A belated offering for the first day of @/billfordecade, combining both prompts of "Dreams" and "Worship." This ~500 word fragment is unrebloggable by design, a look-but-don't-touch situation. NSFW. See below the cut.
Bill's eye blinks and then a maw opens up in its place, a chasm full of teeth that Stanford knows he should flinch at, but doesn't. He does shudder as the tongue sloshes out of Bill's eye-mouth, thick and gleaming with silvery saliva. It looks monstrous, exactly the right kind of monstrous. Gorgeous.
WELL? says Bill, voice somewhere near his right ear. The mouth doesn't move, only lets the tongue continue to loll.
“W-well,” Stanford parrots back stupidly. His hands are shaking: half from nerves, half from desperate restraint. “I. Oh, god.”
SURE, IF YOU REALLY WANT! The chuckle echoes. And Stanford...does. Does want.
“OH. Oh. My. ...I. Are you...?” The trembling of his fingers is approaching unbearable now. He takes a steadying breath that does no good at all, and then forces the words out in spite of it. “You're...accustomed to being worshiped, Bill?”
The echoes haven't died, haven't even faded. Stanford feels it would be very easy to get lost in Bill's laughs. I'VE SEEN MY FAIR SHARE, I.Q.! NOT TOO RECENTLY, BY YOUR STANDARDS. Then, his voice turns—sultry, impossible. I COULD REALLY APPRECIATE A NEW ROUND, STANFORD.
This makes sense, of course; the cave paintings…there's a hand against his inseam.
So intent upon the voice in his ear, upon the rush of adrenaline and discovery, he'd forgotten to watch the body in front of him. (Not a body so much as a construct, apparently, but tangible, thrilling nonetheless.) The hand is too small; Stanford wonders briefly what it hopes to accomplish. Then its fingers curl and lengthen, thickening into claws, and the wicked things settle right on the bulge of his crotch.
WHADD’YA SAY?
There's a careful moment of hush. He draws in a breath, wets his lips. “O, my Muse.”
The words slip out as naturally as breathing. Strange, how easy, and wonderful. He shivers, already fevered warm. “O, my God.”
To taunt his lurching heart further, the claws dig in by infinitesimal degrees, maddening, a calculated pressure. “Y-you honor me with your attention,” he stammers, and Bill hums wryly in his ear. “Beyond words. I-I…oh!”
The claws have begun to drag their points against the hardening in his trousers.
THAT’S A GOOD START, KID. WHY DON’T YOU GO AHEAD AND LET ME HONOR YOU FURTHER, HUH?
His belt buckle undoes itself.
Stanford needs no further invitation. He sucks in another deep breath, unsteady hands going to paw at his fly, already desperate to get it open. He's clumsy, but at last—!
THEEERE'S A GOOD LITTLE CHOSEN ONE, Bill croons, and as Stanford's stomach flips over, the construct takes his already-throbbing dick into its hideous, heavenly jaws. The tongue, ribbon-like, wraps around his entirety. He feels a flickering sensation against his skin, smooth and erratic at once, and thinks of a python tasting the air. He wonders if the aspect Bill is pleasuring him with can taste anything. Then, with a strange, insistent tug that sends a shudder all the way into his hips, the tongue pulls his dick fully inside the eye-mouth and down its…throat?
Bill giggles in time with Stanford's stuttered, protracted moan. WELL. NOT SO LITTLE, ARE YOU, SMART GUY?