[Matt obeys automatically, trying and failing to keep from tracing the delicate chains with his eyes, both hands gripping the lead until they're white-knuckled. He wants to reach out, wants to touch, to ghost his fingertips over the piercings, wants to see how Shiro would react to Matt toying with the chains, curling his fingers in them and sliding his tongue over the tiny nipple rings. After all, it's been established that Shiro likes his mouth, right? Every time he swallows, Matt can still taste, still feel the weight of the stallion's cock down his throat, can remember the heavy, thick, slippery feeling of cum in his mouth.
...the fact that "the stallion" is Shiro should make him feel bad about remembering. It should, and it doesn't. It makes the memory better.
Clearing his throat a couple times, Matt shakes his head at the question, eyes still fixed on the bare expanse of Shiro's chest, his stomach, the bunched muscles in his equine legs, the sleek smoothness of his flanks.]
No. I'm not -- it's too much work. For any one person to, uh. Stake a claim. It's easier for them to. Share. [He says it matter-of-factly. There's a lot of pent-up tension in the stables, hierarchies establishing themselves, Galra and hybrids and slaves and stablehands. If some of it gets worked out in the lower-ranking slaves chasing and occasionally catching someone smaller and weaker, more's the better for the supervisors. Less problems.
Matt blinks, looks upwards, offers a hesitant half-smile.] It's -- I don't mind, usually. They don't always want to, ah. Hurt me.
[Quite the opposite, usually. Admitting it out loud, to Shiro of all people makes Matt squirm a little, but there's a part of him that likes being useful, that enjoys the attention. Why else would his first instinct upon being faced with a pent-up, tense centaur be to get on his hands and knees and open his mouth?]
no subject
...the fact that "the stallion" is Shiro should make him feel bad about remembering. It should, and it doesn't. It makes the memory better.
Clearing his throat a couple times, Matt shakes his head at the question, eyes still fixed on the bare expanse of Shiro's chest, his stomach, the bunched muscles in his equine legs, the sleek smoothness of his flanks.]
No. I'm not -- it's too much work. For any one person to, uh. Stake a claim. It's easier for them to. Share. [He says it matter-of-factly. There's a lot of pent-up tension in the stables, hierarchies establishing themselves, Galra and hybrids and slaves and stablehands. If some of it gets worked out in the lower-ranking slaves chasing and occasionally catching someone smaller and weaker, more's the better for the supervisors. Less problems.
Matt blinks, looks upwards, offers a hesitant half-smile.] It's -- I don't mind, usually. They don't always want to, ah. Hurt me.
[Quite the opposite, usually. Admitting it out loud, to Shiro of all people makes Matt squirm a little, but there's a part of him that likes being useful, that enjoys the attention. Why else would his first instinct upon being faced with a pent-up, tense centaur be to get on his hands and knees and open his mouth?]