:) I thought I'd try and start this one out. So far, it's surprisingly fun. I don't know what that says about me. Critiques appreciated.
Ezio couldn't scream anymore.
He was past feeling the hard, cold stone under his knees, or the hot burn of the rope scraping away the skin of his wrists tied tight behind his back. He didn't feel how his shirt, torn down the front, was wet with sweat and come. Nor did he register the oil, slick and chilled, seeping out of him, running down his legs after each time it was applied to make it easier for the guards to ream him.
He no longer reacted to the heavy scent of the men's arousals, or the sharp tang of his own blood. He tuned out their grunting, their heavy breathing blowing hot across his face, or behind his ear, or over his back and shoulders depending on the man's position. There was no longer the taste of the men's fingers, the grime on their skin, or their semen that coated the inside of his mouth.
The only thing too difficult to ignore was the constant burning pain of being freshly torn apart after each new guard.
There were eight of them. Eight of them had taken Ezio ever which way: on his back, his knees, his stomach. They took him two at once, which was what was going on at the moment. But he could no longer scream. Not even when the guard behind him grabbed his hair, damp and sticky with various bodily liquids, and yanked. His back arched, knees spread, as he was pulled down sharply, the guard using the momentum to rise up and ram himself deeper into his teenage body. Ezio could only groan brokenly, his mouth stretched around another guard's cock, the skin soft and hot and heavy against his tongue.
But the man in front of him was barely hard. Most of them had been like that, clearly uncomfortable about being ordered to rape a teenage boy. They were only going through with it because disobeying orders was unthinkable. When a man was a guard for the Pazzi family, he fucking learned to obey. Most of them could barely get it up at all, but a few of them had their fill, enjoying the hell out of it. They took the time to draw out his suffering. Those were the ones that played with him through the whole ordeal, throughout their entire turn. They mocked his looks, taunted him with crude remarks. Their hands jacked his length roughly, trying to make him beg for it, before tearing into him.
As hard as he tried, after going through the motions so many times, he probably ended up begging.
For more.
To stop.
Please, anything.
He didn't know by then. He didn't know what he was yelling. After awhile, he simply stopped caring.
Fallen Brothers (1/?)
Ezio couldn't scream anymore.
He was past feeling the hard, cold stone under his knees, or the hot burn of the rope scraping away the skin of his wrists tied tight behind his back. He didn't feel how his shirt, torn down the front, was wet with sweat and come. Nor did he register the oil, slick and chilled, seeping out of him, running down his legs after each time it was applied to make it easier for the guards to ream him.
He no longer reacted to the heavy scent of the men's arousals, or the sharp tang of his own blood. He tuned out their grunting, their heavy breathing blowing hot across his face, or behind his ear, or over his back and shoulders depending on the man's position. There was no longer the taste of the men's fingers, the grime on their skin, or their semen that coated the inside of his mouth.
The only thing too difficult to ignore was the constant burning pain of being freshly torn apart after each new guard.
There were eight of them. Eight of them had taken Ezio ever which way: on his back, his knees, his stomach. They took him two at once, which was what was going on at the moment. But he could no longer scream. Not even when the guard behind him grabbed his hair, damp and sticky with various bodily liquids, and yanked. His back arched, knees spread, as he was pulled down sharply, the guard using the momentum to rise up and ram himself deeper into his teenage body. Ezio could only groan brokenly, his mouth stretched around another guard's cock, the skin soft and hot and heavy against his tongue.
But the man in front of him was barely hard. Most of them had been like that, clearly uncomfortable about being ordered to rape a teenage boy. They were only going through with it because disobeying orders was unthinkable. When a man was a guard for the Pazzi family, he fucking learned to obey. Most of them could barely get it up at all, but a few of them had their fill, enjoying the hell out of it. They took the time to draw out his suffering. Those were the ones that played with him through the whole ordeal, throughout their entire turn. They mocked his looks, taunted him with crude remarks. Their hands jacked his length roughly, trying to make him beg for it, before tearing into him.
As hard as he tried, after going through the motions so many times, he probably ended up begging.
For more.
To stop.
Please, anything.
He didn't know by then. He didn't know what he was yelling. After awhile, he simply stopped caring.