[FoF] Seven Days 04
Oct. 12th, 2018 06:24 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22Title: Seven Days
Characters: Bluestreak/Jazz
Universe: Flights of Fancy ‘verse, Harpyformers
Rating: M
Warnings: BDSM themes, Sexual Punishment, Orgasm Denial
Description: Perfectly behaved pets are boring pets, but Jazz might have bitten off more than he can chew when he disobeys Bluestreak.
Day Three
Jazz had a long night where he alternated between being too warm and too cold, where he kept waking from erotic dreams into a reality where he wasn’t allowed to orgasm for a week. He wasn’t sure which was the nightmare, honestly.
When morning finally arrived, and Jazz peeled his eyes open, it was to the sensation of Bluestreak rocking against his rump, already hard and leaking, though still half-asleep. Jazz stretched and pushed back against his lover, wriggling with invitation. He reached back, grabbed Bluestreak’s rump, pinning their lower halves together.
A little temptation could go a long way.
Bluestreak woke fully and grabbed his thigh, sliding a hand around, lifting his leg. Jazz might have whined as he felt the hard heat of a clava slip between his thighs, rutting across the swollen wet of his antrum. He canted his hips invitingly, and arched his spine as Bluestreak slid into him with slow and shallow thrusts.
“More,” Jazz begged, shameless because what point was there in being ashamed of what he wanted?
Bluestreak hummed against the back of his neck, cradled him closer, rocked their bodies together. He pushed in and in, deeper and deeper, less thrusting and more slow rolls of his hips. He panted, hot and wet, into Jazz’s ear, and whispered sweet promises of how good Jazz felt, how perfect he was, how lucky Bluestreak was to have caught him.
Jazz trembled in his arms, pleasure snapping and coiling inside of him. He felt weak in the wake of that praise, as he always did. His antrum throbbed, and he squeezed on Bluestreak’s clava, his own leaking copiously into the pillows. The whole nest smelled of them, of their coupling, and it made Jazz dizzy.
He inched a hand downward before he could think twice about it. He wouldn’t need much. Just the heel of his palm, just the brush of his fingerpads, the press of a soft pillow against the aching need of him.
A hand caught around his wrist before he got far, Bluestreak dropping his thigh in favor of restraining Jazz.
Jazz whined a complaint.
“I said no.” Bluestreak nipped his ear in warning.
A tremor wracked Jazz’s body. This was totally and completely unfair. “Please, babe. I get it, I’m sorry,” he said, the words spilling out of him in a desperate rush.
It was true. He was aching and hungry, his breathing sharp and erratic, his entire body trembling on the edge. He’d grown accustomed to a certain amount of pleasure from his master, and maybe it was an obsession at this point, but he wanted it.
Bluestreak slipped out of him and rolled over Jazz. He grabbed the other wrist and pinned both to the nest to either side of Jazz’s head. He straddled Jazz’s thighs, pinning his body down, put them nose to nose.
“I know you’re sorry,” he said, and the weight of him was both suffocating and intoxicating. Jazz couldn’t help but moan, tip his head back, bare his throat in entreaty.
“The answer is still no,” Bluestreak said, but he took the offer, running lips and teeth and tongue over Jazz’s throat, licking his claiming mark.
Jazz keened. He hurt. He wanted.
He dug his tarsals into the nest for leverage and managed to buck his hips, his clava dragging along the silken feathers of Bluestreak’s rump in a delicious slide. But Bluestreak scooted forward, taking away the friction, his fingers tightening in warning around Jazz’s wrists.
“Behave,” he warned. The edge of sharp command in his voice made Jazz still on instinct alone.
Jazz swallowed a breath, tried not to move, despite the throbbing in his groin and the weight of Bluestreak on top of him. Bluestreak moved, hips tilting forward, the head of his clava rubbing over Jazz’s chest, his antrum dripping where it hovered above Jazz’s belly. The scent of his arousal flooded Jazz’s nose, made him dizzy.
For a moment, Jazz contemplated begging. He weighed his pride against the glorious taste of release. He rose to meet Bluestreak’s slow and steady rocks. He greedily soaked up the sounds of Bluestreak’s rapid breathing, the little moans of pleasure, the way Bluestreak squeezed his wrists in time with his thrusts.
Jazz bit his lip until he tasted blood. He ground his teeth as his pride won out. He’d bragged that this punishment meant nothing. He was determined to prove it.
Bluestreak came with a stunted cry, spilling hot and wet over Jazz’s chest and belly. Jazz felt the splatters, watched pleasure streak pretty and pink over Bluestreak’s face, and he yearned to follow it over. He wished Bluestreak had come in his mouth, so Jazz could at least have the taste of him to savor.
Bluestreak kissed him, soft and sweet. He nuzzled the side of Jazz’s face. “Behave, flitterling,” he said as Jazz’s hips rose up, entirely unbidden, his clava bobbing in the air. “I’ll plug you if you don’t.”
Jazz worked his throat. “Promises, promises,” he said, voice raspy, a thrill running down his spine at the thought of the plug. It was not comfortable. It was tantamount to torture.
It was punishment by every definition of the word. It was ownership. Jazz loved it as much as he hated it.
“Three more days, flitterling,” Bluestreak said.
“I can take it,” Jazz replied with a smirk. He doubted it was at all convincing, what with the way his whole body shook from the need to come.
“I know you can.”
Bluestreak let him go, and Jazz pulled himself out of the nest with more dignity than he currently possessed. He prepared for the day as if he wasn’t soaking his thighs with slick, and his clava stubbornly resisted returning to its sheath.
Bluestreak left before him, while Jazz had to rely on meditation and splashing himself with cold water from the washbasin until he was decent for the public. He glared down at his traitorous organ, which was starting to care less about his pride and more about the serious case of “blue balls” he was suffering.
He could always take the out.
Or.
Or what Bluestreak didn’t know couldn’t come back to bite Jazz on the rump. He’d just have to get home before his partner and clean up the evidence.
Jazz had been given more difficult assignments. Surely he was capable of a little subterfuge when it came to something this simple.
Surely.
Jazz strutted out of their nest with more pep in his step than he’d managed the past two days. He breezed through his duties, though he didn’t fail to notice Starscream watching him with amused, intent looks. Knowing Bluestreak, he’d probably babbled everything to his carrier because that entire family apparently had no boundaries.
Jazz might have rushed through his duties, simple as they were. He liked the laidback atmosphere of Kaon, how his contributions were valued but not the measure of his worth. He liked knowing he could take a day off, and no one would die, and it wouldn’t be his fault.
He missed Iacon sometimes. Occasionally. When he found himself craving something he could only get back home, or life in Kaon moved a bit too slow for his liking. But Iacon didn’t have Bluestreak.
Iacon wasn’t home anymore.
Jazz rushed back to the nest he shared with Bluestreak, high in the topmost tier, just below the branch-woven ceiling. Mid-afternoon and all was peaceful and quiet. Bluestreak should be at sparring practice for the next hour.
Jazz’s body tingled with anticipation. His groin throbbed, and he didn’t so much sink into their nestbed as he dove into the pillows and blankets, still musky with the scent of their previous coupling. They really needed to launder.
But first.
Jazz wriggled about, already aroused, his clava extending quickly, eagerly. Pre-slick dribbled freely, staining the pillow beneath his hips. Jazz fished around in the nest before he found his favorite pillow, a densely packed orange monstrosity with a burlap covering.
Jazz loved the harsh friction of it, the slide of each ridge over his nub, the way it caught the sensitive folds of his antrum. He rolled onto his knees, shoved it between his thighs, the overstuffed, raised center of it providing the perfect platform for a most delicious grind. He shuddered all down his spine as he rolled his antrum across it, nub catching on the rough weave and sending a shock of heat through his groin.
Oh. Perfect.
Jazz tilted forward, fisting at the nest, thighs clamping the pillow, the tip of his clava catching on another and providing more delicious friction. He rocked and rolled, setting up a good rhythm, pleasure knotting and coiling inside of him. He was already on the edge, and as much as he wanted to savor, he was desperate to reach the plateau he’d been denied this week.
He groaned and panted, eyes squeezed shut, talons kneading the plush lining of the nest, his hips grinding hard against the burlap pillow, leaving smears of slick behind. The nest reeked of his arousal, and he could smell Bluestreak in the nestbed. Jazz groaned, wishing he didn’t have to resort to a pillow, wishing Bluestreak were here to rut against, his big, broad body so firm and pliant beneath him. His hands holding Jazz in place. His voice whispering dirty, filthy, commanding things.
“What in Adaptus’ name do you think you are doing?”
Jazz froze. Ice water figuratively dumped on his head. He peeled open his eyes and dared lift his gaze to the doorway, already knowing what he’d find.
Bluestreak stood there, in the nest, the cloth doorway shut behind him, his face a mask of disappointment.
Jazz’s mouth opened, but he couldn’t find an excuse. He couldn’t even find it in him to come up with a decent lie.
“Napping?” he tried, and attempted an innocent smile, but it was lopsided and insincere. “You’re home early.”
“So are you,” Bluestreak said with narrowed eyes. He strode toward the nest, and Jazz would never admit in a thousand years to the way he scrambled away from the evidence of his misbehavior, like a novice.
The orange pillow, stained with his slick, glinted accusingly at him.
Bluestreak dropped down into the nest next to the pillow. He eyed it and gave Jazz a look with one raised eyebrow.
“Napping,” he repeated, and picked up the pillow, giving it a pointed sniff. His tongue slipped free, and he tasted the wet slick. “This is still damp.”
Jazz whimpered, because that was about the hottest thing he’d ever seen, and he didn’t touch himself only because he was sitting on his hands.
The pillow fell back into the nest.
Bluestreak sat down, back against the lip of the nest bed, legs spread and all he did was point between them. It was a wordless command, and Jazz scrambled to obey, lust overriding both reason and pride. Maybe he’d convinced Bluestreak to give up this ridiculous idea of punishment.
The moment he was within reach, Bluestreak grabbed him, fingers clamped on Jazz’s jaw, a shade too firm. Lust skyrocketed, and Jazz whimpered again.
“You are a naughty, naughty flitterling,” Bluestreak said, his tone low and deep and commanding. Jazz was going to make an utter fool of himself, he just knew it. “I’m going to have to plug you. Just can’t trust you not to touch yourself or be sneaky. This is punishment, Jazz. Remember?”
His throat bobbed over a heavy swallow. “I wasn’t going to actually come,” Jazz lied through his teeth. “I was just, uh, preparing myself. For you.”
“Liar,” Bluestreak said, and there was a hint of amusement at the corners of his lips. He pulled Jazz’s mouth to his, the kiss so soft and sweet, incongruous to the grip he had on Jazz’s chin. “What am I going to do with you?”
“Rut with me and let me come,” Jazz chirped hopefully.
“Mmm. No. I don’t think so.” Bluestreak chuckled and tipped Jazz’s chin up, at an almost painful angle, his lips and teeth finding Jazz’s throat, biting down.
Jazz keened. He clawed at Bluestreak’s chest, arousal throbbing through his veins, his clava dribbling and dripping down on Bluestreak.
“I want your mouth,” Bluestreak said, and there’s no way his tone was a suggestion. It’s a command, and it resonated inside Jazz, made him submit in ways few things could.
“I want you to swallow me,” Bluestreak said, and Jazz sagged, panting, licking his lips, already feeling the weight of Bluestreak’s clava on his tongue.
“And then I’m going to plug you,” Bluestreak growled against Jazz’s throat, his teeth a sharp nip immediately followed by the bitter tang of blood.
Jazz almost came there on the spot. Sheer force of will kept the arousal from thundering out in an arc of spill.
“Do you understand?” Bluestreak demanded.
“Yes, sir,” Jazz moaned.
He felt Bluestreak’s approval against his throat. He scrambled to swallow Bluestreak as soon as the grip on his chin was released. He took Bluestreak into his mouth, tasting the head of him, lapping up the trickles of pre-slick. He wasted no time in taking Bluestreak to the hilt, down into his throat, swallowing around him.
Bluestreak moaned and carded his fingers through Jazz’s feathers, hips gently rocking upward. The anger in his body language softened with the pleasure, and Jazz hummed with relief, swallowing again and again. He never felt so taken as he did with Bluestreak down his throat, hands gripping his head, demanding pleasure and receiving it.
Bluestreak spilled into his mouth, and Jazz greedily drank him down. He might not be allowed an orgasm, but he could have this, and for the rest of the week, it would have to be enough. He suckled Bluestreak gently, extending the pleasure, and when he was done, he crawled up Bluestreak’s body and kissed him, oh so sweet, sharing the taste with his master.
Bluestreak hummed into the kiss, swept his hands up and down Jazz’s back. “You’re still getting plugged,” he said.
“I know,” Jazz sighed. He grasped for his usual swagger, but it was hidden behind a trembling, aching need in his groin.
Bluestreak patted him on the rump. “Stay,” he said, and climbed out of the berth, leaving Jazz flopped in the cocoon of rut-stained pillows.
He didn’t dare reach for the orange burlap. Instead, his eyes tracked Bluestreak around the room, as he crouched to dig in the small chest they had tucked under the washbasin nook. The chest had been a parting gift from Nightshade, wishing him a happy life at his new flock.
Bluestreak returned, the plug looking small and insignificant in his hands. Nonetheless, need tightened and yawed inside of Jazz. He curved his hands around his thighs, pulling his legs up and baring his antrum without Bluestreak needing to say a word.
The plug was hand-carved and sanded and oiled until it shone. It felt as smooth as a river rock or the pretty glass of a test tube beaker. Three spherical knobs, each larger than the one before it bubbled up along the length of it, and the end flared, to ensure it wouldn’t get lost within him. It was the same color as Jazz’s featherdown, and no one would see it unless they knew to look for it.
“Hoping to reduce your sentence with good behavior?” Bluestreak asked as he knelt between Jazz’s thighs, one hand liberally drizzling the plug with a plant-based oil that smelled of aloe and arrowroot.
Jazz licked his lips as the rounded tip of the first knob nudged against his folds. “I always behave,” he said.
Bluestreak snorted, but it was affectionate rather than annoyed. He nudged the plug inward, and Jazz’s breath caught in his throat. It felt so good, so slick, so smooth as it slid into him, cooler than flesh but grinding over sensitive spots as it filled him. Jazz was keening by the time the third sphere filled him and the flared end notched against his rim.
Bluestreak gave the plug a little twist and wiggle, testing the fit, before he let it go. The nub stayed in place, Jazz’s rim quivering around the flared end.
“There,” Bluestreak said with a lingering brush of his fingerpad to Jazz’s nub. “That stays where it is. You don’t touch it. And if you’re good, perhaps I can be convinced to remove it.”
Jazz swallowed thickly. “Yes, sir.” He let go of his thighs, straightened out his legs, felt the plug shift inside of him, and his groin simmered with heat.
Bluestreak smiled and nuzzled him. “Three more days,” he said, and pulled Jazz into his arms, idly stroking his back.
Three more days.
He could do this.
~
Characters: Bluestreak/Jazz
Universe: Flights of Fancy ‘verse, Harpyformers
Rating: M
Warnings: BDSM themes, Sexual Punishment, Orgasm Denial
Description: Perfectly behaved pets are boring pets, but Jazz might have bitten off more than he can chew when he disobeys Bluestreak.
Jazz had a long night where he alternated between being too warm and too cold, where he kept waking from erotic dreams into a reality where he wasn’t allowed to orgasm for a week. He wasn’t sure which was the nightmare, honestly.
When morning finally arrived, and Jazz peeled his eyes open, it was to the sensation of Bluestreak rocking against his rump, already hard and leaking, though still half-asleep. Jazz stretched and pushed back against his lover, wriggling with invitation. He reached back, grabbed Bluestreak’s rump, pinning their lower halves together.
A little temptation could go a long way.
Bluestreak woke fully and grabbed his thigh, sliding a hand around, lifting his leg. Jazz might have whined as he felt the hard heat of a clava slip between his thighs, rutting across the swollen wet of his antrum. He canted his hips invitingly, and arched his spine as Bluestreak slid into him with slow and shallow thrusts.
“More,” Jazz begged, shameless because what point was there in being ashamed of what he wanted?
Bluestreak hummed against the back of his neck, cradled him closer, rocked their bodies together. He pushed in and in, deeper and deeper, less thrusting and more slow rolls of his hips. He panted, hot and wet, into Jazz’s ear, and whispered sweet promises of how good Jazz felt, how perfect he was, how lucky Bluestreak was to have caught him.
Jazz trembled in his arms, pleasure snapping and coiling inside of him. He felt weak in the wake of that praise, as he always did. His antrum throbbed, and he squeezed on Bluestreak’s clava, his own leaking copiously into the pillows. The whole nest smelled of them, of their coupling, and it made Jazz dizzy.
He inched a hand downward before he could think twice about it. He wouldn’t need much. Just the heel of his palm, just the brush of his fingerpads, the press of a soft pillow against the aching need of him.
A hand caught around his wrist before he got far, Bluestreak dropping his thigh in favor of restraining Jazz.
Jazz whined a complaint.
“I said no.” Bluestreak nipped his ear in warning.
A tremor wracked Jazz’s body. This was totally and completely unfair. “Please, babe. I get it, I’m sorry,” he said, the words spilling out of him in a desperate rush.
It was true. He was aching and hungry, his breathing sharp and erratic, his entire body trembling on the edge. He’d grown accustomed to a certain amount of pleasure from his master, and maybe it was an obsession at this point, but he wanted it.
Bluestreak slipped out of him and rolled over Jazz. He grabbed the other wrist and pinned both to the nest to either side of Jazz’s head. He straddled Jazz’s thighs, pinning his body down, put them nose to nose.
“I know you’re sorry,” he said, and the weight of him was both suffocating and intoxicating. Jazz couldn’t help but moan, tip his head back, bare his throat in entreaty.
“The answer is still no,” Bluestreak said, but he took the offer, running lips and teeth and tongue over Jazz’s throat, licking his claiming mark.
Jazz keened. He hurt. He wanted.
He dug his tarsals into the nest for leverage and managed to buck his hips, his clava dragging along the silken feathers of Bluestreak’s rump in a delicious slide. But Bluestreak scooted forward, taking away the friction, his fingers tightening in warning around Jazz’s wrists.
“Behave,” he warned. The edge of sharp command in his voice made Jazz still on instinct alone.
Jazz swallowed a breath, tried not to move, despite the throbbing in his groin and the weight of Bluestreak on top of him. Bluestreak moved, hips tilting forward, the head of his clava rubbing over Jazz’s chest, his antrum dripping where it hovered above Jazz’s belly. The scent of his arousal flooded Jazz’s nose, made him dizzy.
For a moment, Jazz contemplated begging. He weighed his pride against the glorious taste of release. He rose to meet Bluestreak’s slow and steady rocks. He greedily soaked up the sounds of Bluestreak’s rapid breathing, the little moans of pleasure, the way Bluestreak squeezed his wrists in time with his thrusts.
Jazz bit his lip until he tasted blood. He ground his teeth as his pride won out. He’d bragged that this punishment meant nothing. He was determined to prove it.
Bluestreak came with a stunted cry, spilling hot and wet over Jazz’s chest and belly. Jazz felt the splatters, watched pleasure streak pretty and pink over Bluestreak’s face, and he yearned to follow it over. He wished Bluestreak had come in his mouth, so Jazz could at least have the taste of him to savor.
Bluestreak kissed him, soft and sweet. He nuzzled the side of Jazz’s face. “Behave, flitterling,” he said as Jazz’s hips rose up, entirely unbidden, his clava bobbing in the air. “I’ll plug you if you don’t.”
Jazz worked his throat. “Promises, promises,” he said, voice raspy, a thrill running down his spine at the thought of the plug. It was not comfortable. It was tantamount to torture.
It was punishment by every definition of the word. It was ownership. Jazz loved it as much as he hated it.
“Three more days, flitterling,” Bluestreak said.
“I can take it,” Jazz replied with a smirk. He doubted it was at all convincing, what with the way his whole body shook from the need to come.
“I know you can.”
Bluestreak let him go, and Jazz pulled himself out of the nest with more dignity than he currently possessed. He prepared for the day as if he wasn’t soaking his thighs with slick, and his clava stubbornly resisted returning to its sheath.
Bluestreak left before him, while Jazz had to rely on meditation and splashing himself with cold water from the washbasin until he was decent for the public. He glared down at his traitorous organ, which was starting to care less about his pride and more about the serious case of “blue balls” he was suffering.
He could always take the out.
Or.
Or what Bluestreak didn’t know couldn’t come back to bite Jazz on the rump. He’d just have to get home before his partner and clean up the evidence.
Jazz had been given more difficult assignments. Surely he was capable of a little subterfuge when it came to something this simple.
Surely.
Jazz strutted out of their nest with more pep in his step than he’d managed the past two days. He breezed through his duties, though he didn’t fail to notice Starscream watching him with amused, intent looks. Knowing Bluestreak, he’d probably babbled everything to his carrier because that entire family apparently had no boundaries.
Jazz might have rushed through his duties, simple as they were. He liked the laidback atmosphere of Kaon, how his contributions were valued but not the measure of his worth. He liked knowing he could take a day off, and no one would die, and it wouldn’t be his fault.
He missed Iacon sometimes. Occasionally. When he found himself craving something he could only get back home, or life in Kaon moved a bit too slow for his liking. But Iacon didn’t have Bluestreak.
Iacon wasn’t home anymore.
Jazz rushed back to the nest he shared with Bluestreak, high in the topmost tier, just below the branch-woven ceiling. Mid-afternoon and all was peaceful and quiet. Bluestreak should be at sparring practice for the next hour.
Jazz’s body tingled with anticipation. His groin throbbed, and he didn’t so much sink into their nestbed as he dove into the pillows and blankets, still musky with the scent of their previous coupling. They really needed to launder.
But first.
Jazz wriggled about, already aroused, his clava extending quickly, eagerly. Pre-slick dribbled freely, staining the pillow beneath his hips. Jazz fished around in the nest before he found his favorite pillow, a densely packed orange monstrosity with a burlap covering.
Jazz loved the harsh friction of it, the slide of each ridge over his nub, the way it caught the sensitive folds of his antrum. He rolled onto his knees, shoved it between his thighs, the overstuffed, raised center of it providing the perfect platform for a most delicious grind. He shuddered all down his spine as he rolled his antrum across it, nub catching on the rough weave and sending a shock of heat through his groin.
Oh. Perfect.
Jazz tilted forward, fisting at the nest, thighs clamping the pillow, the tip of his clava catching on another and providing more delicious friction. He rocked and rolled, setting up a good rhythm, pleasure knotting and coiling inside of him. He was already on the edge, and as much as he wanted to savor, he was desperate to reach the plateau he’d been denied this week.
He groaned and panted, eyes squeezed shut, talons kneading the plush lining of the nest, his hips grinding hard against the burlap pillow, leaving smears of slick behind. The nest reeked of his arousal, and he could smell Bluestreak in the nestbed. Jazz groaned, wishing he didn’t have to resort to a pillow, wishing Bluestreak were here to rut against, his big, broad body so firm and pliant beneath him. His hands holding Jazz in place. His voice whispering dirty, filthy, commanding things.
“What in Adaptus’ name do you think you are doing?”
Jazz froze. Ice water figuratively dumped on his head. He peeled open his eyes and dared lift his gaze to the doorway, already knowing what he’d find.
Bluestreak stood there, in the nest, the cloth doorway shut behind him, his face a mask of disappointment.
Jazz’s mouth opened, but he couldn’t find an excuse. He couldn’t even find it in him to come up with a decent lie.
“Napping?” he tried, and attempted an innocent smile, but it was lopsided and insincere. “You’re home early.”
“So are you,” Bluestreak said with narrowed eyes. He strode toward the nest, and Jazz would never admit in a thousand years to the way he scrambled away from the evidence of his misbehavior, like a novice.
The orange pillow, stained with his slick, glinted accusingly at him.
Bluestreak dropped down into the nest next to the pillow. He eyed it and gave Jazz a look with one raised eyebrow.
“Napping,” he repeated, and picked up the pillow, giving it a pointed sniff. His tongue slipped free, and he tasted the wet slick. “This is still damp.”
Jazz whimpered, because that was about the hottest thing he’d ever seen, and he didn’t touch himself only because he was sitting on his hands.
The pillow fell back into the nest.
Bluestreak sat down, back against the lip of the nest bed, legs spread and all he did was point between them. It was a wordless command, and Jazz scrambled to obey, lust overriding both reason and pride. Maybe he’d convinced Bluestreak to give up this ridiculous idea of punishment.
The moment he was within reach, Bluestreak grabbed him, fingers clamped on Jazz’s jaw, a shade too firm. Lust skyrocketed, and Jazz whimpered again.
“You are a naughty, naughty flitterling,” Bluestreak said, his tone low and deep and commanding. Jazz was going to make an utter fool of himself, he just knew it. “I’m going to have to plug you. Just can’t trust you not to touch yourself or be sneaky. This is punishment, Jazz. Remember?”
His throat bobbed over a heavy swallow. “I wasn’t going to actually come,” Jazz lied through his teeth. “I was just, uh, preparing myself. For you.”
“Liar,” Bluestreak said, and there was a hint of amusement at the corners of his lips. He pulled Jazz’s mouth to his, the kiss so soft and sweet, incongruous to the grip he had on Jazz’s chin. “What am I going to do with you?”
“Rut with me and let me come,” Jazz chirped hopefully.
“Mmm. No. I don’t think so.” Bluestreak chuckled and tipped Jazz’s chin up, at an almost painful angle, his lips and teeth finding Jazz’s throat, biting down.
Jazz keened. He clawed at Bluestreak’s chest, arousal throbbing through his veins, his clava dribbling and dripping down on Bluestreak.
“I want your mouth,” Bluestreak said, and there’s no way his tone was a suggestion. It’s a command, and it resonated inside Jazz, made him submit in ways few things could.
“I want you to swallow me,” Bluestreak said, and Jazz sagged, panting, licking his lips, already feeling the weight of Bluestreak’s clava on his tongue.
“And then I’m going to plug you,” Bluestreak growled against Jazz’s throat, his teeth a sharp nip immediately followed by the bitter tang of blood.
Jazz almost came there on the spot. Sheer force of will kept the arousal from thundering out in an arc of spill.
“Do you understand?” Bluestreak demanded.
“Yes, sir,” Jazz moaned.
He felt Bluestreak’s approval against his throat. He scrambled to swallow Bluestreak as soon as the grip on his chin was released. He took Bluestreak into his mouth, tasting the head of him, lapping up the trickles of pre-slick. He wasted no time in taking Bluestreak to the hilt, down into his throat, swallowing around him.
Bluestreak moaned and carded his fingers through Jazz’s feathers, hips gently rocking upward. The anger in his body language softened with the pleasure, and Jazz hummed with relief, swallowing again and again. He never felt so taken as he did with Bluestreak down his throat, hands gripping his head, demanding pleasure and receiving it.
Bluestreak spilled into his mouth, and Jazz greedily drank him down. He might not be allowed an orgasm, but he could have this, and for the rest of the week, it would have to be enough. He suckled Bluestreak gently, extending the pleasure, and when he was done, he crawled up Bluestreak’s body and kissed him, oh so sweet, sharing the taste with his master.
Bluestreak hummed into the kiss, swept his hands up and down Jazz’s back. “You’re still getting plugged,” he said.
“I know,” Jazz sighed. He grasped for his usual swagger, but it was hidden behind a trembling, aching need in his groin.
Bluestreak patted him on the rump. “Stay,” he said, and climbed out of the berth, leaving Jazz flopped in the cocoon of rut-stained pillows.
He didn’t dare reach for the orange burlap. Instead, his eyes tracked Bluestreak around the room, as he crouched to dig in the small chest they had tucked under the washbasin nook. The chest had been a parting gift from Nightshade, wishing him a happy life at his new flock.
Bluestreak returned, the plug looking small and insignificant in his hands. Nonetheless, need tightened and yawed inside of Jazz. He curved his hands around his thighs, pulling his legs up and baring his antrum without Bluestreak needing to say a word.
The plug was hand-carved and sanded and oiled until it shone. It felt as smooth as a river rock or the pretty glass of a test tube beaker. Three spherical knobs, each larger than the one before it bubbled up along the length of it, and the end flared, to ensure it wouldn’t get lost within him. It was the same color as Jazz’s featherdown, and no one would see it unless they knew to look for it.
“Hoping to reduce your sentence with good behavior?” Bluestreak asked as he knelt between Jazz’s thighs, one hand liberally drizzling the plug with a plant-based oil that smelled of aloe and arrowroot.
Jazz licked his lips as the rounded tip of the first knob nudged against his folds. “I always behave,” he said.
Bluestreak snorted, but it was affectionate rather than annoyed. He nudged the plug inward, and Jazz’s breath caught in his throat. It felt so good, so slick, so smooth as it slid into him, cooler than flesh but grinding over sensitive spots as it filled him. Jazz was keening by the time the third sphere filled him and the flared end notched against his rim.
Bluestreak gave the plug a little twist and wiggle, testing the fit, before he let it go. The nub stayed in place, Jazz’s rim quivering around the flared end.
“There,” Bluestreak said with a lingering brush of his fingerpad to Jazz’s nub. “That stays where it is. You don’t touch it. And if you’re good, perhaps I can be convinced to remove it.”
Jazz swallowed thickly. “Yes, sir.” He let go of his thighs, straightened out his legs, felt the plug shift inside of him, and his groin simmered with heat.
Bluestreak smiled and nuzzled him. “Three more days,” he said, and pulled Jazz into his arms, idly stroking his back.
Three more days.
He could do this.
