[The sound that leaves Hurricane's throat is a broken sort of keening noise, muffled by the tentacle still in his mouth; the tears standing at the corners of his eyes overflow at last and spill down his cheeks]
[He takes the tentacle in his mouth as far back as it will go - chokes himself going too fast - swallows, convulsively, around the bulk of it. He's trying again before he's recovered completely - whines, and coughs, and has to draw back again, too eager for his own ability]
[He can't seem to stop struggling - can't seem to stop trying to fuck himself on the tentacles impaling him, even as he flushes a dark red when Rye points out the actions of the audience. Despite the humiliation, he can't force himself to be still, no matter how little it's doing to allieviate the need flooding through him]
[There are noises around the tentacle in his mouth, by now - wordless pleas, maybe, a series of needy whimpers as he fights to get any kind of satisfaction at all]
[When Rye tells him to jerk off the tentacles he's holding, he tries to shake his head - because he needs it himself, and he aches, and the pressure is racheting up with each passing second, an imperative to touch that he has no way to satisfy. His hands are too busy straining against the hold of the tentacles to stroke them off, struggling desperately to get to his own cock as the heat from the pheromones crashes over him in waves]
no subject
[He takes the tentacle in his mouth as far back as it will go - chokes himself going too fast - swallows, convulsively, around the bulk of it. He's trying again before he's recovered completely - whines, and coughs, and has to draw back again, too eager for his own ability]
[He can't seem to stop struggling - can't seem to stop trying to fuck himself on the tentacles impaling him, even as he flushes a dark red when Rye points out the actions of the audience. Despite the humiliation, he can't force himself to be still, no matter how little it's doing to allieviate the need flooding through him]
[There are noises around the tentacle in his mouth, by now - wordless pleas, maybe, a series of needy whimpers as he fights to get any kind of satisfaction at all]
[When Rye tells him to jerk off the tentacles he's holding, he tries to shake his head - because he needs it himself, and he aches, and the pressure is racheting up with each passing second, an imperative to touch that he has no way to satisfy. His hands are too busy straining against the hold of the tentacles to stroke them off, struggling desperately to get to his own cock as the heat from the pheromones crashes over him in waves]