Time is sort of a difficult experience for Foster even when he's not wet and shivering and desperate, still yearning for touch between his legs despite his misery. Breathing is... surprisingly hard when he's this chilled, every breath caught on a shudder--he's so cold that he's in pain. Not externally, at the outside of his body where her blade cut him open but at a deeper layer, something terrible under what he can touch, and no strength of will can force his body to relax as, his muscles to unclench as he struggles, alone in the empty tub.
He tries to lie down, mostly out of desperation, some futile bid for warmth--as though having more skin in contact with a surface will give him the slightest hope of relief. On his side, on his back, his hair plastered to his face, his legs spread as though begging for comfort of a different kind.
His sexual ardour is definitely dampened--pun unintended--but even if her specific punishment here wasn't enough to extinguish his need, it definitely made it the least of his worries. The ache of his open wounds is also somewhere deeper now, under the skin and in the muscle. He closes his eyes, trying--trying to remain conscious through this ordeal.
The time that passes is enough for his body's... condition to catch up to what cleanliness she briefly enforced, though. As the minutes pass, interminably, he can feel the wetness as his blood, his filth leaks out again, body-warm as it oozes, to cool tortuously against the open folds of his pussy. It mixes with water as a thick clot runs down between the cheeks of his ass to join the puddles at the bottom of the tub.
He turns, curling foetal-style--
And that's how she finds him, pathetically hunched in the bottom of the tub, half laughing with misery--he can't find the words to speak.
Give him a minute, Genie. He's. Very cold. :<
He tries to lie down, mostly out of desperation, some futile bid for warmth--as though having more skin in contact with a surface will give him the slightest hope of relief. On his side, on his back, his hair plastered to his face, his legs spread as though begging for comfort of a different kind.
His sexual ardour is definitely dampened--pun unintended--but even if her specific punishment here wasn't enough to extinguish his need, it definitely made it the least of his worries. The ache of his open wounds is also somewhere deeper now, under the skin and in the muscle. He closes his eyes, trying--trying to remain conscious through this ordeal.
The time that passes is enough for his body's... condition to catch up to what cleanliness she briefly enforced, though. As the minutes pass, interminably, he can feel the wetness as his blood, his filth leaks out again, body-warm as it oozes, to cool tortuously against the open folds of his pussy. It mixes with water as a thick clot runs down between the cheeks of his ass to join the puddles at the bottom of the tub.
He turns, curling foetal-style--
And that's how she finds him, pathetically hunched in the bottom of the tub, half laughing with misery--he can't find the words to speak.