Yussa whines in the back of his throat as Caleb works a third finger into him while telling that he can't come. He nods weakly, then gasps out: "Yes."

With three of Caleb's fingers he feels so full, and he can barely think at all when he imagines having his patron's cock instead. The sound of Caleb's fingers moving in and out of him is wet and lewd and perfect. Louder still is his own ragged breathing, another moan escaping as his lover's fingers rub against the plug through his body. His hips jerk - it isn't oversensitivity but gods, it's a lot. Slick walls squeeze around Caleb's fingers and Yussa can feel the stretch as they coax his body to yield further still. There is no possible way he could feel empty now.

Still, he can't quite stop moving, weakly grinding against Caleb's fingers and the bed with every rock of his hips. He knows how he must look, flushed and panting and needy, his cunt slick and glistening with his own slick, Caleb's come, and whatever oil has spilled over him with Caleb's liberal application elsewhere.

This isn't the first time his lover has ruined him to the point of being inarticulate, but the entire mood of the night is different. The approach, the frame they've given themselves for this, make it new.