ford pines enthusiast

Ford being the center of attention of a group of monsters. Just as he has examined them, taken notes, taken in the details, illustrated them... They too would like to do the same. Maybe not exactly replicate his form, but... It is understood they are quite curious about humans.

Well... Since they were so cooperative and patient... It is only fair to return the favor. Who is he to deny others the chance to satiate the so called "curiosity" bug in them? The desire to learn something?

Neverthless it is... Quite the position to be in. He is in the middle of a semi-circle (it being more comfortable that way. Unlike some of them, he does not posses the hability to see behind him. They understand) formed by a variety of unique and fine specimens. And they all wear quite the intense gazes. So focused, so fixated...

His stomach flutters in both excitement and the slightest of nerves when two decide to take the initiative.

They poke, pinch, squeeze, tickle, make him move and stretch-- you name it, and he keeps his voice as high and clear as he can.

The garments he wears do end up getting a bit on the way, making for maybe not so reliable results so... He decides on taking some off.

They get situated again and restart the ministrations. There is a clear difference in the results, as are there on their ministrations. Some seem to... Linger a bit more. The squeezes get tighter. The petting and caressing extended in duration and area covered. Some seeming more sensitive, their touch extra soft, others, meanwhile, a little more forceful, really wanting to see a reaction in his skin.

Stanford does not find it in himself to mind. Not really.

Some don't wait for their turns and decide to come closer yet again. Maybe curious about the change in the tone of voice of the human. It didn't sound as "strong" as before, as even. His demeanor had changed. Why?

A few seem to have a higher sense of feel, or perhaps hearing, if the way they fixate on his chest is anything to go by. And here he had thought that if he tried to control his breathing his heart wouldn't beat as fast. Guess to him it was fine, it was slower, but not enough to fool them.

They coo and purr, amused at the biological reaction, and decide on continuing the same administrations on the chosen spots to see how else the human could react.

The air notably heavier, dense. Stanford needs to take deeper breaths to feel at ease, and not even with that are his lungs satiated. Specially when some of the creatures do end up behind him (talking all the while, making sure he knows who's there) and he just about throws his head back, gasping hard for breath when a shiver runs down his spine.

Fiddleford massaging and petting Ford's belly after he was presented with a rich meal made by the former.

The swelling/new growth on his abdomen isn't that exaggerated but it is definitely noticeable to the usual look it carries, without mentioning the fact that it's more "rigid/taut". And it even poked out a bit from under his shirt after the man leaned back to stretch and relax. Fiddleford couldn't be more enamoured at the sight.

Even in his fascination Fiddleford is careful with his petting, not wanting to apply too much pressure as to not cause discomfort/pain, which is noticed and appreciated, as is the heat from his hands.

Ford jacking off for the sake of jacking off. Maybe it happened randomly, just a random body reaction, and rather than ignoring it he just says "might as well".

It's all entirely mechanical, not much interest nor feeling put into it. Save for feeling slightly more frustated than before he doesn't feel much else.

He debates if stopping entirely. After all, he's getting tired and particularly sore. Yet, since he already started, once again, "might as well" finish it. He takes a deep breath, tries to relax, and continues, but softer and with more care put into it. He starts to think, imagine scenarios, voices...

Maybe he fantasizes about someone in particular.

He sees them, he remembers how their hands felt against his skin (what kind of touch was it? Was it a friendly one that set his skin ablaze now that he remembered it, and which he now was exploiting for a filthy fantasy, or a wanting one that reciprocated his desire?)

(was their hold rough and demanding, or soft and caring?

. . .

Or, had nothing happened back then, what would they be like?)

He still recalls their cologne/perfume/fragance. So distinguished, so specific, so them .

He hears their voice, loud and clear. It bounces around in his skull and each time it says his name a shiver runs down his spine.

With his movements getting faster and faster, he has the sense to cover his mouth with the free hand (Would they like that? Would they do that themselves? Would they be against it, fight him about it?). He doesn't know which option he needs right now.

His final cry is muffled. His vision goes from total darkness to white and then black again. His ears ring. His muscles spasm. All his nerves are alive and shaking.

He pants a good while, knocked out of air as if he had been on a long chase for-

Ah.

He opens his eyes and looks around.

Right.

He got so caught up in the fantasy that he forgot where he was.

And that he was alone.

It's funny really, how he got so caught up in the moment that he really thought it was real. Hah!

It's so funny in fact that he starts to laugh.

Once. Twice. The third a bit more rough sounding, forced, spat out. Soon enough what comes out doesn't resemble laughter anymore but it's not like he can stop.

Guess he can only hope for that to bring the promise of relief unlike this... Act that he did that only left him with a dirty and disgusting, disgusting hand.

Ford rambling, stumbling over his words and fidgeting with hands and fingers while airing out some new things he would like to try out.

So far no comments, no questions, no reactions, not anything.

Worrying.

He looks at Fiddleford and... The man has such dilated eyes you can almost miss the characteristic light hue.

He, also, might be presenting an erection if the unusual shift in his attire is anything to go by.

Well then. That answers the question to if he was still alive, considering his chest seems to stand at a still, and his eyes are looking straight ahead, directly at his husband.

And also that he might agree to said fantasy.

Ford says "please" over and over, and over, and over again during sex. Specially when he's about to cum.

The closer he is to the end the more breathy, broken and desperate it sounds. He sounds.

Is he begging his dear for relief, pushing/moving towards and/or with them? Is he begging them for mercy, trying to squirm away from the overwhelming touch?

Is it too much? Is it not enough?

Is he saying it outloud, maybe to himself, even? Is he begging his own body to please, finally produce an orgasm and set him free from all the stress he carries on his shoulders, from all the ache?

Is he begging a more, abstract and omnipresent being for help, for, as said before, relief? He could settle for seconds of euphoria, he doesn't ask much. Just make it happen.

After a few days of Ford slaving at his desk, running his mouth dry and basically moving 24/7 Fiddleford comes up with a plan to make the man take a breather. His high energy self and enthusiam is contagious and nothing short of lovely, don’t get him wrong, but Fiddleford thinks he could use a pause every now and then.

It starts like this: Him approaching from behind, lovingly wrapping his arms around his neck, and nuzzling and breathing in the dark grey fluff. Then a little shoulder massage while they talk.

With a particular choice of words and an incentive (the promise of a massage that didn’t limit itself to only his shoulders. What he gave him here was only a sample. Tease) he’s successful in separating the man from his duties.

He makes him lay down on a bed, face down, with only his boots removed. Fiddleford stands at a side, hovering above him, and gets to work on the promised massage, from neck, to shoulders, to blades, and lower. If Stanford had the ability to purr he would’ve resembled the perfect image of a cat at that moment, he thinks. The way in which the man stretched and then promptly relaxed was way too similar. Adorable.

In the middle of their chit-chat the touches on the lower back stop being so tasteful (both the perpetrator and the target being at fault. The former with scraping nails near a waistband, and the latter working in an opposite fashion to the heavy motions).

Coy act out of the way, Fiddleford asks if Stanford would like to check out his latest invention. He had an idea of what it was going to be but he hadn’t seen the final result. Without missing a beat, he says yes.

Let the show begin then.

The machine consists of six hands with its subsequent arms, or tendons, rather, due to their fluidity and apparent flexibility. Ford isn’t granted much time to take in every detail before they’re on him. No matter, he will have to take notes through physical sensations.

They separate in parts, getting hold of different parts of his body and apply pressure to the subsequent stress points.

When relaxed enough they divest him of his clothing and continue, changing their module to… Something muchmore intimate.

A pair dig in-between his shoulder blades, both getting rid of the tension and also making sure he stays put, while the other four take turns in exploring all over his thighs and nether regions. Their touch is a little rougher but he doesn’t mind, just takes it in (in both senses of the word).

The first orgasm comes slow, no direct stimulation done so it takes him a while to reach that point, but he finally does and Fiddleford helps him breathe through it. It only makes it more intense.

The second happens a few minutes later, almost in succession to the other, except this time he was stimulated more directly. That one did make his breath hitch. Each brush sent a shock through his body. The hands never stopped after the first one.

For the third they manhandle him into a new position, and make home inside him. He can’t help but twitch and struggle in their hold at the over stimulation. Fiddleford talks him through it from start to finish.

Time passes and… He lost count, and he’s panting, and he might fall unconscious at any second now.

Taking notice, Fiddleford makes the arms lay his exhausted husband down and retract back to their place. The poor man can’t even move his arms so he helps him accommodate a little, and then covers him up with a blanket. By the time it took him to sit down Ford was already asleep, and, Lord forgive him, but he can’t help but chuckle at that.

Needless to say that the experiment was a success.

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