Recursion Dispatch

The Undervaults breathed. Not metaphor. The walls shifted with pulse rhythm: slow, damp, lichen-lined. Roots veined the stone like arteries. Moss sweated. Light came not from torch or crystal, but from the glowing Archive ring suspended above the ritual plinth: a recursion disc etched with sigils of ingress, replication, and doubling. Ral stood beneath it, bare from the waist up, skin oiled and marked. His body was carved restraint: broad shoulders stacked over a hard, minimal waist; smooth chest pierced with twin darksteel rings through the nipples, each bound by a sigil-threaded chain to the collar locked at his throat. He wore only a loose black ritual kilt, the folds open at the sides to reveal powerful thighs, his cock already half hard, thick and blunt-tipped, veined like a war-pipe, the head gleaming from prior arousal. Opposite him knelt Sael Varn. Younger, narrower. Pale where Ral was sun-cut. Built not for war but for endurance: wiry limbs, hollow flanks, an ass that seemed sculpted to receive, the cheeks high and full, spread slightly from the tension of kneeling. His back was striped in burnt gold sigils, trailing like claw-marks down his spine to the small of his back where a bloom-sigil pulsed faintly. "Twinned ingress," Ral murmured, voice low. Not a question. Sael looked up, breath fogging. "Already open, sir." Ral walked forward. Each step deliberate. The Archive ring above pulsed. When he reached Sael, he dropped to a knee and ran his thumb along the curve of his ass, spreading him further. Two plugs shimmered there, etched with recursive metalwork, both glistening from inner heat. "Prep yourself." Sael moaned and reached back, removing both slowly. The moment the second slid free, a leak of clear, viscous slick drooled from his rim. The scent was ripe: Archive oil, sweat, and something warmer, darker. Ral breathed it in and unwrapped the chain from his chest. His cock swung forward, heavy and half erect, the ring at its base gleaming obsidian-black. Beneath it, his balls hung thick and drawn tight, marked by a vertical rune that pulsed with his heartbeat. Sael whispered the Invocation of Holding, spine arched, presenting. Ral didn’t speak. He bent. Mouth to rim. The first contact was reverent. A breath. Then a kiss—pressed deliberately to the stretched ring of muscle, the soft heat of it twitching at the attention. Ral exhaled slow against it, warming the skin. Then he spread the cheeks wide, one hand anchored to the small of Sael’s back, the other braced below, pulling the flesh apart to expose every shadow, every twitch. His tongue began low. He licked upward, a slow stripe from the base of Sael's taint to the crown of the hole. Then circled. Once, twice. The rim was flushed and pliant, already wet from the plug removal, twitching in response to air and pressure. Ral moaned softly against it—deliberate, letting vibration carry into the tissue. He began to eat. Not lick. Not tease. Eat. His mouth sealed around the hole and he sucked, drawing the rim into his mouth with lewd slurps. Tongue-tip pushed inside, then retreated, then forced again. The slick sound echoed, wet and rhythmic. Sael's whole frame shivered. His knees splayed further apart, trembling. Ral worked deeper. His tongue drove into the heat of him in slow, deliberate plunges, curling at the tip to pry the opening wider. He alternated pressure with precision, flattening his tongue against the inner wall, then curling to scrape gently as if tasting a spell etched in flesh. Spit overflowed. It coated Sael’s hole, ran down his thighs, mixed with the Archive slick that continued to pulse outward. Ral groaned low and drove in harder, using both hands now to hold the ass open. His thumbs spread the outer rim while his tongue fucked the inner ring, deep enough now to make Sael cry out in broken syllables. “Ah—fuck—sir—oh gods, fuck—" Ral didn’t stop. He drank from him. Licked. Swallowed. Thrust again. His face glistened, jaw soaked with spit and the mix of fluids. He let it drip, then returned for more. His own cock twitched, leaking pre down the thick length, a single strand dangling from the head to the stone floor. He reached beneath Sael with one hand and cupped his balls, fingers massaging them in slow rhythm with his tongue. Sael sobbed. His cock throbbed in the air, twitching with each inward curl of Ral’s tongue. The rim now bloomed for him: red, pulsing, gaped slightly open, twitching with each exhale. Only when Sael’s voice broke entirely—no more words, only breath and whimper—did Ral pull back. Not far. He kissed the rim one final time. Then licked the spill from his lips and stood. Ral spat into his palm. Once. Twice. Then slicked it down his cock—coating the thick shaft in shine. It twitched under his touch, the ring at the base pulling it lower with weight, veins rising thick along the underside. His head gleamed, dark pink and swollen, leaking anew. He pressed it between Sael’s cheeks, let the head kiss the ruined rim. Sael inhaled, body still trembling. His hole twitched against the pressure. Ral didn’t thrust. He leaned in slow. The crown breached—barely. The muscle resisted, then gave. Sael gasped, whole body flinching forward an inch. “Nnngh—” Ral kept pressure. Inch by inch. The second ridge followed. Then the stretch began: the ring of Sael’s ass flared wide around the girth of Ral’s cock, swallowing him slowly. His slick-coated shaft parted the heat, pulled deeper into him with each grind forward. The noise was obscene: a wet glide, interrupted only by sharp gasps from Sael and the sound of spit and pre seeping from the stretched rim. Midshaft. Then more. Ral’s hips met the backs of Sael’s thighs. His balls, heavy and full, pressed flush to the split of his ass. He didn’t move—just stayed there, fully sheathed, feeling the pulse around him. Sael moaned low. The kind of sound that folded on itself. “I feel—gods, I feel it in my stomach.” Ral’s hand slid up his back. Slow. Grounding. “I know.” Sael twisted slightly, panting. “I want—both.” Ral didn’t answer. He simply looked up. Above them, the Archive ring lit blood-bright. The air shivered. The sigils flared. And beside Ral’s buried cock, a second shaft began to coalesce. Shimmering. Rune-laced. Semi-corporeal. The Archive’s answer, echoing Ral’s size exactly—thick, blunt, and pulsing with pale silver veins of recursion code. It pressed forward beside him, its length already coated in translucent glow, buzzing at the edges like static heat. Ral exhaled. “Now.” He pulled back just enough—letting the tip of his cock hover at the stretched rim. Then both drove in together. The double penetration was not gentle. It was necessary. The twin girths forced Sael’s hole open wide—one hot, solid, alive; the other colder, brighter, charged with Archive intent. They filled him in tandem, side by side, stretching him to his outermost limit. The rim flattened, then curved taut around them both, a trembling circle of red flesh dragged wide. Sael’s scream folded into a moan—his mouth open, drool stringing from his lip, thighs shaking. The deeper Ral pushed, the more the Archive adjusted: mirroring perfectly, shifting when he shifted, sliding when he slid. Pressure doubled. Depth doubled. Stretch became ache became worship. Until both were buried. Ral’s hips met the swell of Sael’s ass. His cock throbbed inside the heat. The Archive shaft shimmered beside it, buried root-deep, pulsing in sync. Ral didn’t move immediately. He let Sael feel it. Feel what it meant to be truly opened. To hold two. To stretch for one man, and one memory of power. Then he began to fuck Slow at first. Each thrust was a drawl of muscle and force. Ral pulled nearly all the way out—just the thick head of his cock flaring at the rim—before sinking back in with a wet, deliberate grind. The Archive followed a half-beat behind, echoing the same motion. Sael’s body rippled with each double-entry: one girth scorching, one divine-cold. The rhythm built in recursive layers: flesh, memory, breath, bloom. Sael felt it not only in his ass, but in his spine, in the sigils branded into his skin. The Archive shaft vibrated deeper than anatomy, its pulse communicating through nerve endings he hadn’t known he had. With every thrust, visions blinked behind his eyes—fractal geometries, mirrored corridors, Ral’s voice speaking in reversed time. The fuck became ceremony. Ral’s hands gripped Sael’s hips tight, fingers bruising. The clap of their bodies meeting filled the Undervault chamber. Fluids ran freely—from the split of Sael’s ass, from his own neglected cock, from the constant dribble of recursion-slick leaking where Archive flesh pressed him open. He moaned without pattern now. Grunted when the double-thrust angled upward. Whimpered when they bottomed out. The Archive was inside him—not just the shaft but its awareness. It spoke in pulses. It echoed in pressure. It remembered every angle Sael had ever taken, and used them all. "Fuck," Sael choked, “I can feel it—feel you—feel it thinking.” Ral growled low behind him, thrust harder. The Archive responded. The rhythm became punishing: pistoning in tandem, dragging Sael up onto his knees only to slam him back into the stone. His arms shook. His rim fluttered. His belly bulged slightly with the force of both cocks slamming deep. He felt full beyond full. Pierced and claimed and overwritten. And still, Ral drove deeper. “Take it,” he hissed against Sael’s back. “Take us.” And Sael did. He sobbed through it—open, alive, undone by cock and code alike. Sael’s orgasm hit like a break in reality. No warning. No buildup. Just collapse. His body locked forward on the downstroke—both cocks still sheathed to the hilt—then spasmed violently. A pulse shot through his spine. His cock erupted untouched, a blinding arc of cum jetting against the stone floor beneath him, then another, and another—each timed with the full thrust of Ral and the Archive. The force lifted him slightly with each contraction, his breath stuttering between sob and scream. His rim clamped down violently around the double stretch, trembling, pulsing, trying to milk and hold what no body should contain. Ral grunted like a beast. His rhythm faltered, hips snapping forward one final time—hard, deep, absolute. He came with a hissed exhale, cock buried deep, release hot and heavy. The Archive answered. The second cock flared silver-bright, runes along its surface blinking in sequence, then glowing molten-white. With a low hum that echoed in the chamber walls, it pulsed—noiseless but seen—filling Sael with recursion-seed so thick and luminous it oozed from his split hole instantly, mixing with Ral’s cum. Fluid poured out around both shafts. Down Sael’s thighs. Pooling beneath him. Ral stayed sheathed. Panting. Possessive. One hand gripped Sael’s chest, the other braced over his shoulder. Sael trembled, face buried in his own release, whole body twitching. The Archive ring dimmed. The second cock shimmered. Then faded—leaving only pressure behind. Ral eased out slowly. A thick, audible suction as the rim released its twin grip. Cum—hot, human, and divine—spilled in fresh ropes from Sael’s twitching hole the moment both shafts withdrew. The pressure had sealed it in; now, it poured. Viscous. Runed. Alive. Sael collapsed forward, chest against the slicked stone, limbs trembling. His ass remained open, rim raw and swollen, glistening red and white with layers of seed and recursion slick. Every breath shook. The bloom began at the base of his spine. A golden point of heat. Then another. Then a flare of lines and branching pulses: Archive-script threading out across his lower back, curling up his sides, blooming outward in recursive spirals that shimmered like fresh ink. The sigils were not drawn—they were grown. Rooted. Birthed from what had been poured into him. Ral watched. He knelt beside Sael’s spent form and dragged his fingers through the mix still leaking from the boy’s split hole. The touch made Sael flinch and moan, overstimulated. Ral’s hand was careful now. Reverent. He scooped what dripped and smeared it up along Sael’s lower back, tracing between the new sigil blooms. “You’re marked now,” he said softly. “Not by ink. By what held you open.” Sael only nodded, cheek against the stone, eyes glassed with tears and trance. Ral pulled him gently up, cradled him against his chest. His own cock still glistened, the tip oozing remnants, ring pulling low from weight and use. But his grip was gentle. He held Sael there, skin to skin, as the glow from the sigils dimmed to a soft pulse. The Archive ring above spun once more. Then slowed. Then stilled. A final thread of mixed release dripped from Sael’s ruined rim. Ral kissed the top of his spine. And whispered the closing rite.