Sessine/Bastion painplay

Originally posted on Tumblr in response to an Ask about their physical relationship.

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Pain cut through him, and Bastion opened his eyes. He jerked a hand to the torc around his neck. The silver ring on his right index finger clinked against it with a sad little report, like a blind child rattling an alms box.

“What do you want?” he hissed at his bedroom, cringing. Had he been in a dream? Impressions of yellow eyes twinkled at the periphery of his consciousness but reality was dark. Reassuringly so. His bedroom window was still black against his black walls, the moon a memory. Late still. Night. So black. Reality smothered in inky plumage. She was here with him but she was always here with him. Closer to him than the shadows between his naked toes.

The pain in his neck crept into his chest. It was a First Silver wire, fine, sterile, and utterly out of his control. His heart beat against it, and then with it, somehow. A clattering arrhythmia that made him breathless. He imagined the filament candy-striping around his aorta.

“Are you killing me at last?” he challenged, “That’s fine, but couldn’t it have waited for morning? Whatever has upset you, I didn’t do it.”

His temples pounded. The wire was behind his navel now but the hurt had gone. Now it was a hot and coiled pressure, like a fat dick plunged further up his ass even than that modified Plat prostitute he’d had in Yeardly last year on his twenty-first birthday, when he’d been drunk as a Sharte and susceptible to a double dog dare. Bastion flexed his abdomen around the unnatural lump and kicked off the coverlet. Hooked fingers reached for the pressure but it shrank from them, descended like a startled fish, fled, hid. His heart was hammering so hard his head swam too. Every pump blasted blood into his cock, inflating it against his thigh and calling it to service.

Inside his skull he demanded: What are you doing?! But she wasn’t interested in conversation there either.

Instead his prick tingled, burned, and bullied a shout out of him! Bastion gripped it for dear life, as if the Lady planned to take it. He nervously worked his thumb into his foreskin, squinted down at its shining, cherry-red extremity, confused. A bead of black squeezed free, skittered off the head, then rolled onto his fist like some fleeing insect.

Bastion swallowed hard. Now he knew what was coming. Familiar pleasure melted his middle; a woozy, artificial cascade of unspecific, unnatural ecstasy. The Lady’s wires petted him from the inside, trilled the small of his back, massaged the inside of his ass. Long red fingers rolled phantom balls. By the gods they’d been gone for months but here they were, somewhere, somehow. Soul balls?

“All right,” he groaned, torn between throwing up and climaxing. Maybe he’d come from both ends at once. “All right, you-”

Pain! At'gwe, the pain!

From the direction of his bladder, a hard Silver filament punched through the softness of his untried urethra! Bastion shot his ass from the bed and dug his heels into the tick, arching almost ninety degrees. He yelped loud enough to startle a lazing keddy in the alley outside. The old woman in the flat upstairs stomped the floor. Bastion gibbered helplessly. Another bulb of pressure made a fist around his prostate and he fucked the air, cracked lips framing an idiot rictus. Sweat stuck his hair in his eyes but all he saw was the Lady behind them anyway, shushing him, laughing, coaxing his nervous system to an indecipherable frenzy of pleasure and agony.

He came in a black geyser. It hit the black window on his black wall. He’d tell the cleaning lady he’d grown frustrated and thrown his writing ink again. Oh, to be a temperamental young spellwright. He worked too hard! He needed a holiday!

Look, Lady Ilganyag invited. He opened his eyes.

Bastion blearily blinked at his twitching dick and spied a silver shoot. It was thin as a strand of infant hair, growing from the end of him. From outside, faint city starlight just barely separated it from the darkness. The wet of his thin black cum made it glimmer a little brighter. It pierced the naked air, absurd and obscene.

“Don’t,” he warned, trying to sound cross, but he couldn’t catch his breath around his flip-flopping heart. The word was more like a whore’s moan. The Lady wasn’t listening anyway. Without ceremony the Silver shoot disappeared into him again, and he swore he heard it sizzle. Then it returned in a spray of black ejaculate nearly putting out one of his eyes! Then again!

Again!

Again!

Up and down it sawed his tender passage like a wire through cheese or a pin through a moth. His cock screamed, unable to soften. It was going to split open like a flower and make a stain he wouldn't be able to explain away.

It was too much! He twisted his fist around the agony, the universe reduced to a searing, boiling, unrelenting torture! He rolled in a sweaty heap, spitting and kicking.

Yes, she was killing him at last.

By turns she was a piston pumping; but then the invader grew shy as a spider’s leg, reaching slowly from his bladder to the empty air and then down again, back and forth, thrashing a moment before diving again. Desperate, Bastion tried to grab the slippery strand with his free hand. At his touch it burnt him; burnt his brain somehow, and he rocked back onto his pillow seeing yellow eyes.

It wouldn’t stop. He thought of other times he’d not been able to escape or make it stop. But had that been him? No, that had happened to someone else, hadn’t it?

He thought he would go insane or weep.

But then, thankfully, she was done. Some unvoiced point had been made, or some caprice of curiosity satisfied. The silver shoot coiled again inside of him. His sorry prick lay like a raw piece of red gore on his belly. As if in apology, a switch flipped in Bastion’s brain, and bliss rose in him like one of Delicieu’s old pleasure potions. Every tense muscle fiber flopped away from his bones. His skin tingled and his head danced. Everything was warm and safe and happy as he died. Dead, limp, buzzing with orgasm. He couldn't even remember the pain.

That was sounding, Lady Ilganyag said after a while. It took Bastion a few moments to remember language.

“You... are supposed to come at it... from the other direction.”

He could feel her thinking; analyzing the words. He imagined her cocking her head and favouring him with that smile; that beautiful, intoxicating smile that had damned him.

I UNsounded you, then, Lady Ilganyag decided. A clucky little chuckle followed, like a chicken very amused with itself. She left. Bastion’s body was his own again, and he promptly fell into a hot and dreamless sleep.