[His legs spread quite wide indeed; he really is quite flexible, and despite how wound up he is, he flushes darker at being so put on display. Then the tentacles are letting go of him, and that relentless pressure, the not-enough suction that was all he had, is taken away, and suddenly he can't think of anything else]

Don't -

[There's soemthing jagged in the tone, the very knife's edge of desperation; he yanks hard against the tentacles holding him, fighting with all his strength but unable to squirm so much as an inch]

Please, put - put them back. Put them back! T-touch me, fuck me, f-fill me up -

[He's mid-sentence, when Rye turns him to face the audience, and the moment he remembers that they have an audience is plain. He flushes a remarkale shade of red, from the tips of his ears all the way down to his chest - falls silent, when Rye covers his mouth, physically blocked for a moment from fulfilling the demands of the truth potion. The sudden wave of humiliation washes over him like a tidal wave, and he squeezes his eyes shut, trying to turn away, but not before he gets a good look at what they're doing. Not before he can take in those restlessly rubbing hands and tantalizing toys and the ones rocking their hips together, enjoying what he's being denied]

[A sob catches in his throat; his cock, on full display, is so hard it curves up toward his stomach, red and straining and slick with precome. It twitches in the open air - bobs, untouched, as Rye lays out what he expects to happen]

[Hurricane makes a tortured sound, half muffled by the plam pressed against his lips - squirms, as best he's able, which isn't at all. By the time Rye offers him the bottle of water again, tears have spilled over to run down his cheeks, and he leans in to gulp at the water so fast it's likely to choke him]