Steve, lathers something in his ungloved hands. His skin is not reacting to the bubbles, so it probably isn't caustic. Smells he can't even begin to identify percolate the room.
Surveying himself, he can see he's in far less than optimal condition. He's lost numerous kilos, and each rib is easily visible though sallow skin. His stomach, usually flat with corded muscle is now concave. The bones of his pelvis flare outwards, and his penis and testicles are bruised around the base. The muscle in his thighs has deteriorated significantly. The arm is missing entirely and will need replacement.
It will take a long time to get back into working order again. (He's not sure if he even wants to.)
Steve takes the bubbly glob in his hands and presses it into one of the fluffy blue cloths.
With the wet, no longer fluffy blue cloths Steve wipes down his chest, over his nipples (not pinching or scratching) and down his stomach. His breath catches as Steve moves the cloth near to his groin, and the creases between his legs and hips.
"Forward,"
He leans into the strong arm keeping from slipping into the water. Even if he wanted to, he couldn't resist. With his other hand Steve tenderly rubs the cloth down his back and bottom, dipping in between his cheeks and tickling what must be a suture poking out from his hole.
He doesn't mind. It doesn't even hurt really, just feels a little raw. (A memory of hands, two hands that he knows are his even though both are flesh flashes before his mind's eye. A sickly young man complains feebly as he cleans away filth from his loins. He quiets the protests with a quick peck on his sallow lips.)
A wet splat jostles him out of the memory. A soiled rag, brown with dried blood landed on the floor on the opposite side of the room.
A new bottle that smells vaguely fruity squirts out something creamy and pink with bptptptp sound onto Steve's waiting hands. Small, white bubbles froth from between Steve's fingers, who then massages the suds into his hair. It feels.. good? He's had his hair pulled before, and he doesn't like it. This though, this is. . alright.
"Close your eyes now," Steve orders.
He complies, and warm water pours over his head rinses away the soap and grime. When the water is no longer flowing over his head and face, he opens his eyes.
Steve takes a new fluffy blue textile and presses the tangled mess of hair with it, wicking away the remaining water. Reaching by his feet, Steve takes something out of the bottom of the basin and the water begins to recede.
When the water is no deeper than a few centimeters, Steve gently takes his penis in hand and retracts the foreskin revealing a white, gritty substance. He fills the cup with fresh water from the tap and rinses the head, washing it away before tenderly moving the skin back into place. (No one has ever been careful handling his reproductive organs before. They usually either don't pay any attention to it, or actively try and harm it.)
He looks up to Steve's face, questioning. Why is he taking care of him? Is this normal maintenance?
"All done," Steve says smiling even though his eyes are puffy and red.
Steve lifts him from the water and reaches for yet another larger fluffy blue textile, wrapping him in it. They exit the tiled room with the basin into another, softer room where he's laid down on a massive bed.
He's feeling so good he doesn't even think sex would hurt that much. Beds are for sex, after all.
Steve goes back into the blue tiled room with the basin and turns on the sink. He's doing something with his hands, but he can't see what. Before long though, he comes back in and goes to the dresser.
Propped up against the headboard he watches as Steve riffles around in the drawers, eventually pulling out a similar pair of boxers to the ones he's wearing.
Steve unwraps him like a fragile family heirloom, precious and irreplaceable.
From the damp towel Steve lifts him and carefully directs one foot and then the other into the legs before pulling them up and over his hips. The underwear hang loosely on him, not clinging to his skin like they do on Steve. Steve gets a quilt from the shadows of the closet, shaking it out flat.
Steve pulls back the sheets of the bed and positions his clothed body beneath the blankets and his head on the pillow. The bed smells of the same generic not-steve-but-steve scent that seems to infuse this entire base. He drifts away in the warm bedding that smells like what he can only describe as home, the word as foreign as the language everyone's speaking.
He wonders if this is death, and if by some, inexplicable miracle he's not been thrust down to hell or purgatory. If Grace really does exist, and somehow, he's attained that mercy. (To his limited knowledge he's never renounced a god, even if he doesn't really believe anymore.) He certainly doesn't smell any heat, or soot, or sulfur. The air doesn't taste burnt, and the only screams are the ones still echoing in his head but those aren't anything new.
He falls asleep contemplating life after death. ~~~ Fin
Re: Ruined asshole rape aftercare Part 7
~~~
Steve, lathers something in his ungloved hands. His skin is not reacting to the bubbles, so it probably isn't caustic. Smells he can't even begin to identify percolate the room.
Surveying himself, he can see he's in far less than optimal condition. He's lost numerous kilos, and each rib is easily visible though sallow skin. His stomach, usually flat with corded muscle is now concave. The bones of his pelvis flare outwards, and his penis and testicles are bruised around the base. The muscle in his thighs has deteriorated significantly. The arm is missing entirely and will need replacement.
It will take a long time to get back into working order again. (He's not sure if he even wants to.)
Steve takes the bubbly glob in his hands and presses it into one of the fluffy blue cloths.
With the wet, no longer fluffy blue cloths Steve wipes down his chest, over his nipples (not pinching or scratching) and down his stomach. His breath catches as Steve moves the cloth near to his groin, and the creases between his legs and hips.
"Forward,"
He leans into the strong arm keeping from slipping into the water. Even if he wanted to, he couldn't resist. With his other hand Steve tenderly rubs the cloth down his back and bottom, dipping in between his cheeks and tickling what must be a suture poking out from his hole.
He doesn't mind. It doesn't even hurt really, just feels a little raw. (A memory of hands, two hands that he knows are his even though both are flesh flashes before his mind's eye. A sickly young man complains feebly as he cleans away filth from his loins. He quiets the protests with a quick peck on his sallow lips.)
A wet splat jostles him out of the memory. A soiled rag, brown with dried blood landed on the floor on the opposite side of the room.
A new bottle that smells vaguely fruity squirts out something creamy and pink with bptptptp sound onto Steve's waiting hands. Small, white bubbles froth from between Steve's fingers, who then massages the suds into his hair. It feels.. good? He's had his hair pulled before, and he doesn't like it. This though, this is. . alright.
"Close your eyes now," Steve orders.
He complies, and warm water pours over his head rinses away the soap and grime. When the water is no longer flowing over his head and face, he opens his eyes.
Steve takes a new fluffy blue textile and presses the tangled mess of hair with it, wicking away the remaining water. Reaching by his feet, Steve takes something out of the bottom of the basin and the water begins to recede.
When the water is no deeper than a few centimeters, Steve gently takes his penis in hand and retracts the foreskin revealing a white, gritty substance. He fills the cup with fresh water from the tap and rinses the head, washing it away before tenderly moving the skin back into place. (No one has ever been careful handling his reproductive organs before. They usually either don't pay any attention to it, or actively try and harm it.)
He looks up to Steve's face, questioning. Why is he taking care of him? Is this normal maintenance?
"All done," Steve says smiling even though his eyes are puffy and red.
Steve lifts him from the water and reaches for yet another larger fluffy blue textile, wrapping him in it. They exit the tiled room with the basin into another, softer room where he's laid down on a massive bed.
He's feeling so good he doesn't even think sex would hurt that much. Beds are for sex, after all.
Steve goes back into the blue tiled room with the basin and turns on the sink. He's doing something with his hands, but he can't see what. Before long though, he comes back in and goes to the dresser.
Propped up against the headboard he watches as Steve riffles around in the drawers, eventually pulling out a similar pair of boxers to the ones he's wearing.
Steve unwraps him like a fragile family heirloom, precious and irreplaceable.
From the damp towel Steve lifts him and carefully directs one foot and then the other into the legs before pulling them up and over his hips. The underwear hang loosely on him, not clinging to his skin like they do on Steve. Steve gets a quilt from the shadows of the closet, shaking it out flat.
Steve pulls back the sheets of the bed and positions his clothed body beneath the blankets and his head on the pillow. The bed smells of the same generic not-steve-but-steve scent that seems to infuse this entire base. He drifts away in the warm bedding that smells like what he can only describe as home, the word as foreign as the language everyone's speaking.
He wonders if this is death, and if by some, inexplicable miracle he's not been thrust down to hell or purgatory. If Grace really does exist, and somehow, he's attained that mercy. (To his limited knowledge he's never renounced a god, even if he doesn't really believe anymore.) He certainly doesn't smell any heat, or soot, or sulfur. The air doesn't taste burnt, and the only screams are the ones still echoing in his head but those aren't anything new.
He falls asleep contemplating life after death.
~~~
Fin