After slicing your thighs wide open, I took the time to stitch you up. Skin pulled taught, held together with polypropylene.
You doze, still strapped to the cool, metal table. It's not the kind of rest that actually refreshes you. No. You flinch every time something clatters as I move around the space and clean up. On alert, waiting for more.
You look perfect like this. Scared, in pain, but too exhausted to do more than roll your head to one side or the other as you attempt to locate me within the room.
My gaze can't help but catch on those damn sutures. I just finished cleaning everything up. I should hold off, wait until I visit you again. My dick has other ideas though, throbbing as I continue to stare.
I have no self control, really. And, who am I to deny myself such pleasure?
The rustle of clothes draws a broken whimper from you, sending a shiver down my spine.
A tug, a deep inhale, and then there's the head of my cock against the wound. Hot, hard flesh slowly tunnels forward, forcing the clean edges of the gash back open. The stitches pull, accompanied by the slick squelch of subcutaneous tissues engulfing my cock.
I wish I had thought this through, I wish I would have given you something to make you more coherent so I could listen to you scream while I turned your thigh into a fucking fleshlight. Next time, next time for sure.
It's a fucking mess, chunks of yellow tissue sticking to my dick and pelvis with every thrust, blood spilling out and pooling beneath where you lay, coating my balls. It's a sight to see, really. I should take pictures and develop them so I can show them to you later.
All too soon, I'm spilling spurt after spurt into your reopened wound, huffing in ragged breaths.
The "let's get you cleaned up again" I murmur falls on deaf ears, considering you most certainly weren't truly conscious for most of that. Oh well.
Time to start the process over.
