The thing is, he's right. This is much more than they're used to. Sure, they can ride their toys or sit on a magic wand until they're blue in the face, but at least then they are in control. At any time, Kurt can stop what they're doing, in complete control of their own pleasure. Even when the viewers—namely Southcalman—would order them to keep going, that feeling of pushing the wailing streamer past their breaking point was always just an illusion Kurt would grant them. Always in control.
But they're decidedly not in control now. It's always different when another person gets involved, sure, but none of their other conquests ever pushed and pushed and pushed the way Molloy does. Kurt goes from gasping to moaning to whimpering within minutes, every breath sharp and tinged with desperation, their fingers clenching so hard into the sheets they might just rip. He doesn't even let them come down from that high, just pushes them further and further into overstimulated bliss.
They don't stop him from pushing his fingers into their mouth, instead hungrily sucking down their own spend, moaning loudly at the taste of themself, the humiliation of being degraded like this. It feels so good, even as Molloy punishes their hole with his fingers, pushing against that spot again and again until they see stars. It's almost too much of a good thing.
Almost. Because Molloy is right once again. They're way too stubborn to beg him to stop. Freyja once did a four hour Sybian marathon, for fuck's sake. No way is a man—the most magnetic, captivating, irresistible man they've ever met, with the most sinful tongue and talented fingers—going to break them. "N-No, I— hah—! I can take it, D-Daddy!" they whine around his fingers, words slurring, adamant even as their hips jerk and stutter against his hand, as their spent cock twitches helplessly between their quivering legs.
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But they're decidedly not in control now. It's always different when another person gets involved, sure, but none of their other conquests ever pushed and pushed and pushed the way Molloy does. Kurt goes from gasping to moaning to whimpering within minutes, every breath sharp and tinged with desperation, their fingers clenching so hard into the sheets they might just rip. He doesn't even let them come down from that high, just pushes them further and further into overstimulated bliss.
They don't stop him from pushing his fingers into their mouth, instead hungrily sucking down their own spend, moaning loudly at the taste of themself, the humiliation of being degraded like this. It feels so good, even as Molloy punishes their hole with his fingers, pushing against that spot again and again until they see stars. It's almost too much of a good thing.
Almost. Because Molloy is right once again. They're way too stubborn to beg him to stop. Freyja once did a four hour Sybian marathon, for fuck's sake. No way is a man—the most magnetic, captivating, irresistible man they've ever met, with the most sinful tongue and talented fingers—going to break them. "N-No, I— hah—! I can take it, D-Daddy!" they whine around his fingers, words slurring, adamant even as their hips jerk and stutter against his hand, as their spent cock twitches helplessly between their quivering legs.
Give it, like, five minutes.