Not Prepared
Author: Ranat
License: Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 license. You are allowed to share and make derivative works if you attribute the work to the author.
Note From the Author
More transcription of scrawls from the old piano notebook. I never finished this as a continuous piece, skipping to writing the scenes that were pulling me harder. I decided not to finish it, and put it here as is, pretty much unedited.
The Porn
He is not prepared.
Not prepared to be yanked by his hair and thrown to the floor. Stunned on his hands and knees, he looks up under his arm, sees his assailant. He's breathing fast, through his mouth. There's barely enough time to process before there's wood, old, unyielding wood closing around his wrists, yanked up around his neck, catching on the bobbing knot in his throat, locking around him. There's a heavy click, then a snap. Then there's rope, yielding but not enough, around his ankles, between, fed under him through an eye in the board locked around his wrists– tightening, demanding, pulling his chest down to his knees, his heels under his tailbone. Then wrapped, slipped through, secured. He's breathing hard.
His captor moves out of sight, and there's the cold kiss of metal above his kidney. He whimpers as his clothes are cut away.
Eventually he closes his eyes because the sensation of sight is too much to bear.
The backs of nails whisper up the bottom of his cheeks to his hips, then the edges lightly dragged down again. Then a kiss, on each cheek.
A hand rummages between his thighs, pushing through, caging his balls, finding the softness of his cock, working them through, stretched tight by his thighs. The tip of his penis cradled between his achilles tendons. A caress on the tightened skin of his scrotum, hairs sensitive.
Then a slap on his left cheek, harder, harder, harder, again, again, again, a hand fists tight around his cock as it swells, straining against it as he gasps; moans and bites his lip as the heat spreads, deepens, impact almost turning into an itch, becoming harder and harder to bear. His erection fights, trying to move against the angle, the caging fist, and it can't.
He grunts when it stops, all the nerves along his back humming in lines.
The presence behind him moves, starts spanking the other cheek, but starts more slowly, building gradually, until there is a steady, deep heat thrumming to the bone. A sigh slithers out of him when it ends, part regret, part relief. His cock twitches, thick and trapped between his heels.
Fingers work under the lip of the plug stretching his ass, pull, and he groans as he stretches around the flare. There's no fingering, no testing, just the head of something being being pushed relentlessly in, and he revels in the feeling of being filled for no other reason than he is there to be filled, gasping, twitching as the hand twists it in. When he is tight and snug and stretched, it stops. He can feel his cock dripping down the arch of his foot.
Hands palm his body, the sting of his ass, the back of his thigh, his hip, his knee, his shoulder blades, his eyes, his mouth. He sees the clothes pins, knows where they will go.
Fingers wiggle between his chest and his knees, find the nubs of his nipples, let the mouths of the clothespins bite in. He moans, rocks. The pressure against his legs against his chest eases the piercing pain.
"Yellow," he gasps. The blows stop, and there's a pause. "Nipples," he gets out. Legs straddle him, weight on his back. Fingers reach around and press the edges of the pins together, pulling them away and he chokes a dry, not-quite-sob before the fingers come in and press his nipples against his chest.
The weight on his back soothes him, pressing him down into the ground. His shaking eases after the pain. When he is still, after a few moments the fingers give an experimental twist. A hot, high, breathy sound comes out of him. The fingers massage, then tug. Then a thumb bites down against the knuckle of a forefinger, compressing, harder, harder, and he yells, jerking beneath the weight. The hand insists, holding the pressure as he twists, groaning. When he subsides into fast, short moans, the fingers let him go. They find his lips, go inside his teeth, and find his tongue, pinching it and gently and drawing it out. One clothespin goes on each side, pressing against the corners of his mouth.
A hand buries in his hair, pulling his head back, forcing the curve of his throat against the wood.
The low, steady burr of a vibrator. A thumb and forefinger push his foreskin back, and the vibrator touches his slit. He makes a sound like a screech, but continuing, building like the drone of a car. Massaging the head in slow, relentless circles, until its unbearable, unbearable, and he comes, his ass contracting around the shaft inside him. He feels come spurt slowly down the soles of his feet. His back spasms, pulling him against himself. He feels a hand settle on the handle of the shaft and start thrusting it in and out, and the vibrator presses against the hard spot behind his balls, too much sensation, splitting his mind open.
He is gibbering, hands grasping for air, rocking because he can't move to get away from the overload. The vibrator travels up, traces the wet ring of his anus, moves under his tailbone and trails up his spine to press against the base of his skull, rattling his brain.
There is enough slack to crawl, and he looks up into the eyes, uncertain. They smile, and crook a finger.