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He doesn’t understand why he’s still alive. Doesn’t understand why and how he’s managed to keep going for so long. Everything hurts though, and that’s the only proof he has that he’s still living and breathing and fighting—although more than anything, Waylon just wants the pain to stop.
At least. That’s what he would have been thinking, once upon a time. Now? Now, he’s not so sure.
He doesn’t hurt anymore—at least, not in the same way, because when Eddie hurts him, it’s because he loves him. He makes it explicitly clear that he loves him, in the way he bites his shoulders when they’re making love, bites so hard Waylon starts to bleed, and the way that he spanks his ass until he starts to cry. After such events, of course, Eddie always holds him and kisses away his tears, because Eddie loves him. Waylon used to feel sick to his stomach whenever he was told how much he was loved.
Used to.
Now, he all but craves those three little words. Almost as much as he craves Eddie being inside him, calling him his precious whore, his darling…
Waylon is grateful, at least, that Eddie has spared what he calls his ‘vulgar bits’. And Waylon is grateful, so fucking grateful, because even though he now finds himself disgusting because of those parts, Eddie still touches him. Cares for him. Loves him, ‘vulgar bits’ and all, and Waylon can’t believe he used to deny his husband’s advances before.
Oh. That was another thing. He was Eddie’s wife now, wasn’t he? Somewhere deep down, Waylon knows he should feel disgusted at the notion of being emasculated and conditioned into becoming Eddie’s perfect little bride. He should feel horrid, sick and vile.
He doesn’t.
They’d consummated their marriage a little while ago. Eddie had thrown him over the altar almost immediately after the ceremony, hiked his dress up, and had pounded into him from behind. Waylon remembers he had begged for it to stop. Now, he figures he’d begged because he hadn’t wanted Eddie to ruin the lovely dress he’d been wearing. Not for the first time, he’s thankful for all the lovely clothes Eddie makes for him.
Despite all the ravenous sex they have had recently, Eddie hasn’t gotten mad once that his seed hasn’t taken within Waylon. At this point, it’s Waylon who is the most frustrated, as he so desperately wants to give birth to his husband’s children.
Anything to make Eddie happy, to repay him for all his kindness. He wants to be a mother. Wants Eddie to be the father.
For now though, Eddie is content with just spending his days with his bride, and that makes Waylon happiest of all. These days vary from the two of them making clothes for their future children, and more often than not, Eddie fucking him until morning. As of late, his beloved has been trying different things in the bedroom with him, and tonight, Waylon has to admit, he’s more than a little excited.
He’s wearing the dress he wore when they were wed; a beautiful, flowing white gown that gives him curves where there are none. (Eddie knows exactly how to make a dress that flatters his figure, and Waylon can’t help but admire how his hands make such delicate work with a needle and thread).
The skirt is held up in his hands, bunched up at his hips so Eddie can see his bride on display, his ‘clit’ already throbbing, red and leaking. Eddie has trained him to get aroused in a minute’s notice, so Waylon is always ready for sex whenever his husband wants it. It is one of his duties as a good wife.
The lacy lingerie he is wearing can barely restrain his erection by now, the pale cream color a sharp contrast to the dark flush of his skin. Waylon is so aroused it hurts. Through half lidded eyes, he hear’s a soft command to ‘look up’, and without hesitation, he raises his gaze from the ground.
There’s Eddie, lying on the bed, eyes glinting dangerously in the dark, hand lazily stroking his own cock through his trousers. He looks so smug and put-together, and the way he stares at Waylon, absolutely predatory, is doing horrible things to his body.
He doesn’t move from his spot at the foot of the bed. Waylon can’t; he knows well enough by now that Eddie calls the shots, inside the bedroom and out, and to disobey or act without command would mean a grave punishment. So he waits for an order, hands trembling on the skirt as a single bead of precum emerges from his slit and adds itself to the growing wet spot at the front of his panties. He hopes he’s told to take off his underwear first, as they’re growing quite uncomfortably tight.
Unfortunately, that isn’t the case. Eddie finally speaks, voice a soft purr (and this is the voice that makes Waylon impossibly wet, makes his ‘clit’ achingly hard, makes his ‘cunt’ feel painfully empty), “My darling, please, come here to me.” He beckons with his free hand, and Waylon is almost tripping over himself to get to Eddie. He scrambles onto the bed, careful not to get his long limbs tangled in the bed sheets or the skirt of his dress. Last time he tore a gown, he was spanked with a thin, wooden ruler that had been found in one of the offices. He still remembers the pain, how Eddie hadn’t stopped until he’d broke the skin and had made him bleed.
Settled on the bed, legs resting on either sides of his hips, Waylon licks his lips expectantly. With Eddie’s current trend of new sex positions, he can already conclude that 1) he will not be riding Eddie, and 2) he will not let Eddie ‘breast-feed’ from him. Those activities have already been done. Even as his mind is searching for what his husband will demand of him, what Eddie actually ends up saying is the last thing he would have expected.
"Sit on my face." His tone, still playful, leaves no room for argument. But the order is so blunt, so random, that it takes Waylon a second to gather his thoughts.
What. What? Why? What would that possibly achieve?
Instead of asking questions—because to be curious was to be a naughty girl—Waylon does as he is told and crawls up Eddie’s body. Halfway up his chest, he feels a strong hand suddenly grab at his ass from underneath his dress, find the elastic of his panties, and then they are ripped off. His clit practically leaps from its confines, and Waylon can almost hear the cartoony ‘boing!’ that goes with it. A startled little gasp leaves his mouth as he is freed, but he doesn’t stop dragging himself to Eddie’s mouth, even though those hands feel heavenly on his rear.
Finally, he sits, perched, over Eddie’s face, knees straddling his head. His hands are clutching his dress even tighter.
Eddie, perceptive as ever, realizes that Waylon is nervous about hurting him, as well as afraid that he is disgusted by being so close to his massive, unfeminine clit. As the gentleman he is, he settles one hand on the small of Waylon’s back, his thumb rubbing soothing circles on his skin. “Don’t be afraid,” he coos, making Waylon’s bones turn to jello, “This is fine. Be a good girl, and go ahead.” Waylon loves that. Being praised by his beloved.
So Waylon rests his weight on Eddie’s face. He isn’t even given warning when Eddie starts to toy with him.
All of a sudden, a hot, wet tongue is lapping at his ‘pussy’. Waylon goes bug-eyed in surprise and grinds his hips downward as instinct, almost cutting off Eddie’s air supply. Learning quickly that his wife isn’t going to be able to hold still, Eddie grabs Waylon’s ass in warning, squeezing too hard to be pleasurable. Waylon wheezes in response and starts to lose grip of the dress in his sweaty hands. Eddie has never touched him there before—at least, not with his tongue. This is a special occasion then, surely, because Waylon doubts he will be touched there again like this for a long time. That’s okay though. Because Eddie will show him his love in other ways.
And then before he can even catch up to what is happening, Eddie starts to suck. His tongue presses inside of him, and starts wriggling inside his anal cavity. It’s a bizarre, alien feeling, and Waylon adjusts his sitting position accordingly to make the task easier. The lewd slurping, squelching noises are starting to get to him.
But is that really such a bad thing? The more excited Waylon got, the louder he became—and Eddie always had said he made the most beautiful sex noises. Tilting his head back, Waylon lets out a long, raw moan. He never felt this good during sex until Eddie had come along. Dimly, he tries to remember that he has a duty, a responsibility, a task to find evidence for…for what? He tries to remember his wife’s face. Waylon can’t. He can’t think at all—unless his thoughts concern Eddie. He has been meticulously broken and remade, so thoroughly, that leaving Eddie is the last thing on his mind. As it should be, because Eddie is the one that loves him the most in the world.
If Waylon had enough willpower to manage it, he might be able to focus on escape.
He can’t. Not when Eddie’s mouth is doing terrible things to his cunt, sucking, lapping, fucking him open with that wet, slick
muscle. Eddie quite literally sucks all his worries right out of him.
Later, as he starts to fall asleep in Eddie’s arms, he realizes that even if he should choose to run away from this place, that it is impossible. He can’t just walk away.
Because Eddie loves him. And Waylon knows that, from now on until forever, he will love him back.