Want someone to force a dildo that is way too big inside my ass but in a soothing yet sadistic way.
They softly cooing at me, telling me that it's alright and that I can take it. Hugging me and giving me breaks when I start crying that it's too big and it won't fit. But at the same time they don't stop, they're there for me and comforting me but I'm not in control, they want it in and it's going in no matter how long it takes.
Want to be helpless, needy and a mess for them.
"yes baby, it's going to hurt but you can take it"
"deep breaths puppy, let's wait a moment before I keep pushing"
"no no no puppy, you can take, you will take"
"relax your body darling, relax and let me push it in"
"shh shh, good boy, you want a break or I can keep pushing? No no, we won't be taking it out, it's going inside boy, you want a break or not?"
Adrenalin is the only thing keeping you on your feet, and desperation is the only thing maintaining your course. The path between the trees is packed hard, and dry, and the force of your footfalls sends a cloud of beige dust in your wake. You might be at peak physical fitness, but you're pushing too close to your limits.
Your lover wheezes for breath in your arms, limp and grey, teetering on the knife edge between life and death. You don't dare slow your pace. Without a free hand to wipe it away, you have to make do with blinking the sweat out of your eyes as it trickles steadily from your hairline.
You've never seen anything like the beast that attacked you both, and stuck your lover with a venom-tipped spine, and you still haven't processed exactly how you managed to get away from it. But the venom quickly disabled your partner, and in an instant you knew that there was only one being near enough to save their life.
Doctor Strauss was not a man you went to unless the situation was dire: in fact, he was not exactly a man at all. From a short distance he might be mistaken for one, but on closer inspection his dark, narrow eyes, yellowish complexion, and pointed teeth, gave away his not-quite-human identity.
You've dealt with him on a few occasions now. *Fought* him twice - narrowly escaping in both encounters. He seems to have developed a worrying interest in you. An *intense* interest. A visible appetite in his obsidian eyes, when he looks at you. You don't know what it is he wants, and you could quite happily live the rest of your life without ever finding out.
But now you need his help.
This is the last resort, but as you approach the grey stone building, your lover's eyes roll back in their head, and you strengthen your resolve; there's nothing you won't do to save their life.
You kick at the solid oak door until it's wrenched open angrily by the doctor.
“What-?” He snarls, starting slightly when he recognises your face, and tilting his head to the side in sudden curiosity.
“We were attacked,” you pant, lungs burning from the exertion of your journey. “Please, help.”
Strauss’s expression brightens, and it doesn't soothe you at all.
“In,” he commands, stepping aside and gesturing towards a metal table in the centre of the room.
You step past him and lay your unconscious partner on the table as delicately as possible, then pull up their shirt to reveal where the creature had stabbed.
“It was some huge scorpion-looking thing,” you explain as the doctor peers at the wound.
“Brown? Or black?” Strauss asked, without looking up.
“Brown. With purple streaks. Bigger than a horse.” You watch his hands, wincing as too-long fingers make contact with your lover's exposed skin. Their breath is shallow, laboured. “Can you save them?”
Doctor Strauss turns around to face you, too close, looming a good four inches over you, a slow smile drawing his thin lips up at the corners.
“Of course I can,” he replies. “But are you willing to pay the price?”
You swallow down your hesitation.
“I have eight gold coins on me, and I can get my hands on another twenty when I get to the village over the river.”
“I don't want your gold,” the doctor tells you, shaking his head and leaning into your space.
“What do you want?” you ask, fighting to keep the nervousness out of your voice as his hungry eyes burn into your own.
“You have fae ancestry,” he whispers, his breath smells of earth and rain. “*Regal* fae ancestry.” He raises a hand and grips your jaw, leaning down to sniff your throat before you pull away.
You take a couple of steps back, close to losing your composure. This isn't the first time someone has told you you had fae ancestors - but you have no more power than any other regular human adventurer. You don't see why it should be a big deal.
In the silence, your attention is drawn back to the strained wheezing of your beloved, dying on the table.
“Just tell me what you want. You want blood? Fae blood for your potions? Take it! Just- please, do something!”
Strauss’s expression goes hard.
“Swear to me. Swear on the magic of your ancestors, that you will give me whatever I ask.”
The body on the table draws one last rasping breath, and goes still.
“I swear!” you shout. “I swear on my ancestors, I swear I will do anything! Please! Please help them!”
He moves with inhuman speed, snatching bottles and vials and boxes like he has more than two arms. He works with his back to you, but you see flashes of light reflect off the wall, and hear the fizz of reagents combining, a metallic smell that fills the room makes you think of blood and rust.
In less than a minute, he has a potion prepared in a wooden bowl, and applies it without any effort at gentleness, directly to the wound.
“This will be unpleasant. We must tie the patient down.” He begins attaching cuffs to your lover's wrists and ankles. You hadn't even noticed them dangling from the corners of the table until now.
“Why?” you ask, hope and distrust warring in your mind.
“Flushing out the venom is not a pain free process.”
And sure enough, your lover's eyes fly open, and a scream escapes their throat.
You rush to comfort them, pour out soothing words, and stroke their face as they thrash against the restraints.
It's all over in less than five minutes, and both you and your injured love are exhausted and tearful.
“It's time for you to make payment.” Strauss says, his voice flat.
Groggily, your lover turns to you, eyes half lidded, but surprisingly lucid.
“Payment?” they ask. “What have you agreed to?”
“Don't worry about it,” you insist, not willing to admit that you have no idea *what* you've agreed to.
“Come,” Strauss beckons you through a door, deeper into the building.
“Don't!” Your rapidly recovering love tugs against the restraints, shaking their head.
You hesitate.
“I should have informed you,” Strauss is saying, his demeanour darkening. “That antivenom I administered is, itself, fatal.”
You glare at him in horror.
“It will do its job, and then require neutralisation. Two hours. You have two hours to fulfill your end of the bargain. Come this way, please.” Then he disappears through the door.
You start towards the door, but stop at the sound of your lover's voice.
“What does he want?”
“I don't know,” you reply, honestly. “But whatever it is, I have to give it to him.” Then you go through the door before you lose your resolve.
*
This must be where Strauss lives. It is definitely a living area, dirty and untidy, but lived in.
And Strauss isn't here.
There's another door, between a table piled high with ancient looking books and stacks of paper, and a bookcase full of mystical looking artifacts; gems, and skulls, and twisted pieces of metal.
You push the door open and enter a bedchamber. Strauss is waiting for you. He's changed out of the filthy smock, and into a long, thick robe.
“Are you going to tell me what it is that you want?” You ask, although, deep down inside, you fear you already know.
Strauss seems to glide across the room towards you. His arm sweeps up and around until his fingers grasp the back of your head, and he brings his face in close.
“I want two hours of *you*,” he states in a voice so low it practically vibrates. “Two hours of your body. To explore it inside and out.”
That earthy breath diffuses into your mouth and nostrils, and you want to punch him in the gut, beat him to the ground, choke him until that breath is nothing but a bad memory.
But you can't.
To do that would sentence to death the only person in the whole world who matters to you. You have to do this.
“Fine,” you say, looking anywhere but at him.
He makes a noise that sounds like a growl, and then his lips are touching yours. It doesn't feel like a kiss, and you wonder if a creature like this has ever experienced a real kiss. You certainly won't be the one to educate him on the matter.
His tongue comes out and licks your lower lip, then he sucks it between his own lips, those pointy little teeth pressing in just hard enough to leave indents.
You don't realise you're holding your breath until he steps back and you can suddenly breathe again.
“Take off your clothes,” he commands.
Reluctantly, you comply, keeping your eyes cast downwards.
Standing naked in front of him is the most vulnerable and exposed you've ever felt in your life. You can't help but flinch as he roughly grabs your flaccid cock.
“I see more than you,” he is murmuring as he squeezes your flesh. “I see the remains of ancient magic; little… *flecks* of purity. They dance across the surface of your skin.” He loosens his grip, and strokes your cock with unexpected tenderness. His free hand slides upwards from your abdomen, arching left towards a nipple.
You grimace in dismay as his ministrations trigger your arousal, and you close your eyes out of sheer defiance.
More fingers creep down, under your ball sack, massaging your testicles, warming them.
Something feels wrong, and it takes you far too long to work out what it is.
Too many hands.
You open your eyes and look down.
Tentacles.
Strauss’s robe hangs open, and a mass of dark purple tentacles are pouring forth. It's impossible to tell where they are even coming out of him.
You cry out and manage to take one small step backwards before thick ropes of muscular flesh immobilise your limbs. Your arms are yanked up above your head, and legs pulled apart.
Panic sets in and you struggle, although your efforts are utterly fruitless.
A thinner tentacle, the width of a spear handle, curls around the back of your neck, then along your jaw, and you clamp your mouth closed a moment before you feel the smooth, sticky texture against your lips. There's a wet sensation as slick secretions are smeared around your mouth, and the lubrication allows the tip to penetrate between your lips. You try to turn your head away as it probes between them. The muscle tightens against your jaw until you're forced to open your mouth, and it plunges inside.
It has no taste, but the sensation of it against your tongue is rubbery, and as it forces itself deeper into your throat you gag and choke.
Somehow, you are aware of Strauss moaning with pleasure. You wonder if he can feel each tentacle individually, and you whimper around the thick muscle as it pulses and thrusts in your throat. Saliva builds in your mouth, and you try to swallow, your throat muscles squeezing the thick hard flesh violating it.
“Yes,” Strauss groans. “Oh yes. I feel it inside you. The potential. The light. I need more.”
The hand on your cock has been replaced with another of the thinner tentacles, wound around the length of it. The squeezing and pulling, coupled with the oozing slick, coaxes a miserable erection from you, and your body gives an involuntary thrust into the sensation, releasing the first few drops of precum.
What feels like a finger circles your cock head, spreading the slippery juice, probing under your foreskin. You can't help a nervous glance down to confirm your fear that it isn't a finger: a small tentacle, the thickness of your middle finger teasing circles around your glands, then sweeping up and pressing against your meatus. Then pressing a little more insistently.
You try to speak, to get the word ‘no’ out, but the tentacle filling your throat is an effective gag, so you can only watch in horror as the tip of the tentacle wiggles until it breaks into your urethra. Pain and pleasure at the same time threaten to drive you insane. More and more of the muscly flesh sinks into your cock, and you only grow harder for it. Your eyes widening as you realise you can feel it up inside your bladder, with an urgent need to piss.
“You practically *burn* with magic inside,” Strauss gasps. “So much, so much…”
Burning is the right word. Your piss hole is burning, throbbing. You pitifully hope you aren't going to be permanently damaged by this - if you even survive it at all.
It is with far more chagrin, than surprise, that you register movement under your balls, and multiple tentacles testing your anal sphincter. But you know better than to fight the inevitable, and instead settle for sobbing around the tentacle fucking your throat, as you are invaded in a third hole.
The stretch hurts, and there must be at least three fighting their way into your ass. You feel them wriggling in different directions. One of them squeezes against your prostate and you can't help moaning, your own cock throbbing around its new inhabitant.
More tentacles join the ones already filling your ass, and your hole stretches further to accommodate them. You feel the flesh reaching deeper inside you, searching for that magic Strauss seems so obsessed with.
You look down and see the movement through the skin of your abdomen.
“It's like bathing in ancient power,” Strauss sighs. “I need more.”
Two more tentacles slide across your face, squirming into your mouth, as the first begins thrusting deep and hard into your throat.
The thrusting is echoed in your cock, with the finger-like tentacle slipping halfway out, and then pistoning back in again, striking the wall of your bladder with each thrust.
The tentacles in your ass are less coordinated, each one pounding in and out with its own rhythm, slipping and sliding over each other, bashing your prostate incessantly. Tears stream down your face.
You're going to cum.
Psychologically, you desperately don't want to - you don't want any of this. To have an orgasm now would be like admitting you are enjoying this violation.
But physically; there is only so much stimulation you can take before it is inevitable. Trying to fight it is too hard, too exhausting.
You sob and moan around your fleshy gags, desperately trying to pull enough air in through your nose.
Strauss must realise what is happening.
“Yes, that's it, let it happen. Release it to me.”
The force of the climax blacks out your vision, and you let your head fall back. Your entire abdomen and groin seem to convulse, and the orgasm goes on and on. You fearfully wonder what is happening to your cum, if it can't escape, but it feels so good that the fear becomes irrelevant.
As you slowly regain control of your senses, you feel the tentacles begin to move a little slower. Almost like a relaxing, internal massage, but pointedly *not* leaving.
Strauss’s actual hands are on your face now, directing your attention back to him. You begrudgingly open your eyes, and he is smiling at you. He strokes your hair.
One of my fuck buddies is a sixty-something year-old man, totally out of shape, but comes across relatively wealthy (fancy shoes).
We meet at the same hotel (he pays) every time we have a session.
I like to meet him in the foyer, and insist on coffee before we go to his room. And I deliberately dress like an absolute slut. I know I'm good looking, fit, and way out of his league.
I want everyone who sees us to suspect that he's paying me for sex. I like to imagine I'm being paid for it, too. Turns me on so much.
You awaken to the sound of a girl whimpering and moaning. You open your eyes, and blink to clear them in the warm glow of the standing lamp.
You are on a bed, naked, propped up on pillows, with your legs spread and bent at the knees.
I spare you a knowing smile before returning my attention to the other girl, tied in the same position as you, but at the other end of the next bed over.
I moved to one side so you can see clearly what I'm doing; stroking the inside of her wet, swollen cunt, with two fingers.
It's only when you see the gag she's biting down on, that you realise you are also gagged.
I finger her faster and deeper - I've been playing with her for a while, and I'm about ready to move on. She throws her head back as I pinch her clit between the thumb and forefinger of my other hand. I pull her clit up and out, stretching it, and exposing her shining vulva. I check that you're watching, before I thrust a third finger in, stroking upwards, like I'm beckoning her orgasm.
Her whimpers turn desperate, and she closes her eyes. I feel her heat swelling against my fingers, close to climax despite the rough way I'm yanking on her clit.
I let you see the first spurt of fluid shoot out, before diving down to clamp my lips against her, drinking in the sweet, sharp ejaculate as she cries out through the gag.
I suckle the orgasm out of her, draining her pleasure, and feeling her life-force replenish my own. I absorb her youth and energy, de-aging by at least ten years, as her body ages and goes limp.
The process works just as well when I fuck, but I've come to prefer doing it this way.
I stand up from the bed, and check the mirror opposite: I could probably pass for forty now.
I turn to you with a smile, licking what remains of the other girl's wetness from my lips.
You try to shuffle away, but I've tied you down well. Your legs look firm with muscle, but they're no match for the stainless steel spreader bar between your ankles.
Your eyes are full of fear, but your darkening, dribbling cunt betrays your arousal.
I give you a devious grin before lowering my face between your legs.
imagine fucking your fave’s ass from behind (with a cock or strapon) while they have a full bladder. Halfway through, they gasp that they really have to go. You keep thrusting, leaning to murmur in their ear.
“Piss yourself for me?”
They moan. They’re near bursting. They can’t hold on much longer, and they know it. So they agree, as clearly as they can in their current condition.
Your fave tries to let go, but instinctively clenches up to stop pee from escaping. They’re shaking desperately by now, more aroused then ever, genitals squeezing helplessly, ass tightening up. Just then, the angle shifts and you thrust pushing hard against their bladder. That does it. With a little choked whimper, they let go and piss all over themselves and the bed.
The stream seems to go on forever, with you relentlessly fucking their clenched ass all through. When the piss eventually slows to a trickle and stops, you touch their back softly and whisper about how good they’ve been for you. Then you slip your hand down to their sopping crotch and get them off. They come shuddering in a puddle of their own piss.
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