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Electric hot pink waves roll before her vision, like the uniform field of space, constellated not with stars but with bursting pop-rock eruptions that cause Cassandra Cain's eyes to flutter under the ceaseless assault. Undulating and rolling, the sheet of radiance ripples and crashes in great incoherent breakers without distinct form.
Her entire body is liquid weight, molten lead, toxic, dripping, melting oozing down to the ground as she squirms, bucks, writhes - grinds with her hips to try to alleviate the whelming ache deep in the pit of her belly, so tightly wound that it feels as if she's going to snap. Blood courses through her head, pounding out thought; she can feel the rhythm of her heartbeat, inexorable and accelerating despite all the feeble mental disciplines, the knowledge of her body that's supposed to be pure and perfect.
Nothing moves as it's supposed to, like she's gone blind to herself.
Pliable, plastic and resisting fingers squeak inside of her gauntlets, protesting the mere attempt to jerk one floppy arm, like that of a paralytic, to the side as a cascade of detonations rake across her eyes, each piercing deep enough to shake the core of her. A carpet-bombing campaign of bunker-busters made of glitter and confetti floss – bursting, saccharine sweet and cloying and melting along with everything that they touch inside of her.
Slick, sticky heat between her thighs that she needs to squeeze together, but can't find purchase, muscles like taffy, too taut to pull apart and knead into shape without snapping; a guttural grunt wells up inside of her heaving chest.
Stretching straps of fabric cradle her head, pinning in place the goggles that have been affixed to her face, over the black pock-mark impressions of her lenses that leave her cowl-clad features appearing gaunt and ghoulish.
Nothing is sensible beyond that hot, electric pink field and the eruptions within that field of view. Static crackles along the screen, disrupting the illusion centimetres before her eyes. Now, each burst has begun to trickle downwards along with the melting lead, down – down – down to pool like a magma pocket in her warming belly.
Bucking and writhing to try to dislodge the visor from her face, since her stubborn hands and limbs are molasses, she finds that even the herky-jerky motions of her head only cause it to swim. Thoughts and any sense of bodily awareness in space bleed away, nothing more that wispy tendrils of smoke or water that sluices through her fingers no matter the bevy of meditation techniques and mental disciplines she attempts to recall.
Nothing coalesces except the brilliant colours and the heat that's whelming her like a flood of water, washing over her head and leaving her to drown even as the sparkles and pops begin to fizz inside of her belly, trailing down, hot and aching. Something like gravity wrenches and tugs at them, and the heat comes, alien-familiar. What was once known only as smoky embers, ready to be stoked and coaxed to life, now catches alight like tinder and hay from an arid plain.
But as with the simultaneously frenetic and torpid rocking of her body, all she can muster with her bones hollowed out, her limbs jelly, is a hunching motion of her hips. She gasps and whines into the stretched fabric of her mask, the imprint of her mouth straining the material and leaving a ghastly outline of blown-open lips behind the glistening black armour.
Now, it spreads. Flames curl and kiss and lick against every limb, like they've found thick veins of gasoline that run through her entire body. Pure sensation burns her out like a carboard match stick, leaving her a cinder. Utterly depraved whines and grunts, like those of rutting animals, wash over her ears, and it's only seconds or hours or days later, her body wracked with static electric convulsions as if she's been rammed in the side with a cattle prod that's left her on the verge of unconsciousness, that she realizes that it's her.
She's babbling incoherent nonsense that can't even coalesce into words, depraved snippets of half-slurred blather and indignities, only rendered more sloppy because of the fact that her jaw can't close.
Drool leaks out from her enflamed lips, spittle splattering into the mask so that every breath is heaved in, moist and hot and choking, everything sodden.
The rippling explosions that leave her burnt out narrow their focus, erupting now inside her lower belly as the chant begins not with words but in the smoky sensation that tingles in the back of her brain
Her tongue lolls out from her mouth and she tastes only the faintly chemical savor of her sodden costume; without the costume, she'd be heaving and panting like a bitch in heat, ready to present herself and her clenching, sopping cunt to be stuffed and bred.
Somewhere, that realization mingles with the wordless voice, getting jumbled, half hers and half another her that's still registering the carnivalesque of colours that dance before her eyes, enthralled like a child – possessing nothing more than an infant, or animal, understanding as the waves continue to wash over her, eroding, leaving only sensation and not sense.
A vicious stab drives into her pussy, the lips having spread wide and with her legs now likewise splayed apart as far as her acrobatic and flexible form will allow, she must make a sight, an utterly depraved spectacle and that only floods her with an affirming sort of pride as one might experience on seeing a father's smile or feeling a husband's gentle caress to your swollen, pregnant belly – something too innocent and pure to be wrong in any sense.
Even when conjoined to the knowledge, absent the words and drowning her brain in dripping wet wax like a mould is being taken of the ridges and folds, that she should be proud – had every reason to be.
Horny bitches show off their pussies.
Toys, like the cunt she's now tracing with her gauntleted fingers, exist to be played with.
It's good to show off those thick, puffy pussy lips that are swelling with desire, spread and straining, outlined by the jet black costume that's moist and shifting to a glistening, even darker hue as her juices flow out in a copious stream, spreading and dripping down to her ass and thighs so wet and ready it's almost as if she's pissed herself.
Under the taut material, with her legs out and crotch exposed, she probably appears like she is utterly nude, her cunt on fully display, ready for use.
Ears flooded only with the sounds of her own ragged breathing and the jackhammer of her heart against her ribcage, so intense and frantic that, if the thought could form, she might fear pulmonary failure, she can't discern anything in the room around her. Even special orientation – up and down – have lost meaning, as they might for someone whose inner ear had been destroyed. There's only the maelstrom of sensation through which she is buffeted, intensified and condensed on occasion by the motions of her hands.
One cupped her aching breast, rolling and pinching the nipple that had firmed up into a peak, a little pebble visible under her costume, while the other was busy between her thighs, index and middle finger extended to trace the seam of her pussy and pausing, occasionally, at the centerpoint to press inside as deeply as she could manage, driving the slick and slightly stretchy fabric of her costume into her cunt in a faint tease, an infuriating parody of that which her body craved, needed like she needed air to breathe. Even the pucker of her asshole seemed to pulsate and dilate.
Anything would do, anywhere. Any hole for any length of time. Just the faintest penetration – a finger, or a cock or a dozen cocks – would be enough to douse the flames and send her into a long, spiraling convulsion that would never end.
There was no way to know whether someone was out there or even if there was a universe beyond the metal panels under her knees, the faintly salty and thick air that was being sucked down into her burning lungs, the soothing, calming, comforting hum of the visor, inexorable like the tide, and the pink ocean that was still lapping and swirling away before her eyes.
But she hoped that there were. That there was someone watching, seeing her, staring at the imprint of her cunt and it was that thought that caused her desperate, fumbling fingers to stall out. With a frustrated and unsatisfied grunt that might, likewise, have been a plea, she set her fingers to the edge of her lower lips, and, as best as she could manage in the sightless pink world, scissored them apart to show off her sodden hole, so achingly ready that she could scream, all for – for...
Y/N!
The voiceless whisper imparts the name to her like a cluster of grapes being lowered to her lips, ambrosia and crystal clear water dripping into the mouth of a parched and dying woman, the first light of the first dawn seen by a man born blind.
It may not be her thought.
She may not have thoughts any longer.
But it oozes through her brain, languid and satisfying.
She can be a horny bitch in heat for Y/N.
Show off her pussy for Y/N.
That's why she had a body.
Why she was a woman.
Why she was born.
Not even for Y/N.
But for Y/N's cock.
The starbursts sing it like the music of the spheres, an unheard chorus, and she needs it sloppy and filling and deep.
Static electric bliss roars through her body at the admission, almost an orgasm that has her pussy clenching tight, trying to milk pure absence, while her belly coils up and crystalline serpents lash her intestines and shatter into scorching hot shards of deeper, greater need.
She had to have Y/N's cock. Feel it. Taste it. Ride it. Worship it. Drain it dry as he fucked her raw and ruined her and stuffed her full of his searing hot cum until she was pregnant and perpetually horny all for him.
Only for Y/N.
Just when she's on the verge of screaming for it, wordless because they can't form on her lips-
"You can touch yourself." It's warm and affirming and just a little pitying as he gives her leave.
And at that the muscles that arc down her shoulder firm up; fingers are loose and dextrous again as her hand whips around between her legs so that she can jam her fingers to the sodden outline of her pussy, shoving them as deeply inside of herself as she can. Only about a half-inch of her fingertips can press into her womanhood, stuffing some of the stretching uniform fabric, soiled with the effusion of her juices, into her own tunnel.
Maddening.
Infuriating.
Unsatisfying because the static heat that courses up from her pussy in shocks of pleasure just can't compare to the feeling of his cock spreading her properly.
"C-cock!" she whines, tongue nearly failing to cooperate as it tangles up between her teeth that clench shut so the word is nothing more than a hiss, garbled with her pleasure. "N-need cock!"
Reticent at the best of times, and currently at her worst as the waves of inadequate but still scalding, obliterating pleasure wash up from her needy cunt, all the way up into her chest, compressing her lungs that sting as if she's winded from a dozen marathons, and foggy head, she can't say more than that.
Then, the goggles are ripped away, and the world comes into focus, the bed against the far wall in the otherwise bright but spartan room hazy for a moment just like Y/N who's standing there before her, buck naked. His cock juts out towards her face, the member dripping hard, a dollop of precum beading up at the slick slit surrounded by his pealed back and bunched up foreskin. The vein along its length, and branching towards the tip, stands out with its enthralling slightly bluish tint, and god it looks so good there, twitching.
It has to be in her throat - her cunt - her ass! Anything!
And she should beg, but, though she heaves her legs apart to show off the imprint of her pussy, still jamming her fingers into her folds, the costume making penetration only a tantalizing dream, she can't find words in his native tongue. Bestial and inarticulate whines and huffs are all that she can manage.
Even then, he understands.
Her body speaks for her, this time in ways that anyone can hear.
"It's okay, baby girl," the even and warm baritone voice assures as palm cards over her cheek, the sweat and drool-slick fabric of her mask numbing the sensation so that there's only pressure rather than a caress. "You did so well telling me just what you need. Don't worry. Daddy's cock is all nice and ready for you."
He's atop her almost instantaneously, his weight settling against her and pinning her down into the chair. The frayed edges of her consciousness preclude her from gasping hold of anything behind the weight and welling heat of his body against hers through layers of fabric. There's precious little beyond the coiling flames that have lashed her body tight, and are flaying the skin from her bones even now, preventing her from discerning the motion as he closes the distance. Calloused hands find her hips and thumbs hook into the waistband of her tights.
A moment of fury overtakes her, though not enough to cause her hand to brake contact with her swollen and aching breast that she's nearly torquing in one palm, leaving bruises, because the tug of his hands, nearly peeling the pants from her with a wet and stick sound, force her to pull her fingers form her sodden cunt lips. Frigid air hits her with such force that a hiss erupts from her lips, the ghoulish full-face-mask contorting around her straining jaw and twitching cheeks. Stinging paint shoot from her labia up to belly, the emptiness that had only been assuaged and not satisfied by her clothed fingering now like a gaping wound that she needs filled before she's consumed by the void.
The stutter of her quivering hands towards her pussy is deflected by a sweep of his arm and it's so damn infuriating to the point that something inarticulate, part scream, part whine, part plea, and all pure and unabashed need spills out of her mouth at the sheer, unmitigated cruelty of it.
Her cunt has to be filled.
Anything! She'll take anything - her fingers, his, a toy, his cock.
And then he heaves forward.
The very instant that the dripping and slightly spungy glans of his cock head make contact with her lips, she heaves backwards in the chair, hands scrabbling over his back and surely clawing great welts into the trembling muscles there.
A wordless scream echoes into the air, bouncing back from the ceiling, as the orgasm overtakes her, release gushing out in a squirt of fluid that splatters his shaft and smooth balls. Her womanhood dilates open around his shaft until those pulsating orbs are pressed up against her.
Glorious.
Pure and perfect glory as her body is filled at last, pubic hair getting tangled with the sodden mass of his, every vein of his cock scraping along her inner walls that squeeze him rhythmically, so harsh and quick that it's as if exists only to milk him dry, service his cock, take his seed, get fucked and bred.
Kaleidoscopic pink starbursts etch the vision of it into her brain.
Servicing and enjoying Y/N's dick forever.
The thought as he pulls back, her tunnel aching with every inch of withdrawal, preparing for another smooth and easy thrust, is enough to set her off again, her body caught in something akin to a seizure before he's even halfway out of her.
Clammy with spittle, her mask clings to her chin and cheeks for an instant before he reaches out to pry it up just above her jaw and lunge forward in a sloppy kiss, forcing his tongue into her mouth to smother the garbled yelp that bubbles up and out, and then her hips are moving, chasing after him. With Cass finding her rhythm as she might on the rooftops or dance floor, great, heaving contortions roll her cunt into his next thrust that spreads her full and proper with an obscene wet squelch.
And then they're moving together, bodies colliding and writhing.
"F-fuck - m-me-" The words tumble from her mouth, half slurred and half choked. Another orgasm ripples over her as she's bounced on his cock, mewling and sobbing because that's all that she can squeeze out
With a roar that has her keening at the reverberations, the fact, recognized in some dim recess of her mind beyond the pretty coloured lights and beyond conscious thought, that he's lost control of himself for her without any help from the altered Mad Hatter tech that now lays discarded on the floor, he bottoms out inside of her cunt, balls clapping against her sensitive skin one last time.
They palpitate once, twice, and then great gouts of searing hot seed erupt inside of her womanood, searing out even the last vestiges of thought. The world becomes only pure, animalistic sensation, only this moment and no past or future. The scent and taste of sweat, her mouth to a broad shoulder, teeth biting in, bearing down, stifling the scream; a cascade of sparking explosions through her rippling pussy, squeezing to try to milk him dry through her unsteady, staccato humping motions; the ridges and folds of his cock inside of her, the way it twitches as he spends himself; the guttural cries, punctuated by hiccuping gasps, of her name, somehow filthy as any debauched promise or profanation.
Pure and brainless bliss as they slide off the chair, collapse to the floor in a heap of tangled limbs and naked, melted flesh.
An indeterminate span passes. Partial blackouts and vague, dream-like fugue states. The satisfaction of half-asleep, half-aroused kisses. A cock being teased inside of her, swelling faintly and deflating, thick cum cooling and leaking out in trails down her inner thighs and his balls. Fingers and massive palms, wide enough nearly to encircle her waist, trailing her taut spine, helping to ease the tension that lingers. Incoherent praises whispered into her ears. Sharp and thrilling stabs of pleasure that crackled like thunderbolts through her bosom as peaked nipples grind against his chest. Nuzzles that brush across the crown of her head, her temples, forehead, cheeks, shoulders, and chin.
Finally, somehow, she comes back to herself, the roiling pink sea receding to a haze and then only a kind of muted visual background noise so that his flushed face coalesces into view.
Facial expressions remained a minute challenge for years only because of the mouth, twisting and curving in forms that were evidently purposeful but absent coherence; words always got in the way while body language screamed, or chatted with her amiably.
Broad, wide, and softer than any of the men who have held - never like this - her in the past, two palms splay over her hips, fingers stroking along the small of her back. Slick and sticky, acrid semen drying and congealing along her thighs in a fashion that she assumes most would find revolting, her womanhood is still pressed against his spent cock, one of her legs thrown over his figure, hooked around his ass a little possessively.
She cards her hand through sweat-damp hair, the texture indiscernible through her gloves, so she takes a moment to pluck them off in order to let him feel her nails running through his scalp.
The words are being screamed at her in every minute palpitation of his heart, discernible in the pulsations running through his throat; the loose arms around her waist as if suddenly, the spell broken for both of them, he's terrified of hurting her; the flutter of fingertips as the ghost along the small of her back, pausing over the scar tissue from a lifetime of past abuses and present sacrifices, and she knows.
But he doesn't speak her language because there may only be one or two people in the world who can, even if he's one who would try if he could. For her part, vocalizations so rarely come.
There are times to try.
Her palm lays flat against his cheek, and Y/N's boyish and almost shy smile, and furtive gaze, are both directed towards her, his focus like she consumes the world.
It a moment, she'll tuck her head under his chin so that all the world of sight, and scent, and sound condense down to velvet blackness, the all-consuming presence that, like and unlike the constellated pink field, because it allows her, as she allows herself, to be obliterated.
But for now.
"Loved it," she sighs, taking his hand and feathering a kiss to his fingertips that still taste faintly of her own sweat, skin, and arousal. There's a flicker of a bliss and release that she recognizes so easily across his face, in his eyes. "Love you."
And that's enough.
The words, of course, for him.
And, for her, as she settles against Y/N properly and feels every inch of her own fully-spent body sag and the tides of sleep slowly lapping at the shores of her mind, the reality.
“Fun,” she admits, which causes him to start in her arms, wrapped around his shoulders and holding him close in the afterglow, preventing him, even in the shock, from yanking away from her.
He belongs to her, after all, and isn't getting away.
Instead, she continues, looking him straight in his beautiful, wide eyes.
“Can we do this again?” she asks with unabashed interest, curiosity and eagerness mingling in her tone.
Y/N blinks once.
Twice.
And smiles a cockeyed grin, cheeks flushed and the man himself abashed to the point that he's glancing downward, unable to hold her gaze for more than a moment.
As if he could say no.
He's really not the one in control here, after all.