[ She puts her thumb to his lips and it tastes like his precum, a bloom of marine salts across his palate. He closes his lips around it for just a second, licks it clean, just because she wants him to. It doesn't matter that he doesn't really know her, she's everything and he's just Carmy.
Then she's going, and he races to get himself all buttoned up again, doesn't look across at the bartender watching him knowingly. He's so hard from the waves of humiliation that he has to limp a little.
Carmy doesn't know shit about programming or the law, but it feels like he's found an exploit in his brain. A loophole, a way out of the Catch-22 of his trauma. The rules that say: Carmy doesn't deserve to experience pleasure, and if he does he has to stop before it gets taken away or twisted around on him, or disappoints him the way that every good thing disappoints him. Carmy is a piece of shit who ruins everything he touches, he's toxic fucking waste. But this isn't pleasure. It isn't a good time, right? It's humiliation and cruelty, the way he deserves. It's okay if his dick gets hard for that. Parisa can see what he is, and he doesn't have to worry about existing in the right way because there will never be a right way. He's already failed.
The private room has like, gear and shit, the kind that he's only seen in Twitter videos he bookmarked guiltily. He's watched a lot of weird porn on Twitter; his favourite is realistic medical play, disinterested doctors in latex gloves trying to work around the boner of some embarrassed patient. Giving clinical handjobs. But he wasn't lying that he knows was CBT is.
He hovers awkwardly, waiting to be told if he should stand or sit or kneel; take his clothes off or leave them on. ]
no subject
Then she's going, and he races to get himself all buttoned up again, doesn't look across at the bartender watching him knowingly. He's so hard from the waves of humiliation that he has to limp a little.
Carmy doesn't know shit about programming or the law, but it feels like he's found an exploit in his brain. A loophole, a way out of the Catch-22 of his trauma. The rules that say: Carmy doesn't deserve to experience pleasure, and if he does he has to stop before it gets taken away or twisted around on him, or disappoints him the way that every good thing disappoints him. Carmy is a piece of shit who ruins everything he touches, he's toxic fucking waste. But this isn't pleasure. It isn't a good time, right? It's humiliation and cruelty, the way he deserves. It's okay if his dick gets hard for that. Parisa can see what he is, and he doesn't have to worry about existing in the right way because there will never be a right way. He's already failed.
The private room has like, gear and shit, the kind that he's only seen in Twitter videos he bookmarked guiltily. He's watched a lot of weird porn on Twitter; his favourite is realistic medical play, disinterested doctors in latex gloves trying to work around the boner of some embarrassed patient. Giving clinical handjobs. But he wasn't lying that he knows was CBT is.
He hovers awkwardly, waiting to be told if he should stand or sit or kneel; take his clothes off or leave them on. ]