Browning the Sausage

Mercury’s breathing shifts closer to me in the dark. “You know,” he says conversationally, “I reckon me and you oughta celebrate proper. Maybe brown the sausage a little.” The phrase turns my stomach instantly. Trapped half inside solid rock, I can feel panic trying to claw its way back into control of my body.

The tunnel presses tightly against my ribs. I **** myself to keep my voice steady. “Mercury,” I say carefully, “if the others find us together, they’ll kill both of us.”

He snorts softly, “Ain’t scared’a Pluto.”

“You should be.” I swallow hard while trying to think past the fear. “You said yourself you hide up here. That means you already know what they’re like.” Silence follows for several seconds except for the scrape of stone against my overalls while he drags me deeper into the cramped passage.

Then Mercury laughs quietly again..“You real smart for city folk.”

“I’m serious,” I continue quickly. “You know these mines. You know how to get farther away from here. We could disappear before they even know where we went.” That part is a lie.

The first moment I see an opportunity, I fully intend to crack his skull open with a rock and run for my life, but Mercury does not need to know that. “You and me,” I continue carefully, forcing warmth into my voice through the disgust crawling beneath my skin, “we don’t have to stay here.”

Mercury goes quiet again. For one horrible moment I wonder if he sees through me completely. Then he chuckles softly in the darkness. “I might take you away,” he says. “But only if you let me brown the sausage first.” The tunnel suddenly feels even tighter around my body.

I stare into the darkness ahead of me while my pulse hammers violently in my ears. Every instinct screams at me to resist, but I am trapped inside solid rock with nowhere to move and nowhere to run. So I do the only thing survival has left for me. “Okay,” I whisper reluctantly. A moment passes, filled only with the sound of our breathing.

Then his hand finds mine in the dark, closing my fingers around him. He is already half-hard again, thick and slick with our mingled fluids. "Work it," he commands, his voice a low rasp against my temple. "Get me ready." His tone brooks no refusal. My hand moves on him, a clumsy, **** rhythm guided by his own firm grip.

He watches, I can feel the weight of his gaze even without sight, as I stroke him back to full, rigid arousal. The silence stretches, heavy with expectation and the scent of sex..When he is fully hard again, a steel column in my fist, his hands shift. He flips me onto my belly in the cramped space with rough efficiency, pressing my front against the cool earth wall.

His mutant phallus finds my butthole probing with a blunt, insistent pressure. There is no preparation, only the slow, inexorable forcing as he pushes into a place even tighter, more forbidden. The initial resistance is a sharp, bright shock, a ring of muscle yielding under relentless pressure. He works himself inside with shallow, persistent thrusts.

Each one stretches my rectu. a little wider, a little looser, until he is fully seated. I feel the deep, impossible sensation that steals the air from my lungs. The tight confines of the pit magnify every scent. Beneath the smell of damp soil and his sweat rises a new, intimate odor, the musky, primal scent of my own butthile being brutally reamed open.

He begins to move, a slow, deliberate excavation that works his thickness deeper with each grinding rotation of his hips. The stretch is a constant, burning pressure, a feeling of being remade from the inside out. My forehead presses into the cool dirt as he establishes a rhythm, each thrust a little smoother, a little easier, as my body reluctantly accommodates him.

His breath is hot on the back of my neck, a silent, focused intensity in the dark. His pace quickens, transforming from a deliberate conquest into a punishing barrage. The **** of his thrusts becomes a brutal, piston-like drive that pushes my body against the earthen wall with each impact.

The sensation shifts from a burning stretch to a deeper, more profound violation, a feeling of my rectum being dragged inside out. A low, ragged sound escapes him, a mix of effort and dark satisfaction. His thrusts grow more forceful, each one a deep, claiming drive that punches past the point of mere intrusion.

He is not just using me, he is resizing me, stretching the tight channel to its limits until a strange, hollow feeling blooms deep inside. A soft, wet sound accompanies his grunts. He slows, burying himself to the root, and holds there, letting me feel the full, devastating breadth of him.

The pressure is immense, a fullness that borders on pain. He lets out a low, satisfied grunt, his hips giving a final, possessive roll. "There," he rasps, his voice thick with effort. "Opened you up good." He pulls out with a slow, wet slide. The sudden absence is a shock, followed immediately by a strange, heavy sensation.

I feel a soft, protruding warmth between my ass cheeks that shouldn't be there. Understanding dawns with a wave of cold horror. He has turned me inside out. A low, rough chuckle vibrates against my back. "Look at that," he murmurs, his tone almost admiring. "Don’t tell me ol' Mercury ain’t a romantic. I gave you a rose."

His hand touches the exposed, tender flesh, a casual ownership that makes me flinch. Then, with no warning, he rams back in, sheathing himself in that ruined, sensitive channel with a single brutal thrust. The sensation is blinding, a white-hot agony of friction on raw tissue. He sets a new, punishing rhythm, fucking into the prolapse with a dark, focused joy.

The rhythm of his hips is a relentless piston, each thrust dragging the exposed, slippery tissue further from my body. I feel it lengthening, a warm, wet tube of my own insides being pulled out with every withdrawal, then pushed back in a messy tangle with every deep plunge.

The sensation is beyond pain or humiliation, a grotesque stretching that blurs all lines between inside and outside. He grunts with effort, his hands gripping my hips hard enough to bruise, his focus entirely on the brutal mechanics of this violation. The air in the hole grows thick with my intimate, musky smell, now overwhelming.

Mercury fucks the prolapse with a single-minded intensity, as if trying to see how far he can make it go. He reaches back, his fingers finding the warm, slick length of exposed flesh. He wraps his hand around it, using it like a crude sleeve, stroking himself with my own ruined tissue. The friction is a sickening, wet sound, his movements growing frantic.

With a final, choked roar, he spills himself, hot seed painting the inside of the prolapse and dripping down onto the dark earth. He collapses against me, his weight a final anchor in the horror. After a moment, he pulls out completely, leaving me aching and hollow. "Get up," he grunts, giving my hip a rough shove. "We're climbing."

The command hangs in the air, a stark contrast to the violation still throbbing between my legs. I don't look at him. My hands, trembling and slick, move on their own. I reach back, my fingers encountering the soft, foreign heat of the prolapse. The touch sends a fresh wave of nausea through me.

Gritting my teeth, I push, a slow, agonizing effort to coax the swollen tissue back inside. It resists, a stubborn, fleshy refusal. I press harder, my breath coming in short, sharp gasps, until with a wet, sickening slide, it recedes. The relief is immediate and immense, a blessed, hollow emptiness. With fumbling fingers, I fasten the metal snaps of my overall shorts in the dark.