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Out of all the things that are packed tightly into every nook and cranny of storage space on the Hail Mary, Ryland never in his life thought he'd find one of these.
He'd been raiding through one of the small cubbies built into the dormitory's wall and stumbled upon a black velvet drawstring pouch tucked away against the back, almost out of reach.
"For if you feel like having some fun! ;)"
Reads the slip of paper taped to one side of the bag.
His immediate thought is that he'd finally found the stash of heroin he remembers Ilyukhina bargaining for when they were all back on Stratt's ship. A weighty, solid block of the stuff if the feel of the bag is anything to go by.
It's not something that interests him, but the needles that'll come with it could at least prove useful one day.
He inches the drawstring open and carefully pries the fabric apart to peek inside.
That… is definitely not drugs.
Ryland cinches it closed again with a squeak.
Okay. Well. Somebody snuck a dildo onto the Hail Mary.
That's just something he has to live with knowing, now.
He peers back over his shoulder, just in case either you or Rocky are lurking in the background. But thankfully, all he hears is the distant chatter of the two of you somewhere near the cockpit on the other side of the ship.
He opens the bag again.
Bright purple is the first thing he sees, an obnoxious shade of indigo in an unfortunately extremely phallic shape. There is no way that object could be anything but a dildo, flared base and all. Ryland looks further into the bag, and — well. It's a strap-on then. The harness's undeniable straps are wound into a neat little bundle. Not just a sex toy, but the apparatus to go with it, too. There's even a full-size bottle of body-safe lube in there. It's a whole kit, by the looks of it.
Ryland can feel his cheeks flushing. Who the heck even put this here? And for whom, exactly? Because he wasn't even supposed to be on the crew, so it's not for him.
For you then? That line of thought only has his cheeks flushing hotter. The mental image of you with something like this is definitely not a bad one, and- no. Nope. Not going there. Not right now. You're all still figuring out this whole astrophage issue; there's no time for fantasies right now.
With a huff, he pulls the string of the bag tight, shutting it decisively, and goes to shove it right back into the small cubby where he'd found it.
At the last minute, he pauses.
Fudge it.
He pivots and crouches down, instead tucking the velvet bag deep into his own pack of belongings. Hopefully, he'll just forget about the toy for the foreseeable future.
Somehow, Ryland actually doesn't think about it again past a once-in-a-while, fleeting thought for years.
Not until both of you have a little home that you share on Erid. Now, finally healthier and happier than either of you has been for the better part of a decade.
He'd been rooting around in his old duffel bag from the Hail Mary — the one he'd still put off unpacking fully — looking for something entirely unrelated, when he'd found that crushed velvet bag again. He almost chokes on his own sharp inhale of breath at the realization.
Really, he's lucky he found it first, and not you. He's still been too cowardly even to mention the toy to you. Before, back in space, it didn't seem like the right time to broach anything that could even be considered mildly adventurous. Your and his relationship had been undefined and messy, and Ryland hadn't wanted to do literally anything that could put it at jeopardy.
He knows you're not one to judge, but there's still a darkened part of his psyche that nags over his logic.
But now… now is different. Better.
He's proud to call himself yours now. You're firmly together, married without an altar— a mated pair, as the Eridians love to put it. Settled and content and living together in domestic bliss.
Which is exactly why Ryland finally allows his mind to wander as he pulls the drawstring loose. The strap-on is still there, along with the harness and lube.
You'd look so good in that particular style of leather. It'd cut into your hips just right, frame your soft skin in a way that already has saliva building behind the backs of his teeth.
The dildo itself seems to be maybe slightly bigger than his own cock as he fishes it out gingerly. It'd suit you too, would fit against your pelvis so perfectly and snugly. And God, he wants to see that.
Not that he's not happy with your sex life already. It's divine and fulfilling in a way he didn't think sex could be. But switching the roles up a little is a deeply lodged fantasy of his.
You, pushing him down on the bed, ass up and easing the toy inside him as you tease him about how badly he's been wanting it. Pressing down on his hips, pinning him against the bed, making him take it as he moans and begs and cries for mor-
"Hey, baby!"
Ryland jumps out of his skin. His entire body raises an inch in a jolt like a startled cat arching its back. Fully convinced he's been fantasizing too loudly, and you know exactly what he'd been doing. A squeal rips from his throat, entirely unmanly, and before he really thinks, he's spinning on his heel to face you and clumsily shoving the bag and toy behind his back.
"Ah, I-I mean, hi, sweetheart," he tries to greet you smoothly, and fails miserably. He can't quite get his expression to relax back from surprised, flustered guilt. And he knows that his face is still flushed all the way down his neck.
You narrow your eyes, just like he knew you would. Your gaze drops, zeroing in on where his forearms disappear behind his waist.
"What'cha got there?" you ask, more bemused than suspicious.
"Nothing," Ryland blurts, tone clipped and tight. "Not that I don't love seeing you, but what're you doing back here? I thought you were going to be reading on the beach?" he asks, not-so-sneakily attempting to change the subject.
"Yeah, I was. But the lights are going down now, so that means bedtime." You raise the book in your hand and wave it lazily in the direction of the bedroom window behind him. And when Ryland follows the gesture, he's met with the familiar hazy, evening indigo ceiling lighting of the biodome reflecting off the water below.
"Oh. Right. Yeah," Ryland swallows thickly.
"So what're you hiding?" You (unfortunately for him) turn your attention back onto your husband. There's a cheeky smile on your lips, your narrowed gaze lingering on the pinkness still blotching his cheeks in a look that he knows means trouble. You straighten, free hand moving to cover your mouth as you gasp coyly. "Is it a present? For me? You shouldn't have, Ry."
"Wait, no — it's not-… It's not anything. I have no idea what you're talking about." Or rather, he has no idea why he's still lying through his teeth. He's quite clearly fighting a losing battle.
"Is that so?" You drop your tone, and Ryland almost laughs as a nervous reflex.
Coquettishly, you take a step towards him. He steps back. You take another. So does he.
It continues until he's pressed right up against the glass of the floor-to-ceiling window, toy and pouch still clutched behind his back, trapped between his body and the glass uncomfortably.
You stop before him, barely holding back a playful smile. Ryland's heart pounds against his ribs, heavy and frantic and sending heat downwards with every pulse. For some (not so) unknown reason, just the threat of you finding out the secret he's technically been hiding for years now has him flustered.
"You're sure being really persistent about this, aren't you?" he tries to joke, but it sticks in his throat, sounding all pitchy and wrong.
You nod, and with widened eyes, Ryland watches as you bring a hand up to his chest, walking your index and middle finger up along his sternum.
"Mhm, I really am," you purr. The way you say that is enough to make him tremble, breath catching as he has to put all of his mental energy into not pitching a tent in his pants right then and there. That, however, means he has zero defenses about you suddenly grabbing him by the waist and ducking your upper half around his body to see behind his back.
"Whoa, hey!" Ryland squeaks and jerks defensively — but it's far too late.
The way your advances grind to a halt is practically audible.
All he can do is freeze with you, holding his breath and wincing, waiting for your reaction.
To his surprise, after a painfully long moment of bloated silence, you laugh.
"Oh, wow. If you wanted some privacy, honey, you just had to say."
"Wait- no. It's not like that," he's quick to jump in.
"Really? Cause from where I'm standing, all I can see is you trying to hide a dildo from me, so…" you trail off, chuckling again. But despite his frazzled state, he can still note the way your teasing hasn't turned cruel or judgmental.
Ryland sags in defeat, arms relaxing to hang by his sides, still clutching the toy and bag. "I found it on the Hail Mary not long after we woke up there. Put it in my duffel, and only found it again just now—I swear." He's so rattled he doesn't even try to joke the heavy tension away like he usually would.
You keep gazing at him fondly before sighing and shaking your head. "Damn, you should have told me about it earlier. We could've been having so much fun for ages now." After that bombshell, you turn your attention to the clutch of crushed velvet he's holding. "So what's in the bag?" You dart a hand out to grab it for yourself. Ryland doesn't even attempt to stop you this time.
As you rummage through it, he stares blankly. He's watching, reeling, staring into middle space as his brain frantically tries to catch up.
"Hah!" you snort, fishing out the harness and lube to inspect them. "This isn't even the cheap kind of fake leather, either — whoever put this here really expected it to get some use."
You sound like you actually know what you're talking about. That's… holy crap. Does absolutely nothing to help the way Ryland's ears are ringing.
"What… what is happening right now," he breathes out in one huffing breath.
"What? You think I've never seen sex toys before? Ry, c'mon, we're both fully grown adults here."
Which is true, obviously, and not at all what he was going for.
"Well, yeah. Can't say I expected you to be so enthusiastic about it, though." His own words waver, and he winces again. He sounds pathetic even to his own ears.
"Ah," your expression pulls into a devilish grin. Unfortunately — after so many years of being near attached at the hip — you can read him better than you can your favorite book. "You like the fact that this doesn't turn me off." You don't question it, you don't need to. You already know what this is doing to him, and Ryland can do nothing but stand there and squirm.
"That's a pretty big leap in logic," he says. And he's sure his flaky attempt at a counter would be much more successful if he could actually look you in the eye as he says it.
"So you're saying you don't want me to try this on?" You hold up the harness, dangling it from one strap on your index finger, like you're trying to entice him.
Ryland might have nearly died in that moment. Honestly, he's surprised he has enough wherewithal to keep drawing breath.
He should also know that you may actually be the devil incarnate by now.
But… this is an opportunity he was fantasizing about not even five minutes ago. He'd be crazy not to accept the offer. So, he shakes his head in a tiny little motion.
"Nope. Gonna need to hear you say it, honey." You drop your tone, small, little smile turning narrow-eyed and wicked.
"You're evil," he repeats his thought out loud. You hum an affirmative noise happily. "Fine. I… no. No, I'm not saying that. And yes, I want you to try it on. Are you happy now?" Ryland has to resist the urge to pout in petulance.
Satisfied, you nod your head once decisively and step away. Then, with the hand not still holding the harness, you gesture towards the bed. "Go and lie down for me then, please."
Ryland doesn't hesitate to obey.
Despite all your teasing, once you've helped him down onto the bed, you haven't made him beg for anything more so far. Instead, you'd crawled over him, thrown one of your legs over his hips, and settled yourself down onto his lap. Which is just a little confusing; he'd figured he'd be the one getting his legs spread.
"Why're you…?" he tries to begin asking before you'd swiftly cut him off — mouth pressing against his tenderly, then harder as you deepen the kiss and coax his lips apart under your own.
You rarely kiss him like this. After years of domesticity and aging bodies alike, you've settled into something dreamy and sweet. It's serene and slow and love-filled, and that's perfect. Something he'd never think to complain about. But it's never been hungry or urgent with you. Until right now.
One of your hands works its way up to Ryland's jaw, thumb and index finger pinching his chin to hold him open as your tongue works its way into his mouth. His thoughts melt away as you stroke your tongue over his, fingertips pressing into his stubble to take the lead and guide him.
Hips pushing down, you grind down against the bulge steadily hardening in his pants. It's too slow. Not enough to do anything more than tease him. But he whines at the brief amount of friction all the same, arching his hips up into that warm, saccharine pressure needily.
"Please," he attempts to moan between kisses, the word sliding out as a whimpered slur between your mouths.
Reluctantly, you break the kiss with a panting breath. "Patience, baby," you coo, already pulling back to sit your weight fully onto his lap. "I wanna take this nice and slow, yeah? Don't wanna hurt you."
If Ryland were a younger man, he would've put up more of a fight. Argued and bratted out a little harder for what he wanted. Nowadays, he finds that you have a way of dismantling that side of him before it even has a chance to appear.
"This doesn't hurt me." In example, he reaches out to curl his hands over your hips and anchor you where you sit. His hips tilt, grinding the thick line of his arousal against your inner thigh, fingers digging into your soft flesh as he ruts in languid little thrusts. "See? Only feels good, s-sooo good," he whimpers again and lays his head back against the pillows in bliss.
Surprisingly, you let him have this. You even bow your spine and angle yourself so he can hump against you more easily. And for a few, blissful moments, he does. However, just when he can feel his cock fill out to full hardness, twitching against his stomach as a steady heat begins to build in his gut, you raise yourself onto your knees like the minx you are.
"This wasn't what I meant, baby."
"Why not? It could be," he whines, pitifully, hands sinking deeper into the fat of your hips to try and pull you back down. A futile attempt, however, with no real strength put behind it, since you slide out of his hold with ease.
"I know, but I think you'll prefer what I mean instead," you say, and- oh. Maneuvering yourself, you use one of your legs to slide it between Ryland's own, easing his thighs apart until you can kneel between them. That's what you'd meant then. Past you grinding your heat down against him and your tongue in his mouth, he'd almost forgotten what had started this. He certainly remembers now.
"Oh yeah. Okay, that's—yeah," he exhales dumbly, hips automatically lifting when you curl your fingers into the waistband of his pants and boxers.
There's no need to be shy about being bare around you anymore; you'd already seen him more times than he can fathom. But… this is different. Considering that when you ease the fabric away, he's still spread open — exposed in a way he hasn't been around anybody in so long.
You take a moment, gazing down at him, lips slightly parted and breath coming shallow. "Are you sure you still want this?" you ask, eyes flicking up to meet his. He can barely make out the color around how blown your pupils are.
"Yes," he nods, swallows thickly, and fumbles his hands around until he can just barely rub his palms over the tops of your thighs, needing to touch you in some way.
"You tell me to stop at any point and I will, okay?" He appreciates the sentiment of you comforting him in return. The look on his face must be pathetic; he's warm, cheeks flushed, eyes wet, and lips slick as he pants softly. You don't continue until he responds affirmatively, after another stern telling to 'use his words'. He hopes you never find out just how much that little phrase affects him.
"Good boy," you purr, and let your hands descend.
It takes an aching age for you to show mercy and work your way between his thighs. You spend what feels like hours petting over his inner thighs, mouth parting over his hips, and dragging the blunt edges of your teeth over the soft layer of fat that's settled over his abdomen across the years.
By the time you experimentally snake a hand towards his ass, Ryland can barely think. He arches his hips and whines, prompting you to splay your free hand over his inner thigh to still his writhing. Your finger is already slick when it first strokes over his hole, he has no idea when you'd stopped to open the lube — but he hardly has the capacity to ponder it when you ease the first inch inside.
"Oh—frick," he hisses, eyes squeezing shut and head pressing back into the pillows.
"Have you done this before? Had something inside you like this?" you ask casually, like you aren't currently methodically working your middle finger into his ass.
Ryland lets out a shuddering breath when you pull back, stroking over him, getting him wet, and giving him the mental space to answer. "Uh, yeah… Not for a long time, though. I dated someone after college, and this was their—… uh, y'know. Preference." Maybe talking about your ex in the middle of being fingered isn't the smartest move he's ever made.
Luckily for him, you chuckle in amusement. "They had good taste then. You look so pretty all spread open for me."
Pretty is not something he's been called before. And for reasons unknown to his dazed mind, the compliment makes his cock twitch again.
You notice. Of course you do.
"The prettiest, aren't you?" You coo and pause, as does your touch. Ryland looks downwards to where you're sitting, bleary and needy as he raises his hips again in clear want for you to continue. When you don't, his confusion only deepens.
"Why'd you stop?"
"I asked you a question. I'm waiting for you to answer it." You have the most awful, beautiful shit-eating grin on your lips, reveling in taunting him to the point of madness.
"Y-yeah, I am. Now please touch me again," he demands (weakly and whimpering).
"You are… what?" You repeat. Slowly, at a crawl, you resume your strokes, rubbing only the tip of your finger over where he needs you. It's almost worse than the complete absence of your touch; the whispered promise of it. Too fleeting for him to get any real friction and satisfaction, but just enough for him to get a taste of it. With his cheeks burning hot, he sniffles wetly and keens.
"I'm pretty. The pretties-ahh!" As he yields, you sink your finger into him, down to the second bend, then deeper until you're knuckle-deep. The stretch isn't too painful — it's familiar, especially when you soften after stilling inside him. Pressing low, letting him accommodate to the slight burn.
"Feeling okay?" You check in and duck your head down to press a few kisses along his thigh.
"Yeah. Yes. Please move," Ryland grits out between clenched teeth. It's taking all his willpower not to start begging outright. After an age of being worked up, the arousal in his core feels like lightning in a bottle, molten hot and barely contained. It's a miracle he didn't come the moment you pressed inside.
You blessedly grant him mercy and nod. Setting a slow, patient pace, you drag your digit out, then push back in. He's mewling in pleasure by the time you add a second finger, your ring finger eases its way in alongside the first with a fresh dose of lube. He can feel it in his gut now, pressure and pleasure radiating from when you begin to curl your fingers upwards, searching and seeking.
A senseless, strangled noise is ripped involuntarily from him when you hit his sweet spot. His hips thrust up, spine arching, eyes almost rolling back into his skull when you apply continuous pressure there.
"Ah, there it is," you murmur smugly to yourself as he clenches down around your fingers — like Ryland isn't in the midst of losing his entire sense of self as you push your digits further into his slick hole. "You think you can take a third, baby?"
It takes a few foggy moments for your words to register, and all he can respond with is an eager moan, and a cant of his hips downwards and into your hand.
"Yeah? You can?" You don't ask for his words this time — thank goodness, since Ryland doesn't think he could form a coherent sentence if he tried. He definitely can't when you push your index finger in too.
It's too much, enough to make his muscles lock up, and a garbling whine hitch his breath. Despite all the effort you're putting in to take this slow and ease him in gently, it burns. His thighs tremble, his moans weaken, and his eyes sting with tears.
You must sense the change (not sense. You've been watching his reactions like a hawk ever since you'd laid him out on the bed) and quickly flag your fingers.
"Doing so good, honey," you praise and shift your weight so your other hand can join. It'd been lazily stroking and petting over the skin of his hips, but now you bring it to circle your fist around the base of Ryland's cock.
"Oh- Christmas Eve." Ryland jerks at the touch, and you snort in amusement.
"Just relax for me. It'll start feeling really good soon, I promise." With incremental pressure, you squeeze his dick, and every thought Ryland may have been having in that moment scatters to the wind. You'd doused your palm in lube, too, aiding the slide as you stroke his length leisurely. He knows it's a distraction from the stretch of your fingers — and it's working.
That same familiar heat begins to build in his gut again. And it's only heightened by the aching fullness of your fingers when you slowly time those thrusts with your strokes over his cock.
"Too good. So good — I don't…" he keens your name in defeat, giving up on verbal communications. He can only hope that the way his chest is flushed and his pupils blown out to the size of saucers, or his muscles trembling and cock kicking in your hold, and his brain melting into mush right before you can tell you just how close he is.
But once again, because you're a horrible sadist who obviously yearns for his demise, you choose not to give him reprieve.
Your mouth is wet when your lips part around his nipple, sucking the bud between your teeth and biting down softly.
Ryland just about loses his mind.
"Shit!" He keens, the sound rasping off into helpless whimpers. He's a mess. Vision blurry and flickering, chest pressing upwards into your mouth wantonly as you suck, his hips fuck down onto your fingers along with the pace you've set. There's no use even trying to stave himself off now, you're playing him like a finely tuned instrument — and he can't even begin to hold himself back.
Heat builds, white-hot and overwhelming, along the notches of his spine and up into his quick-firing synapses. Thighs quivering, toes curling when your fingers curl up against his prostate relentlessly. He's so close, so so close. Just two more seconds and-
Your fingers vice around the base of his cock.
It borders on painful, physically holding him back from a satisfying climax and instead leaves him unwillingly teetering on the edge of ruin.
"Nonono, please — need to… was so close. Please, please." His whines of desperation crack, his body automatically writhing in need of chasing his high. Unfortunately, you're well-versed in teasing him by now, and quieten his protests with a chuckle and a kiss as you pull away from him.
"Thought you'd want to cum on my cock instead of my fingers, honey. Or have you changed your mind?" Your purred words sound sinful, all breathy and wanting — clearly as equally turned on as he is.
Sometimes you say outrageous things so blasé during sex that Ryland feels like he's bluescreening. This is one of those moments.
"I- no," is the only sensical answer he can give, and instead opts for watching you set up with heavy eyes. When he'd presumed earlier that you knew what you'd been doing, he'd been correct. Stepping into the harness and tightening the buckles around your hips is easy work for you. Even slotting the dildo into place against your pelvis is done without fuss.
"Wow, " he breathes without shame, "you look really good."
"We should do this more often, you get so cute when you're all fucked out."
"You get so mouthy when you're like this."
"I've yet to see you complain about it."
"I'm complaining right now, since I want you back over here."
You grin the entire way through the soft bickering, practically giggling by the time you crawl your way back onto the bed and between Ryland's legs.
"So bossy," you chastise playfully, ducking down to press your lips to his cheeks and then nuzzle into his neck. Ryland melts, thighs parting until his feet are pressed against the bed by your calves, his knees bent, and his hips tilting towards you.
For once, you don't taunt him and get to dutifully slotting your hips against his. Taking another moment, you uncap the bottle of lube and squeeze out a generous amount onto the silicone. Ryland swallows thickly. Seeing the toy like this is a little daunting, especially seeing how you have to twist your wrist around the length of it to make sure it's all covered. Will that thing even fit inside him? It's definitely not unrealistically big, but after so long with nothing inside him, and only twenty minutes' worth of you prepping him, he's having some doubts.
You'd shucked his t-shirt up to his armpits earlier when you'd lavished attention on his chest, and take advantage of that now, by letting your hands stroke up to pet over the fine dust of blond covering his front.
"I'm a little out of practice, too, y'know. So I'll go slow at first," you smile so tenderly that Ryland's heart kicks into gear all over again. That sweet little moment of acknowledgment soothes his frayed nerves enough for him to comply and spread his legs wider.
Gingerly, you notch the head of the dildo against his hole, sliding it between his cheeks for a moment to spread the slickness. "You're still so wet," you murmur breathily. He whimpers in response, forcing himself to relax.
The first push is… a lot. Maybe his thinking that the strap hadn't been too large was wrong, because — God. One inch in, and he's already reaching out to clutch at your shoulders.
You stick to your word and take it slow, easing your own bent legs under his thighs so you can curl over his front and pepper kisses to anywhere you can reach. "Doing so good," you coo, "feel so good around me." Logically, Ryland knows that you certainly don't have the magical ability to feel through silicone, but the praise appeals to his hindbrain's need to be giving as much as he's taking.
Sinking in deeper, you pause at the halfway point, rocking your hips in tiny little thrusts.
The stretch has eased by now. Mainly through Ryland's diligent attempt at steadying his breathing and fighting his body's natural urge to clench down, alongside your patience. But the craving for more grows. Your carefulness feels more like a tease rather than caring for his well-being, and all he can think about is getting the rest of your dick inside of him right then and there.
"You can — more. Deeper. I can take it." He squirms where he lies, blunt fingernails pressing into your biceps to coax you closer. Ready to beg for it again, expecting you to demand it of him, his lips are still parted — much to his surprise, you just sink the remainder of the toy into him with a grunt. "Ohhh, god yes-" he whines in place of it.
There's a brief few moments where you still, breathing heavily through your nose as you drop your gaze to watch your hips meet flush against his inner thighs and ass.
"Please stop stopping. I'm good — I can- mmh, I can take it now. Just keep going, please, please." Ryland babbles.
He's strung tight, riled up, body aching for a release he's already had denied once. It has you lying your front over his, forearms stretching to bracket Ryland's head, and brace yourself against the bed. It shifts your lower halfs, too. The tops of his thighs brush against the front of him that isn't pressed against your own body. Sinks you in even deeper until he swears he can feel your cock all the way in his throat.
You don't stop there, taking his pleas and running with them as you pick up speed, find a consistent rhythm. Stunted at first. It takes a bit of experimenting for you to re-familiarize yourself with just how to rock your hips. Which angle to drag the toy against his sensitive walls to have him bucking up into your thrusts with a choked whimper.
It's music to your ears, and you tell him as such when you duck your head down into the crook of his neck. Once you find your pace, you keep to it with blessed dedication. Steady pumps that don't falter even when you drag your mouth to Ryland's neck.
He's gone — years of honing and fostering his intelligence, all done away by just how good you're fucking into him. Mouth slack, tears leaking down his cheeks, face flush, and thighs quivering against your hips. Hitting just the right angle to have his breath hitch up into pitiful whines with every downstroke.
"Still feeling good, baby?" you ask lowly through ragged breaths, teeth grazing over his pulse point to taste his fast, fluttering heartbeat against your tongue.
He'd laugh if he had the capacity to. Is he feeling good? How could you even ask that when he's clinging to you like this, sobbing in pleasure and babbling incoherencies?
"Ye-ah, yeah, s'good." Ryland slurs, mustering what's left of his waning coherency to answer, voice jolting and stilted with every hard thrust. "Can you-… harder? Fffuck me- harder? Please? 'm close— ohmygod…"
You seem pleased with his pleasure-drunk rambling, lips closing over the sensitive little spot beneath his ear to suck a mark there. Similarly, you adjust your hips, rolling your body forward enough to edge Ryland's ass just off the bed. It aches his back, strains his hips. And he's about to whine exactly that when you nail your hips forward again.
Ryland might die.
Flatlining right there and watching his soul ascend to heaven when the blunt head of the toy drags directly over his G-spot. The stimulation isn't as direct as when your fingers were inside his hole earlier, but god, is it so much more overwhelming.
His muscles lock up, legs wrapping loosely around your hips, scrambling for purchase and something to ground him from floating away.
He hears you huff into his neck, pleased with his reaction. Then, you pull back to look down at him. You're flushed too, gaze half-lidded and lips swollen and wet with saliva. He wants to kiss you so badly. But when he tries to arch his neck up to do so, you smile and shake your head.
"Not yet," you hush his whimper of protest, "You're close, yeah? I wanna watch you when you cum. You still want to cum, don't you?"
So you're back to being evil.
If he had a working brain, he would complain again. Instead, you've fucked enough compliance into him that he just nods dumbly.
"Mhmm— please, wanna cum. I've been good, sweetheart… been a g-goood boy for you. Please let me, pleaseplease—" he's fully prepared to keep begging until either his voice gives out, or his consciousness does. Whichever comes first. At this point, it could be either.
You, however, decide that he has been good enough and shut him up with a hard thrust that nails his prostate dead on. His neglected cock jerks between you, and you press yourself close enough for him to grind up into the soft of your belly.
"You can, baby. You've been so good for me." You're back to cooing, not that Ryland really hears you.
He feels like he's thinking through honey, if he's even thinking at all. Dazed and hot all over, with his hole clenching down around the toy, he finally feels the heat at the base of his spine build sharply. The friction against his dick is too much and divine and not enough, and he's barely aware of the raspy whimpers falling from his lips when he finally finds his release. Your name escapes him in a keen, or at least a slurred attempt at it.
By the time he can comprehend the fact that he's alive, you've shifted above him. You're easing the dildo from inside of him, going slow to avoid oversensitizing his overused hole.
"You did so well, Ry," you're quick to praise him as you fumble with the straps of the harness, unbuckling it as fast as your own shaking fingers will let you. Once you finally have it off, — both the strap and the harness placed delicately to the side for you to clean later — you guide his aching hips back down onto the bed, making sure he's laid out comfortably before curling up beside him.
A hand finds its way into his hair, scratching at his scalp in just the way he likes. "You doing okay? I wasn't too rough?" You pepper kisses over his cheeks as you speak, and Ryland looks up at you, bleary, but his gaze is filled with nothing but awe.
"I'm good. Definitely starting to feel my age, though. Can already tell my back's gonna be killing me tomorrow." He snorts a little, teasing as he turns his face up into your kisses, nuzzling you back and pressing a few of his own to your forehead.
A soft, hazy few moments pass — where you give Ryland time to bask in his afterglow a little. Then, you groan. "Okay, I can't ignore the fact that your cum is drying all over my stomach anymore. Let's go shower."
He groans himself, but only because you try to pry yourself from his clingy hold.
"But I can't feel my legs," he complains petulantly. You're so used to this behavior by now that you don't even blink before you turn around to drag him up with you. At least this time, you go easy on him, using it as an excuse to help him up.
"I'll let you feel me up once we're in there," you tease. And suddenly Ryland's legs seem to work a lot more efficiently as he all but races you into the adjoining bathroom.