Fuck my ass

“I want a closer view,” you say, patting your lap. I push myself to my feet, wincing at the extra sensation, and climb into your lap, straddling you. You nuzzle at my chest, sending the chain sliding from side to side, and I whine at the building soreness in my nipples.

“You can take it, that’s a good boy.” You dig around in your bag and pull out a case containing a plastic syringe, already loaded with lube. I raise my hips for you as you find my asshole with the tip of it, press it inside. I can’t help the shudder as you sink it deep into me; with the plug in my cunt already keeping me so full, even the narrow tube presses against it. And as I know full well, your cock is nothing like that small. I feel the lube spurt into me as you push down the plunger, making my ass the slick, easily fuckable hole you enjoy.

Well. Not so easily. The plug in my cunt will also make it incredibly tight. You like it that way. I grit my teeth as I feel your cockhead press against my ass, try to get ready to be even more full.

It doesn’t work. It never does. You pull my hips down, and the lube does its job; you slide in without any difficulty. I’m the one having the difficulty. The fullness in my cunt was close to overwhelming on its own, and now with your cock seated in me, I can only gape, a high whine escaping me, as my body tries and fails and tries and fails to comprehend how I can be this full and not burst.

I can. I can be fuller. You’ve taught me that. I still don’t understand how.

“Such a good boy,” you’re saying. “So damn tight for me. So full.” You press down on where the plug sits inside me. I’m never sure if it’s my imagination, or whether I can actually see it bulging out my abdomen, just a little. Regardless, the extra pressure brings me back to myself; I let out a squeal I should have swallowed. You frown at me.

“Excuse me? That wasn’t quiet.” You push me up, then yank me back down hard. I clench my eyes, my jaw, against the sob that tries to tear from me at being so roughly overfilled, the chain jangling and pulling at my poor sore piercings. Whatever pleasure they had started with is melting like ice in the baking desert sun.

“Fuck yourself on me,” you say, taking the chain between your fingers, watching me with a expression I know means you’re considering what punishment I deserve for my transgressions. I go to balance with my hands, but you clip the cuffs together behind my back. Getting my body to cooperate is hard; between the fullness and pain themselves and the way they sap my energy, plus the fact that I can’t compensate with my hands, my legs are shaking as I raise myself off your lap. It’s almost a relief to sink back down, even with the too-fullness of it. You watch me struggle, over and over. I’m soaked with sweat, trembling, tears running down my face. I try to push myself up again, and my legs refuse to answer me.

“Well? Keep going.”

I try. I fail. “I’m sorry, Sir, I can’t.” I raise my wretched gaze to your face. You shake your head.

“Two failures since we got on this train, boy? I’m disappointed in you.” Your fingers, four of them at once, slide into my mouth, filling it, sliding between my back teeth so I can’t bite down. The motion tilts my head back, arching my chest into you, leaving me blind so all I can do is wait in dread, automatically sucking at the fingers that have my mouth so full. Then comes the first deliberate tug on the chain, and I whine, louder than you like, but at least muffled by your fingers. You tug harder, and I squeal. Another tug, harder yet, and your fingers only do so much to muffle my scream. My hips buck, my shoulders twist, even as the motion only yanks the chain harder. There’s no pleasure to it at all anymore, just dragging, burning pain.

The fingers pull out of my mouth, and my head falls forward. You’re looking at me steadily. I expected to see at least a little anger, but there’s only that disappointment that makes me want to shrivel up and die.

“It appears you need more practice in being quiet.” You flip down the wall-mounted table in the cubicle, then slide me onto it, facing out, careful to let the chain hang down below where it keeps right on shifting and swaying. I raise my head and see that the seats opposite us are full. Maybe twenty people are watching us, watching me. Watching me fail you. I let my head drop, hot tears of shame adding to the rest of the mess on my face.

“I’m going to fuck your ass until I come. You may whimper, you may whine. I’ll be generous, you can even sob; it seems inevitable.” You come around in front of me, crouch down, lift my chin so I’m looking at you. I make myself meet your eyes, because I know it’s what you want. “You can do this. I know you can. Ok?” My eyes fill with tears again, and you wipe them away as they course down my cheeks.

“I want to, I want to be good for you, be your good boy, I’m sorry-”

“I know. You are my good boy. I pushed you hard tonight, maybe a little too hard. You just looked and sounded so good, with the new chain.” You reach under the table and undo the clasps holding the chain to my piercings, taking the weight of them in your hand rather than leaving them to hang heavier from the ones they’re still attached to. My nipples and clit still throb ferociously, but the constant pulling is gone, and I sob in relief as the aggravation eases.

“Thank you Sir,” I whisper. You press a kiss to my forehead.

“That’s my good boy. Now, do you want someone to help you keep quiet, or do you want to do it yourself?”