Your fingertips scrabble at the wall. Lips, tongue and tendril all move together, hot and pulling at you, massaging firmly up your shaft and sucking over the bare skin of your head. Your legs tremble in the beginning of another orgasm that keeps on getting larger and hotter. The suction increases, pulling the pressure forward until you can feel it building in the head of your cock, threatening to break every moment the lips pull you deeper and the tendril squeezes faster, encircling and holding you completely as your hips buck instinctually, your head dropping back, breathing out once, twice… stars fill your vision. You cum again, and the sensation floods through you, flowing out of you in blissful waves that pull at your whole body at once, focussing everything into that point of wonderful warmth that holds you safe as your vision goes white.
You’re slumped against the wall. You feel your cock pulse feebly, still cradled by whatever it is in the wall. The tongue laps once across your tip and you shudder weakly, although you can barely feel it. Your throat hurts. Did you scream? You can't remember. Well you can’t remember if you screamed, but the rest...
The lips grip you harder, tongue sliding over your head again.
A bolt of panic thrusts your hips backwards. Your left tensing half a foot from the wall, your member nearly out, nearly all visible, and far away from whatever you just felt, your hips straining to pull you further still. Your eyes are wide, your every muscle tensed, ready to fight, reacting as if you’d just been stung, or - what just happened?! Two memories rocket forth and in an instant you see them both crash together before your mind’s eye. The first is the colour green, the green of spring grass mowed the same length and criss-crossed with lines of painted white. The school oval, every detail of the ancient memory frozen in your mind by the heart-stopping strength of the sensation defining the memory, as, in punishment for being caught in a game of tickle-tag, the other child is tickling you.
His nose healed eventually, and no-one had ever tickled you again. The second memory is here, right here, a few days ago when you’d tried to keep stroking yourself while you came. It had taken so much effort to force your hand to keep going, your teeth gritted as you rode through the pleasure of nerves so sensitive it turned every touch into a shivering spasm of sensation, so close to pain but still feeling somehow good, better the longer you rode through it and into the bliss you were fighting for, so much sweeter for the effort.
You blink, and both memories linger in your view, green grass and white tiles, thrashing nerves and gritted pleasure. The closest your life could come to understanding what just happened, and what’s about to happen again, as the red cord tugs you straight back into the hole.
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