He starts to moan quietly in time with the movement of the tentacles; he's so fucking relaxed right now that his throat doesn't try to close at all, not even when they butt up against his soft palette or the small trap-door of his windpipe. The idea of being used is driving him nuts; the thought of how John's tentacles might feel in other holes too is hardly less so. Jesus, he wants them everywhere, but he's taking a long unhurried way to figure out how to ask for it.

Having his mouth fucked makes it more difficult to speak, but one assumes that Charlie's punched little noises will communicate something.