume you. It snaps through every muscle and nerve as you teeter over the edge, pushed closer as Papa escalates from cautiously sliding you down his length to letting you bounce a little in his lap. He lets himself go a little more, expletives and filthy grunts escaping as you wail for him and his hips occasionally bucking forward of their own accord.
Your body begins to work against him involuntarily as your orgasm takes hold, jerking and shuddering in his grasp. For the first time this evening, despite the tea and his hard work, you close around him fully as you climax, so hard it momentarily slows him down. However, either growing too inpatient for it to subside or needing more of you squeezing around his cock, he doesn't allow you any time to recover.
With your voice just reaching its highest pitch, before you can think about trying to catch your breath, Primo pulls you down on to him until your thighs almost touch and begins to thrust up into you with as much vigour as his body will allow. His hands move to your hips for better leverage, clawing into flesh as he buries himself in you. Even when lifted to be brought brutally back down, his cock remains seated unnaturally deep. The only range in feeling now is from uncomfortably full to being impaled, all of which feels like it might tear you open from the inside out.
Just as you worry that your incessant whining, dangerously close to screaming, may slow him down, you manage to use what little air you can breathe in to call out to him.
"Fuck, Papa!"
He acknowledges it with a rumbling groan. Roughly tugging on your waist to slam you down, you crash into hip bone with a slap of skin on skin. He chokes on his own sob, the feeling of being completely enveloped for the first time in even distant memory breaking him in a way neither of you expect.
Remaining motionless for even a moment is agonising so, as Primo's ability to continue inflicting his will slips, you make use of this new freedom, rolling and winding your hips to your own rhythm. As his energy dwindles, each moan coming out weaker and more strained, yours is renewed along with a brazen confidence being stoked by Papa's encouragement. You find his hands and place one over your heart and push the other further down your stomach.
"Satanas," he barks as you find a faster pace, sliding easily up and down part of his length.
His fingers fall between your thighs, enough for you to use them to rub against. They twitch, trying to touch you properly with absentminded strokes but remain unfocused as he jolts and spasms beneath you. The concerted effort it takes to spread your sticky arousal with his lazy fingers, hindered by his rapidly depleting energy as well as the way you writhe on him, only makes you more determined.
Safe in his clutches and with your body as accustomed to his size as possible, you meet his erratic, shallow thrusts as much as you can and as hard your tiring muscles will allow. It is enough to wind Papa each time you sink down into him but his flexing fingers and increasingly fragile gasps tell you not to stop. His own heart now trying to burst from his chest, he lets out a languid cry as he feels himself leaking inside you, his girth and you clenching hard, narrowing around it keeping it in place to completely coat his tip.
Primo had learned long ago it was best not to expect anything from his aging body. Either with a partner or without, he was quite content and grateful for any pleasure he could find, and had many different ways to define and measure it. Time had taught him what experience should have, and humbled him into accepting that ejaculation as an end goal was just not feasible. An orgasm without it is just as good and, whether or not he manages to produce anything to trickle out, he thanks Satan all the same.
But what he is feeling now is more than a trickle. In the heat of you and with the added lubrication, he shouldn't be able to tell, but he can and the usual slow build to a muted peak does not compare to what is currently brewing. You are in control now, and he is being dragged along for the ride to long forgotten heights.
With a few final gasps, the dam breaks and he feels a relative flood, but you either don't notice, or don't care. His body goes rigid as it focuses on producing a couple of weak, dribbling spurts, but you don't stop, lost in the way his cock twists and curves and burrows and so close to your own climax. It draws out his release more than he thought possible and suddenly, shockingly, he is praying he can hold out a bit longer for you.
Nails biting down hard into your abdomen as he stutters in his chair help you get there, finding your own release soon after as intensely as you have ever felt it. A euphoric wail quickly breaks into exhausted whimpers, your body collapsing under the weight of it. As soon as it starts to fade, your muscles scream to remind you of the punishment they have been put through. You lean back on to Papa who is only slightly more lucid but thankfully can muster the strength to pull you into a sort of cradling embrace.
Unfortunately, as aftershocks and adrenaline calms, his softening cock gently kicking inside you becomes too uncomfortable for you both and, with considerable difficulty, he helps you stand and pulls himself out. You groan at the sudden the emptiness and, when he guides you to sit on his lap, a hollow, pulsating ache takes over.
He runs his hands down your shoulders through a sheen of sweat, not seeming to mind that you might be falling asleep on his chest. One comes to rest around your neck, now well practiced in finding the pulse point, even as it weakens. You listen to his heartbeat starting to mellow and you nuzzle into his robes, a wry smile forming as you sit in the evidence of how much you both enjoyed yourselves.
You could not say when you might feel able to walk or stand again and, although you do wonder how he feels being trapped under you, neither of you can really do much about it. Not able to keep your eyes open any longer, you cling to him and hope that he lets you stay like this for a while. You let the gentle rise and fall of his chest and the whistling wind outside lull you to sleep.
You wake some time later, eyes too tired to open, suddenly aware of the low tone of Papa's voice. He doesn't sound like he is talking to you and, the more you try to listen, the harder your head pounds. Sensing that there is someone else in the room standing over you, you should try to sit up or at least see who it is, but even thinking about it is too draining to continue.
Multiple pairs of hands take hold of you and you are gently lifted from Papa's lap, you think by at least two people. They carry you, plodding gingerly in an attempt not to disturb you too much, into an adjacent room. You mutter in confusion but they ignore you, placing you to sit on the edge of what feels like a firm mattress.
Still dazed, you manage to open your eyes to be met with the unsettling stare of a ghoul holding an open bottle of water up to your mouth. You try to take it but they instead help you take a few gulps as the other ghoul turns down the sheets. They both help you under a quilt and tuck you in and, apparently unsure how to wish you goodnight, one settles for an awkward pat on the head.
One of them points to the supplies on the bedside table: the half-empty bottle of water, some painkillers and a couple of individually wrapped biscuits are the only items you can make out. They nod to each other and head towards the door after switching off a nearby lamp. In the pitch black, ready for a well-earned rest, you're asleep again before the door creaks shut.
Thank you for reading! <3 Reblogs super appreciated!
"Please come to bed, amore. I've been waiting all morning for our lunch date and I'm ravenous! I need to taste you!"
You and Papa have have been so busy that by the time you are together at the end of the day; neither of you have the energy for anything more physical than a kiss and maybe cuddles before passing out. Papa is beyond desperate and has scheduled hour long "lunch meetings" just so he can be with you. It may not be romantic, but the man is yearning for every bit of you. Let's just say he becomes quite frenzied during these encounters.
Sorry, I just realized y'all never got this one. They always get posted to X but I know many of you stay away from that hellsite.
The base photo for this edit is Tom Selleck in an episode of Magnum P.I.
My first Primo fic - Primo enthusiasts, true old man fuckers, I hope you enjoy :)
Tagging @vintageandroid and @from-the-pinnacle as requested (a while ago now, apologies!)
Thank you Primo advisor and beta @avocado-writing <3
You try to focus on anything else: the rain thrumming on the window, or the crackling of the fire, or the scratch of the blanket draped over your knees. You force circular, steady breaths as your stare up at the ceiling, leaning against his chest. Despite his frail frame, he makes a comfortable place to sit. It would be more comfortable without three of his fingers inside you, but you're not exactly complaining.
You've been warming them for a while now. At least ten minutes, but you try not to think about that either. You don't succeed, and Primo knows.
"Relax," he rasps, as he feels the throb of your wrist under his other fingers. "You will need to if you are to take all of me. That is what you want, isn't it?"
You clench around him and hear an amused exhale, the edge of which tickles your neck. You stifle a whimper as he moves beneath you, to lean over and grab the tea sitting on the nearby table. His nobbled fingers and their bumped joints fill you like nothing else you'd ever experienced and, even with the slightest movement, the ridges of his digits create friction in the most unexpected places.
"Drink," he commands. "It will help."
He lifts it and shakily pours it into your mouth. His head comes to rest on your shoulder as you swallow it down, his lips happy to feel the flow of your blood pumping and the swell of your throat as you drink against his cheek. The concoction is bitter and earthy and, if the splash of lemon had been added to mask the flavour, it isn't working. You resist the urge to gag, knowing he will be displeased if you waste any of it, and keep swallowing down every drop.
The teacup clinks onto its saucer and Primo gets himself comfortable again, still knuckle-deep inside you. As he shuffles backwards into his cushion, you whine, craving more relief, but as you open your mouth to plead, your insides twist. It settles in your stomach like heavy syrup and your gut tries to fight back. You feel sick, dizzy and then— calm.
A tingling warmth spreads from your centre and your muscles relax. Within seconds, your limbs feel like liquid and you sink into him a little more. He applies more pressure over your pulse, measuring how it slows under his calloused fingertips.
"Good. Very good."
Without warning, his fingers curl and begin a shallow, excruciatingly slow exploration. You purr for your Papa and your muscles try to tighten around him but they are noticeably weaker. In your frustration, you attempt to push yourself back into him but there are no more of his fingers for you to take.
"You are getting restless, I know," he says with a rare hint of sympathy. "Let us try a little, but if that heart of yours starts working too hard, we stop."
Even the suggestion of it makes your pulse thump a bit harder in his grasp but he allows you to wriggle in his lap and work yourself on his fingers. He gives an approving hum as you experimentally rock yourself, gasping as he strokes inside of you. He knows none of this will prepare you for his full size - as do you - but he does enjoy having you like this. So compliant, so fixated, and determined to struggle through your pursuit of gratification.
Happy with your current restraint, reflected in your heart rate, his monitoring hand retreats and lifts you slightly while he rearranges himself. As he settles you back down in his lap, flexing his fingers as they reach inside you again, you feel the weight of his cock resting on you. You moan in anticipation of it and your heart flutters in your chest, not going unnoticed by Papa.
"Patience. Calm," he says, less monotone than his previous instructions, as his hand presses on your chest.
With your arms outstretched behind you to hold on to something, you lean back and grind in his lap, rubbing against the intimidating shaft. You are restricted somewhat by his hold on you which does not relent until you force yourself to resist your need and slow down. He taps your heart in approval but the way his breath rattles in his chest tells you he may be fighting a battle of his own.
This suspicion is confirmed as you feel his hips start to move beneath you, rocking up to rub himself up your spine. You shudder as he spreads sticky arousal up your back as his breathing quickens with each movement. His usual dismissive and stoic demeanour is dangerously close to slipping and with each passing second, his own pulse races faster.
Yours can only follow suit, now free to rut in his lap as he becomes more distracted. Both of you pant and mewl, falling out of sync with the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece as Primo momentarily forgets his own rules. Your ability to break his focus only spurs on your defiance of the deal, the crack in his facade adding to your bravery in pushing its limits and creating a surreal sort of delirium in which he is as agitated as you. You crane your neck to try to catch a glimpse of your usually composed Papa starting to crumble under his baser instinct, unable to truly picture it even with the unmistakable sounds escaping him. But as he feels you turn, it brings his attention back to the task at hand.
His fingers are ripped out of you and he grabs both of your wrists, wrenching them behind you and pinning them against your spine so fast your shoulders feel like they may snap. With such a simple flourish, your body locks in place and falls completely into his control. Pain shoots up your arms as they protest your new position, but it is quickly overshadowed by the contortions in your core, missing his digits working you open.
"Papa!" You plead, but he responds only with a twist of your captured limbs.
He had allowed too much and now he must balance the scales, making you wallow in the consequences. Your wrists are crushed into one of his hands as his other finds your neck. A delicate press of his fingers there makes it clear you will be expected to learn to be comfortable here before he continues. As you sob in between heaving breaths, the only comfort he offers is a small circling motion around the throbbing vein to massage you into submission.
You are not sure how long he keeps you like this. When he does finally relax his control, parts of your body under strain have started to tingle with numbness. He taps out your rhythm, gradually slowing with enough focus and eased by his loosening grip. After stabilising yourself, you feel him shuffling behind you, followed by the sound of liquid pouring into porcelain. The teacup appears again and he administers another dose.
Knowing the taste does not prepare you any better for it; it is even more worse than you remember and you almost retch while trying to swallow the larger chunks of mushroom. He continues to tip it past your lips even as you cough and splutter, your throat and lungs burning. Once empty, you hear the cup being placed back on the table and, as your stomach flips, an unpleasant wave washes over you.
You start to tell him you may not be able to keep it down, but your words come out slurred and broken. The room tilts and shrinks around you as your vision blurs. An unsettling claustrophobia takes hold as the walls close in and you feel a disconnect from your body. Your brain is steeped in fear but, the more you try to fight it, the less you are able to move. As Primo begins to stroke the crown of your head, you slump back into him.
The calmness does not overwhelm you this time. Your physical reactions settle but something more insidious takes root. Everything feels cloudy and your own weight feels cumbersome yet somehow distant from your consciousness. The aches and pains remain but take up less space; present but not bothering you as they probably should. The sounds in the room - the patter of rain and Primo's uncharacteristically soothing mutters - are warped as if you are underwater, being drowned out by the heartbeat pulsating in your ears.
Papa dabs at the sweat collecting on your brow and the softness of his touch grounds you. Colour returns to the world and clarity seeps back in. You feel a warmth spread as the dulling of your nerves fades, encouraged by his hand lightly scraping along your inner thigh. Your awareness ebbs and flows as time seems to stand still, only edged forward by each attempt you make to suck in air. You are jostled in place before feeling something lift you, and then you simply float.
His hands materialise around your wrists again, binding them in place in such a way, with surprising strength, to keep you hovering above his lap by pushing them upwards. Your feet are on the ground taking some of your weight but the plush rug you stand on feels far from solid. It is enough to anchor you, allowing him to puppeteer you however he pleases with no effort at all.
The next sensation happens far away from you. You groan in confusion as you try to place the pleasant sort of pressure but, being far too groggy to make sense of anything, you accept it and let it in. As your attention is drawn to a tension growing deep within, it is pulled away just as quickly as you attempt to follow the low tone of the voice behind you. Noise turns into words and, with the realisation that they are offers of praise, you tunnel in on them. The ever-present condescension does not deter you.
"Still with me?" You nod slowly which is met with an amused smack of his lips. "You are lucky that Papa knows how to take care of you."
"Yes. Thank you, Papa." Your instinctive reply inspires a rumbling in his chest which moves through you both. "So polite," he teases. "Bene."
This crumb of approval makes your skin buzz. But it's more than that. A scrap of him tossed to you without much thought is an acknowledgement that shows he can be pleased - that you can please him - only strengthens your desire to chase more of it. You're unsure if you could ever earn more than his tolerance but, a reminder that underneath it all he is just a man also reminds you he could be convinced to feel. Maybe it would only ever be the sort of affection earned by an obedient pet, one which is persistently annoying enough to endear themselves to him, but that, you think, would be more than fulfilling.
A squeeze on your wrist makes you aware he is measuring you again. He cannot see your face in this position: the dopey, strung out smile with eyes glazing over in a comfortable bliss. However, either through the thud of your blood or your pliable state, he senses your serenity. He decides to toy with it.
"You know, I assumed we would need this," he says offhandedly as he presents a blurry bottle to you. You blink a few times to bring it into focus but the text on its label, already partially shrouded by shadow in the dim light, dances in your vision. He tilts it in his hand and watches your head follow. "But perhaps we see how well you do without."
"Hmm?"
He waits, amused by your confusion, and holds the object steady until you can decipher it. There is a slight increase in your blood's cadence as you stop simply giving in to your helplessness and fight to control your senses, but it is nothing compared to the spike in adrenaline as you recognise the bottle of lube Primo is mockingly waving in your face. The sound of him chuckling as your heart rate climbs is deeply unsettling. He clears his throat and sighs before shushing your panicked murmurs, despite preparing to make them worse.
"No more," he says. "It seems pointless to worry… after all, you are managing very well so far. Did you even notice?"
It takes a beat for you to understand him but, helped by a quick buck from his chair, the haze clears once again. Like a flick of a switch, you are more aware of everything, including the first couple of inches of his cock inside you and his tip pushing through the loosened muscles. An attempt to squirm is only met with a painful tightening of his grip to keep you in place.
"Shhhh. I think you can take a bit more before you will… really feel it."
He eases you down a bit further, but stops as you start to fight it. "None of that," he says, followed by a heavy pause. "Unless, you want to stop."
Barely able to breathe, you shake your head as hard as you can.
"So, do you need the extra help? Or not?"
You are just lucid enough to wonder if this may be a test. You whine in frustration; at your own indecision and lamenting the inability to move. He is wrapped around you so tightly, around each one of your senses, like gnarled vines, making it impossible to think straight. Your lungs crackle as you struggle to catch your breath and your heart feels ready to burst from your chest.
You hardly recognise your own voice as you attempt to beg for relief. Garbled and shaking, it comes out as a pathetic, timid drone. He waits for you to compose yourself, allowing you to thrash for a moment, only speaking as your choked cries subside.
"Ahh, I suppose you have earned my… pity," he concedes, only a little proud that his reputation as a sadist clearly precedes him. Although he would like to test the limits of his tea, perhaps it would be too cruel, even for him.
He pulls out of you with little warning. You groan at the sudden emptiness and rough movement, but settle back into his lap and offer more thanks which earns another grunt of approval. He reaches for the lube and begins preparing himself, jostling you as he lathers his length. The cold drips of it sizzle on your hot skin and only builds the already simmering anticipation. Primo begins leisurely applying a generous amount, humming low as he coats himself.
As he positions himself and you feel his tip press forward, you both notice a distinct lack of resistance. Guiding you once more by your wrists in a vice-like grip, he lowers you onto his cock with ease until you are taking those same few inches again. He relishes the way your pulse steadies while still, then slowly climbs as you wait for more, completely at his mercy.
He feeds himself into you a bit further until the stretch makes you cry out and your nails dig into where he holds you. You hear him suck in air, either from the sting of it, or from your warmth now taking almost half of his length. Subtly he begins to rock you, leveraging your wrists to begin carefully sliding you up and down his length, making sure he gives you no more than a tease of his tip reaching new depths.
As he gradually speeds up, your mewling only become more incessant. Already feeling so full, you would still ask for more if you could only find your voice. But, just as your body starts to buzz with pleasure, another haze overcomes you and the world around you yet again starts to slip away. Your core throbs as reality fades into the distance and your form goes slack. Primo relaxes his hold just enough to let you sway a little. You don't even fight it.
Everything goes black. For how long, you don't know but when you come too, it is with a shuddering squeal as physical sensation returns. He moves you faster and, you think, delves further than before. However, you don't feel a struggle to stretch around him as expected, only a satiating fullness which pushes out the swelling headache and quiet nausea. As spit collects in your mouth, the bitter taste of his tea coats your tongue and seems to throw you back and forth between succumbing to its sedative effects and feeling painfully heightened rapture.
Somewhere between the waves, Primo is beginning to shift impatiently in his chair. You mould around him so perfectly to squeeze and throb around his cock, and he can feel your body working hard to let him in. It feels like you're trying to drag more of him inside you and, while he still isn't convinced you will actually succeed in taking every solid inch, he gets closer to hoping you will.
In a brief moment of clarity, you feel all of it and an almost primal shriek rips your mouth open. Your heart thumps so hard it feels like it might break through your ribcage and, as if he senses it, he places a hand over your chest to feel it kicking violently against his touch. Of course, this makes him stop. He scratches over the skin like he could sink his hand in to take it, to feel it beating in the palm of his hand. There's a chance that, if he were to pluck it from your chest right now, you wouldn't even notice.
There's murmuring. Whispered jibes. Heavy breathing and a voice miles away from where you are. Your head becomes too heavy to hold up.. You have a vague sense of still being on your feet, somehow. Maybe it's related to the circulation being cut off at your wrists. He still taps out your rhythm. It's the only reason you know it is still there.
This time, the wait stretches on forever. Time slows down and you feel every delayed second, the ticking clock on the mantel now mocking you while also signalling the gradual return of sensation. While held in place, the lack of friction allows pain to slowly permeate. It begins with a dull ache, then a formidable fullness, followed by a building pressure around the intrusion. The escalation is consistent enough to for you to map it spreading through your every nerve but as the fog lifts and with no limit in sight, your resolve wavers.
Not quite ready to quit, you take a risk by asking for relief.
"I can't— please, Papa. Please. I need—" Your voice falters, its shrillness cracking into disjointed noise. "Too much," you gasp with the last bit of air in your lungs.
"Hmm. You want to stop now? What a shame. Disappointing to get so close."
You shake your head in protest. Something wet drips from your nose and you taste salt on your lips. He takes measure of you again.
Extremely elevated. A frantic, panicked drumming.
"Making you wait no longer seems to be having a… calming effect," he concedes. "You want to move? You need to fuck yourself on my cock?"
You feel his sadistic grin appear, hearing his lips curl into a sneer. You try to picture the expression in your mind, distracted slightly by the insistent twinge between your legs.
"I suppose I will have to help you," he continues without waiting for a reply. "And when I say help, I mean… do all the work for you."
He sighs but this time without disdain or disappointment, happy to play with his dumbstruck rag doll regardless of how actively you can participate. Eager in fact to see just how far he can go and just how much you can take. Stubborn pride is a quality he understands, sometimes admires. But, it is such as an easy trait to take advantage of.
Awareness of your weight being shifted starts in your feet again, being rocked from heel to toe at that same steady pace. Your loud sigh is matched by the man in control of it as you both find relief, settling into a simple rhythm which chips away at the discomfort of the previous inertia. Still only taking a fraction of what he can give, you are overwhelmed by your need finally being met and in no time at all, you feel a coiling in your belly.
Moans and sobs are torn from your throat, hoarse with gratitude in the short time it takes for pleasure to consume you. It snaps through every muscle and nerve as you teeter over the edge, pushed closer as Papa escalates from cautiously sliding you down his length to letting you bounce a little in his lap. He lets himself go a little more, expletives and filthy grunts escaping as you wail for him and his hips occasionally bucking forward of their own accord.
Your body begins to work against him involuntarily as your orgasm takes hold, jerking and shuddering in his grasp. For the first time this evening, despite the tea and his hard work, you close around him fully as you climax, so hard it momentarily slows him down. However, either growing too inpatient for it to subside or needing more of you squeezing around his cock, he doesn't allow you any time to recover.
With your voice just reaching its highest pitch, before you can think about trying to catch your breath, Primo pulls you down on to him until your thighs almost touch and begins to thrust up into you with as much vigour as his body will allow. His hands move to your hips for better leverage, clawing into flesh as he buries himself in you. Even when lifted to be brought brutally back down, his cock remains seated unnaturally deep. The only range in feeling now is from uncomfortably full to being impaled, all of which feels like it might tear you open from the inside out.
Just as you worry that your incessant whining, dangerously close to screaming, may slow him down, you manage to use what little air you can breathe in to call out to him.
"Fuck, Papa!"
He acknowledges it with a rumbling groan. Roughly tugging on your waist to slam you down, you crash into hip bone with a slap of skin on skin. He chokes on his own sob, the feeling of being completely enveloped for the first time in even distant memory breaking him in a way neither of you expect.
Remaining motionless for even a moment is agonising so, as Primo's ability to continue inflicting his will slips, you make use of this new freedom, rolling and winding your hips to your own rhythm. As his energy dwindles, each moan coming out weaker and more strained, yours is renewed along with a brazen confidence being stoked by Papa's encouragement. You find his hands and place one over your heart and push the other further down your stomach.
"Satanas," he barks as you find a faster pace, sliding easily up and down part of his length.
His fingers fall between your thighs, enough for you to use them to rub against. They twitch, trying to touch you properly with absentminded strokes but remain unfocused as he jolts and spasms beneath you. The concerted effort it takes to spread your sticky arousal with his lazy fingers, hindered by his rapidly depleting energy as well as the way you writhe on him, only makes you more determined.
Safe in his clutches and with your body as accustomed to his size as possible, you meet his erratic, shallow thrusts as much as you can and as hard your tiring muscles will allow. It is enough to wind Papa each time you sink down into him but his flexing fingers and increasingly fragile gasps tell you not to stop. His own heart now trying to burst from his chest, he lets out a languid cry as he feels himself leaking inside you, his girth and you clenching hard, narrowing around it keeping it in place to completely coat his tip.
Primo had learned long ago it was best not to expect anything from his aging body. Either with a partner or without, he was quite content and grateful for any pleasure he could find, and had many different ways to define and measure it. Time had taught him what experience should have, and humbled him into accepting that ejaculation as an end goal was just not feasible. An orgasm without it is just as good and, whether or not he manages to produce anything to trickle out, he thanks Satan all the same.
But what he is feeling now is more than a trickle. In the heat of you and with the added lubrication, he shouldn't be able to tell, but he can and the usual slow build to a muted peak does not compare to what is currently brewing. You are in control now, and he is being dragged along for the ride to long forgotten heights.
With a few final gasps, the dam breaks and he feels a relative flood, but you either don't notice, or don't care. His body goes rigid as it focuses on producing a couple of weak, dribbling spurts, but you don't stop, lost in the way his cock twists and curves and burrows and so close to your own climax. It draws out his release more than he thought possible and suddenly, shockingly, he is praying he can hold out a bit longer for you.
Nails biting down hard into your abdomen as he stutters in his chair help you get there, finding your own release soon after as intensely as you have ever felt it. A euphoric wail quickly breaks into exhausted whimpers, your body collapsing under the weight of it. As soon as it starts to fade, your muscles scream to remind you of the punishment they have been put through. You lean back on to Papa who is only slightly more lucid but thankfully can muster the strength to pull you into a sort of cradling embrace.
Unfortunately, as aftershocks and adrenaline calms, his softening cock gently kicking inside you becomes too uncomfortable for you both and, with considerable difficulty, he helps you stand and pulls himself out. You groan at the sudden the emptiness and, when he guides you to sit on his lap, a hollow, pulsating ache takes over.
He runs his hands down your shoulders through a sheen of sweat, not seeming to mind that you might be falling asleep on his chest. One comes to rest around your neck, now well practiced in finding the pulse point, even as it weakens. You listen to his heartbeat starting to mellow and you nuzzle into his robes, a wry smile forming as you sit in the evidence of how much you both enjoyed yourselves.
You could not say when you might feel able to walk or stand again and, although you do wonder how he feels being trapped under you, neither of you can really do much about it. Not able to keep your eyes open any longer, you cling to him and hope that he lets you stay like this for a while. You let the gentle rise and fall of his chest and the whistling wind outside lull you to sleep.
You wake some time later, eyes too tired to open, suddenly aware of the low tone of Papa's voice. He doesn't sound like he is talking to you and, the more you try to listen, the harder your head pounds. Sensing that there is someone else in the room standing over you, you should try to sit up or at least see who it is, but even thinking about it is too draining to continue.
Multiple pairs of hands take hold of you and you are gently lifted from Papa's lap, you think by at least two people. They carry you, plodding gingerly in an attempt not to disturb you too much, into an adjacent room. You mutter in confusion but they ignore you, placing you to sit on the edge of what feels like a firm mattress.
Still dazed, you manage to open your eyes to be met with the unsettling stare of a ghoul holding an open bottle of water up to your mouth. You try to take it but they instead help you take a few gulps as the other ghoul turns down the sheets. They both help you under a quilt and tuck you in and, apparently unsure how to wish you goodnight, one settles for an awkward pat on the head.
One of them points to the supplies on the bedside table: the half-empty bottle of water, some painkillers and a couple of individually wrapped biscuits are the only items you can make out. They nod to each other and head towards the door after switching off a nearby lamp. In the pitch black, ready for a well-earned rest, you're asleep again before the door creaks shut.
Thank you for reading! <3 Reblogs super appreciated!
My first Primo fic - Primo enthusiasts, true old man fuckers, I hope you enjoy :)
Tagging @vintageandroid and @from-the-pinnacle as requested (a while ago now, apologies!)
Thank you Primo advisor and beta @avocado-writing <3
You try to focus on anything else: the rain thrumming on the window, or the crackling of the fire, or the scratch of the blanket draped over your knees. You force circular, steady breaths as your stare up at the ceiling, leaning against his chest. Despite his frail frame, he makes a comfortable place to sit. It would be more comfortable without three of his fingers inside you, but you're not exactly complaining.
You've been warming them for a while now. At least ten minutes, but you try not to think about that either. You don't succeed, and Primo knows.
"Relax," he rasps, as he feels the throb of your wrist under his other fingers. "You will need to if you are to take all of me. That is what you want, isn't it?"
You clench around him and hear an amused exhale, the edge of which tickles your neck. You stifle a whimper as he moves beneath you, to lean over and grab the tea sitting on the nearby table. His nobbled fingers and their bumped joints fill you like nothing else you'd ever experienced and, even with the slightest movement, the ridges of his digits create friction in the most unexpected places.
"Drink," he commands. "It will help."
He lifts it and shakily pours it into your mouth. His head comes to rest on your shoulder as you swallow it down, his lips happy to feel the flow of your blood pumping and the swell of your throat as you drink against his cheek. The concoction is bitter and earthy and, if the splash of lemon had been added to mask the flavour, it isn't working. You resist the urge to gag, knowing he will be displeased if you waste any of it, and keep swallowing down every drop.
The teacup clinks onto its saucer and Primo gets himself comfortable again, still knuckle-deep inside you. As he shuffles backwards into his cushion, you whine, craving more relief, but as you open your mouth to plead, your insides twist. It settles in your stomach like heavy syrup and your gut tries to fight back. You feel sick, dizzy and then— calm.
A tingling warmth spreads from your centre and your muscles relax. Within seconds, your limbs feel like liquid and you sink into him a little more. He applies more pressure over your pulse, measuring how it slows under his calloused fingertips.
"Good. Very good."
Without warning, his fingers curl and begin a shallow, excruciatingly slow exploration. You purr for your Papa and your muscles try to tighten around him but they are noticeably weaker. In your frustration, you attempt to push yourself back into him but there are no more of his fingers for you to take.
"You are getting restless, I know," he says with a rare hint of sympathy. "Let us try a little, but if that heart of yours starts working too hard, we stop."
Even the suggestion of it makes your pulse thump a bit harder in his grasp but he allows you to wriggle in his lap and work yourself on his fingers. He gives an approving hum as you experimentally rock yourself, gasping as he strokes inside of you. He knows none of this will prepare you for his full size - as do you - but he does enjoy having you like this. So compliant, so fixated, and determined to struggle through your pursuit of gratification.
Happy with your current restraint, reflected in your heart rate, his monitoring hand retreats and lifts you slightly while he rearranges himself. As he settles you back down in his lap, flexing his fingers as they reach inside you again, you feel the weight of his cock resting on you. You moan in anticipation of it and your heart flutters in your chest, not going unnoticed by Papa.
"Patience. Calm," he says, less monotone than his previous instructions, as his hand presses on your chest.
With your arms outstretched behind you to hold on to something, you lean back and grind in his lap, rubbing against the intimidating shaft. You are restricted somewhat by his hold on you which does not relent until you force yourself to resist your need and slow down. He taps your heart in approval but the way his breath rattles in his chest tells you he may be fighting a battle of his own.
This suspicion is confirmed as you feel his hips start to move beneath you, rocking up to rub himself up your spine. You shudder as he spreads sticky arousal up your back as his breathing quickens with each movement. His usual dismissive and stoic demeanour is dangerously close to slipping and with each passing second, his own pulse races faster.
Yours can only follow suit, now free to rut in his lap as he becomes more distracted. Both of you pant and mewl, falling out of sync with the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece as Primo momentarily forgets his own rules. Your ability to break his focus only spurs on your defiance of the deal, the crack in his facade adding to your bravery in pushing its limits and creating a surreal sort of delirium in which he is as agitated as you. You crane your neck to try to catch a glimpse of your usually composed Papa starting to crumble under his baser instinct, unable to truly picture it even with the unmistakable sounds escaping him. But as he feels you turn, it brings his attention back to the task at hand.
His fingers are ripped out of you and he grabs both of your wrists, wrenching them behind you and pinning them against your spine so fast your shoulders feel like they may snap. With such a simple flourish, your body locks in place and falls completely into his control. Pain shoots up your arms as they protest your new position, but it is quickly overshadowed by the contortions in your core, missing his digits working you open.
"Papa!" You plead, but he responds only with a twist of your captured limbs.
He had allowed too much and now he must balance the scales, making you wallow in the consequences. Your wrists are crushed into one of his hands as his other finds your neck. A delicate press of his fingers there makes it clear you will be expected to learn to be comfortable here before he continues. As you sob in between heaving breaths, the only comfort he offers is a small circling motion around the throbbing vein to massage you into submission.
You are not sure how long he keeps you like this. When he does finally relax his control, parts of your body under strain have started to tingle with numbness. He taps out your rhythm, gradually slowing with enough focus and eased by his loosening grip. After stabilising yourself, you feel him shuffling behind you, followed by the sound of liquid pouring into porcelain. The teacup appears again and he administers another dose.
Knowing the taste does not prepare you any better for it; it is even more worse than you remember and you almost retch while trying to swallow the larger chunks of mushroom. He continues to tip it past your lips even as you cough and splutter, your throat and lungs burning. Once empty, you hear the cup being placed back on the table and, as your stomach flips, an unpleasant wave washes over you.
You start to tell him you may not be able to keep it down, but your words come out slurred and broken. The room tilts and shrinks around you as your vision blurs. An unsettling claustrophobia takes hold as the walls close in and you feel a disconnect from your body. Your brain is steeped in fear but, the more you try to fight it, the less you are able to move. As Primo begins to stroke the crown of your head, you slump back into him.
The calmness does not overwhelm you this time. Your physical reactions settle but something more insidious takes root. Everything feels cloudy and your own weight feels cumbersome yet somehow distant from your consciousness. The aches and pains remain but take up less space; present but not bothering you as they probably should. The sounds in the room - the patter of rain and Primo's uncharacteristically soothing mutters - are warped as if you are underwater, being drowned out by the heartbeat pulsating in your ears.
Papa dabs at the sweat collecting on your brow and the softness of his touch grounds you. Colour returns to the world and clarity seeps back in. You feel a warmth spread as the dulling of your nerves fades, encouraged by his hand lightly scraping along your inner thigh. Your awareness ebbs and flows as time seems to stand still, only edged forward by each attempt you make to suck in air. You are jostled in place before feeling something lift you, and then you simply float.
His hands materialise around your wrists again, binding them in place in such a way, with surprising strength, to keep you hovering above his lap by pushing them upwards. Your feet are on the ground taking some of your weight but the plush rug you stand on feels far from solid. It is enough to anchor you, allowing him to puppeteer you however he pleases with no effort at all.
The next sensation happens far away from you. You groan in confusion as you try to place the pleasant sort of pressure but, being far too groggy to make sense of anything, you accept it and let it in. As your attention is drawn to a tension growing deep within, it is pulled away just as quickly as you attempt to follow the low tone of the voice behind you. Noise turns into words and, with the realisation that they are offers of praise, you tunnel in on them. The ever-present condescension does not deter you.
"Still with me?" You nod slowly which is met with an amused smack of his lips. "You are lucky that Papa knows how to take care of you."
"Yes. Thank you, Papa." Your instinctive reply inspires a rumbling in his chest which moves through you both. "So polite," he teases. "Bene."
This crumb of approval makes your skin buzz. But it's more than that. A scrap of him tossed to you without much thought is an acknowledgement that shows he can be pleased - that you can please him - only strengthens your desire to chase more of it. You're unsure if you could ever earn more than his tolerance but, a reminder that underneath it all he is just a man also reminds you he could be convinced to feel. Maybe it would only ever be the sort of affection earned by an obedient pet, one which is persistently annoying enough to endear themselves to him, but that, you think, would be more than fulfilling.
A squeeze on your wrist makes you aware he is measuring you again. He cannot see your face in this position: the dopey, strung out smile with eyes glazing over in a comfortable bliss. However, either through the thud of your blood or your pliable state, he senses your serenity. He decides to toy with it.
"You know, I assumed we would need this," he says offhandedly as he presents a blurry bottle to you. You blink a few times to bring it into focus but the text on its label, already partially shrouded by shadow in the dim light, dances in your vision. He tilts it in his hand and watches your head follow. "But perhaps we see how well you do without."
"Hmm?"
He waits, amused by your confusion, and holds the object steady until you can decipher it. There is a slight increase in your blood's cadence as you stop simply giving in to your helplessness and fight to control your senses, but it is nothing compared to the spike in adrenaline as you recognise the bottle of lube Primo is mockingly waving in your face. The sound of him chuckling as your heart rate climbs is deeply unsettling. He clears his throat and sighs before shushing your panicked murmurs, despite preparing to make them worse.
"No more," he says. "It seems pointless to worry… after all, you are managing very well so far. Did you even notice?"
It takes a beat for you to understand him but, helped by a quick buck from his chair, the haze clears once again. Like a flick of a switch, you are more aware of everything, including the first couple of inches of his cock inside you and his tip pushing through the loosened muscles. An attempt to squirm is only met with a painful tightening of his grip to keep you in place.
"Shhhh. I think you can take a bit more before you will… really feel it."
He eases you down a bit further, but stops as you start to fight it. "None of that," he says, followed by a heavy pause. "Unless, you want to stop."
Barely able to breathe, you shake your head as hard as you can.
"So, do you need the extra help? Or not?"
You are just lucid enough to wonder if this may be a test. You whine in frustration; at your own indecision and lamenting the inability to move. He is wrapped around you so tightly, around each one of your senses, like gnarled vines, making it impossible to think straight. Your lungs crackle as you struggle to catch your breath and your heart feels ready to burst from your chest.
You hardly recognise your own voice as you attempt to beg for relief. Garbled and shaking, it comes out as a pathetic, timid drone. He waits for you to compose yourself, allowing you to thrash for a moment, only speaking as your choked cries subside.
"Ahh, I suppose you have earned my… pity," he concedes, only a little proud that his reputation as a sadist clearly precedes him. Although he would like to test the limits of his tea, perhaps it would be too cruel, even for him.
He pulls out of you with little warning. You groan at the sudden emptiness and rough movement, but settle back into his lap and offer more thanks which earns another grunt of approval. He reaches for the lube and begins preparing himself, jostling you as he lathers his length. The cold drips of it sizzle on your hot skin and only builds the already simmering anticipation. Primo begins leisurely applying a generous amount, humming low as he coats himself.
As he positions himself and you feel his tip press forward, you both notice a distinct lack of resistance. Guiding you once more by your wrists in a vice-like grip, he lowers you onto his cock with ease until you are taking those same few inches again. He relishes the way your pulse steadies while still, then slowly climbs as you wait for more, completely at his mercy.
He feeds himself into you a bit further until the stretch makes you cry out and your nails dig into where he holds you. You hear him suck in air, either from the sting of it, or from your warmth now taking almost half of his length. Subtly he begins to rock you, leveraging your wrists to begin carefully sliding you up and down his length, making sure he gives you no more than a tease of his tip reaching new depths.
As he gradually speeds up, your mewling only become more incessant. Already feeling so full, you would still ask for more if you could only find your voice. But, just as your body starts to buzz with pleasure, another haze overcomes you and the world around you yet again starts to slip away. Your core throbs as reality fades into the distance and your form goes slack. Primo relaxes his hold just enough to let you sway a little. You don't even fight it.
Everything goes black. For how long, you don't know but when you come too, it is with a shuddering squeal as physical sensation returns. He moves you faster and, you think, delves further than before. However, you don't feel a struggle to stretch around him as expected, only a satiating fullness which pushes out the swelling headache and quiet nausea. As spit collects in your mouth, the bitter taste of his tea coats your tongue and seems to throw you back and forth between succumbing to its sedative effects and feeling painfully heightened rapture.
Somewhere between the waves, Primo is beginning to shift impatiently in his chair. You mould around him so perfectly to squeeze and throb around his cock, and he can feel your body working hard to let him in. It feels like you're trying to drag more of him inside you and, while he still isn't convinced you will actually succeed in taking every solid inch, he gets closer to hoping you will.
In a brief moment of clarity, you feel all of it and an almost primal shriek rips your mouth open. Your heart thumps so hard it feels like it might break through your ribcage and, as if he senses it, he places a hand over your chest to feel it kicking violently against his touch. Of course, this makes him stop. He scratches over the skin like he could sink his hand in to take it, to feel it beating in the palm of his hand. There's a chance that, if he were to pluck it from your chest right now, you wouldn't even notice.
There's murmuring. Whispered jibes. Heavy breathing and a voice miles away from where you are. Your head becomes too heavy to hold up.. You have a vague sense of still being on your feet, somehow. Maybe it's related to the circulation being cut off at your wrists. He still taps out your rhythm. It's the only reason you know it is still there.
This time, the wait stretches on forever. Time slows down and you feel every delayed second, the ticking clock on the mantel now mocking you while also signalling the gradual return of sensation. While held in place, the lack of friction allows pain to slowly permeate. It begins with a dull ache, then a formidable fullness, followed by a building pressure around the intrusion. The escalation is consistent enough to for you to map it spreading through your every nerve but as the fog lifts and with no limit in sight, your resolve wavers.
Not quite ready to quit, you take a risk by asking for relief.
"I can't— please, Papa. Please. I need—" Your voice falters, its shrillness cracking into disjointed noise. "Too much," you gasp with the last bit of air in your lungs.
"Hmm. You want to stop now? What a shame. Disappointing to get so close."
You shake your head in protest. Something wet drips from your nose and you taste salt on your lips. He takes measure of you again.
Extremely elevated. A frantic, panicked drumming.
"Making you wait no longer seems to be having a… calming effect," he concedes. "You want to move? You need to fuck yourself on my cock?"
You feel his sadistic grin appear, hearing his lips curl into a sneer. You try to picture the expression in your mind, distracted slightly by the insistent twinge between your legs.
"I suppose I will have to help you," he continues without waiting for a reply. "And when I say help, I mean… do all the work for you."
He sighs but this time without disdain or disappointment, happy to play with his dumbstruck rag doll regardless of how actively you can participate. Eager in fact to see just how far he can go and just how much you can take. Stubborn pride is a quality he understands, sometimes admires. But, it is such as an easy trait to take advantage of.
Awareness of your weight being shifted starts in your feet again, being rocked from heel to toe at that same steady pace. Your loud sigh is matched by the man in control of it as you both find relief, settling into a simple rhythm which chips away at the discomfort of the previous inertia. Still only taking a fraction of what he can give, you are overwhelmed by your need finally being met and in no time at all, you feel a coiling in your belly.
Moans and sobs are torn from your throat, hoarse with gratitude in the short time it takes for pleasure to consume you. It snaps through every muscle and nerve as you teeter over the edge, pushed closer as Papa escalates from cautiously sliding you down his length to letting you bounce a little in his lap. He lets himself go a little more, expletives and filthy grunts escaping as you wail for him and his hips occasionally bucking forward of their own accord.
Your body begins to work against him involuntarily as your orgasm takes hold, jerking and shuddering in his grasp. For the first time this evening, despite the tea and his hard work, you close around him fully as you climax, so hard it momentarily slows him down. However, either growing too inpatient for it to subside or needing more of you squeezing around his cock, he doesn't allow you any time to recover.
With your voice just reaching its highest pitch, before you can think about trying to catch your breath, Primo pulls you down on to him until your thighs almost touch and begins to thrust up into you with as much vigour as his body will allow. His hands move to your hips for better leverage, clawing into flesh as he buries himself in you. Even when lifted to be brought brutally back down, his cock remains seated unnaturally deep. The only range in feeling now is from uncomfortably full to being impaled, all of which feels like it might tear you open from the inside out.
Just as you worry that your incessant whining, dangerously close to screaming, may slow him down, you manage to use what little air you can breathe in to call out to him.
"Fuck, Papa!"
He acknowledges it with a rumbling groan. Roughly tugging on your waist to slam you down, you crash into hip bone with a slap of skin on skin. He chokes on his own sob, the feeling of being completely enveloped for the first time in even distant memory breaking him in a way neither of you expect.
Remaining motionless for even a moment is agonising so, as Primo's ability to continue inflicting his will slips, you make use of this new freedom, rolling and winding your hips to your own rhythm. As his energy dwindles, each moan coming out weaker and more strained, yours is renewed along with a brazen confidence being stoked by Papa's encouragement. You find his hands and place one over your heart and push the other further down your stomach.
"Satanas," he barks as you find a faster pace, sliding easily up and down part of his length.
His fingers fall between your thighs, enough for you to use them to rub against. They twitch, trying to touch you properly with absentminded strokes but remain unfocused as he jolts and spasms beneath you. The concerted effort it takes to spread your sticky arousal with his lazy fingers, hindered by his rapidly depleting energy as well as the way you writhe on him, only makes you more determined.
Safe in his clutches and with your body as accustomed to his size as possible, you meet his erratic, shallow thrusts as much as you can and as hard your tiring muscles will allow. It is enough to wind Papa each time you sink down into him but his flexing fingers and increasingly fragile gasps tell you not to stop. His own heart now trying to burst from his chest, he lets out a languid cry as he feels himself leaking inside you, his girth and you clenching hard, narrowing around it keeping it in place to completely coat his tip.
Primo had learned long ago it was best not to expect anything from his aging body. Either with a partner or without, he was quite content and grateful for any pleasure he could find, and had many different ways to define and measure it. Time had taught him what experience should have, and humbled him into accepting that ejaculation as an end goal was just not feasible. An orgasm without it is just as good and, whether or not he manages to produce anything to trickle out, he thanks Satan all the same.
But what he is feeling now is more than a trickle. In the heat of you and with the added lubrication, he shouldn't be able to tell, but he can and the usual slow build to a muted peak does not compare to what is currently brewing. You are in control now, and he is being dragged along for the ride to long forgotten heights.
With a few final gasps, the dam breaks and he feels a relative flood, but you either don't notice, or don't care. His body goes rigid as it focuses on producing a couple of weak, dribbling spurts, but you don't stop, lost in the way his cock twists and curves and burrows and so close to your own climax. It draws out his release more than he thought possible and suddenly, shockingly, he is praying he can hold out a bit longer for you.
Nails biting down hard into your abdomen as he stutters in his chair help you get there, finding your own release soon after as intensely as you have ever felt it. A euphoric wail quickly breaks into exhausted whimpers, your body collapsing under the weight of it. As soon as it starts to fade, your muscles scream to remind you of the punishment they have been put through. You lean back on to Papa who is only slightly more lucid but thankfully can muster the strength to pull you into a sort of cradling embrace.
Unfortunately, as aftershocks and adrenaline calms, his softening cock gently kicking inside you becomes too uncomfortable for you both and, with considerable difficulty, he helps you stand and pulls himself out. You groan at the sudden the emptiness and, when he guides you to sit on his lap, a hollow, pulsating ache takes over.
He runs his hands down your shoulders through a sheen of sweat, not seeming to mind that you might be falling asleep on his chest. One comes to rest around your neck, now well practiced in finding the pulse point, even as it weakens. You listen to his heartbeat starting to mellow and you nuzzle into his robes, a wry smile forming as you sit in the evidence of how much you both enjoyed yourselves.
You could not say when you might feel able to walk or stand again and, although you do wonder how he feels being trapped under you, neither of you can really do much about it. Not able to keep your eyes open any longer, you cling to him and hope that he lets you stay like this for a while. You let the gentle rise and fall of his chest and the whistling wind outside lull you to sleep.
You wake some time later, eyes too tired to open, suddenly aware of the low tone of Papa's voice. He doesn't sound like he is talking to you and, the more you try to listen, the harder your head pounds. Sensing that there is someone else in the room standing over you, you should try to sit up or at least see who it is, but even thinking about it is too draining to continue.
Multiple pairs of hands take hold of you and you are gently lifted from Papa's lap, you think by at least two people. They carry you, plodding gingerly in an attempt not to disturb you too much, into an adjacent room. You mutter in confusion but they ignore you, placing you to sit on the edge of what feels like a firm mattress.
Still dazed, you manage to open your eyes to be met with the unsettling stare of a ghoul holding an open bottle of water up to your mouth. You try to take it but they instead help you take a few gulps as the other ghoul turns down the sheets. They both help you under a quilt and tuck you in and, apparently unsure how to wish you goodnight, one settles for an awkward pat on the head.
One of them points to the supplies on the bedside table: the half-empty bottle of water, some painkillers and a couple of individually wrapped biscuits are the only items you can make out. They nod to each other and head towards the door after switching off a nearby lamp. In the pitch black, ready for a well-earned rest, you're asleep again before the door creaks shut.
Thank you for reading! <3 Reblogs super appreciated!
My first Primo fic - Primo enthusiasts, true old man fuckers, I hope you enjoy :)
Tagging @vintageandroid and @from-the-pinnacle as requested (a while ago now, apologies!)
Thank you Primo advisor and beta @avocado-writing <3
You try to focus on anything else: the rain thrumming on the window, or the crackling of the fire, or the scratch of the blanket draped over your knees. You force circular, steady breaths as your stare up at the ceiling, leaning against his chest. Despite his frail frame, he makes a comfortable place to sit. It would be more comfortable without three of his fingers inside you, but you're not exactly complaining.
You've been warming them for a while now. At least ten minutes, but you try not to think about that either. You don't succeed, and Primo knows.
"Relax," he rasps, as he feels the throb of your wrist under his other fingers. "You will need to if you are to take all of me. That is what you want, isn't it?"
You clench around him and hear an amused exhale, the edge of which tickles your neck. You stifle a whimper as he moves beneath you, to lean over and grab the tea sitting on the nearby table. His nobbled fingers and their bumped joints fill you like nothing else you'd ever experienced and, even with the slightest movement, the ridges of his digits create friction in the most unexpected places.
"Drink," he commands. "It will help."
He lifts it and shakily pours it into your mouth. His head comes to rest on your shoulder as you swallow it down, his lips happy to feel the flow of your blood pumping and the swell of your throat as you drink against his cheek. The concoction is bitter and earthy and, if the splash of lemon had been added to mask the flavour, it isn't working. You resist the urge to gag, knowing he will be displeased if you waste any of it, and keep swallowing down every drop.
The teacup clinks onto its saucer and Primo gets himself comfortable again, still knuckle-deep inside you. As he shuffles backwards into his cushion, you whine, craving more relief, but as you open your mouth to plead, your insides twist. It settles in your stomach like heavy syrup and your gut tries to fight back. You feel sick, dizzy and then— calm.
A tingling warmth spreads from your centre and your muscles relax. Within seconds, your limbs feel like liquid and you sink into him a little more. He applies more pressure over your pulse, measuring how it slows under his calloused fingertips.
"Good. Very good."
Without warning, his fingers curl and begin a shallow, excruciatingly slow exploration. You purr for your Papa and your muscles try to tighten around him but they are noticeably weaker. In your frustration, you attempt to push yourself back into him but there are no more of his fingers for you to take.
"You are getting restless, I know," he says with a rare hint of sympathy. "Let us try a little, but if that heart of yours starts working too hard, we stop."
Even the suggestion of it makes your pulse thump a bit harder in his grasp but he allows you to wriggle in his lap and work yourself on his fingers. He gives an approving hum as you experimentally rock yourself, gasping as he strokes inside of you. He knows none of this will prepare you for his full size - as do you - but he does enjoy having you like this. So compliant, so fixated, and determined to struggle through your pursuit of gratification.
Happy with your current restraint, reflected in your heart rate, his monitoring hand retreats and lifts you slightly while he rearranges himself. As he settles you back down in his lap, flexing his fingers as they reach inside you again, you feel the weight of his cock resting on you. You moan in anticipation of it and your heart flutters in your chest, not going unnoticed by Papa.
"Patience. Calm," he says, less monotone than his previous instructions, as his hand presses on your chest.
With your arms outstretched behind you to hold on to something, you lean back and grind in his lap, rubbing against the intimidating shaft. You are restricted somewhat by his hold on you which does not relent until you force yourself to resist your need and slow down. He taps your heart in approval but the way his breath rattles in his chest tells you he may be fighting a battle of his own.
This suspicion is confirmed as you feel his hips start to move beneath you, rocking up to rub himself up your spine. You shudder as he spreads sticky arousal up your back as his breathing quickens with each movement. His usual dismissive and stoic demeanour is dangerously close to slipping and with each passing second, his own pulse races faster.
Yours can only follow suit, now free to rut in his lap as he becomes more distracted. Both of you pant and mewl, falling out of sync with the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece as Primo momentarily forgets his own rules. Your ability to break his focus only spurs on your defiance of the deal, the crack in his facade adding to your bravery in pushing its limits and creating a surreal sort of delirium in which he is as agitated as you. You crane your neck to try to catch a glimpse of your usually composed Papa starting to crumble under his baser instinct, unable to truly picture it even with the unmistakable sounds escaping him. But as he feels you turn, it brings his attention back to the task at hand.
His fingers are ripped out of you and he grabs both of your wrists, wrenching them behind you and pinning them against your spine so fast your shoulders feel like they may snap. With such a simple flourish, your body locks in place and falls completely into his control. Pain shoots up your arms as they protest your new position, but it is quickly overshadowed by the contortions in your core, missing his digits working you open.
"Papa!" You plead, but he responds only with a twist of your captured limbs.
He had allowed too much and now he must balance the scales, making you wallow in the consequences. Your wrists are crushed into one of his hands as his other finds your neck. A delicate press of his fingers there makes it clear you will be expected to learn to be comfortable here before he continues. As you sob in between heaving breaths, the only comfort he offers is a small circling motion around the throbbing vein to massage you into submission.
You are not sure how long he keeps you like this. When he does finally relax his control, parts of your body under strain have started to tingle with numbness. He taps out your rhythm, gradually slowing with enough focus and eased by his loosening grip. After stabilising yourself, you feel him shuffling behind you, followed by the sound of liquid pouring into porcelain. The teacup appears again and he administers another dose.
Knowing the taste does not prepare you any better for it; it is even more worse than you remember and you almost retch while trying to swallow the larger chunks of mushroom. He continues to tip it past your lips even as you cough and splutter, your throat and lungs burning. Once empty, you hear the cup being placed back on the table and, as your stomach flips, an unpleasant wave washes over you.
You start to tell him you may not be able to keep it down, but your words come out slurred and broken. The room tilts and shrinks around you as your vision blurs. An unsettling claustrophobia takes hold as the walls close in and you feel a disconnect from your body. Your brain is steeped in fear but, the more you try to fight it, the less you are able to move. As Primo begins to stroke the crown of your head, you slump back into him.
The calmness does not overwhelm you this time. Your physical reactions settle but something more insidious takes root. Everything feels cloudy and your own weight feels cumbersome yet somehow distant from your consciousness. The aches and pains remain but take up less space; present but not bothering you as they probably should. The sounds in the room - the patter of rain and Primo's uncharacteristically soothing mutters - are warped as if you are underwater, being drowned out by the heartbeat pulsating in your ears.
Papa dabs at the sweat collecting on your brow and the softness of his touch grounds you. Colour returns to the world and clarity seeps back in. You feel a warmth spread as the dulling of your nerves fades, encouraged by his hand lightly scraping along your inner thigh. Your awareness ebbs and flows as time seems to stand still, only edged forward by each attempt you make to suck in air. You are jostled in place before feeling something lift you, and then you simply float.
His hands materialise around your wrists again, binding them in place in such a way, with surprising strength, to keep you hovering above his lap by pushing them upwards. Your feet are on the ground taking some of your weight but the plush rug you stand on feels far from solid. It is enough to anchor you, allowing him to puppeteer you however he pleases with no effort at all.
The next sensation happens far away from you. You groan in confusion as you try to place the pleasant sort of pressure but, being far too groggy to make sense of anything, you accept it and let it in. As your attention is drawn to a tension growing deep within, it is pulled away just as quickly as you attempt to follow the low tone of the voice behind you. Noise turns into words and, with the realisation that they are offers of praise, you tunnel in on them. The ever-present condescension does not deter you.
"Still with me?" You nod slowly which is met with an amused smack of his lips. "You are lucky that Papa knows how to take care of you."
"Yes. Thank you, Papa." Your instinctive reply inspires a rumbling in his chest which moves through you both. "So polite," he teases. "Bene."
This crumb of approval makes your skin buzz. But it's more than that. A scrap of him tossed to you without much thought is an acknowledgement that shows he can be pleased - that you can please him - only strengthens your desire to chase more of it. You're unsure if you could ever earn more than his tolerance but, a reminder that underneath it all he is just a man also reminds you he could be convinced to feel. Maybe it would only ever be the sort of affection earned by an obedient pet, one which is persistently annoying enough to endear themselves to him, but that, you think, would be more than fulfilling.
A squeeze on your wrist makes you aware he is measuring you again. He cannot see your face in this position: the dopey, strung out smile with eyes glazing over in a comfortable bliss. However, either through the thud of your blood or your pliable state, he senses your serenity. He decides to toy with it.
"You know, I assumed we would need this," he says offhandedly as he presents a blurry bottle to you. You blink a few times to bring it into focus but the text on its label, already partially shrouded by shadow in the dim light, dances in your vision. He tilts it in his hand and watches your head follow. "But perhaps we see how well you do without."
"Hmm?"
He waits, amused by your confusion, and holds the object steady until you can decipher it. There is a slight increase in your blood's cadence as you stop simply giving in to your helplessness and fight to control your senses, but it is nothing compared to the spike in adrenaline as you recognise the bottle of lube Primo is mockingly waving in your face. The sound of him chuckling as your heart rate climbs is deeply unsettling. He clears his throat and sighs before shushing your panicked murmurs, despite preparing to make them worse.
"No more," he says. "It seems pointless to worry… after all, you are managing very well so far. Did you even notice?"
It takes a beat for you to understand him but, helped by a quick buck from his chair, the haze clears once again. Like a flick of a switch, you are more aware of everything, including the first couple of inches of his cock inside you and his tip pushing through the loosened muscles. An attempt to squirm is only met with a painful tightening of his grip to keep you in place.
"Shhhh. I think you can take a bit more before you will… really feel it."
He eases you down a bit further, but stops as you start to fight it. "None of that," he says, followed by a heavy pause. "Unless, you want to stop."
Barely able to breathe, you shake your head as hard as you can.
"So, do you need the extra help? Or not?"
You are just lucid enough to wonder if this may be a test. You whine in frustration; at your own indecision and lamenting the inability to move. He is wrapped around you so tightly, around each one of your senses, like gnarled vines, making it impossible to think straight. Your lungs crackle as you struggle to catch your breath and your heart feels ready to burst from your chest.
You hardly recognise your own voice as you attempt to beg for relief. Garbled and shaking, it comes out as a pathetic, timid drone. He waits for you to compose yourself, allowing you to thrash for a moment, only speaking as your choked cries subside.
"Ahh, I suppose you have earned my… pity," he concedes, only a little proud that his reputation as a sadist clearly precedes him. Although he would like to test the limits of his tea, perhaps it would be too cruel, even for him.
He pulls out of you with little warning. You groan at the sudden emptiness and rough movement, but settle back into his lap and offer more thanks which earns another grunt of approval. He reaches for the lube and begins preparing himself, jostling you as he lathers his length. The cold drips of it sizzle on your hot skin and only builds the already simmering anticipation. Primo begins leisurely applying a generous amount, humming low as he coats himself.
As he positions himself and you feel his tip press forward, you both notice a distinct lack of resistance. Guiding you once more by your wrists in a vice-like grip, he lowers you onto his cock with ease until you are taking those same few inches again. He relishes the way your pulse steadies while still, then slowly climbs as you wait for more, completely at his mercy.
He feeds himself into you a bit further until the stretch makes you cry out and your nails dig into where he holds you. You hear him suck in air, either from the sting of it, or from your warmth now taking almost half of his length. Subtly he begins to rock you, leveraging your wrists to begin carefully sliding you up and down his length, making sure he gives you no more than a tease of his tip reaching new depths.
As he gradually speeds up, your mewling only become more incessant. Already feeling so full, you would still ask for more if you could only find your voice. But, just as your body starts to buzz with pleasure, another haze overcomes you and the world around you yet again starts to slip away. Your core throbs as reality fades into the distance and your form goes slack. Primo relaxes his hold just enough to let you sway a little. You don't even fight it.
Everything goes black. For how long, you don't know but when you come too, it is with a shuddering squeal as physical sensation returns. He moves you faster and, you think, delves further than before. However, you don't feel a struggle to stretch around him as expected, only a satiating fullness which pushes out the swelling headache and quiet nausea. As spit collects in your mouth, the bitter taste of his tea coats your tongue and seems to throw you back and forth between succumbing to its sedative effects and feeling painfully heightened rapture.
Somewhere between the waves, Primo is beginning to shift impatiently in his chair. You mould around him so perfectly to squeeze and throb around his cock, and he can feel your body working hard to let him in. It feels like you're trying to drag more of him inside you and, while he still isn't convinced you will actually succeed in taking every solid inch, he gets closer to hoping you will.
In a brief moment of clarity, you feel all of it and an almost primal shriek rips your mouth open. Your heart thumps so hard it feels like it might break through your ribcage and, as if he senses it, he places a hand over your chest to feel it kicking violently against his touch. Of course, this makes him stop. He scratches over the skin like he could sink his hand in to take it, to feel it beating in the palm of his hand. There's a chance that, if he were to pluck it from your chest right now, you wouldn't even notice.
There's murmuring. Whispered jibes. Heavy breathing and a voice miles away from where you are. Your head becomes too heavy to hold up.. You have a vague sense of still being on your feet, somehow. Maybe it's related to the circulation being cut off at your wrists. He still taps out your rhythm. It's the only reason you know it is still there.
This time, the wait stretches on forever. Time slows down and you feel every delayed second, the ticking clock on the mantel now mocking you while also signalling the gradual return of sensation. While held in place, the lack of friction allows pain to slowly permeate. It begins with a dull ache, then a formidable fullness, followed by a building pressure around the intrusion. The escalation is consistent enough to for you to map it spreading through your every nerve but as the fog lifts and with no limit in sight, your resolve wavers.
Not quite ready to quit, you take a risk by asking for relief.
"I can't— please, Papa. Please. I need—" Your voice falters, its shrillness cracking into disjointed noise. "Too much," you gasp with the last bit of air in your lungs.
"Hmm. You want to stop now? What a shame. Disappointing to get so close."
You shake your head in protest. Something wet drips from your nose and you taste salt on your lips. He takes measure of you again.
Extremely elevated. A frantic, panicked drumming.
"Making you wait no longer seems to be having a… calming effect," he concedes. "You want to move? You need to fuck yourself on my cock?"
You feel his sadistic grin appear, hearing his lips curl into a sneer. You try to picture the expression in your mind, distracted slightly by the insistent twinge between your legs.
"I suppose I will have to help you," he continues without waiting for a reply. "And when I say help, I mean… do all the work for you."
He sighs but this time without disdain or disappointment, happy to play with his dumbstruck rag doll regardless of how actively you can participate. Eager in fact to see just how far he can go and just how much you can take. Stubborn pride is a quality he understands, sometimes admires. But, it is such as an easy trait to take advantage of.
Awareness of your weight being shifted starts in your feet again, being rocked from heel to toe at that same steady pace. Your loud sigh is matched by the man in control of it as you both find relief, settling into a simple rhythm which chips away at the discomfort of the previous inertia. Still only taking a fraction of what he can give, you are overwhelmed by your need finally being met and in no time at all, you feel a coiling in your belly.
Moans and sobs are torn from your throat, hoarse with gratitude in the short time it takes for pleasure to consume you. It snaps through every muscle and nerve as you teeter over the edge, pushed closer as Papa escalates from cautiously sliding you down his length to letting you bounce a little in his lap. He lets himself go a little more, expletives and filthy grunts escaping as you wail for him and his hips occasionally bucking forward of their own accord.
Your body begins to work against him involuntarily as your orgasm takes hold, jerking and shuddering in his grasp. For the first time this evening, despite the tea and his hard work, you close around him fully as you climax, so hard it momentarily slows him down. However, either growing too inpatient for it to subside or needing more of you squeezing around his cock, he doesn't allow you any time to recover.
With your voice just reaching its highest pitch, before you can think about trying to catch your breath, Primo pulls you down on to him until your thighs almost touch and begins to thrust up into you with as much vigour as his body will allow. His hands move to your hips for better leverage, clawing into flesh as he buries himself in you. Even when lifted to be brought brutally back down, his cock remains seated unnaturally deep. The only range in feeling now is from uncomfortably full to being impaled, all of which feels like it might tear you open from the inside out.
Just as you worry that your incessant whining, dangerously close to screaming, may slow him down, you manage to use what little air you can breathe in to call out to him.
"Fuck, Papa!"
He acknowledges it with a rumbling groan. Roughly tugging on your waist to slam you down, you crash into hip bone with a slap of skin on skin. He chokes on his own sob, the feeling of being completely enveloped for the first time in even distant memory breaking him in a way neither of you expect.
Remaining motionless for even a moment is agonising so, as Primo's ability to continue inflicting his will slips, you make use of this new freedom, rolling and winding your hips to your own rhythm. As his energy dwindles, each moan coming out weaker and more strained, yours is renewed along with a brazen confidence being stoked by Papa's encouragement. You find his hands and place one over your heart and push the other further down your stomach.
"Satanas," he barks as you find a faster pace, sliding easily up and down part of his length.
His fingers fall between your thighs, enough for you to use them to rub against. They twitch, trying to touch you properly with absentminded strokes but remain unfocused as he jolts and spasms beneath you. The concerted effort it takes to spread your sticky arousal with his lazy fingers, hindered by his rapidly depleting energy as well as the way you writhe on him, only makes you more determined.
Safe in his clutches and with your body as accustomed to his size as possible, you meet his erratic, shallow thrusts as much as you can and as hard your tiring muscles will allow. It is enough to wind Papa each time you sink down into him but his flexing fingers and increasingly fragile gasps tell you not to stop. His own heart now trying to burst from his chest, he lets out a languid cry as he feels himself leaking inside you, his girth and you clenching hard, narrowing around it keeping it in place to completely coat his tip.
Primo had learned long ago it was best not to expect anything from his aging body. Either with a partner or without, he was quite content and grateful for any pleasure he could find, and had many different ways to define and measure it. Time had taught him what experience should have, and humbled him into accepting that ejaculation as an end goal was just not feasible. An orgasm without it is just as good and, whether or not he manages to produce anything to trickle out, he thanks Satan all the same.
But what he is feeling now is more than a trickle. In the heat of you and with the added lubrication, he shouldn't be able to tell, but he can and the usual slow build to a muted peak does not compare to what is currently brewing. You are in control now, and he is being dragged along for the ride to long forgotten heights.
With a few final gasps, the dam breaks and he feels a relative flood, but you either don't notice, or don't care. His body goes rigid as it focuses on producing a couple of weak, dribbling spurts, but you don't stop, lost in the way his cock twists and curves and burrows and so close to your own climax. It draws out his release more than he thought possible and suddenly, shockingly, he is praying he can hold out a bit longer for you.
Nails biting down hard into your abdomen as he stutters in his chair help you get there, finding your own release soon after as intensely as you have ever felt it. A euphoric wail quickly breaks into exhausted whimpers, your body collapsing under the weight of it. As soon as it starts to fade, your muscles scream to remind you of the punishment they have been put through. You lean back on to Papa who is only slightly more lucid but thankfully can muster the strength to pull you into a sort of cradling embrace.
Unfortunately, as aftershocks and adrenaline calms, his softening cock gently kicking inside you becomes too uncomfortable for you both and, with considerable difficulty, he helps you stand and pulls himself out. You groan at the sudden the emptiness and, when he guides you to sit on his lap, a hollow, pulsating ache takes over.
He runs his hands down your shoulders through a sheen of sweat, not seeming to mind that you might be falling asleep on his chest. One comes to rest around your neck, now well practiced in finding the pulse point, even as it weakens. You listen to his heartbeat starting to mellow and you nuzzle into his robes, a wry smile forming as you sit in the evidence of how much you both enjoyed yourselves.
You could not say when you might feel able to walk or stand again and, although you do wonder how he feels being trapped under you, neither of you can really do much about it. Not able to keep your eyes open any longer, you cling to him and hope that he lets you stay like this for a while. You let the gentle rise and fall of his chest and the whistling wind outside lull you to sleep.
You wake some time later, eyes too tired to open, suddenly aware of the low tone of Papa's voice. He doesn't sound like he is talking to you and, the more you try to listen, the harder your head pounds. Sensing that there is someone else in the room standing over you, you should try to sit up or at least see who it is, but even thinking about it is too draining to continue.
Multiple pairs of hands take hold of you and you are gently lifted from Papa's lap, you think by at least two people. They carry you, plodding gingerly in an attempt not to disturb you too much, into an adjacent room. You mutter in confusion but they ignore you, placing you to sit on the edge of what feels like a firm mattress.
Still dazed, you manage to open your eyes to be met with the unsettling stare of a ghoul holding an open bottle of water up to your mouth. You try to take it but they instead help you take a few gulps as the other ghoul turns down the sheets. They both help you under a quilt and tuck you in and, apparently unsure how to wish you goodnight, one settles for an awkward pat on the head.
One of them points to the supplies on the bedside table: the half-empty bottle of water, some painkillers and a couple of individually wrapped biscuits are the only items you can make out. They nod to each other and head towards the door after switching off a nearby lamp. In the pitch black, ready for a well-earned rest, you're asleep again before the door creaks shut.
Thank you for reading! <3 Reblogs super appreciated!
My first Primo fic - Primo enthusiasts, true old man fuckers, I hope you enjoy :)
Tagging @vintageandroid and @from-the-pinnacle as requested (a while ago now, apologies!)
Thank you Primo advisor and beta @avocado-writing <3
You try to focus on anything else: the rain thrumming on the window, or the crackling of the fire, or the scratch of the blanket draped over your knees. You force circular, steady breaths as your stare up at the ceiling, leaning against his chest. Despite his frail frame, he makes a comfortable place to sit. It would be more comfortable without three of his fingers inside you, but you're not exactly complaining.
You've been warming them for a while now. At least ten minutes, but you try not to think about that either. You don't succeed, and Primo knows.
"Relax," he rasps, as he feels the throb of your wrist under his other fingers. "You will need to if you are to take all of me. That is what you want, isn't it?"
You clench around him and hear an amused exhale, the edge of which tickles your neck. You stifle a whimper as he moves beneath you, to lean over and grab the tea sitting on the nearby table. His nobbled fingers and their bumped joints fill you like nothing else you'd ever experienced and, even with the slightest movement, the ridges of his digits create friction in the most unexpected places.
"Drink," he commands. "It will help."
He lifts it and shakily pours it into your mouth. His head comes to rest on your shoulder as you swallow it down, his lips happy to feel the flow of your blood pumping and the swell of your throat as you drink against his cheek. The concoction is bitter and earthy and, if the splash of lemon had been added to mask the flavour, it isn't working. You resist the urge to gag, knowing he will be displeased if you waste any of it, and keep swallowing down every drop.
The teacup clinks onto its saucer and Primo gets himself comfortable again, still knuckle-deep inside you. As he shuffles backwards into his cushion, you whine, craving more relief, but as you open your mouth to plead, your insides twist. It settles in your stomach like heavy syrup and your gut tries to fight back. You feel sick, dizzy and then— calm.
A tingling warmth spreads from your centre and your muscles relax. Within seconds, your limbs feel like liquid and you sink into him a little more. He applies more pressure over your pulse, measuring how it slows under his calloused fingertips.
"Good. Very good."
Without warning, his fingers curl and begin a shallow, excruciatingly slow exploration. You purr for your Papa and your muscles try to tighten around him but they are noticeably weaker. In your frustration, you attempt to push yourself back into him but there are no more of his fingers for you to take.
"You are getting restless, I know," he says with a rare hint of sympathy. "Let us try a little, but if that heart of yours starts working too hard, we stop."
Even the suggestion of it makes your pulse thump a bit harder in his grasp but he allows you to wriggle in his lap and work yourself on his fingers. He gives an approving hum as you experimentally rock yourself, gasping as he strokes inside of you. He knows none of this will prepare you for his full size - as do you - but he does enjoy having you like this. So compliant, so fixated, and determined to struggle through your pursuit of gratification.
Happy with your current restraint, reflected in your heart rate, his monitoring hand retreats and lifts you slightly while he rearranges himself. As he settles you back down in his lap, flexing his fingers as they reach inside you again, you feel the weight of his cock resting on you. You moan in anticipation of it and your heart flutters in your chest, not going unnoticed by Papa.
"Patience. Calm," he says, less monotone than his previous instructions, as his hand presses on your chest.
With your arms outstretched behind you to hold on to something, you lean back and grind in his lap, rubbing against the intimidating shaft. You are restricted somewhat by his hold on you which does not relent until you force yourself to resist your need and slow down. He taps your heart in approval but the way his breath rattles in his chest tells you he may be fighting a battle of his own.
This suspicion is confirmed as you feel his hips start to move beneath you, rocking up to rub himself up your spine. You shudder as he spreads sticky arousal up your back as his breathing quickens with each movement. His usual dismissive and stoic demeanour is dangerously close to slipping and with each passing second, his own pulse races faster.
Yours can only follow suit, now free to rut in his lap as he becomes more distracted. Both of you pant and mewl, falling out of sync with the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece as Primo momentarily forgets his own rules. Your ability to break his focus only spurs on your defiance of the deal, the crack in his facade adding to your bravery in pushing its limits and creating a surreal sort of delirium in which he is as agitated as you. You crane your neck to try to catch a glimpse of your usually composed Papa starting to crumble under his baser instinct, unable to truly picture it even with the unmistakable sounds escaping him. But as he feels you turn, it brings his attention back to the task at hand.
His fingers are ripped out of you and he grabs both of your wrists, wrenching them behind you and pinning them against your spine so fast your shoulders feel like they may snap. With such a simple flourish, your body locks in place and falls completely into his control. Pain shoots up your arms as they protest your new position, but it is quickly overshadowed by the contortions in your core, missing his digits working you open.
"Papa!" You plead, but he responds only with a twist of your captured limbs.
He had allowed too much and now he must balance the scales, making you wallow in the consequences. Your wrists are crushed into one of his hands as his other finds your neck. A delicate press of his fingers there makes it clear you will be expected to learn to be comfortable here before he continues. As you sob in between heaving breaths, the only comfort he offers is a small circling motion around the throbbing vein to massage you into submission.
You are not sure how long he keeps you like this. When he does finally relax his control, parts of your body under strain have started to tingle with numbness. He taps out your rhythm, gradually slowing with enough focus and eased by his loosening grip. After stabilising yourself, you feel him shuffling behind you, followed by the sound of liquid pouring into porcelain. The teacup appears again and he administers another dose.
Knowing the taste does not prepare you any better for it; it is even more worse than you remember and you almost retch while trying to swallow the larger chunks of mushroom. He continues to tip it past your lips even as you cough and splutter, your throat and lungs burning. Once empty, you hear the cup being placed back on the table and, as your stomach flips, an unpleasant wave washes over you.
You start to tell him you may not be able to keep it down, but your words come out slurred and broken. The room tilts and shrinks around you as your vision blurs. An unsettling claustrophobia takes hold as the walls close in and you feel a disconnect from your body. Your brain is steeped in fear but, the more you try to fight it, the less you are able to move. As Primo begins to stroke the crown of your head, you slump back into him.
The calmness does not overwhelm you this time. Your physical reactions settle but something more insidious takes root. Everything feels cloudy and your own weight feels cumbersome yet somehow distant from your consciousness. The aches and pains remain but take up less space; present but not bothering you as they probably should. The sounds in the room - the patter of rain and Primo's uncharacteristically soothing mutters - are warped as if you are underwater, being drowned out by the heartbeat pulsating in your ears.
Papa dabs at the sweat collecting on your brow and the softness of his touch grounds you. Colour returns to the world and clarity seeps back in. You feel a warmth spread as the dulling of your nerves fades, encouraged by his hand lightly scraping along your inner thigh. Your awareness ebbs and flows as time seems to stand still, only edged forward by each attempt you make to suck in air. You are jostled in place before feeling something lift you, and then you simply float.
His hands materialise around your wrists again, binding them in place in such a way, with surprising strength, to keep you hovering above his lap by pushing them upwards. Your feet are on the ground taking some of your weight but the plush rug you stand on feels far from solid. It is enough to anchor you, allowing him to puppeteer you however he pleases with no effort at all.
The next sensation happens far away from you. You groan in confusion as you try to place the pleasant sort of pressure but, being far too groggy to make sense of anything, you accept it and let it in. As your attention is drawn to a tension growing deep within, it is pulled away just as quickly as you attempt to follow the low tone of the voice behind you. Noise turns into words and, with the realisation that they are offers of praise, you tunnel in on them. The ever-present condescension does not deter you.
"Still with me?" You nod slowly which is met with an amused smack of his lips. "You are lucky that Papa knows how to take care of you."
"Yes. Thank you, Papa." Your instinctive reply inspires a rumbling in his chest which moves through you both. "So polite," he teases. "Bene."
This crumb of approval makes your skin buzz. But it's more than that. A scrap of him tossed to you without much thought is an acknowledgement that shows he can be pleased - that you can please him - only strengthens your desire to chase more of it. You're unsure if you could ever earn more than his tolerance but, a reminder that underneath it all he is just a man also reminds you he could be convinced to feel. Maybe it would only ever be the sort of affection earned by an obedient pet, one which is persistently annoying enough to endear themselves to him, but that, you think, would be more than fulfilling.
A squeeze on your wrist makes you aware he is measuring you again. He cannot see your face in this position: the dopey, strung out smile with eyes glazing over in a comfortable bliss. However, either through the thud of your blood or your pliable state, he senses your serenity. He decides to toy with it.
"You know, I assumed we would need this," he says offhandedly as he presents a blurry bottle to you. You blink a few times to bring it into focus but the text on its label, already partially shrouded by shadow in the dim light, dances in your vision. He tilts it in his hand and watches your head follow. "But perhaps we see how well you do without."
"Hmm?"
He waits, amused by your confusion, and holds the object steady until you can decipher it. There is a slight increase in your blood's cadence as you stop simply giving in to your helplessness and fight to control your senses, but it is nothing compared to the spike in adrenaline as you recognise the bottle of lube Primo is mockingly waving in your face. The sound of him chuckling as your heart rate climbs is deeply unsettling. He clears his throat and sighs before shushing your panicked murmurs, despite preparing to make them worse.
"No more," he says. "It seems pointless to worry… after all, you are managing very well so far. Did you even notice?"
It takes a beat for you to understand him but, helped by a quick buck from his chair, the haze clears once again. Like a flick of a switch, you are more aware of everything, including the first couple of inches of his cock inside you and his tip pushing through the loosened muscles. An attempt to squirm is only met with a painful tightening of his grip to keep you in place.
"Shhhh. I think you can take a bit more before you will… really feel it."
He eases you down a bit further, but stops as you start to fight it. "None of that," he says, followed by a heavy pause. "Unless, you want to stop."
Barely able to breathe, you shake your head as hard as you can.
"So, do you need the extra help? Or not?"
You are just lucid enough to wonder if this may be a test. You whine in frustration; at your own indecision and lamenting the inability to move. He is wrapped around you so tightly, around each one of your senses, like gnarled vines, making it impossible to think straight. Your lungs crackle as you struggle to catch your breath and your heart feels ready to burst from your chest.
You hardly recognise your own voice as you attempt to beg for relief. Garbled and shaking, it comes out as a pathetic, timid drone. He waits for you to compose yourself, allowing you to thrash for a moment, only speaking as your choked cries subside.
"Ahh, I suppose you have earned my… pity," he concedes, only a little proud that his reputation as a sadist clearly precedes him. Although he would like to test the limits of his tea, perhaps it would be too cruel, even for him.
He pulls out of you with little warning. You groan at the sudden emptiness and rough movement, but settle back into his lap and offer more thanks which earns another grunt of approval. He reaches for the lube and begins preparing himself, jostling you as he lathers his length. The cold drips of it sizzle on your hot skin and only builds the already simmering anticipation. Primo begins leisurely applying a generous amount, humming low as he coats himself.
As he positions himself and you feel his tip press forward, you both notice a distinct lack of resistance. Guiding you once more by your wrists in a vice-like grip, he lowers you onto his cock with ease until you are taking those same few inches again. He relishes the way your pulse steadies while still, then slowly climbs as you wait for more, completely at his mercy.
He feeds himself into you a bit further until the stretch makes you cry out and your nails dig into where he holds you. You hear him suck in air, either from the sting of it, or from your warmth now taking almost half of his length. Subtly he begins to rock you, leveraging your wrists to begin carefully sliding you up and down his length, making sure he gives you no more than a tease of his tip reaching new depths.
As he gradually speeds up, your mewling only become more incessant. Already feeling so full, you would still ask for more if you could only find your voice. But, just as your body starts to buzz with pleasure, another haze overcomes you and the world around you yet again starts to slip away. Your core throbs as reality fades into the distance and your form goes slack. Primo relaxes his hold just enough to let you sway a little. You don't even fight it.
Everything goes black. For how long, you don't know but when you come too, it is with a shuddering squeal as physical sensation returns. He moves you faster and, you think, delves further than before. However, you don't feel a struggle to stretch around him as expected, only a satiating fullness which pushes out the swelling headache and quiet nausea. As spit collects in your mouth, the bitter taste of his tea coats your tongue and seems to throw you back and forth between succumbing to its sedative effects and feeling painfully heightened rapture.
Somewhere between the waves, Primo is beginning to shift impatiently in his chair. You mould around him so perfectly to squeeze and throb around his cock, and he can feel your body working hard to let him in. It feels like you're trying to drag more of him inside you and, while he still isn't convinced you will actually succeed in taking every solid inch, he gets closer to hoping you will.
In a brief moment of clarity, you feel all of it and an almost primal shriek rips your mouth open. Your heart thumps so hard it feels like it might break through your ribcage and, as if he senses it, he places a hand over your chest to feel it kicking violently against his touch. Of course, this makes him stop. He scratches over the skin like he could sink his hand in to take it, to feel it beating in the palm of his hand. There's a chance that, if he were to pluck it from your chest right now, you wouldn't even notice.
There's murmuring. Whispered jibes. Heavy breathing and a voice miles away from where you are. Your head becomes too heavy to hold up.. You have a vague sense of still being on your feet, somehow. Maybe it's related to the circulation being cut off at your wrists. He still taps out your rhythm. It's the only reason you know it is still there.
This time, the wait stretches on forever. Time slows down and you feel every delayed second, the ticking clock on the mantel now mocking you while also signalling the gradual return of sensation. While held in place, the lack of friction allows pain to slowly permeate. It begins with a dull ache, then a formidable fullness, followed by a building pressure around the intrusion. The escalation is consistent enough to for you to map it spreading through your every nerve but as the fog lifts and with no limit in sight, your resolve wavers.
Not quite ready to quit, you take a risk by asking for relief.
"I can't— please, Papa. Please. I need—" Your voice falters, its shrillness cracking into disjointed noise. "Too much," you gasp with the last bit of air in your lungs.
"Hmm. You want to stop now? What a shame. Disappointing to get so close."
You shake your head in protest. Something wet drips from your nose and you taste salt on your lips. He takes measure of you again.
Extremely elevated. A frantic, panicked drumming.
"Making you wait no longer seems to be having a… calming effect," he concedes. "You want to move? You need to fuck yourself on my cock?"
You feel his sadistic grin appear, hearing his lips curl into a sneer. You try to picture the expression in your mind, distracted slightly by the insistent twinge between your legs.
"I suppose I will have to help you," he continues without waiting for a reply. "And when I say help, I mean… do all the work for you."
He sighs but this time without disdain or disappointment, happy to play with his dumbstruck rag doll regardless of how actively you can participate. Eager in fact to see just how far he can go and just how much you can take. Stubborn pride is a quality he understands, sometimes admires. But, it is such as an easy trait to take advantage of.
Awareness of your weight being shifted starts in your feet again, being rocked from heel to toe at that same steady pace. Your loud sigh is matched by the man in control of it as you both find relief, settling into a simple rhythm which chips away at the discomfort of the previous inertia. Still only taking a fraction of what he can give, you are overwhelmed by your need finally being met and in no time at all, you feel a coiling in your belly.
Moans and sobs are torn from your throat, hoarse with gratitude in the short time it takes for pleasure to consume you. It snaps through every muscle and nerve as you teeter over the edge, pushed closer as Papa escalates from cautiously sliding you down his length to letting you bounce a little in his lap. He lets himself go a little more, expletives and filthy grunts escaping as you wail for him and his hips occasionally bucking forward of their own accord.
Your body begins to work against him involuntarily as your orgasm takes hold, jerking and shuddering in his grasp. For the first time this evening, despite the tea and his hard work, you close around him fully as you climax, so hard it momentarily slows him down. However, either growing too inpatient for it to subside or needing more of you squeezing around his cock, he doesn't allow you any time to recover.
With your voice just reaching its highest pitch, before you can think about trying to catch your breath, Primo pulls you down on to him until your thighs almost touch and begins to thrust up into you with as much vigour as his body will allow. His hands move to your hips for better leverage, clawing into flesh as he buries himself in you. Even when lifted to be brought brutally back down, his cock remains seated unnaturally deep. The only range in feeling now is from uncomfortably full to being impaled, all of which feels like it might tear you open from the inside out.
Just as you worry that your incessant whining, dangerously close to screaming, may slow him down, you manage to use what little air you can breathe in to call out to him.
"Fuck, Papa!"
He acknowledges it with a rumbling groan. Roughly tugging on your waist to slam you down, you crash into hip bone with a slap of skin on skin. He chokes on his own sob, the feeling of being completely enveloped for the first time in even distant memory breaking him in a way neither of you expect.
Remaining motionless for even a moment is agonising so, as Primo's ability to continue inflicting his will slips, you make use of this new freedom, rolling and winding your hips to your own rhythm. As his energy dwindles, each moan coming out weaker and more strained, yours is renewed along with a brazen confidence being stoked by Papa's encouragement. You find his hands and place one over your heart and push the other further down your stomach.
"Satanas," he barks as you find a faster pace, sliding easily up and down part of his length.
His fingers fall between your thighs, enough for you to use them to rub against. They twitch, trying to touch you properly with absentminded strokes but remain unfocused as he jolts and spasms beneath you. The concerted effort it takes to spread your sticky arousal with his lazy fingers, hindered by his rapidly depleting energy as well as the way you writhe on him, only makes you more determined.
Safe in his clutches and with your body as accustomed to his size as possible, you meet his erratic, shallow thrusts as much as you can and as hard your tiring muscles will allow. It is enough to wind Papa each time you sink down into him but his flexing fingers and increasingly fragile gasps tell you not to stop. His own heart now trying to burst from his chest, he lets out a languid cry as he feels himself leaking inside you, his girth and you clenching hard, narrowing around it keeping it in place to completely coat his tip.
Primo had learned long ago it was best not to expect anything from his aging body. Either with a partner or without, he was quite content and grateful for any pleasure he could find, and had many different ways to define and measure it. Time had taught him what experience should have, and humbled him into accepting that ejaculation as an end goal was just not feasible. An orgasm without it is just as good and, whether or not he manages to produce anything to trickle out, he thanks Satan all the same.
But what he is feeling now is more than a trickle. In the heat of you and with the added lubrication, he shouldn't be able to tell, but he can and the usual slow build to a muted peak does not compare to what is currently brewing. You are in control now, and he is being dragged along for the ride to long forgotten heights.
With a few final gasps, the dam breaks and he feels a relative flood, but you either don't notice, or don't care. His body goes rigid as it focuses on producing a couple of weak, dribbling spurts, but you don't stop, lost in the way his cock twists and curves and burrows and so close to your own climax. It draws out his release more than he thought possible and suddenly, shockingly, he is praying he can hold out a bit longer for you.
Nails biting down hard into your abdomen as he stutters in his chair help you get there, finding your own release soon after as intensely as you have ever felt it. A euphoric wail quickly breaks into exhausted whimpers, your body collapsing under the weight of it. As soon as it starts to fade, your muscles scream to remind you of the punishment they have been put through. You lean back on to Papa who is only slightly more lucid but thankfully can muster the strength to pull you into a sort of cradling embrace.
Unfortunately, as aftershocks and adrenaline calms, his softening cock gently kicking inside you becomes too uncomfortable for you both and, with considerable difficulty, he helps you stand and pulls himself out. You groan at the sudden the emptiness and, when he guides you to sit on his lap, a hollow, pulsating ache takes over.
He runs his hands down your shoulders through a sheen of sweat, not seeming to mind that you might be falling asleep on his chest. One comes to rest around your neck, now well practiced in finding the pulse point, even as it weakens. You listen to his heartbeat starting to mellow and you nuzzle into his robes, a wry smile forming as you sit in the evidence of how much you both enjoyed yourselves.
You could not say when you might feel able to walk or stand again and, although you do wonder how he feels being trapped under you, neither of you can really do much about it. Not able to keep your eyes open any longer, you cling to him and hope that he lets you stay like this for a while. You let the gentle rise and fall of his chest and the whistling wind outside lull you to sleep.
You wake some time later, eyes too tired to open, suddenly aware of the low tone of Papa's voice. He doesn't sound like he is talking to you and, the more you try to listen, the harder your head pounds. Sensing that there is someone else in the room standing over you, you should try to sit up or at least see who it is, but even thinking about it is too draining to continue.
Multiple pairs of hands take hold of you and you are gently lifted from Papa's lap, you think by at least two people. They carry you, plodding gingerly in an attempt not to disturb you too much, into an adjacent room. You mutter in confusion but they ignore you, placing you to sit on the edge of what feels like a firm mattress.
Still dazed, you manage to open your eyes to be met with the unsettling stare of a ghoul holding an open bottle of water up to your mouth. You try to take it but they instead help you take a few gulps as the other ghoul turns down the sheets. They both help you under a quilt and tuck you in and, apparently unsure how to wish you goodnight, one settles for an awkward pat on the head.
One of them points to the supplies on the bedside table: the half-empty bottle of water, some painkillers and a couple of individually wrapped biscuits are the only items you can make out. They nod to each other and head towards the door after switching off a nearby lamp. In the pitch black, ready for a well-earned rest, you're asleep again before the door creaks shut.
Thank you for reading! <3 Reblogs super appreciated!
My first Primo fic - Primo enthusiasts, true old man fuckers, I hope you enjoy :)
Tagging @vintageandroid and @from-the-pinnacle as requested (a while ago now, apologies!)
Thank you Primo advisor and beta @avocado-writing <3
You try to focus on anything else: the rain thrumming on the window, or the crackling of the fire, or the scratch of the blanket draped over your knees. You force circular, steady breaths as your stare up at the ceiling, leaning against his chest. Despite his frail frame, he makes a comfortable place to sit. It would be more comfortable without three of his fingers inside you, but you're not exactly complaining.
You've been warming them for a while now. At least ten minutes, but you try not to think about that either. You don't succeed, and Primo knows.
"Relax," he rasps, as he feels the throb of your wrist under his other fingers. "You will need to if you are to take all of me. That is what you want, isn't it?"
You clench around him and hear an amused exhale, the edge of which tickles your neck. You stifle a whimper as he moves beneath you, to lean over and grab the tea sitting on the nearby table. His nobbled fingers and their bumped joints fill you like nothing else you'd ever experienced and, even with the slightest movement, the ridges of his digits create friction in the most unexpected places.
"Drink," he commands. "It will help."
He lifts it and shakily pours it into your mouth. His head comes to rest on your shoulder as you swallow it down, his lips happy to feel the flow of your blood pumping and the swell of your throat as you drink against his cheek. The concoction is bitter and earthy and, if the splash of lemon had been added to mask the flavour, it isn't working. You resist the urge to gag, knowing he will be displeased if you waste any of it, and keep swallowing down every drop.
The teacup clinks onto its saucer and Primo gets himself comfortable again, still knuckle-deep inside you. As he shuffles backwards into his cushion, you whine, craving more relief, but as you open your mouth to plead, your insides twist. It settles in your stomach like heavy syrup and your gut tries to fight back. You feel sick, dizzy and then— calm.
A tingling warmth spreads from your centre and your muscles relax. Within seconds, your limbs feel like liquid and you sink into him a little more. He applies more pressure over your pulse, measuring how it slows under his calloused fingertips.
"Good. Very good."
Without warning, his fingers curl and begin a shallow, excruciatingly slow exploration. You purr for your Papa and your muscles try to tighten around him but they are noticeably weaker. In your frustration, you attempt to push yourself back into him but there are no more of his fingers for you to take.
"You are getting restless, I know," he says with a rare hint of sympathy. "Let us try a little, but if that heart of yours starts working too hard, we stop."
Even the suggestion of it makes your pulse thump a bit harder in his grasp but he allows you to wriggle in his lap and work yourself on his fingers. He gives an approving hum as you experimentally rock yourself, gasping as he strokes inside of you. He knows none of this will prepare you for his full size - as do you - but he does enjoy having you like this. So compliant, so fixated, and determined to struggle through your pursuit of gratification.
Happy with your current restraint, reflected in your heart rate, his monitoring hand retreats and lifts you slightly while he rearranges himself. As he settles you back down in his lap, flexing his fingers as they reach inside you again, you feel the weight of his cock resting on you. You moan in anticipation of it and your heart flutters in your chest, not going unnoticed by Papa.
"Patience. Calm," he says, less monotone than his previous instructions, as his hand presses on your chest.
With your arms outstretched behind you to hold on to something, you lean back and grind in his lap, rubbing against the intimidating shaft. You are restricted somewhat by his hold on you which does not relent until you force yourself to resist your need and slow down. He taps your heart in approval but the way his breath rattles in his chest tells you he may be fighting a battle of his own.
This suspicion is confirmed as you feel his hips start to move beneath you, rocking up to rub himself up your spine. You shudder as he spreads sticky arousal up your back as his breathing quickens with each movement. His usual dismissive and stoic demeanour is dangerously close to slipping and with each passing second, his own pulse races faster.
Yours can only follow suit, now free to rut in his lap as he becomes more distracted. Both of you pant and mewl, falling out of sync with the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece as Primo momentarily forgets his own rules. Your ability to break his focus only spurs on your defiance of the deal, the crack in his facade adding to your bravery in pushing its limits and creating a surreal sort of delirium in which he is as agitated as you. You crane your neck to try to catch a glimpse of your usually composed Papa starting to crumble under his baser instinct, unable to truly picture it even with the unmistakable sounds escaping him. But as he feels you turn, it brings his attention back to the task at hand.
His fingers are ripped out of you and he grabs both of your wrists, wrenching them behind you and pinning them against your spine so fast your shoulders feel like they may snap. With such a simple flourish, your body locks in place and falls completely into his control. Pain shoots up your arms as they protest your new position, but it is quickly overshadowed by the contortions in your core, missing his digits working you open.
"Papa!" You plead, but he responds only with a twist of your captured limbs.
He had allowed too much and now he must balance the scales, making you wallow in the consequences. Your wrists are crushed into one of his hands as his other finds your neck. A delicate press of his fingers there makes it clear you will be expected to learn to be comfortable here before he continues. As you sob in between heaving breaths, the only comfort he offers is a small circling motion around the throbbing vein to massage you into submission.
You are not sure how long he keeps you like this. When he does finally relax his control, parts of your body under strain have started to tingle with numbness. He taps out your rhythm, gradually slowing with enough focus and eased by his loosening grip. After stabilising yourself, you feel him shuffling behind you, followed by the sound of liquid pouring into porcelain. The teacup appears again and he administers another dose.
Knowing the taste does not prepare you any better for it; it is even more worse than you remember and you almost retch while trying to swallow the larger chunks of mushroom. He continues to tip it past your lips even as you cough and splutter, your throat and lungs burning. Once empty, you hear the cup being placed back on the table and, as your stomach flips, an unpleasant wave washes over you.
You start to tell him you may not be able to keep it down, but your words come out slurred and broken. The room tilts and shrinks around you as your vision blurs. An unsettling claustrophobia takes hold as the walls close in and you feel a disconnect from your body. Your brain is steeped in fear but, the more you try to fight it, the less you are able to move. As Primo begins to stroke the crown of your head, you slump back into him.
The calmness does not overwhelm you this time. Your physical reactions settle but something more insidious takes root. Everything feels cloudy and your own weight feels cumbersome yet somehow distant from your consciousness. The aches and pains remain but take up less space; present but not bothering you as they probably should. The sounds in the room - the patter of rain and Primo's uncharacteristically soothing mutters - are warped as if you are underwater, being drowned out by the heartbeat pulsating in your ears.
Papa dabs at the sweat collecting on your brow and the softness of his touch grounds you. Colour returns to the world and clarity seeps back in. You feel a warmth spread as the dulling of your nerves fades, encouraged by his hand lightly scraping along your inner thigh. Your awareness ebbs and flows as time seems to stand still, only edged forward by each attempt you make to suck in air. You are jostled in place before feeling something lift you, and then you simply float.
His hands materialise around your wrists again, binding them in place in such a way, with surprising strength, to keep you hovering above his lap by pushing them upwards. Your feet are on the ground taking some of your weight but the plush rug you stand on feels far from solid. It is enough to anchor you, allowing him to puppeteer you however he pleases with no effort at all.
The next sensation happens far away from you. You groan in confusion as you try to place the pleasant sort of pressure but, being far too groggy to make sense of anything, you accept it and let it in. As your attention is drawn to a tension growing deep within, it is pulled away just as quickly as you attempt to follow the low tone of the voice behind you. Noise turns into words and, with the realisation that they are offers of praise, you tunnel in on them. The ever-present condescension does not deter you.
"Still with me?" You nod slowly which is met with an amused smack of his lips. "You are lucky that Papa knows how to take care of you."
"Yes. Thank you, Papa." Your instinctive reply inspires a rumbling in his chest which moves through you both. "So polite," he teases. "Bene."
This crumb of approval makes your skin buzz. But it's more than that. A scrap of him tossed to you without much thought is an acknowledgement that shows he can be pleased - that you can please him - only strengthens your desire to chase more of it. You're unsure if you could ever earn more than his tolerance but, a reminder that underneath it all he is just a man also reminds you he could be convinced to feel. Maybe it would only ever be the sort of affection earned by an obedient pet, one which is persistently annoying enough to endear themselves to him, but that, you think, would be more than fulfilling.
A squeeze on your wrist makes you aware he is measuring you again. He cannot see your face in this position: the dopey, strung out smile with eyes glazing over in a comfortable bliss. However, either through the thud of your blood or your pliable state, he senses your serenity. He decides to toy with it.
"You know, I assumed we would need this," he says offhandedly as he presents a blurry bottle to you. You blink a few times to bring it into focus but the text on its label, already partially shrouded by shadow in the dim light, dances in your vision. He tilts it in his hand and watches your head follow. "But perhaps we see how well you do without."
"Hmm?"
He waits, amused by your confusion, and holds the object steady until you can decipher it. There is a slight increase in your blood's cadence as you stop simply giving in to your helplessness and fight to control your senses, but it is nothing compared to the spike in adrenaline as you recognise the bottle of lube Primo is mockingly waving in your face. The sound of him chuckling as your heart rate climbs is deeply unsettling. He clears his throat and sighs before shushing your panicked murmurs, despite preparing to make them worse.
"No more," he says. "It seems pointless to worry… after all, you are managing very well so far. Did you even notice?"
It takes a beat for you to understand him but, helped by a quick buck from his chair, the haze clears once again. Like a flick of a switch, you are more aware of everything, including the first couple of inches of his cock inside you and his tip pushing through the loosened muscles. An attempt to squirm is only met with a painful tightening of his grip to keep you in place.
"Shhhh. I think you can take a bit more before you will… really feel it."
He eases you down a bit further, but stops as you start to fight it. "None of that," he says, followed by a heavy pause. "Unless, you want to stop."
Barely able to breathe, you shake your head as hard as you can.
"So, do you need the extra help? Or not?"
You are just lucid enough to wonder if this may be a test. You whine in frustration; at your own indecision and lamenting the inability to move. He is wrapped around you so tightly, around each one of your senses, like gnarled vines, making it impossible to think straight. Your lungs crackle as you struggle to catch your breath and your heart feels ready to burst from your chest.
You hardly recognise your own voice as you attempt to beg for relief. Garbled and shaking, it comes out as a pathetic, timid drone. He waits for you to compose yourself, allowing you to thrash for a moment, only speaking as your choked cries subside.
"Ahh, I suppose you have earned my… pity," he concedes, only a little proud that his reputation as a sadist clearly precedes him. Although he would like to test the limits of his tea, perhaps it would be too cruel, even for him.
He pulls out of you with little warning. You groan at the sudden emptiness and rough movement, but settle back into his lap and offer more thanks which earns another grunt of approval. He reaches for the lube and begins preparing himself, jostling you as he lathers his length. The cold drips of it sizzle on your hot skin and only builds the already simmering anticipation. Primo begins leisurely applying a generous amount, humming low as he coats himself.
As he positions himself and you feel his tip press forward, you both notice a distinct lack of resistance. Guiding you once more by your wrists in a vice-like grip, he lowers you onto his cock with ease until you are taking those same few inches again. He relishes the way your pulse steadies while still, then slowly climbs as you wait for more, completely at his mercy.
He feeds himself into you a bit further until the stretch makes you cry out and your nails dig into where he holds you. You hear him suck in air, either from the sting of it, or from your warmth now taking almost half of his length. Subtly he begins to rock you, leveraging your wrists to begin carefully sliding you up and down his length, making sure he gives you no more than a tease of his tip reaching new depths.
As he gradually speeds up, your mewling only become more incessant. Already feeling so full, you would still ask for more if you could only find your voice. But, just as your body starts to buzz with pleasure, another haze overcomes you and the world around you yet again starts to slip away. Your core throbs as reality fades into the distance and your form goes slack. Primo relaxes his hold just enough to let you sway a little. You don't even fight it.
Everything goes black. For how long, you don't know but when you come too, it is with a shuddering squeal as physical sensation returns. He moves you faster and, you think, delves further than before. However, you don't feel a struggle to stretch around him as expected, only a satiating fullness which pushes out the swelling headache and quiet nausea. As spit collects in your mouth, the bitter taste of his tea coats your tongue and seems to throw you back and forth between succumbing to its sedative effects and feeling painfully heightened rapture.
Somewhere between the waves, Primo is beginning to shift impatiently in his chair. You mould around him so perfectly to squeeze and throb around his cock, and he can feel your body working hard to let him in. It feels like you're trying to drag more of him inside you and, while he still isn't convinced you will actually succeed in taking every solid inch, he gets closer to hoping you will.
In a brief moment of clarity, you feel all of it and an almost primal shriek rips your mouth open. Your heart thumps so hard it feels like it might break through your ribcage and, as if he senses it, he places a hand over your chest to feel it kicking violently against his touch. Of course, this makes him stop. He scratches over the skin like he could sink his hand in to take it, to feel it beating in the palm of his hand. There's a chance that, if he were to pluck it from your chest right now, you wouldn't even notice.
There's murmuring. Whispered jibes. Heavy breathing and a voice miles away from where you are. Your head becomes too heavy to hold up.. You have a vague sense of still being on your feet, somehow. Maybe it's related to the circulation being cut off at your wrists. He still taps out your rhythm. It's the only reason you know it is still there.
This time, the wait stretches on forever. Time slows down and you feel every delayed second, the ticking clock on the mantel now mocking you while also signalling the gradual return of sensation. While held in place, the lack of friction allows pain to slowly permeate. It begins with a dull ache, then a formidable fullness, followed by a building pressure around the intrusion. The escalation is consistent enough to for you to map it spreading through your every nerve but as the fog lifts and with no limit in sight, your resolve wavers.
Not quite ready to quit, you take a risk by asking for relief.
"I can't— please, Papa. Please. I need—" Your voice falters, its shrillness cracking into disjointed noise. "Too much," you gasp with the last bit of air in your lungs.
"Hmm. You want to stop now? What a shame. Disappointing to get so close."
You shake your head in protest. Something wet drips from your nose and you taste salt on your lips. He takes measure of you again.
Extremely elevated. A frantic, panicked drumming.
"Making you wait no longer seems to be having a… calming effect," he concedes. "You want to move? You need to fuck yourself on my cock?"
You feel his sadistic grin appear, hearing his lips curl into a sneer. You try to picture the expression in your mind, distracted slightly by the insistent twinge between your legs.
"I suppose I will have to help you," he continues without waiting for a reply. "And when I say help, I mean… do all the work for you."
He sighs but this time without disdain or disappointment, happy to play with his dumbstruck rag doll regardless of how actively you can participate. Eager in fact to see just how far he can go and just how much you can take. Stubborn pride is a quality he understands, sometimes admires. But, it is such as an easy trait to take advantage of.
Awareness of your weight being shifted starts in your feet again, being rocked from heel to toe at that same steady pace. Your loud sigh is matched by the man in control of it as you both find relief, settling into a simple rhythm which chips away at the discomfort of the previous inertia. Still only taking a fraction of what he can give, you are overwhelmed by your need finally being met and in no time at all, you feel a coiling in your belly.
Moans and sobs are torn from your throat, hoarse with gratitude in the short time it takes for pleasure to consume you. It snaps through every muscle and nerve as you teeter over the edge, pushed closer as Papa escalates from cautiously sliding you down his length to letting you bounce a little in his lap. He lets himself go a little more, expletives and filthy grunts escaping as you wail for him and his hips occasionally bucking forward of their own accord.
Your body begins to work against him involuntarily as your orgasm takes hold, jerking and shuddering in his grasp. For the first time this evening, despite the tea and his hard work, you close around him fully as you climax, so hard it momentarily slows him down. However, either growing too inpatient for it to subside or needing more of you squeezing around his cock, he doesn't allow you any time to recover.
With your voice just reaching its highest pitch, before you can think about trying to catch your breath, Primo pulls you down on to him until your thighs almost touch and begins to thrust up into you with as much vigour as his body will allow. His hands move to your hips for better leverage, clawing into flesh as he buries himself in you. Even when lifted to be brought brutally back down, his cock remains seated unnaturally deep. The only range in feeling now is from uncomfortably full to being impaled, all of which feels like it might tear you open from the inside out.
Just as you worry that your incessant whining, dangerously close to screaming, may slow him down, you manage to use what little air you can breathe in to call out to him.
"Fuck, Papa!"
He acknowledges it with a rumbling groan. Roughly tugging on your waist to slam you down, you crash into hip bone with a slap of skin on skin. He chokes on his own sob, the feeling of being completely enveloped for the first time in even distant memory breaking him in a way neither of you expect.
Remaining motionless for even a moment is agonising so, as Primo's ability to continue inflicting his will slips, you make use of this new freedom, rolling and winding your hips to your own rhythm. As his energy dwindles, each moan coming out weaker and more strained, yours is renewed along with a brazen confidence being stoked by Papa's encouragement. You find his hands and place one over your heart and push the other further down your stomach.
"Satanas," he barks as you find a faster pace, sliding easily up and down part of his length.
His fingers fall between your thighs, enough for you to use them to rub against. They twitch, trying to touch you properly with absentminded strokes but remain unfocused as he jolts and spasms beneath you. The concerted effort it takes to spread your sticky arousal with his lazy fingers, hindered by his rapidly depleting energy as well as the way you writhe on him, only makes you more determined.
Safe in his clutches and with your body as accustomed to his size as possible, you meet his erratic, shallow thrusts as much as you can and as hard your tiring muscles will allow. It is enough to wind Papa each time you sink down into him but his flexing fingers and increasingly fragile gasps tell you not to stop. His own heart now trying to burst from his chest, he lets out a languid cry as he feels himself leaking inside you, his girth and you clenching hard, narrowing around it keeping it in place to completely coat his tip.
Primo had learned long ago it was best not to expect anything from his aging body. Either with a partner or without, he was quite content and grateful for any pleasure he could find, and had many different ways to define and measure it. Time had taught him what experience should have, and humbled him into accepting that ejaculation as an end goal was just not feasible. An orgasm without it is just as good and, whether or not he manages to produce anything to trickle out, he thanks Satan all the same.
But what he is feeling now is more than a trickle. In the heat of you and with the added lubrication, he shouldn't be able to tell, but he can and the usual slow build to a muted peak does not compare to what is currently brewing. You are in control now, and he is being dragged along for the ride to long forgotten heights.
With a few final gasps, the dam breaks and he feels a relative flood, but you either don't notice, or don't care. His body goes rigid as it focuses on producing a couple of weak, dribbling spurts, but you don't stop, lost in the way his cock twists and curves and burrows and so close to your own climax. It draws out his release more than he thought possible and suddenly, shockingly, he is praying he can hold out a bit longer for you.
Nails biting down hard into your abdomen as he stutters in his chair help you get there, finding your own release soon after as intensely as you have ever felt it. A euphoric wail quickly breaks into exhausted whimpers, your body collapsing under the weight of it. As soon as it starts to fade, your muscles scream to remind you of the punishment they have been put through. You lean back on to Papa who is only slightly more lucid but thankfully can muster the strength to pull you into a sort of cradling embrace.
Unfortunately, as aftershocks and adrenaline calms, his softening cock gently kicking inside you becomes too uncomfortable for you both and, with considerable difficulty, he helps you stand and pulls himself out. You groan at the sudden the emptiness and, when he guides you to sit on his lap, a hollow, pulsating ache takes over.
He runs his hands down your shoulders through a sheen of sweat, not seeming to mind that you might be falling asleep on his chest. One comes to rest around your neck, now well practiced in finding the pulse point, even as it weakens. You listen to his heartbeat starting to mellow and you nuzzle into his robes, a wry smile forming as you sit in the evidence of how much you both enjoyed yourselves.
You could not say when you might feel able to walk or stand again and, although you do wonder how he feels being trapped under you, neither of you can really do much about it. Not able to keep your eyes open any longer, you cling to him and hope that he lets you stay like this for a while. You let the gentle rise and fall of his chest and the whistling wind outside lull you to sleep.
You wake some time later, eyes too tired to open, suddenly aware of the low tone of Papa's voice. He doesn't sound like he is talking to you and, the more you try to listen, the harder your head pounds. Sensing that there is someone else in the room standing over you, you should try to sit up or at least see who it is, but even thinking about it is too draining to continue.
Multiple pairs of hands take hold of you and you are gently lifted from Papa's lap, you think by at least two people. They carry you, plodding gingerly in an attempt not to disturb you too much, into an adjacent room. You mutter in confusion but they ignore you, placing you to sit on the edge of what feels like a firm mattress.
Still dazed, you manage to open your eyes to be met with the unsettling stare of a ghoul holding an open bottle of water up to your mouth. You try to take it but they instead help you take a few gulps as the other ghoul turns down the sheets. They both help you under a quilt and tuck you in and, apparently unsure how to wish you goodnight, one settles for an awkward pat on the head.
One of them points to the supplies on the bedside table: the half-empty bottle of water, some painkillers and a couple of individually wrapped biscuits are the only items you can make out. They nod to each other and head towards the door after switching off a nearby lamp. In the pitch black, ready for a well-earned rest, you're asleep again before the door creaks shut.
Thank you for reading! <3 Reblogs super appreciated!
It had all started with the sounds in the attic. The people in town had warned you about the vermin - racoons, squirrels, possums. It was an old house, and you chalked up you're increased anxiety to the isolation and the fact your property loomed over an abandoned graveyard. But it was cheap, a fixer-upper you could make your own mark on.
Then food started going missing. Snack at first, and you just assumed it was just due to not paying enough attention to your own eating habits, but then bigger things started disappearing. Half a loaf of bread, leftovers you remembered saving, cans of tuna.
And the noises were getting louder too - how big were raccoons? You'd never actually seen one in real life, but whatever was in your attic sounded huge. You thought you caught something moving out of the corner of your eye, shadows of shadows, the flash of eyes, a leering presence from the closet, the basement, never there when you turned on the light.
And now, as the cold truly sank in and an angry mix of snow and ice pelted the windows, you woke to a heavy weight at the foot of your bed.
At first the shape was almost formless, your eyes unused to the dark, but slowly, details rose to the surface. A long coat, tattered and dusty. A pair of pointed black ears, perched on top of a mass of equally dark hair, leaves and twigs tangled in the curls. A thin, black tail, it's tip draped over a pale face. A dark splotch - a birthmark? a burn? - creeping over the right side, circling the closed eye. And then they snapped open, catching the light eerily, the left a sickly yellow, the right red.
You screamed, and so did he, scrambling off of the bed and into a corner, all long limbs and sharp teeth. He hissed, hair standing on edge, before he skittered into the closet. You heard a scuffle, and then the sound again, tumbling across your ceiling, back into the attic, before falling silent.
You stared at your closet, then cursed, kicking off your blankets. Why the fuck couldn't it have been raccoons?
It had all started with the sounds in the attic. The people in town had warned you about the vermin - racoons, squirrels, possums. It was an old house, and you chalked up you're increased anxiety to the isolation and the fact your property loomed over an abandoned graveyard. But it was cheap, a fixer-upper you could make your own mark on.
Then food started going missing. Snack at first, and you just assumed it was just due to not paying enough attention to your own eating habits, but then bigger things started disappearing. Half a loaf of bread, leftovers you remembered saving, cans of tuna.
And the noises were getting louder too - how big were raccoons? You'd never actually seen one in real life, but whatever was in your attic sounded huge. You thought you caught something moving out of the corner of your eye, shadows of shadows, the flash of eyes, a leering presence from the closet, the basement, never there when you turned on the light.
And now, as the cold truly sank in and an angry mix of snow and ice pelted the windows, you woke to a heavy weight at the foot of your bed.
At first the shape was almost formless, your eyes unused to the dark, but slowly, details rose to the surface. A long coat, tattered and dusty. A pair of pointed black ears, perched on top of a mass of equally dark hair, leaves and twigs tangled in the curls. A thin, black tail, it's tip draped over a pale face. A dark splotch - a birthmark? a burn? - creeping over the right side, circling the closed eye. And then they snapped open, catching the light eerily, the left a sickly yellow, the right red.
You screamed, and so did he, scrambling off of the bed and into a corner, all long limbs and sharp teeth. He hissed, hair standing on edge, before he skittered into the closet. You heard a scuffle, and then the sound again, tumbling across your ceiling, back into the attic, before falling silent.
You stared at your closet, then cursed, kicking off your blankets. Why the fuck couldn't it have been raccoons?
I've made a new drawing, but I can't post the full picture on this hellsite otherwise it's going to hide it with its stupid content warning. It isn't anything graphic, but it is suggestive (so I wouldn't open it in front of my coworkers lmao).
You can find the full thing on my instagram (same @ as here), but here's a couple of snippets 🫶
•
Here's a bit of lore behind this drawing (from its description on IG):
It seems like Frater Imperator has recovered well from his little accident with the truck! With a generous amount of physiotherapy he became even more flexible, and he also decided to use the recovery time to grow back his mustache and sideburns 🤭
