[ He could pretend 'Asshole' was the word he'd been waiting for, but fuck it, Ray's put himself in this position now. He'd been given the opportunity--do what he's told and he could come. He'd disobeyed. So this is what he gets: he gets to wait, wait and wait, and maybe if he was lucky Armando would take pity on him.
But Christ, to look at him now. Sweating with exertion and need, thrumming with it like the vibrator was still turned on, because - Vecchio knew - he was hitting that spot inside him that made sparks fly, and Ray probably didn't even know why it was happening. He jerked with every snap of Vecchio's hips, tugged and twisted against the restraints like he was desperate for purchase, or to get his hand free. His hair was plastered to his forehead now, his lips swollen and red, and the noises--god, the noises...
He couldn't identify his own, but he knew he wasn't making most of them, mostly because he was still much more in control, less out of it thanks to his longer term exposure to the drugs. Control was life out here in the desert, and Vecchio couldn't afford to let that one slip. So those deep growling moans were his own. They were rhythmic and steady, animalistic, possessive.
The other noises were all Ray. Whimpering, grunting and moaning almost on every thrust, his breathing beautifully ragged. He was coming undone, and the thrill of victory was pushing in on Vecchio now: he'd set out to make Ray come, make him delirious with it, and that was what he'd achieved. All he had to do was take that ring off.
Delirious with it, yes--delirious enough that he was rising into his hand, thrusting down into the pounding jerk of his hips, reciprocating despite himself, out of his mind with it. Good. Good, there was no way in hell he'd think this was him. Only the drugs could have made him do this; only the drugs could have made him into this panting, broken wreck for the cock of a made man, someone who had beaten and humiliated him. There was no other explanation.
Ray stopped being so pretty, or rather Vecchio stopped noticing, because as he came closer, climbing toward that summit, all the reason for him being here sort of bloomed into one blurry mess. All he knew, all that mattered, was that he was going to come, and he had to throw himself into his own ragged, exhausted thrusting, take this welcoming anonymous body under him for all it was worth. His muscles were burning like he'd run a marathon, aching, and yet he kept just ahead of the pain, reaching for the taste of pleasure that was just over the next hill.
He clawed Ray's hip, inadvertently digging his fingertips into the deep cut he'd made there, and then he was reaching bloodied hands for the tie on Ray's left hand, yanking the knot open.
Oh, he was going to lose it--he was going to-- That glorious, overwhelming burn of friction spread out, overwhelmed him, swept rushing into his ears, and Vecchio kept pounding, thrusting, out of his mind with the full width of orgasms edge as pleasure snapped around him, tightening, insistent--yes, yes, yes. And he didn't care. He'd let Ray's hand go, but he didn't care what he did with it.
And then he was coming, coming and coming, it felt like forever, driving just as deep as he could as he spilled hot into that clamping tightness. His exhausted muscles gave way as he strained for just one more thrust, and he found himself falling into blackness and heat, and fuck it, he was probably going to get a knife in the throat but he couldn't move. ]
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But Christ, to look at him now. Sweating with exertion and need, thrumming with it like the vibrator was still turned on, because - Vecchio knew - he was hitting that spot inside him that made sparks fly, and Ray probably didn't even know why it was happening. He jerked with every snap of Vecchio's hips, tugged and twisted against the restraints like he was desperate for purchase, or to get his hand free. His hair was plastered to his forehead now, his lips swollen and red, and the noises--god, the noises...
He couldn't identify his own, but he knew he wasn't making most of them, mostly because he was still much more in control, less out of it thanks to his longer term exposure to the drugs. Control was life out here in the desert, and Vecchio couldn't afford to let that one slip. So those deep growling moans were his own. They were rhythmic and steady, animalistic, possessive.
The other noises were all Ray. Whimpering, grunting and moaning almost on every thrust, his breathing beautifully ragged. He was coming undone, and the thrill of victory was pushing in on Vecchio now: he'd set out to make Ray come, make him delirious with it, and that was what he'd achieved. All he had to do was take that ring off.
Delirious with it, yes--delirious enough that he was rising into his hand, thrusting down into the pounding jerk of his hips, reciprocating despite himself, out of his mind with it. Good. Good, there was no way in hell he'd think this was him. Only the drugs could have made him do this; only the drugs could have made him into this panting, broken wreck for the cock of a made man, someone who had beaten and humiliated him. There was no other explanation.
Ray stopped being so pretty, or rather Vecchio stopped noticing, because as he came closer, climbing toward that summit, all the reason for him being here sort of bloomed into one blurry mess. All he knew, all that mattered, was that he was going to come, and he had to throw himself into his own ragged, exhausted thrusting, take this welcoming anonymous body under him for all it was worth. His muscles were burning like he'd run a marathon, aching, and yet he kept just ahead of the pain, reaching for the taste of pleasure that was just over the next hill.
He clawed Ray's hip, inadvertently digging his fingertips into the deep cut he'd made there, and then he was reaching bloodied hands for the tie on Ray's left hand, yanking the knot open.
Oh, he was going to lose it--he was going to-- That glorious, overwhelming burn of friction spread out, overwhelmed him, swept rushing into his ears, and Vecchio kept pounding, thrusting, out of his mind with the full width of orgasms edge as pleasure snapped around him, tightening, insistent--yes, yes, yes. And he didn't care. He'd let Ray's hand go, but he didn't care what he did with it.
And then he was coming, coming and coming, it felt like forever, driving just as deep as he could as he spilled hot into that clamping tightness. His exhausted muscles gave way as he strained for just one more thrust, and he found himself falling into blackness and heat, and fuck it, he was probably going to get a knife in the throat but he couldn't move. ]