Work Text:
Ford coughed out a sob as another orgasm wracked his body. As miserable as the sound was, it was, nonetheless, a moan. Ford could do nothing but moan. His impressive vocabulary was locked behind a glass wall, taunting him. Bill's custom drug stretched its tangled roots into his brain, springing up like weeds from the concrete cracks of his sulci. It reprogrammed his hindbrain–and much of the midbrain–into a state of total bliss beneath his horrifically sober forebrain.
“You almost sounded sad with that one! You wanna stop for a breather?” Bill leaned over Ford’s back, his bricks hot against his sweaty shoulder blades. He pet the hair on the back of his neck with a mother's tenderness.
Ford's heart leapt as it detected an opportunity. There was a gap after Bill spoke–a breathable millisecond between true cognition and the spell's influence. But before he could gather the strength to shout, the fog pounced again. It was toying with him, the way a housecat would release a mouse only to watch it panic, then catch it again. “No” became “Yes”. “Please, Bill, no more” left his mind, mutating through his surfacemost layer of cortex, into “Please, Bill, Bill, my god, PLEASE!”
“If you insist!” Bill laughed. He retracted the twisting, vibrating coil of black rubber arms until it was nearly out, teasing the rim with a compound, buzzing fist. “You're hardy, I’ll give you that!”
Ford's thighs shook. His cock twitched between his bare legs, weeping an endless stream of moisture. It was visibly fatigued, dark red and heaving with his stomach. Bill wouldn't let it rest, no matter how much it begged, spat on cue, shriveled at any chance. He'd cum an impossible number of times, had possibilities been relevant. Bill refilled him (routines including but not limited to: opening a fuel port on his hip, unscrewing it like a lid, and miming a bike pump) whenever he ran low.
Bill thrust again. Ford felt–as he had for the last ten hours–like he was splitting apart. Bill didn't worry about his pain. He made sure Ford didn't bleed, and that the texture of his insides was right, for the sake of convenience, but he didn't bother tweaking the pain receptors. Ford tried to scream.
“OH! That was a big one! Guess you really did want more after all–shame on me for asking!” He thrust again, and again, riding out Ford's cries of ecstasy. He gently–almost lovingly–caught the ropes on his overgrown fingers, and brought them to Ford's lips. “Hungry?”
Ford leaned forward. Bill moved just out of range. He was starving. He stared at his own mess, inches from his face. It shone like liquid gold. It would taste sweet. It would hydrate his parched throat, it would soothe his pain, he knew it would, if he could only reach it. Bill moved his hand steadily away, until Ford was lurching forward, crawling on his hands, reaching desperately.
“Please, I want it Bill, I'm so hungry I need–!” He grabbed Bill's finger by a knuckle the size of his fist, pulling it back towards him.
Bill shook him off. “Greedy! I worked hard for this, you already gave it up! You want it back that bad?”
Ford had eaten so little that day (or those weeks or months, time was gone). His stomach was full of nothing but cum of various types. Half was his own. The horrific thought surfaced another moan. He wanted to be filled. He wanted to be nothing but his muse's vessel, with the sole purpose of storing ejaculate–his own, his lord and master's, the other nightmare beasts’ he’d been made to beg on hands and knees for.
“I need it!” Ford cried, clutching one hand in the other to keep from reaching. He knew, consciously, that he was pleading to lick his own semen off the enemy's fingers. Off the same hands that had been fucking him a moment before. He knew the situation, he was enraptured by the situation, it destroyed him to think of the situation. His cock twitched.
“My muse, may lick your fingers, please?” He swallowed. His mouth was so dry. It would taste like glue. “Please. Please…’
Bill considered it, stroking under his eye thoughtfully with one of his many hands. “Hmm. Can you promise you'll enjoy it?”
“Yes, I promise!” Ford opened his mouth. He received his reward, smeared up his chin, his tongue, his face, into his damp hair. It was as salty and disgusting as it always was.
“Yum! Do you love it or do you looove it?” Bill shut Ford's dangling jaw, moving his huge thumb over his lips to mix up the mouthful. Ford wanted to bite. He wanted to spit. He wanted to invert his stomach and expel countless uninvited loads onto the hand holding his face–but it was such a soft, kind hand.
“I love it…” His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.
“What do you say to some reciprocation, huh?” Bill levitated Ford to his eye level. It was hypnotic. He couldn't blink if he tried. “I've been giving you my all for ages!”
He had been. He'd been generously fulfilling every want, attending to every moan, every needy babble that came from Ford's inebriated lips. He was an angel, and Ford was obligated to show his respect.
“Where?” Ford had no other words to describe his request, but Bill understood. He knew everything Ford needed, instantly, because he invented the need.
“Eager!” He laughed, and hinged open Ford's mouth once more with a single finger. “Where's that pretty tongue?”
Ford presented his parched tongue. With a snap, it was moist and drooling. He didn't have a chance to appreciate the hydration before he was pressed face-first to an open, massive eyeball. He felt it roll against his cheek, and a dark pupil appeared beneath him.
“Wh…?” He pushed two hands into the slick surface and peeled himself off to peer into the slitted void the length and width of his arm.
“What? You look confused!” Bill pinched his underarms and lifted him off just far enough to see him clearly. A tongue emerged from under his eye to wet the surface, then slithered back behind his smiling lids. “Thought it'd be funny to watch you try to get me off! Rub up on me a little with your tiny person body!” He thumbed Ford's dick up against his stomach and pushed him back into position, pinning it between his belly and the slobbery surface. “I'll accept a solid effort–have fun with it!”
Ford gazed into the pupil between his hands. He hadn't noticed the nictitating membrane–a sheath of clear tissue, rough and gooey like the skin of a fish, protecting the delicate organ underneath. That made some kind of sense. It had an iridescent sheen to it, glinting off the top of the otherwise pure blackness. Under the spell that told him it was breathtaking–that his god was no less than immaculate–he had a much realer thought. The thought that it was beautiful. Strange and alien, the way he'd compliment a rare deep-sea animal. He shuddered.
“You want me to…?”
“I like it in the eye, judge me for it! I know what you're into!”
It was better than being fucked raw. It was better than being put on display to be tortured, or used freely as a party favor. As much as his druggy mind adored whatever was required to please His Benevolence, he had his preferences. This eye was comfortable–warm, watery, painless, with just enough curvature to give his spine a rest. He had to show his appreciation, or he could lose this small slice of tranquility.
He licked Bill's eye. It was more water than mucus, with a taste much subtler than the other fluids he'd ingested lately. He licked again, with more pressure. He could anticipate Bill's demands for more effort, more passion, to prove his appreciation. It was a privilege to be trusted with the all-seeing eye. It was a trust Bill didn't offer lightly.
Bill shuddered, a low rumble sounding through his bricks. Ford soon registered it as a purr, lowered in pitch and frequency by his oversized anatomy. Ford was entranced by the sound. It reverberated through his ribs, where his heart raced. There was no greater satisfaction than to hear proof of his muse's happiness. He slowed his tongue, maximizing the friction, putting his neck and shoulders into the motion. He synchronously massaged with his open hands, putting pressure on the balls of his palms, and, when that received a positive response, traced circles with his thumbs. The eye rolled back under its lid.
“Not bad at all, kid…you might be more useful than I gave you credit for,” Bill hummed. Ford's heart leapt at the praise.
“Thank you,” he breathed over translucent skin, and took the chance to drink the meager water off his tongue. He'd experienced no better quencher of thirst in his life. “Thank you,” he moaned.
Praise and mercy moved hot and fast through his bloodstream, pooling in the core of his hips. He felt every minute movement of Bill's eye on his cock, pressed between his stomach and the twitching membrane. His hips moved on their own. His mouth made sounds on its own. He whined, struggling to get a grip on the slick surface as he humped into it.
“Mm…You are very welcome.” Two wide fingertips pressed into his shoulderblades, keeping him in place. He adapted to the leverage, finding more friction, moaning louder, hips bucking into a texture he would have never been blessed with if it hadn't been for Bill–for everything he'd done.
“I love you!” He gasped. “You're everything, thank you, thank you!”
The secondary eyelid cracked open. It split vertically down the center, parting no more than two fingers width, forming a crease between the subtly ridged edges. A crease which perfectly fit Ford's desperate erection. Ford could have wept. He might have. His moans came pitiful and gracious, through mumblings of “thank you”, “my muse”, and, above all, “I love you” as he fucked an eyeball to completion.
“Clean up!” Bill sang, plucking Ford off to show him his mess. It dribbled down the inseam, drawing a cloudy white line down the center of the alert, satisfied pupil beneath. He dropped Ford in his opposite hand to give him a platform, forcing him to his hands and knees with the other–then giving him a quick pet before leaving him to his work. Ford leaned forward to lick him clean.
“That was fun!” Bill declared, once his eye was clear. “You agree!” he told Ford, who nodded back. He smiled. “Ready to come out? Think you can control yourself this time?”
Ford froze. He hadn't been so confronted by that question before now. Of course, he wanted to be sober. He needed to think for himself. Every minute his mind was altered he slipped further away from who he knew he was. It was agony, being forced to enjoy his assault. To be thankful for imprisonment and humiliation. But even so, it wasn't the worst part of this form of torture. Bill knew just as well. It was his favorite part.
“Please…not yet.” Ford gazed into the excited eye of his beloved muse, who pleasured him in every way he could hope for. Normally, when he sobered up, he tried to do something to him. Hit him, run from him, shout whatever obscenities had been brewing in the part of his brain that still belonged to him. He wondered what he might do this time.
“You got something to offer me?”
Ford sighed and closed his eyes. A trick question. Bill had everything he wanted. He could take whatever Ford could offer. “No, my muse.”
“Worth a shot. And a one, and a two…” He snapped his fingers.
Ford threw up. Hot, white stomach contents spilled between Bill's fingers, one load after another. His chest burned, his eyes watered, his guts twisted, until–finally–it was over. His head hung between his heaving shoulders. He looked up at Bill, and he cried.