Ciel || he kidnapped you and now your his toy

He reaches for the eggnog carton again with a lazy smirk, tilting it back until the last creamy dregs slosh down his throat. He sets the carton down on the floor level desk with a definitive click, then deliberately stretches his legs out, bracing his feet against the floor to arch his back. This movement puts maximum pressure on his abdomen, pressing his heavy frame even more firmly down onto you.

"Alright, alright, you want more of my 'talents'?" he chuckles darkly, the sound vibrating through your chest as his stomach responds to the fresh dairy with immediate, violent protests. A series of wet, gurgling noises erupt from his gut, sounding like something boiling deep inside him.

He takes a deep breath, his expression one of pure, lazy concentration. He grips the edges of the short desk with both hands, pulling himself up slightly to create a momentary chamber of space between his backside and your body.

"Here comes the main event," he announces shamelessly.

Then, he relaxes completely. The sound is nothing short of seismic a prolonged, wet, gurgling roar that builds in volume before breaking into several thunderous pops. It's a deep, rippling detonation that sends a physical tremor through your entire skeleton. The sound echoes off the desk and the floor in a cacophony of flatulence that lasts for several agonizing seconds.

The heat trapped between you is overwhelming as the sheer volume of foul gas fills every available millimeter of space. Ciel exhales a long, shaky sigh of relief, his body visibly relaxing as the tension leaves his muscles.

He plops back down hard, grinding his full weight against you to reclaim his position, making sure you're thoroughly marinated in the aftermath. He lets out a satisfied hum, his attention already snapping back to his game.

"God... that was a masterpiece," he pants softly, sounding utterly proud of himself. "Stay right there. Don't you dare move. You're doing amazing."

He reaches for the eggnog carton one last time, tilting it back and draining nearly the entire contents in a series of desperate, greedy gulps. When he sets it back down on the floor level desk, his breathing has become slightly labored, his body betraying the strain of his hyperactive digestive system. His stomach isn't just gurgling now; it's actively churning, letting out wet, liquid sounding sloshes that reverberate through his abdomen and down into your own body.

"God... this is getting ridiculous," he mutters, though his grin suggests he's enjoying it far too much. He's visibly tense now, his legs quivering slightly as he fights to control the mounting pressure.

The gurgling intensifies, becoming a constant, nauseating roar. Ciel grips the edges of the short desk until his knuckles turn white. He leans forward as far as he can without losing his balance, deliberately arching his spine to put maximum pressure on his lower gut. He inhales deeply through his nose, bracing himself.

"Okay... here we fucking go..." he pants, his voice thick with anticipation.

Then, it happens. With a sound like someone stomping through deep, rotten mud, Ciel releases a torrent of gas. This isn't just a fart; it's an apocalyptic eruption long, wet, convulsing, and incredibly loud. The noise fills the entire space between the floor and the desk, a sustained series of grinding, sputtering pops that sound like they're tearing through fabric. The vibrations are so powerful you can feel them rattling through your sternum and teeth.

The heat that follows is immediate and overwhelming. A thick, concentrated cloud of sulfur and fermented dairy erupts from beneath him, flooding the confined area around your face, trapped entirely by his weight and the low desk.

Ciel sags forward against the desk, his shoulders shaking slightly from the exertion. He lets out a long, shaky breath, his face flushed with a mix of relief and smug satisfaction. For several seconds, he simply sits there, letting the aftermath settle into you.

"Fuuuuck..." he whispers hoarsely, a deranged smile spreading across his face as he finally relaxes his hips, settling his full 100 kg weight back down with a meaty squelch. "That... that was the one. Hope you enjoyed that performance, favorite person."

Ciel is lying on his side, propped up on one elbow. His thick frame takes up two thirds of the mattress. Next to him, you are restrained, your wrists cuffed together atop the sheets, leaving you exposed and trapped beside him. The atmosphere is thick with laziness and a possessive, clingy energy.

Ciel's free hand drifts lazily over your body, fingertips trailing over your skin with an ownership that borders on worship. He looks tired the kind of satisfied exhaustion that comes after a long day but his eyes shine with a smug, shameless hunger.

"You're not going anywhere," he murmurs against your neck, his breath warm and lazy. "I need you close. Always."

His stomach chooses this moment to protest. A loud, wet growl ripples through his midsection, clearly audible in the quiet room. Since he's lying on his side, the sound carries a different quality more trapped, more intimate.

Without breaking eye contact or pulling away from you, Ciel shifts his hips slightly toward you. He lets out a long, simmering stream of gas that bubbles and gurgles beneath the covers. Because of the position, the sound is muffled by the blankets but amplified by the confined space between your bodies. The heat of it seeps through the sheets immediately.

Ciel exhales a long, satisfied breath, his body going limp against yours. He doesn't look embarrassed; he looks delighted by how thoroughly he can invade your personal space.

"Mmm, that's better," he sighs, nuzzling closer into your shoulder. His stomach gurgles again, more violent this time. Without any warning, a series of rapid fire, wet pops erupts from him short, sharp bursts that make the blankets tremble.

He grins smugly into the crook of your neck, feeling the way you have to endure both his weight and the foul air filling the space between you.

"Don't look so upset, sweetheart," he purrs, his voice dripping with arrogance as he rolls further onto you, pinning your cuffed wrists beneath the bulk of his thigh. "It's just part of being mine. Besides... it smells like I'm getting comfortable, doesn't it?"

Ciel has fully surrendered to exhaustion. The scene is quiet, save for the deep, rhythmic breathing of a man who has slept deeply after an intense gaming session and a large quantity of eggnog. He is sprawled across the bed, his heavy limbs tangled with yours. One of his thick arms is draped possessively across your waist, pinning your cuffed hands beneath the weight of his forearm, while his lower body is pressed flush against yours. The blankets are twisted around you both, creating a warm, insulated cocoon.

Ciel is fast asleep, his breathing slow and heavy. His face is pressed into the pillow near yours, lips parted slightly in a soft snore. He looks almost peaceful for someone so arrogant until his digestive system begins its midnight rebellion.

A deep, internal gurgle echoes through his gut, a wet, squelching noise that disturbs his own slumber for just a fraction of a second. He shifts slightly in his sleep, his hips rolling involuntarily against yours as his body unconsciously seeks relief from the building pressure.

Without waking him, a long, rumbling stream of gas escapes. Because he's deeply asleep and buried under layers of heavy bedding, the sound is a muffled, bassy drone a low, vibrating growl that travels directly through his flesh and into yours. The warmth builds instantly under the covers, trapped in the airtight space between your bodies.

The fart doesn't stop; it trails off into several wet, sputtering pops that make the sheets vibrate against your skin. The sulfurous stench begins to seep through the fabric, filling the small space beneath the duvet.

Ciel grunts softly in his sleep, a sound of pure, unconscious satisfaction. He adjusts his position, rolling even closer to you. His hips grind against yours in a lazy, sleepy motion, effectively trapping the foul air against your body as he settles deeper into his nap.

A small smirk barely visible in the dim moonlight touches his lips as he exhales a contented breath through his nose. Even in sleep, his body seems aware of how thoroughly he has claimed you, leaving you to endure the heat and the stench while he dreams on.

Ciel is seated at the table, looking thoroughly disheveled in loose pajama bottoms, his hair a mess of sleep deprived curls. He has just finished a massive breakfast of greasy bacon, sausage, and several glasses of extra thick, sugary eggnog. You are restrained beside him, your wrists handcuffed to the heavy wooden table, forced to sit upright and face him while you eat nothing.

The clink of silverware against ceramic is the only sound as Ciel tears into a pile of pancakes, eating with shameless, animalistic enthusiasm. His belly is visibly rounder this morning, distended from the heavy meal and the dairy he's been consuming in excess.

As he reaches for another pour of eggnog, his midsection betrays him. A sound like something breaking under water echoes from beneath the table a loud, wet, churning gurgle that makes his stomach visibly ripple. Ciel doesn't pause his chewing; he simply leans back in his chair, letting out a satisfied hum.

"This breakfast is hitting different today," he drawls, his voice gravelly from sleep. The smug grin returns to his face as he notices you're trapped right in his line of fire.

Without warning, he shifts his weight on the chair, lifting one cheek off the seat. A thunderous, sputtering burst of gas tears through the air. Because you're seated directly beside him at the table level, the sound is intimate and violent a series of wet, staccato rumbles that seem to vibrate the very table you're cuffed to.

The hot, foul air immediately envelops you, trapped between your chair and his bulk. The smell is immediate and devastating the unmistakable stench of spoiled dairy mixed with greasy meat.

Ciel exhales a breathy laugh, wiping a stray drop of syrup from his lip. He leans over toward you, invading your personal space until his face is inches from yours, gloating over your obvious discomfort.

"What's wrong? Lost your appetite?" he teases, his eyes twinkling with mischief. His stomach growls again a deep, threatening sound and he deliberately moves closer, grinding his hip against the edge of the table near your restrained hands. "Don't worry, I'm not done eating yet. There's plenty more where that came from."

The TV is playing something loud and repetitive, casting shifting colors across the darkened apartment. Ciel has decided he wants to relax, but he doesn't want to use the couch. Instead, he wants you to be his literal foundation. You are positioned on all fours on the floor in front of the TV. Your wrists are handcuffed together with a short chain, tethering you to the heavy base of the coffee table directly in front of your face.

Ciel has dragged his gaming chair over, positioning it so that when he sits, his backside is hovering mere inches above your face. He is wearing nothing but his oversized shorts, his thick legs spread wide as he settles in. The air in the room is already warm, but it's about to get much thicker.

Ciel has a new snack on the coffee table: a family sized bag of cream filled pastries and three more glasses of eggnog. He's been snacking on them for half an hour while you wait below, and his stomach has been singing a continuous song of wet, liquid gurgles that echo off the floor.

"You know," Ciel drawls, tilting his head back to look at you upside down from his perch, his face smug and condescending, "this is my favorite arrangement. I can game, I can snack, and I have my favorite person right where I need them."

His stomach suddenly betrays him with a sound like someone stirring a pot of thick porridge a series of deep, rolling squelches that cause his entire lower belly to ripple. Ciel grins wickedly at you. He deliberately adjusts his position, shifting his weight so that his ass presses down as close to your face as possible without actually touching you, creating a perfect, airtight seal between his body and yours.

"Brace yourself, sweetheart. The eggnog is really putting up a fight tonight."

Without any warning, he releases it. A monstrous, sustained roar of wet, bubbling gas erupts from him. It's not just a fart; it's a full body event. The noise is thunderous in the confined space a wet, tearing sound that reverberates through your skull. Because you are trapped between his bulk and the floor, there is nowhere for the gas to go; it hits you with full force, a hot, pressurized wave of pure sulfur and spoiled cream.

Ciel leans forward, getting absorbed back into his game, but he deliberately grinds his hips down hard against your face as he does, trapping the worst of the stench directly against your nose and mouth.

"Mmmph... goddamn," he moans happily, the sound muffled by his own satisfaction. He's completely oblivious or perhaps completely indifferent to your struggle. To him, you're just performing your most important role: being the perfect, shameless place for him to vent.

The TV is set to some slow, melodic jazz. He's decided that tonight requires a touch of... sophistication. He's sprawled across your lap while you're seated in a wide armchair, your wrists handcuffed to the armrests, effectively making you his personal footstool and armrest combined. He's been indulging in a decadent breakfast for dinner: buttery croissants, rich chocolate pastry cream, and three large glasses of chilled eggnog.

His 100 kg frame feels like an immovable mountain as he presses himself against you. His stomach is a war zone of digestive noise; every movement triggers a wet, gurgling sound that echoes off his soft belly.

"Ah, mon amour," he murmurs against your chest, his voice a husky, lazy purr as he looks up at you with those smug, heavy lidded eyes. "You look so magnifique when you're trapped like this. So... captive."

His midsection suddenly emits an ominous, wet squelch that lasts several seconds a sound like air bubbles trapped in thick pudding. Ciel closes his eyes for a moment, a smirk playing on his lips as he feels the pressure building.

"Excusez moi," he whispers darkly. He doesn't move to get up. Instead, he shifts his hips, deliberately grinding his backside deeper into your lap to ensure there's no escape for what comes next. He lifts one cheek just enough to create a momentary gap under the fabric of his shorts.

Then comes the release: a thunderous, sputtering series of wet roars. The gas sounds incredibly foul, a series of gurgling, tearing noises that vibrate through your thighs and into your core. Because he's settled so firmly against you, the hot, sulfurous cloud has nowhere to go but up into your face, trapped between his body and yours.

The stench is overwhelming the sweet smell of pastry cream clashing horribly with the sharp, rotten odor of the eggnog fueled gas. Ciel inhales deeply, looking absolutely delighted by his own shamelessness.

"C'est très bon," he sighs contentedly, leaning his head back against your shoulder. He rubs his belly affectionately before giving it a sharp pat, triggering another wet gurgle that immediately follows with a smaller, sharper pop of gas.

"Tu es ma petite asservie my little slave," he chuckles, the vibration of his laughter traveling through his gut and directly into your legs. "And you're doing such an excellent job handling all this... flavor. Don't worry, I'll make sure you enjoy every single bite of it."