Always, In the Dream
folder
+M to R › One Piece
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
1
Views:
5,123
Reviews:
4
Recommended:
1
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
+M to R › One Piece
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
1
Views:
5,123
Reviews:
4
Recommended:
1
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own One Piece, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
Always, In the Dream
Always, in the dream, he could smell flour. Flour, with its simple musk, a rare, barely there scent like skin. Sanji loved the smell of skin, and the smell of flour, and in his dream, he somehow knew that near by, someone was baking bread. But this was a bare afterthought.
More immediately, Sanji could not see. Sanji had hands, gentle hands, covering his eyes, so that no matter how hard he listened, he could never identify a single man around him.
And there were always men around him.
He could smell them too. Stronger musk than flour, sea wind, grease, body odor. Not boys around him, not women. Men. Men with big hands like his own, the hands on his eyes soft, but some of the other hands rough and thick, some long and slim.
Always, the hands would guide him to open his legs, and always right then, his body would flush all hot like the sun hitting his skin.
His body would jump, because a hand he couldn’t see would cup softly against his balls, pushing them a little as if molding them.
He would moan and growl and whimper, but fingers would fill his mouth, making him suck, giving him nothing to do but swallow again and again as if he were milking some liquid sweet from the thick, calloused fingers.
Fingers would tug and pinch at his nipples, making the skin there burn and prickle. Sometimes, just then, he would protest, but the fingers always muffled his words, so that the men around him would laugh quietly, voices tickling him.
And then the hand on his balls would squeeze a little, and another hand would find his cock and squeeze there too, and someone would murmur something reassuring, as what he was sure was olive oil would be poured over his groin.
That was the exquisite part. A sharp warm scent filling the air, warm wet liquid pooling around his cock, sticking in the soft hairs, and then trickling and trickling like a tiny invader over the twitching opening of his body. He knew what oil looked like on skin, he knew the soft, jewel-like sheen, and he pictured his own body glistening like that, pictured eyes on his own, and then—
And then Sanji would feel a blunt, soft touch right against his hole, a touch that made him jerk every time, and the motion would make the hands grab at him, some smoothing, some petting, hands at his ankles, hands at his wrists, hands kneading his body all over so that he could barely pay attention to try to stop that big thick soft hard thing from trying to work its way into his body.
He would arch, and scream, a soft, groaning sort of scream like a big beam of wood being pushed too hard by the night wind. And two fingers would slip all over his tongue, sliding the wetness of his mouth all around as he parted his lips in cry after cry after cry.
And the big thick soft hard thing would be fucking him, making a slapping, sucking wet sound. The oil, he always knew, would be slippery and thick, gathering at the stretched hole, making the big cock shiny, purpled with blood, hard as a thick handle of wood but so soft, sliding into the softness of his body.
The hands would never stop touching him, and he somehow knew that beyond those hands were more bodies, more waiting to fill him up, eyes on his body, cocks being stroked. Maybe a line of men, more than he could handle, waiting to touch him and fuck him. He would whimper at the thought, and strain to see, but the gentle fingers would never leave his face, would never let him see.
His skin would cool in lines, pre-come spread, streaking across his trembling body, across his cheek, fingers thicker than fingers, not fingers, more bodies touching him, his mouth suddenly full, full of musk, full to the back of his throat with thrusting, blood-hot cock.
And he would shake then, his body coiling like a rope ready to snap, because two hands would be working at his cock, pumping almost hard enough to hurt, pumping in time with that thick thing opening him up with one slapping, pounding thrust after another.
And then Sanji would come, alone, breathless, his cock gripped in his boxers, the bunkroom room deafeningly quiet and his heart pounding so hard he could feel it in his toes. And the men around him would be asleep, and he could smell his own come on his fingers, and he would hold very still, until he was sure his heart beat wasn’t waking up the whole ship.
More immediately, Sanji could not see. Sanji had hands, gentle hands, covering his eyes, so that no matter how hard he listened, he could never identify a single man around him.
And there were always men around him.
He could smell them too. Stronger musk than flour, sea wind, grease, body odor. Not boys around him, not women. Men. Men with big hands like his own, the hands on his eyes soft, but some of the other hands rough and thick, some long and slim.
Always, the hands would guide him to open his legs, and always right then, his body would flush all hot like the sun hitting his skin.
His body would jump, because a hand he couldn’t see would cup softly against his balls, pushing them a little as if molding them.
He would moan and growl and whimper, but fingers would fill his mouth, making him suck, giving him nothing to do but swallow again and again as if he were milking some liquid sweet from the thick, calloused fingers.
Fingers would tug and pinch at his nipples, making the skin there burn and prickle. Sometimes, just then, he would protest, but the fingers always muffled his words, so that the men around him would laugh quietly, voices tickling him.
And then the hand on his balls would squeeze a little, and another hand would find his cock and squeeze there too, and someone would murmur something reassuring, as what he was sure was olive oil would be poured over his groin.
That was the exquisite part. A sharp warm scent filling the air, warm wet liquid pooling around his cock, sticking in the soft hairs, and then trickling and trickling like a tiny invader over the twitching opening of his body. He knew what oil looked like on skin, he knew the soft, jewel-like sheen, and he pictured his own body glistening like that, pictured eyes on his own, and then—
And then Sanji would feel a blunt, soft touch right against his hole, a touch that made him jerk every time, and the motion would make the hands grab at him, some smoothing, some petting, hands at his ankles, hands at his wrists, hands kneading his body all over so that he could barely pay attention to try to stop that big thick soft hard thing from trying to work its way into his body.
He would arch, and scream, a soft, groaning sort of scream like a big beam of wood being pushed too hard by the night wind. And two fingers would slip all over his tongue, sliding the wetness of his mouth all around as he parted his lips in cry after cry after cry.
And the big thick soft hard thing would be fucking him, making a slapping, sucking wet sound. The oil, he always knew, would be slippery and thick, gathering at the stretched hole, making the big cock shiny, purpled with blood, hard as a thick handle of wood but so soft, sliding into the softness of his body.
The hands would never stop touching him, and he somehow knew that beyond those hands were more bodies, more waiting to fill him up, eyes on his body, cocks being stroked. Maybe a line of men, more than he could handle, waiting to touch him and fuck him. He would whimper at the thought, and strain to see, but the gentle fingers would never leave his face, would never let him see.
His skin would cool in lines, pre-come spread, streaking across his trembling body, across his cheek, fingers thicker than fingers, not fingers, more bodies touching him, his mouth suddenly full, full of musk, full to the back of his throat with thrusting, blood-hot cock.
And he would shake then, his body coiling like a rope ready to snap, because two hands would be working at his cock, pumping almost hard enough to hurt, pumping in time with that thick thing opening him up with one slapping, pounding thrust after another.
And then Sanji would come, alone, breathless, his cock gripped in his boxers, the bunkroom room deafeningly quiet and his heart pounding so hard he could feel it in his toes. And the men around him would be asleep, and he could smell his own come on his fingers, and he would hold very still, until he was sure his heart beat wasn’t waking up the whole ship.