[ Okay. So blearily, in the back of his mind, he'd known this was a really fucking bad idea, but he'd been completely out of his head at the time, riding that wave, Ray's muscular body squeezing, squeezing it out of him until the very last, until they're both just covered in blood and come and sweat, and the world is still spinning sidewards thanks to the pure pleasurable agony of release.
He should have been the one paying attention, but instead he'd gotten cocky, figured he'd fought and fucked Ray out, beaten him into groggy submission. Forgot he'd gotten him high too. Wham, and then again, and maybe they weren't prize fighter blows to the head considering Ray had been straining against him for most of the last hour and had the disadvantage of Armando's closeness to contend with, but they were a good effort anyway. They made his head spin, gave him enough of an incentive to pull back, staggering, his legs wobbly underneath him.
Two ways out of this. Get the knife, and probably end up stabbing him in a fight - not what he wanted - or get control of the situation. He got himself more distance first, even though that would let Ray get up, and did a mental assessment of the room. The door, up the stairs, was too far to bolt, and besides it'd leave Ray down here with dozens of lethal weapons not limited to but including his gun. Guns. He'd put them into his jacket pocket, and that was in the neat pile of clothes he'd left when he'd changed into the kimono. Quick thinking, good thinking. Now if only his legs would cooperate enough to keep him steady, crossing the room and digging his hand into the inside of his jacket.
Ray would get free, but he wouldn't go far, he reassured himself, and Vecchio didn't hesitate this time, threw off the safety and brought up the muzzle of the gun. He fired, shot Kowalski's sidearm at him, embedding a bullet in the wall, fracturing mirror glass so that it fell in a rain on the floor behind the torture chair, and then he tried to hold steady with both hands on the gun and his spent cock still half hard between his legs, tried to unleash some kind of level of intimidation even so. ]
Just you fucking freeze, o ti ammazzo tu cretino cazzo di merde! Che cazzo fai, asshole!? The hell d'you think you're doing!? There's no fucking way outta here but through me.
[ His throat felt ragged. Maybe that added to the effect, because he was snarling, blurring into fast Italian he hadn't used between childhood and Vegas and spitting everything he had out in an effort to slow Kowalski down. He'd shoot him if he had to, to save his own life, but fuck. Fuck, he was an idiot. He should have known better.
The gunshot was still ringing in his ears. In the relatively small, enclosed space of the dungeon - even with its soundproofing - it was like being punched in the head all over again. ]
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He should have been the one paying attention, but instead he'd gotten cocky, figured he'd fought and fucked Ray out, beaten him into groggy submission. Forgot he'd gotten him high too. Wham, and then again, and maybe they weren't prize fighter blows to the head considering Ray had been straining against him for most of the last hour and had the disadvantage of Armando's closeness to contend with, but they were a good effort anyway. They made his head spin, gave him enough of an incentive to pull back, staggering, his legs wobbly underneath him.
Two ways out of this. Get the knife, and probably end up stabbing him in a fight - not what he wanted - or get control of the situation. He got himself more distance first, even though that would let Ray get up, and did a mental assessment of the room. The door, up the stairs, was too far to bolt, and besides it'd leave Ray down here with dozens of lethal weapons not limited to but including his gun. Guns. He'd put them into his jacket pocket, and that was in the neat pile of clothes he'd left when he'd changed into the kimono. Quick thinking, good thinking. Now if only his legs would cooperate enough to keep him steady, crossing the room and digging his hand into the inside of his jacket.
Ray would get free, but he wouldn't go far, he reassured himself, and Vecchio didn't hesitate this time, threw off the safety and brought up the muzzle of the gun. He fired, shot Kowalski's sidearm at him, embedding a bullet in the wall, fracturing mirror glass so that it fell in a rain on the floor behind the torture chair, and then he tried to hold steady with both hands on the gun and his spent cock still half hard between his legs, tried to unleash some kind of level of intimidation even so. ]
Just you fucking freeze, o ti ammazzo tu cretino cazzo di merde! Che cazzo fai, asshole!? The hell d'you think you're doing!? There's no fucking way outta here but through me.
[ His throat felt ragged. Maybe that added to the effect, because he was snarling, blurring into fast Italian he hadn't used between childhood and Vegas and spitting everything he had out in an effort to slow Kowalski down. He'd shoot him if he had to, to save his own life, but fuck. Fuck, he was an idiot. He should have known better.
The gunshot was still ringing in his ears. In the relatively small, enclosed space of the dungeon - even with its soundproofing - it was like being punched in the head all over again. ]