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Like many things in life, it starts as an experiment.
They’ve been having sex, well, having sex as much as two people can when you’re human and a parasitic slug, for a few months now. They’ve gotten good at it. Anthony took care of the physical side of things, using his hands to find little spots of pleasure the way he knew his body liked it. Illim took care of the chemical. He stimulated nerves and sensations or sometimes, teasingly prevented them until he thought they were ready, and the orgasm hit them like an angry Visser in Antarean Bogg morph hits a subordinate.
On one very interesting occasion Anthony had held back and had done nothing but talk Illim through moving his hands and watched as Illim got them off. There was a degree of trust in that which neither of them felt they’d ever achieve. But they had.
This time, the plan was similar. Anthony would do absolutely nothing. The difference was that Illim wouldn’t be moving his body either.
They undress shyly, giggling a little. Anthony was still always a little self-consious of his body. It wasn’t that he didn’t like it, but, well. He was a middle-aged teacher with a stomach larger than he’d like, with less hair than he’d like. He knew he wasn’t really winning any contests when it came to physical appearance.
<I think you’re beautiful,> says Illim firmly. <You are one of the most beautiful humans I’ve ever seen.>
He didn’t often address Anthony’s unspoken thoughts, working to give him what privacy he can, but he can’t let this go unsaid. He might only experience sexual attraction when he’s in Anthony’s head, but he is very clear on what he likes when he does. Just to make the point even clearer, he sets them up on the edge of the bed, facing the full length mirror.
And then Illim starts to play. It’s gentle at first, a little hint of arousal as hormones are released, and encouraged. Anthony’s breathing quickens, and his heart speeds up. This lets Illim direct a little more blood to Anthony’s cock. They both watch the mirror as it starts to swell. And swell. It’s not long before he’s rock hard.
Anthony has full control over his body, and his hands twitch. He’s not sure if it’s a desire to cover himself, exposed like this in front of the mirror, or a desperate need for physical stimulation. He hears Illim laugh in his head.
<Oh Anthony, I’m only just getting started.>
He moves to the nerves. Illim always did have an affinity for electric shocks. A pinch to Anthony’s left nipple that feels as real as if he’d been touched. There’s a sensation that runs from his sternum to his groin, like fingers being rapidly moved down his chest and stomach. He lets out a noise that’s halfway between a giggle and a moan. He’d never thought of himself as particularly ticklish, but that sensation has him squirming.
When Illim sets off the nerves linked to his prostate, Anthony’s hips buck off the bed and he gives a shout. That’s a sensation he’s still getting used to feeling again. He and Pat had been… well, he wasn’t insecure enough in his masculinity to ignore the stories their gay friends had told him about how good it could feel. And Pat liked to see him squirm and moan as much as Illim did, Anthony must have a type that way. But, he’d never really bothered to play with it by himself.
“I’m not going to last long if you keep this up,” he pants. It’s been an embarrassingly short amount of time.
<Let me worry about that,> says Illim, sounding faintly smug.
Illim continues and Anthony loses the ability to pinpoint specific feelings. He feels like he’s being touched all over, like his cock is about to explode, like he’s being fucked within an inch of his life, or at least he assumes that’s what it must be like. And all the while he is just sitting on the edge of his bed, staring at himself, while his hands fist in the sheets and he clings to them, desperate for anything to hold on to. He looks away from the mirror, feeling awkward, but the moment he does, Illim completely stops all sensation.
<I want to see you,> says Illim. <I want to see how beautiful you look coming apart for me.>
<You have a weird idea of what’s beautiful,> mutters Anthony, but he wants to feel good, and if that means having to look at himself, it’s worth it.
His body is flushed, his cock is hard and leaking, and a light sheen of sweat covers his skin.
<Beautiful,> sighs Illim. <I love you.>
He’s said it before, and he’ll say it again, but it always gives Anthony a thrill.
Sensation sweeps over him once more, building and building until he’s about to come. And then his orgasm is ripped away from him and he mewls. Illim laughs at him. There’s no malice in it, just a kind of wild joy.
<Tease,> groans Anthony.
<I’m in your head,> says Illim. <Don’t think I can’t feel exactly how much you’re enjoying this.>
He builds again, slightly slower this time, mindful not to let Anthony tip over the edge. Illim keeps him there, on the verge of orgasm, for longer than should be physically possible. Anthony’s dick is so hard is aches, his balls feel tight, he’s leaking more pre-cum than he knew he could, dripping onto the sheets beneath him. And then, the sensation dissipates for a second time.
<Please,> Anthony begs. <Please no that was so close, that was so good. Please Illim let me come.>
<Alright,> says Illim. The mischief in his voice should have been a clue. Anthony is too desperate to pay it any attention.
He watches in the mirror as he starts to feel incredible sensations. Besides the red flush that runs from his forehead to his cock, there’s not much he can see, but oh fuck can he feel. He tries to sit still, but occasionally the brush of sensation against his prostate makes his hips buck off the bed, or a feeling makes him clench his legs together, desperate for any external stimulation. All the while little tickling feelings skitter over different parts of his body, making him twitch and giggle and moan. Making his cock jump.
Anthony can feel his orgasm coming a long time before it hits. It builds like a tsunami, until his balls feel so tight they might burst and he has to make an effort to keep watching himself and to not just close his eyes with pleasure (he can’t risk Illim taking this one away). He’s never felt so good, he thinks it might be the end of him.
When he comes, the force of it knocks him backwards onto the bed, hands still desperately holding onto the sheets to stop himself from touching his dick. And he comes, and he comes, and he comes. There’s so much of it. It lands on his stomach and chest and the sheets and, when he recovers enough to prop himself up, panting, exhausted, he sees his reflection is obscured by stripes of white. He didn’t know that was physically possible.
Anthony sits back up, and goes to start cleaning himself off with the sheets, they’re going to need changing anyway.
<No,> says Illim. <Don’t move, we’re not done yet.>
<Uh,> says Anthony. <I don’t think I’ve ever come that much in my life. I don’t think anyone has ever come that much.>
<But,> says Illim. <I think you might have more in you. And, you asked so nicely to come.>
Oh fuck. Anthony was in trouble.
<Eyes on the mirror,> says Illim gently.
<Is this just an attempt to try and convince me I’m not the unattractive middle-aged man we both know I am?>
<No,> says Illim. <It’s because I like to see what I do to you.>
This time the sensations are slower. Despite this, Anthony moans and can’t stop the way he squirms. His dick feels overstimulated, it all feels too much. And yet Illim keeps going. He can’t tell if his vision if blurry because he’s started to cry, or if it’s just the cum on his reflection. But he wants to make Illim happy, and so he keeps looking at the mirror. He feels tears running down his face. Ok, not just the cum then.
Anthony has done a lot of things in his life, he’s no stranger to sex, but he’s never been able to come more than once. He’d be more insistent that this wasn’t possible if, against all probablitity, he couldn’t see his cock starting to rise again.
<Let’s see if I can show you what this stunning body of yours can do,> murmurs Illim.
Anthony’s last coherent, even semi-coherent, thought is of how much he loves Illim. And then everything is pure, painful bliss.
Two more orgasms later and they’re panting, sprawled on the bed. Anthony’s mouth is dry and he desperately wants a drink, there’s no way he’s not dehydrated, but he can’t move to get it. He can’t even feel his limbs. Every single nerve in his body has been overloaded and he’s not sure they’ll work again. If he wasn’t so full of endorphins he might be panicking about that.
<I’ll try,> groans Illim.
Hah , thinks Anthony, lacking the energy to even direct the thought at Illim. You’ve done this to yourself as well as me.
Illim picks it up anyway, as he tries to pull them towards the head of the bed, where there will be a glass of water on the bedside table.
<I hope it was worth it,> he says, less assured than he was when he was wringing a month’s worth of cum from Anthony’s cock. <Did you like it?>
<You know I did,> says Anthony, with a considerable amount of effort. His dick twitches with the memory of what they’ve done and both he and Illim groan in unison at the pleasure/pain that causes.
They make it to the water and work on replacing the fluids Anthony lost. When movement feels more possible Illim starts to gently stroke the back on Anthony’s hand.
<Thank you,> he says. <You were amazing.>
<Thank you,> says Anthony. <Holy fuck… I’m… yeah I’m keeping those memories...>
They both fall into giggling, exhausted, wound up in each other’s feelings.
<I love you,> says Anthony. <I love you so much.>
<I love you too.>
By the time they can move, the cum on Anthony’s body has started to dry, and the sensation is far from pleasant. They stagger to the shower, and wash it off while sitting on the tile floor. Standing is still a bit much.
<That was incredible,> says Anthony. <But…>
<But?>
<You’re cleaning all that up.>
<Hey!>
<Don’t hey me Illim, you made the mess.>
<Tell that to your dick...>
As the water starts to run cold they once more fall into laughter, sated, happy, and stupidly in love.