He is fervent, needy. Frankenstein is gasping and his moans sound more like whines and whimpers. He shuts his eyes tightly in the delight and intensity as he continues to work himself as hard and fast as he can. He is desperate at this point; it's been just over a couple hours, but he feels as if it's been much longer.
Master watches him from his overstuffed chair, eyes unflinching, almost merciless, but Frankenstein knows better. He is utterly focused, monitoring, as if he is Frankenstein's lifeline. Perhaps he is, because Frankenstein feels like he is dying.
You do not have my permission to come, Master had said, had commanded his body to obey, and Frankenstein felt Master's will over him; he was enchanted.
He buries his face in the pillow. Frankenstein does not know how much longer his thighs can support him, but even as they tremble, he is still denied his release. The hand between them continues to stroke relentlessly as his other hand works the toy inside of him. He is obscene; his face burns. A show he is for Master. The sheets are stained with him and he still drips, no, he can't stop. But god, does he want more. Kept pressed to the wall of an orgasm, unable to tip himself over the edge, he moans for want of falling. He feels and hears his own slickness between his legs, his hands thoroughly coated in it as he tries once again to will the release onto himself. Once again, it is futile; Master's hold on him is absolute.
But he needs, he needs "Master." He gasps. "Master." He moans. "Please, please. Master, please!" For a moment, it almost sounds like prayer: a vulgar display. "Let me come, Master."
Frankenstein forgets how to breathe when he hears Raizel wordlessly get up and approach him. "Master," he huffs. He shivers when Master runs his hand over Frankenstein's back and stills the hand thrusting the toy.
Master slides it out of him, placing it to the side, and he clenches at the sudden emptiness. "Turn around, Frankenstein," is the calm order, and Frankenstein obeys, lying on his back and facing Raizel.
"Please, Master," he whispers, his mind swimming, his voice hoarse. As even though he had stopped touching himself to obey Master, his length still twitches, still desperate.
He gasps when Raizel pulls him closer by his thighs, pressing their hips together. His belly tightens and his head leans back. He does not know if he is capable of any more words. All he knows is that he wants everything between his legs. It is an effort to breathe.
"Come," Master orders as he finally presses into him.
It hits him hard. He forgets even to moan and can only manage to erratically draw air into his lungs. He cries out, and it feels so good, so unraveling, he can't stop shaking, and oh, he dirties himself, wave after wave after pleasure. The sheets have bunched tightly in his fists.
But even so, Master thrusts into him, without hesitation, ruthlessly drawing out his pleasure. If Frankenstein had not known what a divine experience is, perhaps now he does. And he knows they are far from done.
