[ Cocksucker hadn't been a harsh enough word. Ray - Armando - kept his distance, stripping off the latex gloves and using the back of his hand to smudge at the wound in an attempt to better inspect it. The teethmarks were straight and ragged at once, blood oozing in the deep wound, and there'd be muscle damage, maybe even nerve damage. He ought to get it under ice, frankly, minimize the swelling--at least that's what he'd do if he was a cop, and not in the middle of fucking torturing another cop.
To be fair, at least now he had a nice incentive to hurt him. To snap at him and hate him; he could feed on that. And maybe it wasn't so bad that he'd left that nasty gash on Ray's hip after all, because if he was going to be carrying a war wound of this incident around for the rest of his (possibly short) life, it didn't hurt that he wasn't the only one. That was vindictive and petty of him, he knew, but fuck it hurt, throbbing and aching despite the ease of drugs into his system.
It was less severe, less jarring a reaction than the other man was having, worn out a little by repetition, but he'd been warned not to move on from white powder; it was going to be hard enough coming off it as it was. He gave it a moment to kick, let the sensation swim out to his fingers. Throbbing pain or not, he was fucking Superman, and he could do this. He could do this. His eyes peeled open again.
Ray was wild and wired. His stuck up hair which had been sagging from sweat was back to being all over the place, he was sweating from head to toe, glossy with the sheen of it, and his eyes had a savageness to them that was utterly unmistakable, focused into pinpricks by the cocaine. He was red and white; pale Chicago skin and doused in blood. Armando's blood on his thigh, his teeth, his own everywhere else, spilling rivulets from his arm, his chest, the nick he'd made in his jaw. It wasn't a lot of cuts, but the blood would spread through physical contact, and that would give the overall impression of it being worse than it was.
Of course, he was still going to make him hurt. He'd brought over the riding crop to lash him with it, and while he now thought he might leave that particular trick for a little later, it was still on his itinerary.
For now, Armando stripped off the ruined white kimono, tossing it to the floor. This left him naked, half hard, his hand still dripping blood, but it was better off running until it stopped--it'd make more of a mess that way. He approached slowly, his eyes narrowed, watching Ray vibrating in his seat and desperately hoping he didn't have some sort of preexisting heart condition. He looked fit enough, he had to keep up with the Mountie, but you could never tell, right?
That concern was the only thing that stopped him from grabbing up the riding crop now and showing Ray how much it hurt. If he didn't want to kill him, he had to at least bring him down a notch. ]
It's probably for the best we send a little of that blood elsewhere, huh?
[ Yes, it was probably for the best. He made his approach, keeping a wary distance from Ray's legs. He'd brought over shackles to deal with that problem, but they'd come into play later, when he needed to really get round the front of the chair. Right now, he contented himself by circling, ducking down to pick something off the floor and then circling around the back to Ray's right, where he crouched beside the arm of the chair. His right hand dropped on Ray's thigh, two fingers sliding up the inside of it as he spoke. ]
This is where I tell you how much money we make out of sex, and you don't hear a word I say past the thumping in your head. That's alright. Let's give you something to focus on instead.
[ His hand withdrew, and then there was the whir of a tiny electric motor running, and Armando reached across again, sliding a beaded ring around the flaccid tip. It vibrated, thanks to an attachment on the side, and would more than work for the purpose he intended. ]
Easy, Ray. Let it overwhelm you, but don't forget to breathe. It's a rush, huh? Breathe easy.
[ His hand was kneading against his thigh, but at very least some of the pain in his other was a distant distraction now. He might even forget about it. ]
Focus on your hatred. It's soothing, right? I know it is. I know that cold focus when you know what you have to do and how you can do it, when splitting your knuckles open on a guy's face doesn't even hurt. Imagine you've got your hands around my throat.
no subject
To be fair, at least now he had a nice incentive to hurt him. To snap at him and hate him; he could feed on that. And maybe it wasn't so bad that he'd left that nasty gash on Ray's hip after all, because if he was going to be carrying a war wound of this incident around for the rest of his (possibly short) life, it didn't hurt that he wasn't the only one. That was vindictive and petty of him, he knew, but fuck it hurt, throbbing and aching despite the ease of drugs into his system.
It was less severe, less jarring a reaction than the other man was having, worn out a little by repetition, but he'd been warned not to move on from white powder; it was going to be hard enough coming off it as it was. He gave it a moment to kick, let the sensation swim out to his fingers. Throbbing pain or not, he was fucking Superman, and he could do this. He could do this. His eyes peeled open again.
Ray was wild and wired. His stuck up hair which had been sagging from sweat was back to being all over the place, he was sweating from head to toe, glossy with the sheen of it, and his eyes had a savageness to them that was utterly unmistakable, focused into pinpricks by the cocaine. He was red and white; pale Chicago skin and doused in blood. Armando's blood on his thigh, his teeth, his own everywhere else, spilling rivulets from his arm, his chest, the nick he'd made in his jaw. It wasn't a lot of cuts, but the blood would spread through physical contact, and that would give the overall impression of it being worse than it was.
Of course, he was still going to make him hurt. He'd brought over the riding crop to lash him with it, and while he now thought he might leave that particular trick for a little later, it was still on his itinerary.
For now, Armando stripped off the ruined white kimono, tossing it to the floor. This left him naked, half hard, his hand still dripping blood, but it was better off running until it stopped--it'd make more of a mess that way. He approached slowly, his eyes narrowed, watching Ray vibrating in his seat and desperately hoping he didn't have some sort of preexisting heart condition. He looked fit enough, he had to keep up with the Mountie, but you could never tell, right?
That concern was the only thing that stopped him from grabbing up the riding crop now and showing Ray how much it hurt. If he didn't want to kill him, he had to at least bring him down a notch. ]
It's probably for the best we send a little of that blood elsewhere, huh?
[ Yes, it was probably for the best. He made his approach, keeping a wary distance from Ray's legs. He'd brought over shackles to deal with that problem, but they'd come into play later, when he needed to really get round the front of the chair. Right now, he contented himself by circling, ducking down to pick something off the floor and then circling around the back to Ray's right, where he crouched beside the arm of the chair. His right hand dropped on Ray's thigh, two fingers sliding up the inside of it as he spoke. ]
This is where I tell you how much money we make out of sex, and you don't hear a word I say past the thumping in your head. That's alright. Let's give you something to focus on instead.
[ His hand withdrew, and then there was the whir of a tiny electric motor running, and Armando reached across again, sliding a beaded ring around the flaccid tip. It vibrated, thanks to an attachment on the side, and would more than work for the purpose he intended. ]
Easy, Ray. Let it overwhelm you, but don't forget to breathe. It's a rush, huh? Breathe easy.
[ His hand was kneading against his thigh, but at very least some of the pain in his other was a distant distraction now. He might even forget about it. ]
Focus on your hatred. It's soothing, right? I know it is. I know that cold focus when you know what you have to do and how you can do it, when splitting your knuckles open on a guy's face doesn't even hurt. Imagine you've got your hands around my throat.