He isn't watching the phalluses, he's just watching Burr. How Burr's eyes drink him in. Grey hair, wrinkles at the corners of his mouth and eyes. Chin grown more prominent, eyes more sunken. He is fascinated, distracted, and doesn't pay enough attention to brace himself for the sudden penetration. Even just this one thing seems to light up his nerves all the way along his belly and thighs, a glow of hot, violated pleasure, and he trembles, buckling a little. Has to lean his weight down on it, and he gasps as it presses up against the end of him, the place where his womb begins. But as he's about to tell that to Burr, it withdraws, and then it's at his ass.

He's ready for it, relaxing the one hole, readying himself to be penetrated -- but Burr has the other, the thick and leather one, at his cunt at the same time. Both are relentless, pushing, pushing -- the head of the glass one makes it inside him, and his ass tightens around it, trying to squeeze but unable to. He can't help it, his body tightens reflexively just because of the overwhelmingly broad, leather cock in his cunt, just on the edge of too big for him. He can't hold himself up on his knees, folding down to brace himself on his hands, too. Can't stop himself from working his hips down on it, jaw dropped open, panting with little rhythmic breathy sounds.

"It hurts in me," gasps Hamilton, "the glass is so hard. It can't bend, and I have to -- you have me spitted on it," the sentence trailing into a high moan as the sensitive place inside him is crushed under the weight of the overwhelming penetration.

"Made for it," he whispers, echoes. "Made for you."