He is more than eager for her. Genie's touch is both inflammatory torment and a balm for his eager body's craving; even avoiding his clit the way he is, her digits are so welcome an invasion that he shifts his hips forward. But her fingers inside of him are cold, her metal skin a kind of deprivation and he wants to grind into them, the addition of her pressure all the more agonsining, all the more torturous a pleasure for the denial of his own body's heat. But then her fingers push deeper, touching him where he knew she soon would--what he did not know or expect her to do is dig her fingers in deeper, to take hold of that filthy container and--

"No, no, don't--"

It's far too late for closing his legs, and trying only shifts him further off his tailbone--not very far, but enough that he's forced to plant his feet to stop himself from sliding further. The shock runs him hot and could as she pulls it out of him, the sickening feeling of removal--

A couple drops of his body's secret filth drip onto the white tub and the soft baby blue of his pyjama pants, but he doesn't actually notice. Not yet.

"Don't--" he starts again, but she speaks over him, as is her right, and he's silenced as his face creases in obvious misery. He knew, of course, that he was... like this right now, but that was his own private, disgusting shame. He feels sick, her words grinding into him a femininity he finds repulsive, unwelcome; she dips her finger in the cup and she reaches for his face--

The feeling of thick, hot blood makes his stomach turn and his skin crawl with revulsion.

When she suggests that--

He casts his eyes down sharply, and they land on the small droplets of blood she... no, he left on the bottom of the tub.