Triggery, possibly: captivity, dubious-consent, sensory deprivation, kidnapping, bondage.
The world had been hazy for a while, it seemed, like he was floating, drunk, on a salty ocean. Stephen opened his eyes, slowly, wondering how he’d gotten here, and, more dimly, wondering where here was.
Nothing. He closed his eyes and opened them again, the haziness vanishing
Still nothing. Darkness, enveloping and complete. He blinked, wondering if he was dreaming, but he could still see nothing at all.
He wriggled, trying to sit up, and found that he was held down somehow, a pressure against his entire body that gave just a bit, a couple inches, then sprang back, pushing him back against… against, it seemed, nothing. He opened his mouth to yell and found that it was already open, blocked with something that had no taste and enough give to not be uncomfortable, but filled his whole mouth, pressing his tongue against the bottom of his mouth.
He shouted against the gag anyway, and heard nothing. Panicking, he struggled, and found that he couldn’t even really feel the substance he was laying in. They had taken everything from him except his fear. He struggled more, fighting, grunting against the gag although he couldn’t hear the sounds he made, pushing upwards although it did no good, kicking and fighting against an enemy that was implacable and intangible.
It was exhausting, and he was tired already, his shoulders and thighs sore. He welcomed the soreness, tried to work those parts more, just to feel something, but he had no energy at all. Enervated, he flopped back into nothingness.
Then, as he lay in the nothingness, his throat closing with panic, he felt something. Fingers? Fingers, maybe, wrapped around his shaft. Massaging, working upwards, convincing his organ into an erection. His whole body was focused on that. He couldn’t get away, and wasn’t sure he wanted to; if all he could feel was a lessening pain in his back and a hand around his cock, he would take what sensation he could get.
The hand was supplemented by a tongue, licking around the head, expertly finding every nerve ending. He moaned silently, trying to lift his hips up: more. More, please. The tongue vanished, and then the hand.
He could feel cold air across the moistness on his cock, and then an even colder feeling: something hard and chilly around the base of his shaft, around his scrotum, pressing against his hardness, holding it firm. The tongue came back then, licking, biting, teasing, and bringing him right to the edge.
Just when he thought he would burst with it, die with it, the mouth and hand went away, the cold breeze, the pressure, leaving him laying in nothingness with his organ throbbing against the implacable steel, trapped, nothing to do, nothing to feel except the pressure of his need.
He whimpered, although he couldn’t hear it, a low, keening sound, and lifted his hips against his bonds, trying to force out words he couldn’t hear anyway, trying to plead with the unseen hand, the unseen tongue.
This story is a prelude to that triptych.
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