[It doesn't take long at all before Hurricane is keening behind the tentacle that's busy fucking his throat. He pants for breath, ragged, when he's able, and the soft whimpers and trembling whines continue non-stop regardless, muffled but not silenced, adding a layer of vibration to the slick heat]

[When Rye starts to lose control, those muffled noises kick it up another notch, getting more urgent and steadily higher pitched. He can't seem to stop moving against the tentacles buried inside him, pressing so insistently against that spot - can't seem to stop rocking his hips into the suction from the dozen little mouths pressed against his cock]

[He can't keep his eyes open for long, though he tries; they keep flickering closed, his vision blurred by tears as they spill over and run down his cheeks. It's a lot, all at once; everything is being touched, and rubbed, and used, and the sensations keep building up, and up, and up, reaching the lip of the cup only to discover that there's a lid, and there's nowhere to overflow]

[He's on the edge again with remarkable speed - clenches down hard, back arching and toes curling as he makes a sound that's suspiciously like a wail, if it wasn't muffled by his stuffed mouth]

[He grinds down hard against the tentacles inside him - presses up into the touch against his cock - thrashes, as best he can, within the bonds]

[And still he doesn't come, riding the edge of orgasm instead, the sounds leaving him an unending stream of whimpers]