Tenna can get a little excited after a good show. The first time Spamton noticed, he politely ignored it. The second time, he gave him a playful nudge and wink to take care of himself in the good ol' powder room. The third time, he took matters into his own hands (quite literally), inspired by a little too much bourbon.
Today's no different. It pans out just like usual. Tenna approaches him backstage, leans down to whisper their little code phrase. They not-so-subtly make themselves unavailable to the rest of the crew. Something, something, a meeting between the minds or whatever bullshit they can cook up. The dumb ones think nothing of it, and the smart ones aren't paid enough to care.
The moment they're in the privacy of Tenna's room, locked door and lights dim, Tenna clumsily shuffles to his bed while tugging his belt loose and tossing it aside like trash. He takes a seat on the bed of the mattress, unbuttons his pants, and his cock is so heavy that it weighs down the precum-coated front of his heart-patterned boxers like a ship's anchor.
Spamton puts on an award-winning smile as he struts to meet Tenna there, forced to remain standing to be eye level with his dick. It's a good, impatient yank on his waistband for his cock to spring free, long and thick and lavender-flushed at the fat, dribbling tip. Monstrous, really, but Spamton's worked with Tenna Jr. long enough to know what makes him tick.
One hand to start off, teasing glides of his fingertips from tip to sack, almost clinical as he pauses to 'examine' a particular part. Fondling his glans, squeezing his shaft, feeling the weight of a testicle in his hand. It makes Tenna antsy, trembling to keep his hips still and rumbles from his throat asking for more. Spamton isn't cruel, so he gives him what he wants, a two-handedjob.
He work his hands fast and persistent, palms growing slicker with glowing, teal coolant that gushes from Tenna’s tip. Tenna's antennas twitch and instinctively ping to the nearest signal in a pisspoor attempt to keep his composure. One day he's going to air this to everyone. His hips buck and that stupid fat cock of his will nearly ram straight into Spamton’s forehead, narrowly avoiding a concussion by a perfectly timed lean. Tenna throws his head back, screen flickering, tail snaking around Spamton’s wrist and pinching tight because— please, please, don’t stop. Spamton smirks and coos something devilishly nasty, and that's all it takes for Tenna to fuck completely through his two-handed hole and blow his load with a broken, glitchy groan. Today, the thick fluid only manages to get into his hair. He’s never tasted it, and he doesn’t plan to.
Everything goes right on schedule, though Tenna is more talkative than usual.
“I’ve been wondering,” Tenna starts as he laxly tucks himself back into his pants, lip curled up in that cute, tense way of his whenever Spamton goes off script. “Is there a reason you don’t let me return the favor?”
There’s plenty, but he doesn’t imagine Tenna would want or care to hear it. Previous sexcapades proved that fucking wasn't all that it was cracked up to be. Despite his body count being well into the double digits, he could tally the time he's actually cum on one hand. He knew from experience that greed was the driving force behind lust.
“Aren’t you a gentleman?” Spamton doesn’t miss the timid red filter appearing at the edges of Tenna’s screen. He wipes his hands clean with a comically big tissue from Tenna's bedside table, to which he has to stand on the tips of his toes to reach. “Don’t worry your pretty little tubes about it. I got a low libido, is all. Can't even remember the last time I wanted to get off.”
“Really?” Tenna tilts his head, all too similar to pups in viral home videos. “I mean… it’s not that I don’t believe you. I’m just surprised.”
He shoots the dirtied tissue like a court side trick shot into the Tenna-themed trashcan beneath it. He misses. “Surprised?”
“Well," Tenna nervously adjusts his tie. "I initially took you for something of a…" A pause to think about his word choice. "Playboy.”
“Hah! I’ll take that as a compliment.” It's better than the alternative. He definitely got around town back in the day, but probably not in the way Tenna expects. “What about you? Don’t you have lines of fans to take to bone town?” Wink, wink.
“You want me to go down with a scandal? I can see the headlines now!“ As if. If he could get away with workplace harassment, then a night with a groupie was probably fair game, too. "But if we're turning this into a confessional, then… no, and— mm. You’ll think it's ridiculous, I know it."
Now he's intrigued. Tenna's often an open book with him, sometimes divulging a little too much. Apparently Tenna got a professional wax done every week. Where the fuck could a TV have hair? "That hasn't stopped you before."
"You got me there, mailman. Well." Tenna's shoes cross to meet at their tips. His antennas wane, eventually coiling around one another into a tight metal knot. Lips tightly pressed together, fingers drumming along his knees. The voice that leaves Tenna barely sounds like his own. "In all honesty, I only take those I'm fond of into the bedroom."
"What a load of shit." Like, come on. Who was he fooling? Tenna agreed to getting jerked off faster than Spamton could get the terms and conditions out. He pats his dark slacks' left pocket, makes sure his half empty pack of smokes is still there. "I'm in here, aren't I?"
It's completely in jest. They push each other's button all the time. It's their little tango, Spamton prods, and Tenna pushes. By the end of it, Spamton typically holds the award for Most Aggravating Man Of The Day, though Tenna has his moments. While he carries his sharp quips, Tenna can cut deep. Always apologetic after the fact, but Spamton hasn't quite forgotten some of Tenna's meaner lines. Don't forget who gave you that suit. Don't forget who can take it back.
Tenna doesn't retaliate like he expects. Instead, he turns his screen to him, lowering himself down in a way that makes Spamton a hint claustrophobic. An unsettling shiver trapezes along Spamton's spine. Tenna is all he can see.
"…Yes. You are." The following silence is way too long and way too dangerous. It hangs in the air, thick and murky like an acid bath. He feels like a featherless chick again, small and powerless and scared. One wrong move, and he's cut from the cast. His smile stays, though it's harder to keep, strained and twitching.
The conversation dies there, thank fucking god. Tenna grants him mercy by leaving first, though with a pitiful gait, head hanging done and not even needing to duck through the doorway. Spamton stays behind to light a cigarette. Light two, in fact. Everything goes back to business. It has to.
To be fair, it was a damn good show. A full audience— lots of laughs and cheers, enough the most frigid hochi mama's lips turn upwards once someone gets a pie to the face. Every segment is a home run from cooking to sports to cartoons, and Tenna's wears pride like a freshly tailored suit. A happy Tenna made a happy Spamton. The fun-o-meter has kept three-quarter mast the whole afternoon. Tenna, on the other hand, is half-mast by the time credits roll.
Once the curtains draw to a close, Tenna rushes to his side faster than a Pippins to poker night (which Spamton has kept a secret from a Tenna after a sweet deal). The usual mass critiques to every poor Darkner scheduled that day doesn't make the final cut. Clearly, the man of the hour is booked. The CRT's out of breath, though he lowers himself regardless, and Spamton gets a whiff of burnt mint before the man speaks.
"Let's go for a commercial break," Tenna whispers, and it's so hot on his ear that Spamton has to pull back before the exhale burns it right off.
"Alright, alright, I hear you." Spamton shoos him away, though Tenna does not take the hint. "I should start charging you extra for this."
Tenna looks puzzled, top border of his screen furrowing to give the illusion of brows. "Is my card not enough?"
"Got it, free invitation to indulge more." He really ought to abuse that more often. Impulse buying was meant to be more client-sided. Then again, there was a premium package of anti-virus he's been eyeing. That shit was never going on sale, and he doubts that Tenna would notice a trivial dent in his fat checking account. "See you soon."
They try to keep it inconspicuous, arriving to Tenna's personal quarters at separate times. Spamton takes a little detour before arriving; not too long, but long enough to keep Tenna on his toes. His fault for being too easy to tease, really.
He passes a chattering pair on his way, a Zapper and a Pippins; a strange duo, all things considering. They walk too close to be considered friendly, and he can hear the Pippins giggling even as he reaches the end of the hallway. So much for subtly.
A left, right, another left, and Spamton really should bitch about how long it takes to reach Tenna's bedroom to his face. Standing squarely in front of the foreboding door, a gold star engraved with a curved 'T' at its center, Spamton fires off three rapid knocks. He doesn't even get a cheeky 'hello' in before the door flies open. Hell, he still has his damn arm up from knocking. Looking up, Tenna's screen is dark and featureless, and he's illuminated by the eggshell shine of his ceiling lights.
"Uh—" Spamton lowers his arm to his side and shuffles his hands into his pockets. "Hey. Kept you waiting?"
"No, no," Tenna says. He moves aside and gestures for Spamton to come in, so he does.
Tenna's room looks the same as always. Spacious, grandiose, but without any of the… Tenna-feel. Awards lined the walls, almost clinically. Red and gold as far as the eye could see. Pristine furniture, untouched almost, fresh from the box. The bed was the only thing that had life to it, lopsided pillows, disheveled comforter, uneven sheets. How did this guy not know how to make his own bed?
"Alright, big guy," Spamton rubs his hands together and turned around. "Let's— oh."
Tenna's freakishly close, screen still ominously blank, and the bulge in his pants nearly rams straight into his nose. He's lucky to have avoided full on cock collision. Yeah. That was a good one. He'll write that down later. His eyes instinctively cross to take it in full, and it's so taut against Tenna's pants that it might burst from the seams. Who knew he was so pent up?
"Woah, woah. Keep it in your pants." It's an instant K.O. if he pulls at his zipper. Spamton takes a slow step back. "We've got all night."
Tenna takes a hasty step forward. "I was thinking of trying something new, actually."
"New?" He can't believe what he's hearing. Tenna is as traditional as Sunday Mass. It was hard enough to get him to stop calling soccer 'football.' ("But it's always been football!" he wailed in utter agony; guess coming from an Italian manufacturer made you a stickler about some things.) You know how hard it is to convince you to do new?"
"Well, this time it's my idea." Of course that made all the difference.
This can't be good. Spamton tugs at his collar to get some air flow into his now stifling shirt. "…Go on."
"Spamton, I'll be upfront. None of the corporate lingo. To tell you the truth, I— er…" His face finally makes an appearance after a second of static, and it's clear now that he turned it off out of embarrassment. His feet curl inward, fingers meeting like a shy schoolgirl. It's easy to tune the guy out when he's just standing there stuttering. He might not have eyes, but Spamton can envision them boring holes into the floor. Hmm. He stays with that thought. Beady-eyed, maybe. Or pupils big enough to swallow him whole. What color... Blue? Red? Tough choice, he has to suppress a snicker— "I'd like to fornicate with you."
Back to reality. He should've expected this, but after their last rendezvous' closing ceremony, Spamton's absolutely certain it's a horrible, horrible idea. A cig-abused sigh pushes past his thins lips, and he runs a pale hand through his hair, rustling some of the gel keeping it glued back. A small crowd of curls fall forward once his hand is down. Time to be a salesman. "…Isn't what we do already enough?"
"Of course I enjoy it, but lately I've been… wanting more." Tenna uses his hands to emphasize 'more.' More looks like a huge circle with jazz hands, apparently.
"More, huh? Well go on, we're already talking dirty." Egging him on will put this to rest. The internet's always been raunchier than what they show on TV. Spamton doesn't expect Tenna to have the heart to say anything nastier than 'fornicate.' "Gimme the details."
"I—I. Well. I just…" Typical, Spamton knew he didn't have it in him. He goes to roll his eyes, vision pinned on the right corner of his peripheral, but he's stopped by the sound of Tenna's voice, deeper and hungrier. "I want to hold you. I want to lay you down on my bed. I want to kiss you. I want to undress you. I want to stretch you open. I want to put myself inside you. I want to—"
He chokes on his own spit, has to cough through it to survive. Today is just full of surprises. Did he have the fucking thing rehearsed?
Tenna isn't at all deterred by Spamton's wet hacking, unfortunately. Fuck. Think, Spamton. Tenna is just standing there all expectant. But seriously, why him of all people? He knew that Tenna didn't exactly have friends, so… maybe his wires were getting crossed between general fondness and sexual attraction. The handjobs probably didn't help, but that was just a man thing. Companionship probably looked the same across all fields to this guy. At least he had Spamton around to correct course.
"I get stress relief, but going all the way is pushing it, isn't it? Professional boundaries and all." It's a little sweet, admittedly. Every fuck in his life has been transactional, cold hard cash for a good time, so letting a guy down easy isn't exactly his repertoire. "I'm really not the kind of guy who does the lovey-dovey bullshit. I told you, get a nice girl who can—"
"Please," so desperate that it pulls at Spamton's frozen over heartstrings. Then Tenna gets on his knees, and while he's still over a head taller, he pathetically shuffles forward, and Spamton's hesitance is quickly washed away by the most useless emotion, also known as pity. Tenna lowers his head and carefully rests it on Spamton's chest, a round corner to his clavicle, nose budding into the shell of his tie. A deep sniffle, and another for good measure. "Please, please, just once. I won't ask again, really."
Pulling the crocodile tears for this is low. He knew Tenna could resort to underhanded methods to get a signature on the dotted line, but come on, who's falling for this?
"…Fine." Spamton falls hard, unfortunately. Plus, it's a half decent excuse to keep Tenna wrapped around his finger. Plus-plus, Tenna begging like a dog at his heels strokes some deeply sick feeling in his belly. As if he were a king— no, something bigger.
A flower erupts from the tip of Tenna's nose. It smells like stale, artificial roses, the kind that the father of the Dreemurr family forbid inside. He practically jumps up to his feet, and Spamton feels nothing but raging secondhand embarrassment by how Tenna grows a few inches in height. He claps not once, not twice, but three fucking times. He could learn to have some shame.
"But—" he holds up a firm hand, palm forward, and Tenna stills and shrinks back down to his regular height, pursing his lips in idle anticipation. The flower retreats back to where it came from (wherever that is). "We're doing this on my terms. What I say goes, got it?"
"Of course!" Tenna easily agrees; at least that's a no-brainer. "I wouldn't expect anything else! You could stand to have a little more faith in me."
His hand shifts to point accusingly. "Says the guy who schemed his way into bedding me."
"Scheme is such a strong word," Tenna rocks back and forth on his heels. "I prefer persuaded."
That gets a laugh out of him. "I'm sure you do."
"Well then…" Already off to a clumsy start. Tenna hesitates to lift him, hands hovering around his body as if he was made of glass. It takes all of Spamton not to flip him off for it. Instead, he begrudgingly holds up his arms, expecting to get a lift by hanging onto one of his fingers. Tenna looks suspiciously pleased, and Spamton doesn't understand why until that damn CRT carefully pinches him at the waist and carries him like a loose bug up and over to his bed. He wiggles all the while, curses too, and when he manages to break free, he lands on his back onto the soft sea that is Tenna's sheets.
"Oof." Spamton huffs. He pushes himself up to rest on his rear. "I think the moon landing was smoother—"
A massive shadow casts over him.
Tenna was big, but he was even bigger like this, caging Spamton in with his whole body. His forearms laid at Spamton's sides, and he fully kneels on the bed to avoid crushing him. Tenna looks good for his age, well built even after all these years. It's rare to see him without his signature jacket (how did he even take it off without Spamton noticing?), and it made sense why. Broad shoulders, wide chest, thick arms. Objectively sexy; everyone would be too distracted on set. He must notice Spamton's oogling, because when Spamton returns to Tenna's face, his grin is curled and coy.
"Excited?" Spamton asks, already knowing the answer.
"Very." Tenna breaths more than speaks. He leans down, invading Spamton's dwindling personal space. "How do you feel? Comfortable? Do you need a cushion? Should I turn the lights off?"
"Relax. I'm fine." Spamton rolls his eyes and rests his hands on Tenna's screen, one on a faux cheek, the other just below his mouth. Static tickles his palms, bites at his fingertips. Tenna leaves his screen running, cold plastic against a warm buzz.
"Right." Tenna clears his throat. "May I…?"
Spamton lifts his hands off, much to Tenna's visible disappointment. He splays his arms wide, puffing up his chest. "Go for it. You don't have to ask about everything, you know."
Tenna doesn't have to be told twice. He carefully eases off Spamton's clothes with the love and care of a vintage doll collector. A piece at a time, going as far as to fold and place them by his leftmost pillow.
After his undershirt is removed, Tenna stops and places his hands on his own knees. "Spamton?"
"What now?" This night is never going to end at this rate.
"Are you meant to be…" His blush fades in and immediately darkens. "See through?"
Oh, yeah. He forgot about that. It's not like he meant to keep it a secret; too much skin broke dress code, anyway. It's just written in his code. Plus, clients liked someone acting with full transparency, or the illusion of such. He recalls some of the Addisons covering themselves in body paint to get the "Lightner Look" that trended a few years ago.
"Didn't I already tell you about this?" He's sure he did. Or was that another guy? "PNGs are made with layers in mind."
"Right, of course." He clearly has no idea what he's talking about, and Spamton's not about to interrupt the already awkward atmosphere with a mini seminar about file types and opacity.
"Gross, right?" It's uncanny. Humanoid to the left. Off in a way that is impossible to ignore. His nervous system on faint display, cerulean highways of veins and scarlet organs strung together. The other Addisons often remarked that it was surprising that Spamton had a heart at all. His bones camouflage with the ivory bottom layer of his skin, appearing as if he didn't have any at all.
"What? No, not at all." And Spamton believes him because the CRT looks off-puttingly excited. Tenna lowers a finger to trail along his skin, starting at his chest, then to each arm, and ending on his stomach. "I'm happy that I get to see every part of you."
He fully ignores the— uh, 'doki-doki' the words strum. It's just curiosity, nothing more. Spamton didn't need to make this weirder than it already is.
Back to the main event, all goes well until Tenna pries off his black briefs. His underwear doesn't even get past his ankles before he feels Tenna tense. He doesn't understand the hold up until he follows Tenna's line of sight. Ah, right.
"Expecting something else?" Spamton spread his legs, his folds parting to reveal a thick, dark red clit and narrow hole, hips raised to give Tenna a better look. Steam emits from Tenna's vents. "If you've got a problem with it, I'll pack up and leave." He plants his feet on the bed as if to get off, but a gloved hand immediately pins him back down.
"No!" Tenna shouts, then repeats much quieter. Surprised at himself, he yanks his hand back. He bashfully scratches his nose, still unable to conceal his staring. God, he's fucking trembling in his seat. "Actually… I'm a little glad. I have more experience with, er… the vagina."
That's a shocker, Spamton took him for a total virgin. He wonders how his first time went. The thought of a younger, pimply CRT smoking from the touch of a busty gal makes him laugh. "If you keep calling it a vagina, I'm gonna be dryer than that desert level you're sketching out."
"We can't have that." The briefs come off. Tenna slicks his antennas back. They go right back up with a comical boing. "I hope this helps."
Spamton raises an eyebrow. "What hel—"
Tenna leans down with an open mouth, tongue descending and carelessly pushing past Spamton's thin lips, merciless and precise as a robotic serpent as it engulfs every inch of his mouth. Raised gums and crooked teeth have nowhere to escape and wetly stroke back and forth against Tenna's tongue. There's a fluttering groan from Tenna when Spamton bites down as hard as he can. He even has the gall to push even further, threatening the chastity of his throat, and Spamton has no choice but to suckle on it for a chance of air. Burnt mint smells better than it tastes.
When Tenna finally pulls off, Spamton's mind is tepid and foggy from asphyxiation, and his tongue lolls out of his mouth as he frantically gasps for air, chest rising and falling with the urgency of someone freshly pulled from rapid currents. Tenna doesn't leave him alone long, though he goes lower this time, lapping at Spamton's chest like he was sauce clinging to a plate. Spamton squirms underneath it, writhing helplessly as he's thoroughly lathered with spit. Occasionally, Tenna switches to lip smacking sucks that are tight enough to leave bruises.
Lower still, the tip of his tongue inching closer to his cunt, and Tenna grabs Spamton by the waist once more, lifts, and holds out his tongue so he can sit Spamton right atop the flat of it, perched on pulsing wetness.
"Fuck!" Spamton groans, head thrown back and hips moving fervently, humping his taste buds to get that delicious pressure on his clit. Tenna gives some aid by moving Spamton for him, and it's so hurried and hot that Spamton sees stars. Tenna's clammy breathes rid himself of cold blood. He can't help the passing thought that Tenna could swallow him whole if he was so inclined. Thankfully, the taste of pussy seems satisfies his hunger.
Spamton cums harder than he ever thought possible with a few back and forth's. It starts deep in his belly; the sweltering release is so intense it renders him completely and utterly limp within a blink. The comforting blanket of his finish is brief, because Tenna doesn't release him, and it hurts to be kept rocking on his tongue.
"Ssstop, aah, please— hhhurts," Spamton whines through hissing breaths. Tears bead at the corners of his eyes.
Tenna listens, thankfully, lifting him off by the scruff. Spamton's legs twitch, and he shivers at the air cooling his wet body. Tenna can't help himself from one long last suck at his cunt, loudly guzzling down Spamton-flavored juices regardless of Spamton's meager attempts at struggling. He's nowhere near clean when Tenna pulls his tongue away, but he's certain that Tenna gorged himself on every last drop of his essence. Tongue back in his mouth, Tenna swallows hard and moans. It's a little gross, but very sexy.
Spamton is carefully laid down on the bedding on his back. He can't move. He grumbles. Tenna's screen is way too bright, and he's got a twisted look on his face.
"Are you okay?" Did it look like it, buddy? "I didn't mean to push you so far."
"This is nothing," he lies. A real performer knows to push suffering aside to get the show on the road. Speaking of… "What did you say you wanted next? To stretch me open?" Was it so wrong to call it what it was? None of the purple prose bullshit— it's just plain ol' fingering.
Tenna nods up and down fast enough to bounce his tie against his chest. Invigorated, Tenna hums as he pulls off his gloves, first the left, then the right. Actually, had he ever seen his bare hands before? It felt scandalous, akin to a Victorian girl's ankles. Thick, grey-ish fingers, strong, blunt, and absent of nails or palm lines.
Tenna makes his hand into a tight fist, and Spamton assumes he's on his way to heaven, perished due to fisting engraved on his tomb, before Tenna stiffens his index finger free. His sigh of relief couldn't have been louder. It's bigger than he's used to, but it's manageable (he hopes).
Said finger turns upwards as Tenna coaxes it between his legs. His fingertip meets Spamton's sensitive, twitching front hole with a disgusting squelch. He'd usually insist on using the back door, front one was closed for business, but Tenna confessed to being a pussy sort of guy, so.
"I'll be gentle," Tenna assures.
Spamton remains unconvinced. He braces himself for the worst.
Thanks to Tenna's fervent tonguing, he's wet enough for Tenna to start squeezing the very tip of his finger inside, and his pussy instinctively fights against it, trembling in defense to keep it outside. Tenna gasps and bites his lip, his free hand gripping his clothed thigh with enough force to shape his fingertips into claws. Spamton's stomach drops at the thought of things getting bloody.
"Hey," he hurries. "Get a hold of yourself."
"Right, s-sorry." A deep breath in, and deeper breath out. The claws retract, though he keeps his hand there to steel himself.
With enough persistent nudging, Spamton's hole gives way and seals tight around his finger. It's— manageable, sure, but oooh. It's a lot. Spamton sucks in a tight breath as he's forced to adjust around it, its girth already much bigger than any cock he's taken. His body overcompensates for the intrusion with slick pooling from the cracks of their connection. Tenna's finger gets wetter the further he pushes in, and the lined ridges circling his knuckles pulls increasingly louder groans from him. The last knuckle barely fits, but at least it's over—
"Look, Spamton!" With childlike glee. "I can see my finger inside of you!" Like it was a damn circus trick. His wiggles his wedged finger, and Spamton's horrified to feel his fucking womb moving with it like a puppet damned to a string.
It should hurt, but it doesn't. The hard part is over, and what's left is a primal itch within his inner walls put to rest with a single finger. His clit regains its strength, and his hole clamps down like a vice. A particular angle gets him vocal, and he feels something within him booting up.
"A-ah, aah— [File attached]." Spamton immediately slaps a hand over his mouth, blooming red from his nose to his ears. What the fuck? He thought he turned predictive text off; it was a waste of an update. Why was it acting up now of all times? He prays that Tenna didn't notice.
"Oh!" Tenna's grin is downright devious. Spamton's prayers fall on deaf ears, as usual. "Do you always do that?"
"No," he insists. This entire encounter has be an exception to every rule.
"Then, am I…" Tenna trails off, breathing deep through his nose. "Amithefirst?" Spoken so fast it may as well had been a single word.
Spamton has a bad feeling about this. He should've just lied. "…I guess, yeah."
Tenna's screen becomes dark again, but a blinding toothy smile quickly blinks into the center of it.
He keeps moving, pressing right against the delicate button that keeps Spamton on loop. A teasing in. "Mmn, [file attached]!" And a steady out. "[F-File attached]!" In, sharper and rougher, and Tenna's sweat is mixing with his own drool. "[File att—aaached]!" Out, and— "Would you quit it?!"
It takes Tenna out of the moment, which very quickly Spamton discovers is a complete mistake. Tenna puts his drenched finger in his mouth and sucks it clean.
"…I'm sorry." For what, Spamton doesn't say. Tenna's hands lower to his waistband. "I really can't hold it in anymore."
He did think it was odd that he was the only one in the nude, but now he's come to the grand realization of that being only thing keeping his guts safe.
"Tenna." There were a lot of strange things about the way Tenna dressed today, now that he thinks about it. He got on camera without his signature belt, for one. His pants didn't have any buttons, not that he was looking, but since he already was, they looked tighter than usually, too. "Tenna. Don't you dare—"
It only takes a straight pull on his hip for his veiny cock to burst free and weigh heavy against Spamton's front. The oozing tip ends at his chest. Drips of precum make their mark on his collarbones. He went fucking commando. That prick had this planned from the very start.
"Are those leggings?" Spamton has to ask.
"Yes." Tenna has to answer.
Tenna wordlessly tilts his hips forward, the wide head kissing the meat of his slick folds, closing the distance between Tenna's third leg and Spamton's not-loose-enough hole. He's going to die here.
"It's not gonna fit."
"What did you say when we first met?" Tenna chuckles. "Right, 'Spamton G. Spamton is no quitter.'"
Man, what a weird dream. He seriously needed to lay off the coke before bed. Sex with Tenna? Yeah, right.
He stretches his legs, and his soles plant on a rumbling wall. Hands next, and they reach up and back to meet air. The low growls of a wild animal fills his ears. It smells carnal. It feels muggy. Spamton opens his eyes.
Tenna's canines are digging into his bottom lip. It didn't seem safe for a TV to be drenched. He's trapped in Tenna's hand. Wetness showers his thighs. He's filled to the brim. Don't look down. It's bound to be grotesque. Curiosity gets the better of him. He looks down. His stomach is distended to Tenna's shape, swollen. His cock is buried into his uterus, the rest of his placebo organs shifting around just to allow him to bottom out.
"You're so tight," Tenna whines, giving Spamton a cautionary squeeze. "Can you, hmm, relax a little?"
"You're telling me to fucking relax?!" Spamton aims three vicious kicks to Tenna's abs. Old fuck doesn't even flinch. The fucking nerve. "It's like I have an entire arm in me!"
Tenna ignores him, and instead experimentally tugs Spamton up, and the free space it clears up is so microscopic that Spamton wonders if he'll be forever loose after this. Tenna slides him back down to fully nestle his length again.
"See, it fit. I fit, Spamton, and you feel… really good. Ah… You're so soft and wet and hot. It's amazing. It's even better than I imagined. I don't ever want to leave. I wish I could keep you just like this forever." He's drunk off lust, rambling to no one but himself. He lovingly strokes Spamton's bloated belly with a thumb. "I can't—"
Spamton didn't have time to scream obscenities at him. Within a breath, Tenna jack hammers his hips and shakes him up and down like a living fleshlight. One moment he's flat-bellied, and the next he looks like a mother carrying triplets. Tenna's sack claps heavy and loud against his ass, and it overtakes the sound of his cunt gushing from Tenna's bull-like thrusts. It's disgusting and degrading and so damn good. Glans knock at his uterus until they're allowed entry.
"[File size too]— big, fuck!" Spamton's tears finally shed. Delirium pumps through his blood, codeine without a needle. It's the only way he's still conscious. Eyes rolled back and lips parted to desperately scream for mercy. "You're, nnh, gonna fucking kill me, Tenn— aah!"
"I'm sorry— just a little more." He doesn't believe him. "Almost— there, Spammy. Almost…"
Please, please, he was so lost in it all that he didn't recognize the sound of his own voice, crooning like a wounded baby bird. He reaches out for something, and Tenna offers his other hand to cling onto. Spamton sobs and wraps his arms around the same finger that was inside of him. He wails as his orgasm is ripped out of him, sexual shock therapy, every nerve strung up and lit like a witch at trial and Tenna's still going he's fucking into him like a man starved ramming bruising etching into his code and he's really going to die please [CTRL+ALT+DELETE] [YOU MUST CLOSE THE FOLLOWING PROGRAM: LORDOFSCREENS.EXE] [DELETE SYSTEM 3—]
It can't happen soon enough. A geyser of sticky heat fills his core. Cum snakes into each nook and cranny of his insides. He could taste it at the back of his throat. He's round and aching and exhausted. He'll never recover. Tenna's fat dick will haunt his mind and hole until the internet's shut off.
To put it simply, he's dead, and he's not in heaven. He's in hell.
"You're the worst," he squeaks.
"Mhm." Tenna eases him off his flaccid cock with the delicacy of a guido. Unplugged, seed streams out of his fucked open hole. Tenna waits and watches until it slows to a trickle. He pulls a Tenna-sized napkin from his shirt pocket, and it becomes a Spamton-sized towel to sop up most of the mess.
"I hate you," he croaks.
"Mhm." Tenna tosses it into the trash bin. The TV time theme plays once it detects something passing through the rim. At the end of the fanfare, a wet plop is the final note. Tenna's hands curl to allow Spamton to rest his head on his lower knuckles. Carefully, Tenna pulls back the sheets and slides underneath, taking Spamton with him. He's never stayed the night before.
"I'm… gonna kill you…" he whispers.
Spamton closes his eyes. Tenna pulls him into the warm expanse of his chest, even though Spamton still has a clinging layer of half-dried sweat and cum on every surface of his skin. Even so, Spamton allows it, even nuzzles into it. There's a hushed droning underneath Tenna's frame, his own personal white noise.
"…I love you."
For both their sakes, Spamton pretends not to hear, feigning sleep until it was genuine.