with a chisel

cw: smut, nullification

He's rock-hard already when she stops teasing him to fetch the gorgon, dolldick waving proudly (or perhaps desperately, if the little drips oozing from its tip are any indication) in her workshop's warm air.

She's been careful not to touch it, but that's hardly a barrier; his body has so many other sensitive places for her hands to linger, and the plug buzzing against his prostate certainly helped—it's always been his weak point, though she's been careful not to give it the sort of hammering that might push him over the edge. That would ruin things.

When she returns, tugging along a masked and hobbled figure by a leash wrapped in so much magic that even his mortal eyes can see its glow, he can't help the words which grow in breathy spurts from his mouth.

“P-please, mistress, I can't ...”

“Shush, dear. I need to put your blindfold on.”

“B-but, please ...”

It's not exactly a blindfold; she just likes calling it that. A full-face mask, complete with noise-cancelling headphones and air filters; a tool for denying his senses. That it will protect him from his mistress's pet gorgon is a secondary bonus.

The last words he hears her say as she tightens the straps around his head are a simple instruction: “Stay still. I'll be disappointed if I have to repair you.”

He's not sure what she means, but something about the tone in her voice makes his dick throb and his chest ache. He's always been a slut for the idea of being broken, even back in those bad days before he was a doll.

In the part of his mind that's still able to think, the part that's not overwhelmed with how desperately he needs to be touched and used and how that horrible aching need has twisted his entire mind around his dick, he considers whether he should squirm anyway. Just to make a point. Just to enjoy the feeling of things going too far ...

His mistress doesn't bother with protection as she undoes the gorgon's mask. It's been centuries since her body was last vulnerable to a curse so weak and non-specific as its gaze, and even in the old days (long before she managed to find a gorgon) she had felt sure that she could stare one down and come out on top.

Its “hair” is curled in tight whorls all around its head, beady eyes staring impotently out at her. Its true eyes always seem faintly hurt—something about the creases in the scales which dust its face, maybe, or the thin line of its bloodless lips below and the way one of its fangs always seems to peak out into the air.

She rests a hand on its head, and tilts its gaze towards the doll. Some of its hair's tiny mouths try to bite her, but their fangs slide harmlessly off her carefully crafted skin.

“There you are, pet. Look but don't touch.”

The gorgon is already drooling at the sight; it never could resist a proudly waving cock, not even before she caught it and reshaped its mind into something she could use.

The doll feels her gaze like a wave of heat through his body, dripping in long clinging waves down his dick and along his painfully tight balls; it feels like cocaine dripping down into his throat, a burst of heat that leaves no sensation behind. He moans into the mask, does his best not to move at all, doesn't feel enough to react as his mistress taps his tip and runs her finger down to his base just inside the line of petrification—

“That will do, pet,” she murmurs to her gorgon, “very good,” but it's far too entranced to hear so she just shrugs and grabs her chisel. The downsides of aggressive conditioning, she supposes. Still absolutely worth it.

It doesn't take her long; just a few careful taps and his petrified flesh cracks and crumbles. She's careful not to damage his penis as she deposits it and his scrotum on a nearby tray (the gorgon's attention shifts along with them), but his body receives no such care. She's going to be packing the jagged hole she's left in him with fresh substrate anyway, so why bother? And that lovely dick of his will make a wonderful strapon once she's had the time to make sure it stays alive without its body ...

Hours later sensation begins to flow back into his crotch. He squirms with excitement—that she's letting him feel again must mean something good! Maybe it's finally time, maybe she'll finally let him tip over the edge into the climax he's been longing for all this time, maybe—

It's immediately obvious what's missing.

He still feels his dick somewhere, still feels that aching need filling him; the urge to thrust and shake and finally, finally—but it's not between his thighs, not proudly waving in the air above his crotch. He's not sure where it is, but on his own body he only feels an unfamiliar absence of wait and a fresh boundary of skin where he knows none should be.

“There you go, my dear,” she says with a smile as she finally removes the blindfold. “Look how much better you are now!”

Better isn't the word he would use.

There's nothing there, just smooth skin adorned with the fluttering lines and delicate curves of his mistress's spellwork; a sigil he can't quite read.

“M-mistress, what ...?”

“Well,” she grins, “I saw how much fun you had with your little toy, so I thought that it might be amusing to take it for myself. But don't worry!” She gestures at a familiar-looking dildo sitting on a table just beside him, “I'll be sure to share it with you from time to time.”