Tin’s unusually rough tonight.
Fray is accustomed to the mod’s claws sinking into his skin, and to his sharp teeth bearing down onto the back of his neck or the meat of his shoulder. He’s okay with the occasional hair pull and finds a satisfaction in their kinky games that he would be hard-pressed to articulate.
Tonight, though, he’s having to recalibrate his understanding of what Tin will readily do. Bruises and claw-pricks line his throat, and he still feels lightheaded from his dwindled supply of oxygen. Tin has his legs bent, tied calf to thigh, and then maglocked to the softmetal straps that crisscross the cot. He’s come once already off the wand Tin has wedged between his legs, and has failed to remove. He might have come more, but he’s not sure. The intense vibration against his already overwhelmed nervous system fries every neuron that was not involved with the orgasm.
He has to use the safeword for the second-ever time after another two unrelenting minutes of pressure directly against his cunt. “Apple,” he chokes out, long after the initial overstimulation had lost any of its novelty or twisted enjoyment. “Apple, a-apple.”
Tin, whose eyes are on Fray’s hips, takes a long moment to respond, like he doesn’t hear him. Then one of those long ears flicks and he shakes himself, looking up. “Wha?”
“Apple!”
“Oh, shit,” Tin says with a rapid blink, and fumbles to pull the wand away. The motor dies with a whine, and Fray slumps, no longer fighting his restraints.