[It was as close to begging as Ray was going to manage and it seems to have done the trick, at least in getting that vibrating hum switched off, but not before there's another finger pressing in and causing a hiss of resistance from him even if it doesn't last long before being pulled away. Every part of him is tight, muscles shuddering under the pressure and his knees, closing around Armando thanks to the tightness in his thighs. There's no attempt at pushing the gangster back, but the squeeze is there like a solid embrace and it gives Ray something to focus on beyond the discomfort he's feeling.
Even without the constant buzz of that cock ring, Ray's still squirming as those fingers press back in, just as tight as the first time around and just as resistant to them. It doesn't feel like Armando's going to get anywhere with him any time soon without causing some serious damage, and perhaps the mobster picks up on that because yet again he withdraws, leaving Stanley panting out heavily through his nose, teeth dug into his bottom lip. He watches because it's all he can do, visual clues at least giving him time to mentally prepare himself.
At first he's not entirely sure what's up with the licking, but then he remembers that spill during the bite, sees the dusty layer of powder down his torso, contrasted by the sticky trickle of blood around it, and suddenly he gets it. It's the search of another high, a top up of cocaine, and Ray's glad it's only a personal thing because any more of that for him and he's pretty sure his heart actually would explode. Or his dick. His mind's already a mess as it is, even if that confidence has waned slightly with his current position, and his body is a ball of energy even without much space to move in.
But maybe more coke would have been a good thing. Maybe totally fucking his mind up would have at least made the sight of that metal spreader just a little more tolerable, instead of causing his instincts to scream out for escape. There wasn't an escape though, not with his binds as they were, and the mafioso between his legs, and the risk of Fraser's safety. Jerking away and escaping now would be a poor choice anyway, considering there's cold metal pressing into him that he really doesn't want to test pulling away from. The spreaders slip in easier, but they feel like a far greater danger than a few fingers, able to cause more damage.
It's the pressure of the stretch that has him groaning, a lengthy consistent noise that's only broken by the occasional desperate inhale for air, face still twisted into a snarl even as he drops his chin to his chest. He was going to kill this fucker. What he wouldn't do to at least get a hefty punch in right now, let some of that anger out, maybe drive his fist in a few more times for the fun of it. Ray hates this fucking contraption, hates that it's virtually impossible to resist or fight against, that even clamping down didn't stop it's relentless tug.
It pisses him off to realise that it's the fight that makes the pain twice as bad, and that tightening around it was only making matters worse. But he doesn't stop, even as those beads push in between the jaws of the stretcher, and even as the metal withdraws. He could feel everything, those beads inside even as his muscle snapped tight between the fourth and fifth, Armando's questing fingers against him, the hot breath against the cooling wetness at his stomach. Every bit of his senses were still far too alert, all his nerve endings singing, and he can almost, almost see the appeal of the combo of coke and hookers. This drug feels amazing, too much so. Not something a cop should be thinking, but fuck it, the coke high was a thing of beauty, even with some fucker taking advantage, and if you can love a drug even when there's someone trying to abuse your ass, that must be one hell of a drug.]
Ngh, you d-done this before, huh, you fffucked up piece of shit?
[There's too much knowledge of how this shit works. And unless he's just a total fucking natural, or sits and watches this in porn, this can't be a one off. Especially not as he gets Ray moaning out at the pressure of the next bead pushing relentlessly until his muscles give way and it slips inside, barely given time to recover before the stretch is pulling outwards. This. This was getting his muscle far more worked over than fingers ever could.]
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Even without the constant buzz of that cock ring, Ray's still squirming as those fingers press back in, just as tight as the first time around and just as resistant to them. It doesn't feel like Armando's going to get anywhere with him any time soon without causing some serious damage, and perhaps the mobster picks up on that because yet again he withdraws, leaving Stanley panting out heavily through his nose, teeth dug into his bottom lip. He watches because it's all he can do, visual clues at least giving him time to mentally prepare himself.
At first he's not entirely sure what's up with the licking, but then he remembers that spill during the bite, sees the dusty layer of powder down his torso, contrasted by the sticky trickle of blood around it, and suddenly he gets it. It's the search of another high, a top up of cocaine, and Ray's glad it's only a personal thing because any more of that for him and he's pretty sure his heart actually would explode. Or his dick. His mind's already a mess as it is, even if that confidence has waned slightly with his current position, and his body is a ball of energy even without much space to move in.
But maybe more coke would have been a good thing. Maybe totally fucking his mind up would have at least made the sight of that metal spreader just a little more tolerable, instead of causing his instincts to scream out for escape. There wasn't an escape though, not with his binds as they were, and the mafioso between his legs, and the risk of Fraser's safety. Jerking away and escaping now would be a poor choice anyway, considering there's cold metal pressing into him that he really doesn't want to test pulling away from. The spreaders slip in easier, but they feel like a far greater danger than a few fingers, able to cause more damage.
It's the pressure of the stretch that has him groaning, a lengthy consistent noise that's only broken by the occasional desperate inhale for air, face still twisted into a snarl even as he drops his chin to his chest. He was going to kill this fucker. What he wouldn't do to at least get a hefty punch in right now, let some of that anger out, maybe drive his fist in a few more times for the fun of it. Ray hates this fucking contraption, hates that it's virtually impossible to resist or fight against, that even clamping down didn't stop it's relentless tug.
It pisses him off to realise that it's the fight that makes the pain twice as bad, and that tightening around it was only making matters worse. But he doesn't stop, even as those beads push in between the jaws of the stretcher, and even as the metal withdraws. He could feel everything, those beads inside even as his muscle snapped tight between the fourth and fifth, Armando's questing fingers against him, the hot breath against the cooling wetness at his stomach. Every bit of his senses were still far too alert, all his nerve endings singing, and he can almost, almost see the appeal of the combo of coke and hookers. This drug feels amazing, too much so. Not something a cop should be thinking, but fuck it, the coke high was a thing of beauty, even with some fucker taking advantage, and if you can love a drug even when there's someone trying to abuse your ass, that must be one hell of a drug.]
Ngh, you d-done this before, huh, you fffucked up piece of shit?
[There's too much knowledge of how this shit works. And unless he's just a total fucking natural, or sits and watches this in porn, this can't be a one off. Especially not as he gets Ray moaning out at the pressure of the next bead pushing relentlessly until his muscles give way and it slips inside, barely given time to recover before the stretch is pulling outwards. This. This was getting his muscle far more worked over than fingers ever could.]