"We are talking about anger here, Fraser, a human emotion. Are you human? Because if you are, human beings feel things. Okay? They feel anger. They feel love. They feel lust and fear. And sometimes, I know you don't want to hear this, sometimes they even cry."
[ Fight fight fight. Ray would be fine so long as that fight didn't die, so long as he kept growling and struggling and doing everything he could until the bitter end. If he could get a hard kick across Armando's jaw during the process, then that sure as hell would give him some kind of satisfaction, some kind of reassurance that he'd done all he could to defend himself. Oh, he wouldn't ever come back to Vegas, not even for a sure bet. Hell, the sound of slot machines would probably make him inexplicably jumpy hereafter, but physically he'd be alright; physically he'd be in one piece, and only a guy who was in one piece could save Fraser. And only a guy who was beaten down to within an inch of his pride could keep him safe.
Ray snarled up at him, his eyes dark with anger, pain, fear; the bruises to his ego already showing. There was no doubt at all there. Armando didn't need to be able to talk. If need be he could find Fraser another way, he could knock on the door of every hotel room in the city or beg the FBI for help finding him, but he couldn't take this back. He'd bite his lips off, rip his tongue out with his teeth, all without shifting so much as an inch out of the chair, and he'd do it with his teeth bared into a bloodied smirk. That'd sure be one to explain to Si and Mikey and the others--why he'd let a cop bite his face off. ]
Oh no, no. I wasn't born yesterday. I know not to bet against a sure thing.
[ Which had to be a victory for Ray, right? It meant his bark had somehow made contact with him like his fists hadn't been able to, that Armando was actually afraid of doing something to him because Ray still held some element of power, could still defend himself. He'd keep his distance, and that had to be something. ]
But that's good. [ He growled, digging his fingers tighter into Ray's hair, scraping his scalp with his nails. ] I fucking love that. Fight me with everything you've got. C'mon, tough guy, Chicago tough guy, you may be tied down in that chair but you're larger than life. You're not gonna give up the goods that easily.
[ He let him go, peeling back, circling around toward Ray's left, and leaving a nick on his back as he went. That one would look much worse than it felt; there were less nerve endings to cut, and while it was likely to sting, Ray would probably forget all about it quickly enough. He'd appreciate the care he took to layer up the marks later, when he was being escorted off the premises and even his thugs looked at him warily, like all that blood and bruising was the perfect reminder not to fuck with the boss. Ray would at least be walking, though they'd miss that, and the come down from the cocaine would of course make it look a whole lot worse too--they'd miss that. Let them see what they expected to see.
For now, he reached across Ray's lap, knife in hand, hooked it under the leg of his underwear, slicing upward, leaving a slightly deeper gash on Ray's hip as the knife tugged free. Damn. Damn damn damn, that one had been unintentional, and worse still it would be a physical reminder of being stripped, connected inexorably with the physical act. It could take the better part of a month to heal, and even then it'd leave a neat white line for most of the next year. Shit.
This time, reaching across to the other leg, he was a lot more careful, but there was more flexibility in the fabric, too, and the tip of the knife stayed away. It didn't stop him fretting about the blood though, and he pulled Ray's underwear free, rolled it into a ball and jammed it in against his hip. Then, pretending he'd done no such thing, touching the now bloodied flat of his blade to Ray's abdomen, way too close to the base of his cock for any man's comfort. Make him pay attention to that, and he might overlook the act of relative kindness. ]
Just think. [ He murmured, softly. ] If I really wanted to make you remember me this could be a whole lot worse. There's a couple of things around here you could do without. [ And now it was his turn to flash a nasty smirk, before he withdrew both the knife and himself, put the blade down under the chair, out of reach, and walked back across the room to the shelf. He stepped out of his underwear while he was there, shivering despite the intolerable warmth of the room as the brush of silk whispered against is bare thighs. And yes, he was already hard; achingly so. He resisted the urge to touch. It had been way too long.
He turned to look back at Stanley, judging him, then began plucking items off the shelf, among them shackles, a riding crop, lube, latex gloves--pausing after a moment to hold up a string of anal beads. ]
What do you think? Hot or not? Me, I'm not sure. I've never tried them. But let's suppose they do what it says on the box, huh?
[ He had no idea that Ray couldn't see from this distance. Frankly even if he'd known he'd have still done it. He added them to his collection of items and made his way back, putting everything down with a metal clink and clang on the easy to scrub down rubber floor, and staying well clear of those feet in the process. ]
Here we are then, look. [ He held up the little white bag so that Ray could see. ] This is the best stuff, safe as houses, not split with baking soda and fucking ground up aspirin like the shit you get in Chicago. You understand? No one in the right mind would fuck me on this. So. [ He tilted his head. ] You may be thinking "No fucking way", but look at the advantages. No accountability. Not when you get hard, not when you come, not when all that pain goes away. I'm gonna force it on you either way, but it's easier if you cooperate. We've established that much already, haven't we?
[ The gloves went on first, as though he was concerned that traces of the drug would get on his hands - he wasn't, unlike the real Armando he was at no risk of being put away for possession or handling banned substances - and then he was bringing a dose of it to Ray, offering it at head height. It put his hand and wrist very close to those teeth. ]
[It was a personal victory, however small it may be, that Armando didn't even attempt to get his tongue near. Ray had proven that he was more than just a pretty face, that he could defend himself and that he was true to his word. It meant Ray's words had some substance to them and weren't just coming across as idle threats. It also meant Armando was a smart guy and knew when to step down from vocal abuse; some might have taken Ray's challenge and gone for it due to pride alone, but they'd also be withdrawing with little to no tongue left.
Ray allows himself the slightest moment of smugness, even as his hair is yanked at even harder, throat bobbing as he harshly swallows down any noise he might be about to make.
Fight me with everything you've got. He doesn't miss that comment, taking it as a full put permission to hit back now without repercussion. Oh, he'd been careful up until now for Fraser's safety and his own, but if Armando wants him to fight, he'll show this Vegas pussy what a Chicago tough guy can offer. A guy like this? With limos and mansions and goons at his beck and call? He probably hasn't seen what the real streets are like in years. He probably barely ever sees tough guys any more, not after they're in a room like this and pissing themselves. And Ray doesn't blame any tough guy for that, because it's damn hard to act tough when your tied down and at the mercy of some mobster psycho, he's learning that pretty quickly.
That nick in the back is another wound to add to the slowly growing number, his skin cringing against the knife and his breath hissing, but his attention drawn to where Armando- and more importantly the knife- were headed. He forces himself not to jolt away from the blade as it hooks into his underwear, well aware too much sudden movement when there's something that sharp near his groin was a bad idea, but the flick upwards has him flinching heavily because jesus, he doesn't want that near his dick. It takes a couple of seconds for the cut to sink in, for his nerves to send the right signals to his brain and his visual cue of quickly pooling blood to be processed. That smarts. That stings a hell of a lot, enough that it's got Ray hissing out a very silent swear that comes out sounding like an; 'Ah, faaaak'.
He barely even pays attention to the slice of fabric the other side, although takes note of his now mangled underwear being jammed in against the bleeding, which almost seems counter-productive to the whole process of cutting and bleeding and-- well he's not given much time to question the action anyway, because the knife is right by his dick, exactly where he didn't want it to be. He gets the threat, he really does. There didn't even need to be the verbal confirmation, but it solidifies the fact that this psycho could slice his dick off right now without any hassle to the family. But it's merely a threat (for the moment) and Ray's exhaling a breath he hadn't even realised he was holding as the mobster puts away the knife and heads off again.
There's some squinting from Stanley as he tries to catch sight of what's going on, his gaze only broken briefly as he gives himself a once over to double check on his wounds. Superficial, he'd survive them, even if the one at his hip is throbbing and seeping through the makeshift bandage. And he has the possibility of three hours of this shit?
He doesn't even want to know what the guy's holding up and questioning him about, doesn't even ask as he shakes his head anyway, head dropping towards the items as they're finally brought over to the floor nearby. They look like some sick things to bringing to a guy tied to a chair, he can assess that much and how he'd love to be able to kick them away. Or even better, kick Armando, but right now he's staying smartly out of reach while he talks of high grade cocaine and blah blah, Ray doesn't give a shit how good it is.
There's no point in trying to argue his values with some coke user, so he does exactly what Armando asked him to do; he fights. Or more accurately; he bites. Of course he does. How can he not when there's a hand offered up so beautifully right in front of him? He goes right for the fleshy part at the base of his thumb, quick as a flash, teeth sinking in and pressing down harder and harder with every intention of causing pain, an obvious 'fuck you' without ever having to utter a word.]
[ Really, between telling Stanley to fight and putting his hand in full range of those teeth, he'd set himself up for something like this. He'd asked for fight, and that was exactly what he got, and before he can even realise what a fucking awful idea it was to have had his hand anywhere near Ray's mouth, let alone tug it out of range, those straight white teeth are snapping into flesh, ripping latex, digging deep with absolutely no compunction where causing pain is concerned. He feels the skin tear, the suddenly searing, lancing pain as Ray's teeth go deeper, into muscle and flesh--it leaps up his arm, through his shoulder, and his entire body buckles into the chair in response.
Idiot. Idiot. He'd wanted to give Ray something to work with, sure, but he was thinking maybe a clip to the face as he untied him, not this. This was going to scar, and it was going to look nasty, and more importantly it hurt like fuck, but then Ray didn't know he was fighting a guy who was only pretending to be a vicious Italian mobster. Ray thought he was fighting the real thing. That was good, that was the point, but fuck, he'd really taken his eye off the ball to let this happen.
He yelled, reeling his fist back as though he intended to punch the detective in the head, but managed to stop himself. If he wanted Ray's teeth to snap through the tendons in his thumb and permanently disfigure him, maybe he could go ahead and hit him. But no--no, there was no way out of this but to think about unlocking those jaws pragmatically. But his brain was fuzzing over from pain.
The funny thing was, he thought, he'd dropped the straw of cocaine on Ray's chest, white powder raining down over his bare skin, frosting his pubic hair. Okay, so it wasn't funny, it was the pain that made him whimper out laughter.
Think think think.
Okay, tools. He had tools. He had... His hand scrabbled on the floor beside him, fingers trailing across the various mostly unfamiliar objects. He picked up the metal thing it had taken him two hours of speculation to work out when he'd been down here the first time months ago. It looked more like a kitchen implement than a sex aid. A grip handle, and jaws that opened as pressure was applied, smooth metal jaws that closed into the center as narrow and smooth as a candle. It wasn't for prying open jaws, but he shoved the end of it between Ray's teeth anyway, his eyes flashing pain as he squeezed down with everything he had, it served its necessary purpose. He snarled, animal-like fury, as the metal tool forced those teeth apart.
And then he withdrew, panting, pulling his injured hand against his chest. It was bleeding profusely, and his thumb hurt to move it, but at least nothing was dangling or broken. That was always a bonus. But now injured, he ought to be furious, and that had to turn back on Ray. He couldn't afford to succumb to the agony for the sake of appearances, and that was the only reason why he kept his other hand on the tool in Ray's mouth. Hissing in pain, he reached down with his injured hand and picked up the most ridiculously large dildo he'd taken down from the shelf. He hadn't brought it over to use it, just to fuck with Ray's head, but now he shoved it through the space between the tool's wide metal jaws, and with all his strength pinned Ray between it and the back of the chair, slumping against the arm of it and glowering fiercely at him. ]
Cocksucking little shit. [ He poured all of his pain into the words, and they sounded like the bitterest, most intense loathing for it. Good, he could use that. He jerked a little on the dildo, not really meaning to choke him, but at least to give Ray the feeling that he might. Blood was pouring down his arm, dripping off his elbow onto Ray's thigh. He reached down with his good hand and manhandled the bag of cocaine, taking out the other straw and bringing it to Ray's nose. It wasn't like he could breathe through any other orifices--he'd inhale, and then Ray would retreat, throwing the makeshift gag down in anger and pacing away from the chair.
He was back just a moment later. Idiot. God. Walking away from the painkillers. He picked up the bag and stalked away with it, paced back and forth as he set about it, then set the rest down on the stainless steel surgeon's bench and shook out his hands and arms. He rubbed his nose, turned, and resumed his glaring at Ray, nursing his injured hand, trying to assess the damage. His lips were curled back. His anger, flashing in his dark eyes, made him look half insane; positively homicidal. ]
[So perhaps Ray could have gone for a simple nip or quick bite, but that seemed too weak compared to the shit this guy was threatening. He needed to get his opinion across, and his teeth had been his best point of contact for that, and while a nip would have hurt, hanging on like a bulldog hurt a whole lot more. After all, this guy had made him bleed so he was just returning the favour while fighting like a Chicago tough guy. And he does hang on, he hangs on through the yelling and the grappling and the metallic taste of blood seeping onto his lips and tongue.
It might have been that'd he'd let go eventually of his own accord when the satisfaction was enough or his jaw had ached, but who knew how long any of that could take. Could be hours. Armando's wise to try and find an escape route that doesn't involve hitting Ray around the head, and Ray hadn't quite been expecting there to be anything nearby that could release him easily. It's why he's almost jerking back as he feels the metal at his mouth, a forceful movement jarring his jaw open and finally getting him to release his hold on the other.
He'd expected that to be that. At least until Armando could retreat and lick his wounds and come back for round two, but Ray had to hand it to the guy for retaliating while still dribbling blood from his fresh bite. Those metal... what were they? Tongs? They were enough to agitate, Ray leaning against them just enough to try and bite back down on them until suddenly there's an imposing fucking object ramming at his open jaw, straight into the gap presented. A dildo. A huge fucking dildo that fills the entirety of his mouth and has him pinned back against the chair in an attempt to escape the invasion.
It did fuck with his head just to know something like that existed and was down in this creepy ass dungeon to start with. Made worse by the fact that it was right beside him. And now he was practically choking on it as his body fought against his gag reflex, entirely unused to that sort of sensation pressing down against his tongue and pushing to the back of his throat. Jesus, he doesn't want to choke on some oversized fake cock, but for a second he seriously wonders if that's the way he'll go as he meets the eyes of one pissed off mafioso.
Then there's that bag back in view and the straw brought to is nose and just for a few ridiculous seconds he's doing is best to hold his breath. It can't last though. It's virtually impossible to hold his breath when he's still soft gagging desperately. Naturally what follows a pause in breath results in a deeper inhale, which in hindsight isn't the best of ideas, but then just like that Armando's pulling back, leaving Ray to drop his head and choke back a few well needed breaths.
And then sniff.
And again.
His head snaps back up, blinking rapidly until he can focus on the figure that's glaring daggers at him like some murderous fucker-- but jesus, it feels like his brain just blew out the back of his skull. He can hear his own pulse, rushing in his ears, pumping at a million miles an hour as his heart kicks up a notch and it's like the weirdest combination of an anxiety attack and a massive adrenaline rush, which is pretty damn unfair considering he's tied up and can't do a fucking thing.
But he smiles. He smiles right back, lips and teeth still tinted red from the mobster's own blood.]
You asked for it, pal, literally asked-- ngh, fuck, my heart's gonna explode. I need to... to go.
[ 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.
[Ray was buzzing. More than buzzing. He was always buzzing but this was like a thousand volts coursing through him, like his blood had turned to electricity, like his heart was a generator. His muscles shuddered lightly, a constant jittering of pent up energy bursting to get out. He needed to get up and move, but the restraints were preventing him.
Fuck that guy, fuck him for tying Ray down, for cutting him, for the taunts and snarls and for forcing him into this. Not that this was bad. In fact, he's not entirely sure why he was so reluctant, not when he was now thinking clear enough to realise that he could take on the fucking world. This Armando guy was small fry, Ray could take him, he'd already proven that with the bite. He didn't need his arms to harm this guy. He was indestructible, a machine, he was Robocop, Bionic Man and James Bond all rolled into one.
And he fucking loved it.
All this vitality and all this focus stayed locked onto the approaching mobster, both of them naked and surging with energy that made this feel like some bizarre showdown, even with one of them bound to a chair. They were both bleeding and somehow that made it feel like things had evened out by Ray's standards, and his confidence since that bite (or more likely since the coke) had shot through the roof. Sure, he might have to endure a few hits or some such before the battle was over, but he could endure anything right now.]
You motherfucker. I'll rip your head off your fuckin' neck. I'll punch a hole through your skull and fuck it. I'll--
[That touch to his thigh shoots through him in an instant, his skin thrumming with nerves. He could feel everything, jesus, when did he get so sensitive? It was like having Mountie senses all of a sudden.
Armando's speaking but Ray's barely listening, it's background noise compared to that quiet thrum of that motor and the dull vibrations in the mobster's hand. He watches like a hawk, so totally focused that he doesn't miss a single motion, like slow motion as that ring slips around the tip of his cock and immediately shoots pleasure through the entirety of his body. It's constant, unrelenting and enveloping his whole circumference, causing his hips to jerk upwards and his hands to tug sharply at his restraints for a second as his instincts urge him to touch himself, or to egt that thing off, or to just do something.]
Ffffuck you, asshole!
[That jittering has turned to all out squirming as his body wills him to try and get more of that encouraging hum of motion. He wants it, he needs it, but he also wants and needs to strangle this guy.]
[ Ray wasn't exactly sedated - far from it, in fact - but his energy was a much more controlled affair, a hum that stayed under the surface, and didn't so much as make a blip on the serene, controlled mobster thing he had going. It couldn't, really, he'd figured that out quickly enough. He had to maintain that no matter how afraid he was, no matter how wired, no matter how ethically compromised. That was the job.
So he was still with it when Ray shouted and snarled at him, threatening impossible things that quite possibly reflected the sensation of being high perfectly; that feeling of impossible invulnerability, of the ability to perform considerable feats of strength all off the back of adrenaline. There's something about the threat that reaches deep into his pleasure center. Maybe it's just been too long, maybe that's it. Nobody would dare to threaten him like that. But Ray of course: Ray is invulnerable; Ray is a cop, Ray is a killer, Ray is a superhero. He can do anything he wants, threaten anyone he wants. He's not scared of anyone or anything.
Hell, he hadn't been to start with, the coke had just enhanced that feeling, given the detective the confidence to genuinely believe it.
Ray's eyes are on his hand, but Armando's eyes are on Ray's face, not letting him out of his sight. As he hardens, his hand comes away from Ray's thigh, nudging the ring a little further along the length. He glanced down, checking his progress, curling his fingers around him and stroking upward--once, twice, again.
God. Okay. So this wasn't exactly something he did naturally, but he hadn't realised how much he missed the thrill of arousing another human being, hadn't realised how much he'd missed it himself. It had been longer than just a year (not much longer, but long enough, and he could blame Fraser for that; nobody looked at the guy standing next to Mr. Fucking Perfect.) Ray had a very nice cock, he thought distinctly, and then double took his own feelings because wow, not the kind of thing you thought about another guy's penis, Vecchio. He needed to get laid more often, this was unacceptable. ]
Fuck me? Sure. Fuck me. You break out of those bonds and my ass is yours. Come on.
[ But Ray wasn't going anywhere. He curled his own upper lip, still stroking, and then pulled his hand away, reaching up, digging his fingertips, his nails, into the wound he'd cut across Ray's chest. He leant forward after them, digging his teeth into the cut too, sucking hard on the skin just underneath his nipple, bruising it. He didn't linger there, not because it wasn't safe, but because it wasn't his place. It was practically consensual, got a bit too close to sensual, and he had to remind Ray that he wasn't doing this for his benefit.
He drew away, circled the chair again, this time just keeping his distance, watching. He paced one way, turned and paced back, admiring the sight of him writhing, then stopped, cocking his head to one side. ]
Choices. We all gotta make them. You want a choice? You try and kick me, you even try, and I tie up your feet. That'll be it. No kicking, no more moving, no nothing. [ He tried an approach, moving tentatively forward. Decisions, decisions. Get between his knees--he could work from there. Just get close enough... ]
[The sensation is electric. Pulsating and driving deep into his core, vibrating against far too sensitive skin. He'd never felt anything like it. This was a hundred times more than any hand job, his nerves tuned in like never before. He doesn't want to like this, he shouldn't, but it's impossible to ignore the thrumming pulse ripping through him.
It's been far too long since anything but his own hand had been near his dick, his constant fawning over Stella and his curse of having to hang around with Fraser making it virtually impossible to get laid. Sure, there was the occasional woman, but this was so much more than a clumsy fumble with some random chick. This was worse, and yet felt a million times better. It must be the drug. Must be to get his senses heightened to such a ridiculous state.
And then there's those fingers. Stroking perfunctorily and adding a whole extra dimension. Ray can't be blamed for getting hard. It's hardly his fault that the coke has got him desperate for stimulation, no matter what it was. Even those nails, and God those teeth, had his cock twitching, the pain shooting through him so sharply that he can't hold back the guttural groan that tears from his throat. That hurt and yet... and yet he's almost disappointed when Armando withdraws.
The withdrawal does, however, give him a chance to think as much as the buzzing ring will allow, at least aware enough to realise that yes, he might be getting just a little carried away from a few simple touches. He's aware enough the consider the choice given to him too, glaring stormy grey hatred towards the other that's softened just slightly by a cocaine fuelled arousal.]
Give it a go, dickweed. See if you got any balls left.
[But Ray doesn't move at the careful approach. Doesn't even twitch beyond the thrumming energy that's getting his legs jittering every now and then. He won't kick. There's no point beyond the brief satisfaction, and he's already got plenty of enjoyment from that bite. With his legs tied he'd be in an even worse position than he already is, and at least this way he's only got getting his hands free to worry about.
If he can escape. Which is still at the forefront of his mind and yet still being realised to be a somewhat useless endeavour.]
[ He's actually really impressed that Ray can think beyond the immediate moment, beyond the satisfaction of maybe connecting his foot with Armando's jaw, because a second later he's in there, sliding into the gap, prizing a space between Ray's knees as though he's been granted permission to do it, no teeth missing at all. He's halfway to leaning in against his chest again when he changes his mind, and then he's kneeling between Ray's legs, not giving him any warning at all as he slides his mouth around the head of his erection.
Okay, so it hadn't been the plan. He'd meant to loom over him or...something. Go at him with the stretchers, press the handle of the crop into him, maybe start up with the anal beads or worse, but what he actually does had never been on the cards in the first place. It wasn't Armando, but he reckoned with enough teeth he could pull it off. Besides, he knew he had Ray's attention, and as he filled that ring would tighten, trapping him in that state of arousal for precisely as long as Vecchio decided. That was going to be torture.
He kept just the head in his mouth, the hot swell of his tongue flat against the tip, searching up with the hard point of muscle to dig in where it could. He sucked, hard, and he tried to feel imposing, threatening, as though if he could make himself believe it then he might put that across to Ray. The whole length of him seemed to be vibrating from the device, the feeling of it strange against his tongue, but then nothing about this was regular. Nothing about this was really normal--sucking off the guy who was undercover as you, while you were undercover as a mafioso, torturing him because the Mountie friend that drives you up the wall has gotten himself in trouble with the mob and the FBI again. Not. Normal. Except in their world where this was sort of a par for the course, right?
He pressed a little further down, until his lips almost touched the ring, the vibration making his nose tickle, and then he was drawing his teeth along the length, making sure that Ray could feel the blunt edge of his incisors as they scraped against him. He let his teeth settle against foreskin, holding him there in his open jaws like he was about to bring the portculis down, eyes opening and flicking up to the man above him. Got your life in my hands, his expression said. Wanna see what happens if I bite down? And then he was drawing back, licking a wet stripe along the length of it, and leaving it to fall where it may as he pulled himself up by Ray's hips.
He got very close then, nevermind his concerns that the other man might try and bite his face off. They were almost nose to nose. His hand - the one not holding his weight over Ray - worked down to the vibration, then reached behind it, fingernail scraping hard against Ray's entrance, soft pad pressing against it suggestively. ]
[It's less about thought process and more about self-preservation that gets Ray's occasional moments of cooperation occurring. A fairly simple process of 'what's in it for me?' that he manages to consider through all the speedy thought processes and buzzing of his mind and his dick. Admittedly it's getting more and more difficult to think about anything beyond the thrumming that's digging into his slowly growing erection, and he doesn't become distantly aware that that fucking ring is going to get annoyingly tight by the end of it. Perhaps it'll be removed before it gets that far, but right now Ray's not got much faith in that hope.
There's already some distant regret at allowing Armando closer as he wastes no time in pushing himself in between his knees, getting far too involved in Ray's personal space. But his personal space was invaded long ago by this guy, and he supposes that'll carry on for as long as it needs to.
Fuck, he hoped this was worth it.
It would be worth it. He was going to win. He could take on this guy any day of the week, tied down or not.
Except... it's hard to be aggressive when what you assume will be an attack turns into a guy dropping to his knees and licking your cock. It's so unexpected that Ray's hips are jerking and his entire body is left convulsing for a second as he desperately tries to adjust to that wet, warm, perfect tongue. Not fair. Not fair at all. It's like changing the rules half way through a game and not telling the other side.
Ray's left reeling and gasping, even as lips slip further down him and teeth scrape like daggers against far too sensitive skin. This shouldn't be arousing, not when he's tied and bleeding in some bizarre mafia sex dungeon with classical music drifting in the background. This should be terrifying, and yes, there's still fear and anxiety knotted in his chest, but he's so overwhelmed by feeling and confidence and a ridiculously heightened awareness of his body that it's hard to focus on the danger of it all.
Even as those teeth wrap around him, his sense of risk is all skewed, his gazes locking with Armando portraying a clear sense of desperation because jesus fuck he doesn't want anything down there bit off, but yet still full of daring, do it, do it, I fucking dare you. God, it's the worse thing to try and silently challenge someone to, what the fuck is wrong with his brain?
Coke driven confidence or not, he still huffs out a breath of relief as he's released from the grip, breath short but heavy as Armando leans in. Ray sneers, because it's virtually the only thing he can do to show his annoyance beyond trying to bite the guys face off, but the sneer quickly morphs into a confused snarl at the scrape of a nail and pressure of a finger.
Nothing should be down there. That's an out of bounds area, and his hips lift just slightly as though trying to move away from the threat of intrusion. Slice him up all you want, but this? This is just weird.]
I oughta rip your face off, fag. Lean in a little closer, why don't you?
[ Oh, he really liked this guy. If he could choose to be replaced with anyone, and he'd been given the choice between a balding Italian who looked and acted exactly like him, and this guy, he'd have picked this guy every time. Maybe it's because he's a whole different kind of animal; he's no threat in that he'll never really be Ray Vecchio, he'd always be himself through and through, pure; this backtalking, vicious Polack overflowing with fight, bristling with challenge.
Sure, maybe psychologically he could tell that it was defensive anger, that he was protecting the frightened, quivering little part of him that was rightly terrified of what was being done to him, and that was really sort of sad, but in the greater scheme of things someone who could look pure horror in the eye and come back swinging was someone the world couldn't beat down.
Ray liked him. He liked that this guy was in there doing his job, he liked that this guy was out here hunting down Benny when he got lost in the big wide world. If anyone in on the planet could be counted on to protect Benton Fraser, then it'd have to be someone like this; someone who wasn't exactly fearless, but knew when to turn it into action. Of course Ben would take advantage of that. He'd throw him in the ring with bad guys, probably literally, and see where that fear got him, and Ray would hate him for it for a little while. ]
You know-- [ He purred, and his eyes narrowed. He could play with the Fraser thing without actively bringing it up. He knew how the Mountie got under your skin, and it was worth it to remind Ray that Fraser was why he was here: ] --you got this thing all wrong. Logic says you should eat your pride, try and distract me. I could do this for hours, stretch it right out for too long, lose track of time. It's been forever. Be a right picture when my guys walk in to find me sucking cock.
[ He licked his teeth, bared them into a dangerous smile, still stroking that finger in circles. He'd need the lube to really do this, but he could fuck with Ray's head a little. He pressed just the tip inside, down to the first joint, in past muscle, rising up with Ray as he tried to get some purchase on the chair, find some space to escape into.
There wasn't any escape from this. ]
I could let you fuck my mouth. [ His low murmur was, despite the thickness of the expletives, deeply sensual, almost velvet. ] Let you choke me with it. All the way down. In and out, till you're spilling over, till I'm drowning. You like that?
[ He sank back and down, almost to his former position, and stretched out an arm, plucking up the lube from the floor, very aware of his face and Ray's knee, and keeping his chin on top of his thigh out of range of any sudden jerks. The spreader was where he'd thrown it, still splashed with blood and spittle, and he picked that up too, setting it on the edge of the chair in the space his own body made. He had a good view from down here, and Ray could see him too, could see the spreader and the lube, could maybe guess where this was going. ]
Go ahead, call me a fag again. A queer. A fanook. See if it makes you feel any better. Cause I'm no prancing, musical theater loving fairy. I'm the guy who's gonna break you open with his cock. So go on, let's see what you've got. Let's see how long that bravado of yours lasts before you're begging me.
[ He snapped open the lube, let the sound punctuate the noises in the room, licked Ray's belly, since the angle allowed. It was splashed with blood, but who's? By now he couldn't tell. ]
[Wouldn't that be a sight? One of those goons venturing down here to find their boss willingly with some bloodied cop's cock in his mouth. That probably wouldn't settle well with the family, Ray knew that much, especially not when it's done with a cop. Queer jokes aside, it's like sleeping with the enemy.
But Armando made it sound so appealing. Voice as smooth as butter as told it like a story, some dirty little erotic novel of some secret affair. He made it sound good for Ray, like he could get all the pleasure from this, get a mouth to fuck and somewhere to spill his load. It sounded tempting and alluring and selfless, so much so that he just couldn't believe a fucking word of it, even as his arousal swelled at the idea of it. That finger, however, was less welcome. Even that tip, especially without lubricant, was enough to get Ray snarling softly, muscles clamping around it and still trying to lift away from it as it follows. By the end he's got his hips lifted just off the seat and his weight distributed between his legs and his arms, and it hasn't made the slightest bit of difference to that invasion.
Fuck, he must be desperate if even this was setting him off.
Blame the coke. Isn't that what the mafioso had said right from the start? That this would absolve Stanley of all responsibility. It wasn't a bad call, and even with the surging guilt at every single part of this, Ray could genuinely say the drug is the reason his heart is racing and his mind is fucked. He can't be blamed for that...]
Fuckin' try it, sure. Bet your family would love to hear one of their respected is tryin' to fuck around with cops.
[Strained, raw, his throat dry and already aching, all this aggression really not helping it along.
He doesn't dare lower his hips, not at first, especially not when he sees the lubricant and those weird ass tongs back in view; a hugely unwelcome view after last time. They were bad enough near his mouth. But then it's stupid to be sat like this. It's giving easy access. He needed to get himself tucked in and away from prying fingers.
There'd been that silent acknowledgement that kicking was a bad idea, but perhaps a shove wouldn't be included in that. After all, when his feet scrabble for purchase against the rubber with all consideration on lowering himself properly back into the chair, he can hardly be blamed if a bare foot plants itself at Armando's torso, and it can't even be blamed for pushing solidly against that body, using the momentum to push himself right into the back of the seat. His position takes up the defensive, pelvis rocking back to try and tuck his ass further into the corner of the seating and away from prying hands, but at least it gave a nice effect of shoving his chest out, a nice little addition to 'that bravado' of his.]
[ Yes, it was a good call. At the end of the day it wouldn't take the edge off the fact that this had been done to him, but it might pave some path toward absolution, at least of his own guilt. Vecchio wouldn't be so lucky; he'd carry this around with him like the bitemark on his hand, and if this assignment didn't kill him then who knew what kind of state he'd be left in by the end of it. Frankly, he'd already gotten to that point; the point where the things Armando did didn't get to him as much. He'd ordered more people dead in the last year than he'd shot in his entire career in the Chicago PD, murdered them with his own hands and clean gotten away with it - because the FBI allowed it - and it was getting to him.
But he also had a shrink, an FBI doctor he spoke to once a fortnight during his debriefing, and inevitably more psychotherapy than he could stand when he came out of it. Of course the fact that he'd no more talk to her about this incident than this stand-in Ray would talk to anyone was more or less irrelevant. He had it if he wanted it. The help was there.
No, they were both fucked. This assignment was going to ruin him, and there really was no getting out of it. Shrink or no, he was going to carry this shit around with him up until the day he died, even if that day wasn't this week or next month, and Ray was really getting off easy. Between getting fucked by a mobster or fucked by the FBI...
Get back in the game, Vecchio. Armando. You've still got a job to do. A job, right. This was a job. Fuck his life.
He was just readjusting his feet when Ray began to twist and scramble on the floor, the edge of the chair, and he felt the foot on his chest in the moment before Ray jammed himself backward using the resistance of his own body. He didn't resist for long; unbalanced, he toppled over on the rubber under Ray's feet, fell on his ass, and then sat there startled for a moment. And then he laughed--it might even have been a Vecchio laugh, it was really hard to tell - had been too long - and he was dragging himself back up, looking at Ray with his ass tucked in against the back corner of the chair and his chest puffed out like a Mountie on parade. Okay, that wasn't exactly a kick, but a moment later he's forcibly rubbing the laughter from his face, and he draws his fist back and slams it right into the side of Ray's face. ]
Alright, pretty boy. You feel that?
[ He wrapped his now aching hand around Ray's throat, closed it tight and leant in over him. ]
You do that again, or you speak a word about any of this when you leave this room, it won't be you I break. No, no, no, no, no. It'll be your sister, or your mother, or your stetson wearing friend, and I'll take half a dozen of my men with me, they like it when we go on road trips. We'll all have a go. We'll make a night of it, have a fucking party. He was real pretty your friend, prettier than you. I wonder what color Canadians bleed--do you know? A real bright red, maybe. It'll look real nice running down his thighs.
[ Always important to remind him what he was up against. Besides, Ray didn't know that he wouldn't do those things. He'd already seen what he would do to a guy who hadn't so much as hit him; just jumped him in a casino. Taking swipes at the Mountie was the way to go, though. If anyone had talked to him about Fraser that way he'd have ripped their head off with his bare hands. ]
Spread your legs. Don't you fucking make me wait. [ He squeezed his hand, then released, leaving a bruise on Ray's throat. ]
Ray does his best to keep up the macho act as Armando stands back upright, chest still puffed like it'll somehow be enough to get the mob guy standing down to his obviously superior alpha male status. Except it doesn't.
He's not even sure why he's surprised by the strike to his face, but he is. It hits like car crash, all the force that Ray himself would put behind a hit like that. It's an experienced swing from a guy who's obviously been through it all before, a guy who knows a thing or two about fist fights and the world of physical violence. So maybe he wasn't always a paper pusher for the mob, but plenty of them work their way up from the bottom. The hit may have floored Stanley if he wasn't sat down, instead snapping his neck sharply to the side as he takes the full force of it, grunting out a sharp sound of surprise and pain. His cheek and jaw take the full brunt of it, and without his hands there to be able to clutch for his face, he's left trying to experimentally move his jaw as he starts to turn back to Armando.
The glaring daggers look is just about to come, but then there's a hand at his throat and instead he's wavering between some muddle of anger, determination, fear and realisation. Realisation that every time he messes around with this, he risks putting his friend or family (Vecchio's family?) in danger. He wouldn't put it past this crazy to do it, either. Guys like this find ways, and their lawyers are good enough that nothing ever sticks.
By the time the hand releases, Ray's gasping for air, head lowering just slightly as he sucks in a few heavy breaths, enough of an excuse for his delay in doing as he's told. But he has to. There's no way around it right now. It doesn't help that even through all of this, his dick is staying hard thanks to that ever presence buzzing squeezing around it. Shit, he hoped it was the ring and the cocaine and not some sick, personal pleasure. He couldn't think straight.
And then, after a third deep breath, he slowly creeps his knees apart, but not before that glare of his is married with a determined spit of his chewing gum in Armando's direction. How he's managed not to swallow that by now is a mystery and a miracle, but at least he's getting rid of it effectively.]
[ He'd known it would hurt, the punch, and that's good. He went for causing vibrant bruising, and that would come with pain, and blood, and swelling. With another couple of hours for that to work itself to the surface, Ray would be looking real pretty by the time his guys came to pick him up. Maybe he'd backhand him later, make it look a little better, but even without it the pattern of bruises and cuts and smudged blood was starting to come together. Vecchio had seen enough pictures of Armando's "supposed" former victims, people who were too afraid to say a word against him and spat at the FBI's idea of protection, and he knew it was all just a matter of building up layers. The effect was largely cumulative, and it generally looked worse than it was. Apart from that guy who'd been run over twice.
Still, at the end of the day he really had needed to assert control again. Having the imposter fighting him back was all well and good, made him feel like he wasn't getting it so easy (and why should he get it easy, said his cop psyche; he was rooting for Ray as though he were fighting off a real mobster) but at the end of the day he had to dominate this, show real strength, shake this guy down to his core. It needed to really take something from him, so that his pride couldn't afford to take another blow, but more importantly that comment about Fraser would remind him that the Mountie really was better off anywhere in the world but Vegas. Ray would live through this, but even if he was all fight, was willing to come back just to tear Armando's throat out himself, he would never put Fraser at risk by letting him within a thousand miles of the desert again.
He knew he had him when - even panting for breath - Ray's indomitable glare was still cutting the air between them like a knife. Hate is good. Hate is better than breaking. This guy can and should hate him, it'll help him survive. Of course then he spits his gum right in Armando's face even as he spreads his legs, and Vecchio is torn between going ahead with that backhander and jamming the glob of spittle covered gum right up Ray's nose.
He does neither, lets it glance off him physically and emotionally, and he leans into Ray, lathes his tongue against his throat, draws back up to face him, back between his legs now. He was close enough to Ray's face to bite, to kiss, but he liked to think he'd frightened him enough to get past that risk. None the less, he still hovered back slightly as he found the lube between them, ignoring the device to instead spread a healthy amount over his fingers. The good old fashioned way. It was more intimate this way--it was a debate which was more humiliating, but at least it let him get real close.
Reaching for that spot again, unimpeded this time, he pushed one finger up to the second joint--drew it out and pushed in again, further, and hissed at the clutching, tight heat that pulsed around him. Even here he could feel the dull vibration. No wonder it was driving him crazy. ]
How's it feeling? You want I should turn it off? Beg me. Beg me, Ray, I'll turn it off. All you gotta do is be real polite. Say please.
[By the end of this Ray knew he'd be battered and bleeding. He already was, and by the end of these few hours half of his face would be bruising up to show signs of that hefty punch. Punches are fine. He can explain those away easy enough as an eager day in the boxing ring. Cuts are less easy to get away with, but those can be hidden. Hell, he could even excuse his inability to walk properly if it comes to that.
What he can't get rid of is the memory of this. Sure, he'd do his best to shove it right to the back, lock it away, but this is the sort of thing that fucks you over years later, creeping in dreams when least expected. This is the sort of thing people should see their therapists for, but this is the sort of thing that Ray will never see a therapist for in a million years. He can never mention it or discuss it to anyone, not even the guy in front of him right now.
But this was for Fraser, as so much of the problems he'd got into over the last year had been. Fraser dragged him into danger over and over again and now he's managed it without even being here to share the pain. That smug asshole better appreciate Ray's rescue when it comes.
As Armando draws in closer, Ray doesn't counter it, suitably cowed for the moment by threats on his friend, although still full of sneers and glares and that general aura of hatred he manages to emit. He's still shuddering lightly, never seeming to stop, even at the lick to his throat. He can't stop. Between anxiety and coke he's got perpetual jittering that he's long ago stopped noticing, what with more important things on his mind.
Confidence or not, this felt like a heavy defeat, his allowance of this to even happen agitating him enough to growl heavily as he feels the pressure of that first slick finger. This was happening. Actually happening. Oh, he'd fought against it, but he wouldn't even be here if he'd thought of something more intelligent than throwing himself at the first mobster he could. This was a huge fucking failure, even with the possibility of getting Fraser at the end of it all, and he hated every last bit of it. And yet... and yet still his cock stayed hard.
Even as that finger pushed deeper, even as his muscles locked in around it in a desperate attempt to get rid of the intrusion. Still he was hard and straining. That fucking ring.]
Do I look fff- hngh- ffuckin' Canadian to you?
[Who says please while they're being fingered by some ego tripping mafioso? Canadians, that's who. Only Canadians.]
Turn it offff. [That quiet buzz is enough to drive him mad as it consistently drove deep into him, thrumming a tight grip around him the whole time, while giving him absolutely no sense of true satisfaction.]
[ He was never going to say "Please," but then Vecchio would have been disappointed if he had. Turn it off was more than close enough; at least it was a request, which was almost an admission of the fact that he couldn't take it. But wasn't that what torture was? Still, it came close enough to begging that - considering he had a finger up the guy's ass, and Ray had by no means woken up this morning thinking the day was going to go south so quickly - he was inclined to take a certain amount of pity, at least where it was admissible to do so.
But he stayed, worked in a second finger beside the first, and withdrew it as quickly as he'd pushed it inside, bringing his hand to the ring to press the switch down on the vibrate function. He was swollen and hard, that lovely length of him, purpling, and now trapped that way for as long as Armando deigned. Even without the vibration it was probably enough to drive Ray loopy, but that was good too. He could build on the pleasure, make him delirious with it, make it matter less if only because he couldn't think through it all. If he did it right, the entire process would blur together; the cocaine would help with that, twist it into some sort of unreal nightmare.
Vecchio wouldn't be so lucky, but he should have to live with this; with every single crisp second. It was his penitence.
Fuck, he was coming down already. He could fix that, but first he pressed his first finger back inside again, as though he were starting the process from scratch, but with the way Ray was resisting it was almost like doing exactly that. Muscles clamped around him like vices, because fighting back that way was all Ray had to do, all he needed to focus on. It made his blunt fingernails dig in more than necessary, but every time they did Ray just snarled again, and what could he say? "Relax, let me do you up the ass"? Those two things didn't really go hand in hand.
So he kept fighting this battle which neither of them were equipped to fight, and after managing to get his second finger back in there and giving it a real good go, Vecchio gave up again, slipping his fingers free and propping his hands under Ray's thighs as he leant into his belly. He'd dropped white powder there, and most of it was still all over him, even though some of it was ruined by blood. Still, there was enough that he could press his tongue into the cracks, lapping up enough of it to bring his heart back to racing, sharpen his senses, lower his inhibitions. He needed the boost for the sake of his self esteem, but then of course he'd been doing this for months. It always seemed to take a little more, and it was hard to fight the urge to let it when there wasn't enough in the world for him to spend Armando's money on as it was.
He'd given up with his fingers, but that didn't stop the onslaught. Now that he had surrendered to the idea that loosening Ray up the good old fashioned way was the sexual equivalent of leading a horse to water and forcing it to drink, he admitted that the other methods, the props he'd been more or less dismissing out of some urge to somehow be less impersonal, were probably in fact vital. He'd been stupid, even inconsiderate, to think otherwise, drawing this out like they were two teenagers bumping uglies in the back of a car when that wasn't what this was about at all.
So in went the soft, fingerwidth steel of the spreader, coated with lubricant, and maybe he hadn't warmed it up, but he applied the requisite pressure little by little, his chin on Ray's stomach, his other hand testing the gap as he stretched metal apart. When there was enough room, he fed four of the string of beads into him, smallest first, before pulling the stretcher free, letting muscle snap back down. He could feel it, lube slick fingers sliding against bare skin, sensing the stretch around the bead just underneath the surface. God--god, he was fucked up to find that hot. He pressed up, fed in the next slippery bead slowly, then drew it back out again, panting against the wet trails he'd licked on Ray's belly as he did it. He didn't think Ray would mind, or even notice, how much this was driving him crazy. And he looked back up. Imposter. And felt the most inappropriate flare of superiority rising in his chest. ]
[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.]
[ It's good to get the metal gone, tossed aside. The stretchers are too clinical for him, although a necessary tool as far as this situation was concerned. Without them Ray would never be stretched wide enough, because he sure as hell wasn't going to deliberately relax, that was for sure. At least not manually.
It's deeply satisfying, though, when Ray - his breath hitching - snarls down at him. They're almost dirty enough words, he could figure them for real sex talk, like they were lovers who liked it rough; that this wasn't the kind of situation where Ray would have choked him to death with his bare hands if he got them free. It was a nice, if unrealistic, daydream, and it lasted half a second, because Vecchio realised almost immediately that he wouldn't enjoy that sort of sex talk ever again, and that sort of took the edge off the fantasy. He couldn't imagine, right now, ever wanting to have sex again, let alone have it any way that wasn't straightforward and vanilla in a nice dark room.
It was over.
It was over because this - everything about it; the power, the wrongness, the toys, Vecchio and Vecchio, the situation with Fraser, the cocaine - was all turning him on. He was high on it, head in the clouds, and sex was just going to be a minefield of things that reminded him of this moment. After pride and lust, he'd feel guilt, shame, disgust--all the things he ought to be feeling right now, but wasn't because of the coke; wasn't because he simply wasn't letting himself. He knew that at the end of the day this was impossibly far from the person he really was: that he was gentler than this, that he'd never deliberately damage a person the way he was breaking this man in front of him. But some dark part of him was enjoying this. Some dark part of him would still hate himself for enjoying it years down the line, and he felt like it was taking him over. In fact, he'd let it. He'd been letting it in since this assignment started, and yes, he'd heard all the horror stories about people going undercover and forgetting who they really were, knew that there were usually tragic repercussions.
He knew he was at risk of doing just that.
But if he didn't, he had to be this person while also being Ray Vecchio, and that was patently impossible. Ray Vecchio was the man in the chair with his legs spread. The world fucked Ray Vecchio, and Ray Vecchio had to grit his teeth and let it, because his hands were bound by the law, by morals and ethics and decency. He couldn't fight back even if he wanted to.
Ray moaned - not in pain - and Armando knew he had him. One moan opened the floodgates for more to follow, he just had to keep the sensation up. At the very least he had a secret weapon as far as that was concerned, but not yet. ]
What do you think this room is for? I got half a dozen of Vegas' finest on their backs for me if I want it. [ You done this before? He hadn't specified the beads. Fucked a cop, though. That was even actually true.
But then so was the kinky stuff. It was just that it had been consensual last time. A last ditch effort to spice up his relationship with Angie as their interest in each other waned.
He pulled the beads out again, one, two, three this time. Back in, one, two, three. Out, twice as fast. In, slowly again. He leaned back, pressing his nose into Ray's pubes and inhaling the dusting of cocaine that had fallen there. When he drew back, it was to flick the tip of his tongue, again, over the engorged head of Ray's cock. If anything would ache, that would be it. ]
Every time you hear a slot machine chime, you're gonna get hard thinking about this. You're going to remember being filled by me and it's gonna come down on you in the night like a weight on your chest, like a ghost fucking you into the bed. You're gonna wake up thinking about this with your fist around your cock, you dirty little slut. You can't even help it. Three hours with me, bleeding and moaning like a bitch, and it's gonna be the best sex you've ever had. You're going to hate yourself for that, aren't you? [ His voice dropped an octave, he looked up through his dark lashes, green eyes almost black thanks to the red lighting. ] Hey, Ray. Try not to scream.
[ There was a vibrator in the anal beads. He turned it on. ]
[He had moaned. Fuck. He'd actually moaned. That really didn't bode well for his ability to hold back the noises for the rest of this if he's moaning from a tiny bit of push and pull. He can't help it. It's not that he's enjoying himself, but with his nerves as they are, his body is more responsive than ever.
Not to mention, depressing as the thought is, this is the most action he's had in years. This queer ass mafioso has been the first to touch Ray this intimately since Stella and that's a really fucked up thing to consider for too long. He hadn't even got laid in almost a year, which goes towards explaining why he feels excessively blue balled and like his dick might explode at any second. Worst part of it is he finds the struggle a turn on, like the adrenaline spikes of a good fight that leave you buzzing but in pain by the end of it. All this roughing up and shit talking, it's all part of it, and he thinks he could almost get on with this guy if he wasn't pressing beads into him.
There he is with a straining cock and no ability to give himself any satisfaction or blow his load, and yet his frustration is restrained well enough by Armando's attention. Even through all this his dick isn't forgotten, licked once again (but sadly only once) and getting his hips jerking upwards. The shift causes some movement below and he's grunting as he stills himself, still trying to adjust to the feeling of having them pressing inside him. It's an odd sensation to have something filling him, unusual and not what he'd ever expected he'd be experiencing in his lifetime. And yet here he is, and he'd just have to fucking deal with it because it's not like Armando's just suddenly going to stop for him now.
With each bead tugging against him, Ray's huffing out a sharp breath, resisting too much noise beyond low grunts as the pull is replaced by pushing them back in before the process is repeated all over. With his mind unfocused, his muscles start to relax of their own accord, self-preserving to make that movement just that little bit easier. He's not accepting it, not mentally, but he sure as hell didn't want to tear anything.
The little speech has got him grinding his teeth, words like slut and bitch chipping away at his pride and making him want to quickly fill it back in. The temptation to lash out again is high, a better kick, a knee, perhaps even just a spit to the face, anything to fill that shame, but his consideration is cut short by that last comment.
Scream?
What--
And then his whole body jerks upwards as one, every single muscle in him tightening so suddenly that he surprises himself. He's clamping back down on those beads and that just heightens the buzz emitting from them, vibrating deep within him where nothing has ever touched before. The scream doesn't come, his throat tightening as he strains out a breath, the sound coming out as a pathetic sounding;] Aah!
[There's just something over all pathetic about a lightly gasping, jittering, scrawny assed cop shivering his way through this like some lost or misplaced pet.
This is more unbearable than the ring. Set deeper within him and resonating throughout and impossible to counter, any tightening against it only increasing the feeling. It shouldn't feel so appealing, not something like this, but it hit every part of him too well.]
I've ha-ah-d better. [Sex, he means. Because he's not going to let this scumbag try and flatter himself with tales of amazing sex.]
[ The buck against his tongue is particularly rewarding. He's almost inclined to stay down there and keep it up, see how much stimulation he could visit on him before Ray was begging for release. It'd be gorgeous to watch. He could just leave the beads inside and suck him, and the movement would make him squirm, and there'd be more movement, and more squirming, and he'd melt into a writhing mess of stimulation. It'd be easy. Ray was relaxing now, he could feel it with the pop of every bead in and out, and his breathing was becoming more ragged, more helpless with arousal.
That's the moment when he turns on the beads, and Ray snaps shut like a steel trap. The wires of his body all tense at once, and he's rising out of the seat on instinct as though to escape that vibration, using Vecchio's body for height, hands and arms and legs and neck and stomach as though every muscle in him runs through the same place. He breathes out "Aah", and it's not a scream, but it's as close to one as he's gotten in the last hour so fuck it, it'll do.
Vecchio doesn't find it pathetic. Every second of fight that Ray puts up, the fact that even in the middle of this he's still holding strong to his own sense of self, endears him to his replacement by the moment. Armando will undo him, but not in a way he can't spring back from, because this guy could take on the world.
So he's powerful, he's strong, and even when he's bucking and trembling at that jackhammer going off inside him he's still himself; he hasn't retreated from reality yet, blocked out the world, let it wash over him. There was something impossibly attractive about it too. Wiry and wild with all his jagged edges, his hair limp from exertion, his eyes burst to pinpricks by the coke. Maybe he's no Marlon Brando, but he's got his own heat, a certain kind of rebellious attractiveness like Sid Vicious or something, pouring out waves of sex and potential violence like it was going out of style.
Sensing the change, everything shifted gear. Vecchio moved up so that those vice like legs were forced to clutch his hips instead, slid his arm around Ray's back, and as he turned off the vibration he supported him, lowering him back into the seat with his arm behind him, his body pressed close, his own erection nudged against the other man's.
His voice was a soft murmur; it had a lighter edge to it that wasn't there before. In another world, it might even have been mistaken as apologetic. ]
Al Capone, right? He learned all his best moves from me. Breathe out, Ray. Long and slow.
[ And even if he didn't obey, he tried to catch him on the exhale anyway, pulling the string of slippery beads out with a single jerk of his wrist. They were unnecessary now. He tossed them down on the floor and then drew his hand back up, rubbing his knuckles against his own eyebrow and leaving a fresh smudge of blood there. His hand was raw with it, but he couldn't feel it any more, couldn't feel anything except arousal, and Ray's legs, and the hot erection nudged against his own.
He was holding back, he realised. He hadn't even touched the lube yet - and yes, he did very much want to reach for it, plunge inside, get this part moving. He was holding back for some reason, though, and he couldn't put his finger on what it was. What did he want? Permission? Forgiveness? He wasn't going to get them. Vecchio licked his lips, ran his free hand back under their bodies, and for a moment he simply stood there on the brink, his thighs aching from holding his weight at the odd angle against the chair, massaging Ray's balls tenderly in the palm of his hand. ]
You ready? [ He said at last. Fuck, he was asking anyway. ]
[Ray is overwhelmed. There's no other explanation for it. Every bit of him squirming and jerking and craving more. Even this, with his senses on fire and the speedy thrum of those beads surging through him wasn't quite enough. Never quite enough to get him reaching his pinnacle. He needs something more and it's that thought that makes him wonder if maybe he is some dirty little slut, that is this is all it takes to get him squirming and moaning then maybe there's some truth behind it. Surely a better man would be able to resist and endure, rather than tied down, achingly hard and gasping for air.
He can't stop it though, not when every part of him is tense and wired, shivering and straining around the unrelenting waves of pleasure deep within. It's hitting something deep within that he can't quite explain, and without being able to explain it even to himself, he turns to frustration and annoyance, snarling, legs still clamped around Armando even as he starts to shift upwards.
It comes as somewhat of a surprise at just how careful the mobster is as he shuts down that vibration, a supportive arm on Ray to lower him back in the chair as he collapses thankfully back down, sweating and panting from the exertion of it. His head drops backwards, resting at the seat back as he distantly listens to the voice, that mafioso aggression seemingly gone from the tone. There's instruction there, and while Ray doesn't want to obey on principle, it's difficult not to when his huffs for breath turn into deep inhales and long, heavy exhales. Armando catches him perfectly on one of the exhales, the beads slipping from Ray like some bizarre and exceptionally personal massage, causing his exhale to morph into a low, lasting moan, while he his muscle contracts and loosens in it's wake as if still grasping for them.
God, he needs release. He needs to get out of this somehow, especially out of that ring that's still clinging to the base of his cock like a rubber band gradually cutting circulation from a limb.
He's expecting something else to come, waiting with an anticipatory snarl, and yet instead he's met with a pause while a too soft palm cups around his balls. It's a ridiculously tender moment and Ray's half expecting pain to follow but never quite getting it. Not yet, anyway. For the moment he's just left to stare down his noses at Armando, panting.]
No.
[He can assume what he should be ready for. Whatever it is, it won't be pretty.]
[ Fighting right up to the last; Vecchio could certainly respect him for that. Armando would too, probably, if he wasn't dead (he hadn't gotten a clear admission out of the FBI as to whether that had been an accident or not, but he suspected the answer was probably not).
He soothes for a moment longer, very aware of the edge of confusion that's slipped in in the meantime. This isn't natural behavior, it's creeping Ray out. Still, outside of that he's panting, gasping, jerking, moaning; a positive wreck. Even if he isn't willing to beg, if he maybe never would be, that's fine with Vecchio, his trembling body is communicating all those things for him.
Releasing his hand, Vecchio reached for the lube, not making a show and dance about it, in fact trying to hold Ray's glare in the meantime so that he didn't see what was happening between their legs. ]
Come on, Ray. Spit in my face and tell me that you love me. They make 'em hard in Chicago, don't they? Hard, hard guys. Yeah, I can see just how hard.
[ And soon enough - too soon and not nearly soon enough - he was nudging just the tip of his cock against Ray, slathered in as much lube as he could get out. Vecchio shifted back, put a little distance between his body and the other man's so that he could look down between them, so that he was far enough away from the detective's teeth that he didn't lose an ear or get his throat ripped out for the invasion. Using his hand to guide himself, he pressed into muscle, breached and slid deeper, guided by the path he'd already beaten into submission with the beads.
He'd expected it to be harder than it was, but that wasn't to say it was easy either. His hand pulled away soon enough though, and while one of his arms was still wrapped around Ray - not that he had anywhere to go - the other flattened itself in the middle of his chest, as though a reminder to himself that he was supposed to keep his distance.
And he watched, positively enraptured - and this at least was probably due to the cocaine - by the sight of his cock disappearing inside, embraced by that wonderful tight heat, that glove of knotted silk that pulled taut around him, working like iron cables snapping in a high wind.
Vecchio fell still, let Ray adjust to the sensation--though not for too long. He didn't want him to think he'd gone soft. He was panting, aching for friction, driven near crazy himself by waiting. ]
[That massage feels good. Too good considering the situation. That palm rolling against his overly sensitive skin, already taught and full and ready to go and yet no respite thanks to the ring.
He needs that off and he needs pleasure. What he doesn't need is some other guy's cock, but it appears as if he's going to get that no matter what he was hoping for. Ray would consider it a selfish fucking move, but then he remembers this isn't his lover and this isn't some scenario for him to get his rocks off to in some creepy ass sex dungeon. This is punishment. This is sending a message for him to think twice before he ever tries to invade in the families business again, and it works. Right here and right now, even without Armando removing his grip and lining himself up, Ray can safely say his lesson is well and truly learned.
After this he could get Fraser and get the hell out of town. After this. All he had to do was endure. And jesus, what a thing to endure.
Armando tells him to spit and he holds off because maybe that's some weird kink this guy has got going on. Some rapey little love to get spat at, just like his apparent enjoyment for getting his hand ripped to shreds. Ray does spit words though, trying to drag some sense of control back into his world as his arms strain up against the two ties.]
See how hard my fist is when I punch you a knew asshole, cocksuker. I'll tear ya to shreds. Rip you to pieces. Your boys are gonna come down here to find me fucking a new hole in your head. They'll have to drag me off your lifeless fuckin' corpse. I'll-- fuck.
[That distance between them is a good job, because right as he feels that breach, he gets the sudden urge to bite into something and not let go. Without the other nearby, he's forced to bite down on his own bottom lip, grunting and growling around it as Armando presses in. With the aid of all that lube, and the beads that had come before, the pressure is less intense than before, but it still hurts like hell.
It's the stretch that gets him, pushing wider than what had come before until he's pretty sure he's going to tear something, if not internally, then one of the hundreds of muscles in his torso that are currently keeping him almost lifted off the chair again. This isn't like before, where there was a relenting pause between each bead. This is solid and thick and determined.
Tempting as it is to kick out, it's difficult for Ray to control himself much as it is, and so instead of a solid side kick to the side, his legs stay tight around the body between them, one uselessly wrapping around as if that'll somehow prevent it all. It can at least try and keep Armando where is is and not moving back, but even that doesn't seem too helpful in the current situation, especially not considering one leg can't match up to the other's entire body moving.
But there's a pause. Almost like a moment for adjustment but that can't be right. Maybe the mobster is so coked up that he just needs time to think; he sure does seem fascinated just by looking. Fucker.
Dick in him or not, Ray still pushes against the hand on his chest, snarling like a rabid dog as he acts like he's lunging for a bite. Entirely impossible, held back as he is, but still worth the visual attempt, even if the lean does cause a shift below that sends a shiver up his spine.]
[ Every single vitriolic word is like a pulse of pleasure in itself, and he shouldn't find it so good, but Vegas had obviously fucked up more than his sense of perspective if the last hour was anything to go by. It's like it reaches in and twangs some part of him that needs to be punished too, that's desperate for some sort of retribution where this is concerned because he's just such a deplorable human being.
And yet it is sort of like that. It's like he's taking this out on himself, because this guy is Ray Vecchio in a manner of speaking. He's his replacement, the stand-in; he has to take whatever shit Ray Vecchio would take in the same situation, and right now Ray Vecchio deserves, more than anything, to be punished, beaten, pushed beyond the brink for what he was doing.
It was messed up, but he was messed up. He couldn't be blamed for a little of that after everything he'd been put through out here in the desert.
So he held still once he was inside for a little longer than he meant to, and tried to pay attention, but ended up not flinching as Ray tried to take a bite out of his arm or something. It ended up paying off, making him look invulnerable rather than just stoned, and that was fine too. The bite to Ray's lip, that would work out, would swell like a balloon by the time his guys came back. All of this, all of it, was working out better than he'd thought.
So what if he was unwilling, if this was all yet another part of the Armando mask that was infecting Ray? He was hot and horny and high, and the world, and this cop detective, were his for the taking if he wanted it. He was a nasty mobster, an all around bad guy. He could have anything and anyone he wanted and he knew it. He didn't owe the world anything, he just steadily fucked it and laughed while it bled. He was Armando Langoustini, cruel consigliere, ruthless killer, insane and beautiful and--
Bleeding, he was bleeding into it--
Ray was trying to hold him still with his leg, but he couldn't keep him there forever, although Vecchio changed his grip first, moving both hands down to grip the other man's hips. He held him as he pulled out, then wrenched hard down on them, tugged Ray's hips toward his own and pushed back into him. Again.
God, he didn't care any more. He'd done everything he could to make sure it wouldn't hurt, and if Ray wanted to keep it up then so be it, he didn't give a shit if he was walking round sore for weeks after. If he tore something. It wasn't his concern any more--all he wanted, all he cared about was that glorious friction, the heat, the racing of his own pulse, and the flat out vicious race to orgasm.
It had been much more than a year, and he was high, and turned on from the verbal jousting and what equated to gangster foreplay. He wasn't going to last long. But that was fine, neither was Ray. Huffing, his breath ragged pants, but none the less keeping his moans restrained to low throaty noises that gargled in his chest, he kept moving, a slow but rough pace now. He unclamped one hand back from ray's hip, gliding it - still wet with lube - over the head of his restrained cock. ]
Say the word. You know the one I want. Say the word and you can come.
[ Single syllables were so much more functional when it came to restraining his own moans. He couldn't afford to break the illusion now. ]
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Ray snarled up at him, his eyes dark with anger, pain, fear; the bruises to his ego already showing. There was no doubt at all there. Armando didn't need to be able to talk. If need be he could find Fraser another way, he could knock on the door of every hotel room in the city or beg the FBI for help finding him, but he couldn't take this back. He'd bite his lips off, rip his tongue out with his teeth, all without shifting so much as an inch out of the chair, and he'd do it with his teeth bared into a bloodied smirk. That'd sure be one to explain to Si and Mikey and the others--why he'd let a cop bite his face off. ]
Oh no, no. I wasn't born yesterday. I know not to bet against a sure thing.
[ Which had to be a victory for Ray, right? It meant his bark had somehow made contact with him like his fists hadn't been able to, that Armando was actually afraid of doing something to him because Ray still held some element of power, could still defend himself. He'd keep his distance, and that had to be something. ]
But that's good. [ He growled, digging his fingers tighter into Ray's hair, scraping his scalp with his nails. ] I fucking love that. Fight me with everything you've got. C'mon, tough guy, Chicago tough guy, you may be tied down in that chair but you're larger than life. You're not gonna give up the goods that easily.
[ He let him go, peeling back, circling around toward Ray's left, and leaving a nick on his back as he went. That one would look much worse than it felt; there were less nerve endings to cut, and while it was likely to sting, Ray would probably forget all about it quickly enough. He'd appreciate the care he took to layer up the marks later, when he was being escorted off the premises and even his thugs looked at him warily, like all that blood and bruising was the perfect reminder not to fuck with the boss. Ray would at least be walking, though they'd miss that, and the come down from the cocaine would of course make it look a whole lot worse too--they'd miss that. Let them see what they expected to see.
For now, he reached across Ray's lap, knife in hand, hooked it under the leg of his underwear, slicing upward, leaving a slightly deeper gash on Ray's hip as the knife tugged free. Damn. Damn damn damn, that one had been unintentional, and worse still it would be a physical reminder of being stripped, connected inexorably with the physical act. It could take the better part of a month to heal, and even then it'd leave a neat white line for most of the next year. Shit.
This time, reaching across to the other leg, he was a lot more careful, but there was more flexibility in the fabric, too, and the tip of the knife stayed away. It didn't stop him fretting about the blood though, and he pulled Ray's underwear free, rolled it into a ball and jammed it in against his hip. Then, pretending he'd done no such thing, touching the now bloodied flat of his blade to Ray's abdomen, way too close to the base of his cock for any man's comfort. Make him pay attention to that, and he might overlook the act of relative kindness. ]
Just think. [ He murmured, softly. ] If I really wanted to make you remember me this could be a whole lot worse. There's a couple of things around here you could do without. [ And now it was his turn to flash a nasty smirk, before he withdrew both the knife and himself, put the blade down under the chair, out of reach, and walked back across the room to the shelf. He stepped out of his underwear while he was there, shivering despite the intolerable warmth of the room as the brush of silk whispered against is bare thighs. And yes, he was already hard; achingly so. He resisted the urge to touch. It had been way too long.
He turned to look back at Stanley, judging him, then began plucking items off the shelf, among them shackles, a riding crop, lube, latex gloves--pausing after a moment to hold up a string of anal beads. ]
What do you think? Hot or not? Me, I'm not sure. I've never tried them. But let's suppose they do what it says on the box, huh?
[ He had no idea that Ray couldn't see from this distance. Frankly even if he'd known he'd have still done it. He added them to his collection of items and made his way back, putting everything down with a metal clink and clang on the easy to scrub down rubber floor, and staying well clear of those feet in the process. ]
Here we are then, look. [ He held up the little white bag so that Ray could see. ] This is the best stuff, safe as houses, not split with baking soda and fucking ground up aspirin like the shit you get in Chicago. You understand? No one in the right mind would fuck me on this. So. [ He tilted his head. ] You may be thinking "No fucking way", but look at the advantages. No accountability. Not when you get hard, not when you come, not when all that pain goes away. I'm gonna force it on you either way, but it's easier if you cooperate. We've established that much already, haven't we?
[ The gloves went on first, as though he was concerned that traces of the drug would get on his hands - he wasn't, unlike the real Armando he was at no risk of being put away for possession or handling banned substances - and then he was bringing a dose of it to Ray, offering it at head height. It put his hand and wrist very close to those teeth. ]
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Ray allows himself the slightest moment of smugness, even as his hair is yanked at even harder, throat bobbing as he harshly swallows down any noise he might be about to make.
Fight me with everything you've got. He doesn't miss that comment, taking it as a full put permission to hit back now without repercussion. Oh, he'd been careful up until now for Fraser's safety and his own, but if Armando wants him to fight, he'll show this Vegas pussy what a Chicago tough guy can offer. A guy like this? With limos and mansions and goons at his beck and call? He probably hasn't seen what the real streets are like in years. He probably barely ever sees tough guys any more, not after they're in a room like this and pissing themselves. And Ray doesn't blame any tough guy for that, because it's damn hard to act tough when your tied down and at the mercy of some mobster psycho, he's learning that pretty quickly.
That nick in the back is another wound to add to the slowly growing number, his skin cringing against the knife and his breath hissing, but his attention drawn to where Armando- and more importantly the knife- were headed. He forces himself not to jolt away from the blade as it hooks into his underwear, well aware too much sudden movement when there's something that sharp near his groin was a bad idea, but the flick upwards has him flinching heavily because jesus, he doesn't want that near his dick. It takes a couple of seconds for the cut to sink in, for his nerves to send the right signals to his brain and his visual cue of quickly pooling blood to be processed. That smarts. That stings a hell of a lot, enough that it's got Ray hissing out a very silent swear that comes out sounding like an; 'Ah, faaaak'.
He barely even pays attention to the slice of fabric the other side, although takes note of his now mangled underwear being jammed in against the bleeding, which almost seems counter-productive to the whole process of cutting and bleeding and-- well he's not given much time to question the action anyway, because the knife is right by his dick, exactly where he didn't want it to be. He gets the threat, he really does. There didn't even need to be the verbal confirmation, but it solidifies the fact that this psycho could slice his dick off right now without any hassle to the family. But it's merely a threat (for the moment) and Ray's exhaling a breath he hadn't even realised he was holding as the mobster puts away the knife and heads off again.
There's some squinting from Stanley as he tries to catch sight of what's going on, his gaze only broken briefly as he gives himself a once over to double check on his wounds. Superficial, he'd survive them, even if the one at his hip is throbbing and seeping through the makeshift bandage. And he has the possibility of three hours of this shit?
He doesn't even want to know what the guy's holding up and questioning him about, doesn't even ask as he shakes his head anyway, head dropping towards the items as they're finally brought over to the floor nearby. They look like some sick things to bringing to a guy tied to a chair, he can assess that much and how he'd love to be able to kick them away. Or even better, kick Armando, but right now he's staying smartly out of reach while he talks of high grade cocaine and blah blah, Ray doesn't give a shit how good it is.
There's no point in trying to argue his values with some coke user, so he does exactly what Armando asked him to do; he fights. Or more accurately; he bites. Of course he does. How can he not when there's a hand offered up so beautifully right in front of him? He goes right for the fleshy part at the base of his thumb, quick as a flash, teeth sinking in and pressing down harder and harder with every intention of causing pain, an obvious 'fuck you' without ever having to utter a word.]
no subject
Idiot. Idiot. He'd wanted to give Ray something to work with, sure, but he was thinking maybe a clip to the face as he untied him, not this. This was going to scar, and it was going to look nasty, and more importantly it hurt like fuck, but then Ray didn't know he was fighting a guy who was only pretending to be a vicious Italian mobster. Ray thought he was fighting the real thing. That was good, that was the point, but fuck, he'd really taken his eye off the ball to let this happen.
He yelled, reeling his fist back as though he intended to punch the detective in the head, but managed to stop himself. If he wanted Ray's teeth to snap through the tendons in his thumb and permanently disfigure him, maybe he could go ahead and hit him. But no--no, there was no way out of this but to think about unlocking those jaws pragmatically. But his brain was fuzzing over from pain.
The funny thing was, he thought, he'd dropped the straw of cocaine on Ray's chest, white powder raining down over his bare skin, frosting his pubic hair. Okay, so it wasn't funny, it was the pain that made him whimper out laughter.
Think think think.
Okay, tools. He had tools. He had... His hand scrabbled on the floor beside him, fingers trailing across the various mostly unfamiliar objects. He picked up the metal thing it had taken him two hours of speculation to work out when he'd been down here the first time months ago. It looked more like a kitchen implement than a sex aid. A grip handle, and jaws that opened as pressure was applied, smooth metal jaws that closed into the center as narrow and smooth as a candle. It wasn't for prying open jaws, but he shoved the end of it between Ray's teeth anyway, his eyes flashing pain as he squeezed down with everything he had, it served its necessary purpose. He snarled, animal-like fury, as the metal tool forced those teeth apart.
And then he withdrew, panting, pulling his injured hand against his chest. It was bleeding profusely, and his thumb hurt to move it, but at least nothing was dangling or broken. That was always a bonus. But now injured, he ought to be furious, and that had to turn back on Ray. He couldn't afford to succumb to the agony for the sake of appearances, and that was the only reason why he kept his other hand on the tool in Ray's mouth. Hissing in pain, he reached down with his injured hand and picked up the most ridiculously large dildo he'd taken down from the shelf. He hadn't brought it over to use it, just to fuck with Ray's head, but now he shoved it through the space between the tool's wide metal jaws, and with all his strength pinned Ray between it and the back of the chair, slumping against the arm of it and glowering fiercely at him. ]
Cocksucking little shit. [ He poured all of his pain into the words, and they sounded like the bitterest, most intense loathing for it. Good, he could use that. He jerked a little on the dildo, not really meaning to choke him, but at least to give Ray the feeling that he might. Blood was pouring down his arm, dripping off his elbow onto Ray's thigh. He reached down with his good hand and manhandled the bag of cocaine, taking out the other straw and bringing it to Ray's nose. It wasn't like he could breathe through any other orifices--he'd inhale, and then Ray would retreat, throwing the makeshift gag down in anger and pacing away from the chair.
He was back just a moment later. Idiot. God. Walking away from the painkillers. He picked up the bag and stalked away with it, paced back and forth as he set about it, then set the rest down on the stainless steel surgeon's bench and shook out his hands and arms. He rubbed his nose, turned, and resumed his glaring at Ray, nursing his injured hand, trying to assess the damage. His lips were curled back. His anger, flashing in his dark eyes, made him look half insane; positively homicidal. ]
You're a real son of a bitch, you know that?
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It might have been that'd he'd let go eventually of his own accord when the satisfaction was enough or his jaw had ached, but who knew how long any of that could take. Could be hours. Armando's wise to try and find an escape route that doesn't involve hitting Ray around the head, and Ray hadn't quite been expecting there to be anything nearby that could release him easily. It's why he's almost jerking back as he feels the metal at his mouth, a forceful movement jarring his jaw open and finally getting him to release his hold on the other.
He'd expected that to be that. At least until Armando could retreat and lick his wounds and come back for round two, but Ray had to hand it to the guy for retaliating while still dribbling blood from his fresh bite. Those metal... what were they? Tongs? They were enough to agitate, Ray leaning against them just enough to try and bite back down on them until suddenly there's an imposing fucking object ramming at his open jaw, straight into the gap presented. A dildo. A huge fucking dildo that fills the entirety of his mouth and has him pinned back against the chair in an attempt to escape the invasion.
It did fuck with his head just to know something like that existed and was down in this creepy ass dungeon to start with. Made worse by the fact that it was right beside him. And now he was practically choking on it as his body fought against his gag reflex, entirely unused to that sort of sensation pressing down against his tongue and pushing to the back of his throat. Jesus, he doesn't want to choke on some oversized fake cock, but for a second he seriously wonders if that's the way he'll go as he meets the eyes of one pissed off mafioso.
Then there's that bag back in view and the straw brought to is nose and just for a few ridiculous seconds he's doing is best to hold his breath. It can't last though. It's virtually impossible to hold his breath when he's still soft gagging desperately. Naturally what follows a pause in breath results in a deeper inhale, which in hindsight isn't the best of ideas, but then just like that Armando's pulling back, leaving Ray to drop his head and choke back a few well needed breaths.
And then sniff.
And again.
His head snaps back up, blinking rapidly until he can focus on the figure that's glaring daggers at him like some murderous fucker-- but jesus, it feels like his brain just blew out the back of his skull. He can hear his own pulse, rushing in his ears, pumping at a million miles an hour as his heart kicks up a notch and it's like the weirdest combination of an anxiety attack and a massive adrenaline rush, which is pretty damn unfair considering he's tied up and can't do a fucking thing.
But he smiles. He smiles right back, lips and teeth still tinted red from the mobster's own blood.]
You asked for it, pal, literally asked-- ngh, fuck, my heart's gonna explode. I need to... to go.
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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.
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Fuck that guy, fuck him for tying Ray down, for cutting him, for the taunts and snarls and for forcing him into this. Not that this was bad. In fact, he's not entirely sure why he was so reluctant, not when he was now thinking clear enough to realise that he could take on the fucking world. This Armando guy was small fry, Ray could take him, he'd already proven that with the bite. He didn't need his arms to harm this guy. He was indestructible, a machine, he was Robocop, Bionic Man and James Bond all rolled into one.
And he fucking loved it.
All this vitality and all this focus stayed locked onto the approaching mobster, both of them naked and surging with energy that made this feel like some bizarre showdown, even with one of them bound to a chair. They were both bleeding and somehow that made it feel like things had evened out by Ray's standards, and his confidence since that bite (or more likely since the coke) had shot through the roof. Sure, he might have to endure a few hits or some such before the battle was over, but he could endure anything right now.]
You motherfucker. I'll rip your head off your fuckin' neck. I'll punch a hole through your skull and fuck it. I'll--
[That touch to his thigh shoots through him in an instant, his skin thrumming with nerves. He could feel everything, jesus, when did he get so sensitive? It was like having Mountie senses all of a sudden.
Armando's speaking but Ray's barely listening, it's background noise compared to that quiet thrum of that motor and the dull vibrations in the mobster's hand. He watches like a hawk, so totally focused that he doesn't miss a single motion, like slow motion as that ring slips around the tip of his cock and immediately shoots pleasure through the entirety of his body. It's constant, unrelenting and enveloping his whole circumference, causing his hips to jerk upwards and his hands to tug sharply at his restraints for a second as his instincts urge him to touch himself, or to egt that thing off, or to just do something.]
Ffffuck you, asshole!
[That jittering has turned to all out squirming as his body wills him to try and get more of that encouraging hum of motion. He wants it, he needs it, but he also wants and needs to strangle this guy.]
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So he was still with it when Ray shouted and snarled at him, threatening impossible things that quite possibly reflected the sensation of being high perfectly; that feeling of impossible invulnerability, of the ability to perform considerable feats of strength all off the back of adrenaline. There's something about the threat that reaches deep into his pleasure center. Maybe it's just been too long, maybe that's it. Nobody would dare to threaten him like that. But Ray of course: Ray is invulnerable; Ray is a cop, Ray is a killer, Ray is a superhero. He can do anything he wants, threaten anyone he wants. He's not scared of anyone or anything.
Hell, he hadn't been to start with, the coke had just enhanced that feeling, given the detective the confidence to genuinely believe it.
Ray's eyes are on his hand, but Armando's eyes are on Ray's face, not letting him out of his sight. As he hardens, his hand comes away from Ray's thigh, nudging the ring a little further along the length. He glanced down, checking his progress, curling his fingers around him and stroking upward--once, twice, again.
God. Okay. So this wasn't exactly something he did naturally, but he hadn't realised how much he missed the thrill of arousing another human being, hadn't realised how much he'd missed it himself. It had been longer than just a year (not much longer, but long enough, and he could blame Fraser for that; nobody looked at the guy standing next to Mr. Fucking Perfect.) Ray had a very nice cock, he thought distinctly, and then double took his own feelings because wow, not the kind of thing you thought about another guy's penis, Vecchio. He needed to get laid more often, this was unacceptable. ]
Fuck me? Sure. Fuck me. You break out of those bonds and my ass is yours. Come on.
[ But Ray wasn't going anywhere. He curled his own upper lip, still stroking, and then pulled his hand away, reaching up, digging his fingertips, his nails, into the wound he'd cut across Ray's chest. He leant forward after them, digging his teeth into the cut too, sucking hard on the skin just underneath his nipple, bruising it. He didn't linger there, not because it wasn't safe, but because it wasn't his place. It was practically consensual, got a bit too close to sensual, and he had to remind Ray that he wasn't doing this for his benefit.
He drew away, circled the chair again, this time just keeping his distance, watching. He paced one way, turned and paced back, admiring the sight of him writhing, then stopped, cocking his head to one side. ]
Choices. We all gotta make them. You want a choice? You try and kick me, you even try, and I tie up your feet. That'll be it. No kicking, no more moving, no nothing. [ He tried an approach, moving tentatively forward. Decisions, decisions. Get between his knees--he could work from there. Just get close enough... ]
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It's been far too long since anything but his own hand had been near his dick, his constant fawning over Stella and his curse of having to hang around with Fraser making it virtually impossible to get laid. Sure, there was the occasional woman, but this was so much more than a clumsy fumble with some random chick. This was worse, and yet felt a million times better. It must be the drug. Must be to get his senses heightened to such a ridiculous state.
And then there's those fingers. Stroking perfunctorily and adding a whole extra dimension. Ray can't be blamed for getting hard. It's hardly his fault that the coke has got him desperate for stimulation, no matter what it was. Even those nails, and God those teeth, had his cock twitching, the pain shooting through him so sharply that he can't hold back the guttural groan that tears from his throat. That hurt and yet... and yet he's almost disappointed when Armando withdraws.
The withdrawal does, however, give him a chance to think as much as the buzzing ring will allow, at least aware enough to realise that yes, he might be getting just a little carried away from a few simple touches. He's aware enough the consider the choice given to him too, glaring stormy grey hatred towards the other that's softened just slightly by a cocaine fuelled arousal.]
Give it a go, dickweed. See if you got any balls left.
[But Ray doesn't move at the careful approach. Doesn't even twitch beyond the thrumming energy that's getting his legs jittering every now and then. He won't kick. There's no point beyond the brief satisfaction, and he's already got plenty of enjoyment from that bite. With his legs tied he'd be in an even worse position than he already is, and at least this way he's only got getting his hands free to worry about.
If he can escape. Which is still at the forefront of his mind and yet still being realised to be a somewhat useless endeavour.]
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Okay, so it hadn't been the plan. He'd meant to loom over him or...something. Go at him with the stretchers, press the handle of the crop into him, maybe start up with the anal beads or worse, but what he actually does had never been on the cards in the first place. It wasn't Armando, but he reckoned with enough teeth he could pull it off. Besides, he knew he had Ray's attention, and as he filled that ring would tighten, trapping him in that state of arousal for precisely as long as Vecchio decided. That was going to be torture.
He kept just the head in his mouth, the hot swell of his tongue flat against the tip, searching up with the hard point of muscle to dig in where it could. He sucked, hard, and he tried to feel imposing, threatening, as though if he could make himself believe it then he might put that across to Ray. The whole length of him seemed to be vibrating from the device, the feeling of it strange against his tongue, but then nothing about this was regular. Nothing about this was really normal--sucking off the guy who was undercover as you, while you were undercover as a mafioso, torturing him because the Mountie friend that drives you up the wall has gotten himself in trouble with the mob and the FBI again. Not. Normal. Except in their world where this was sort of a par for the course, right?
He pressed a little further down, until his lips almost touched the ring, the vibration making his nose tickle, and then he was drawing his teeth along the length, making sure that Ray could feel the blunt edge of his incisors as they scraped against him. He let his teeth settle against foreskin, holding him there in his open jaws like he was about to bring the portculis down, eyes opening and flicking up to the man above him. Got your life in my hands, his expression said. Wanna see what happens if I bite down? And then he was drawing back, licking a wet stripe along the length of it, and leaving it to fall where it may as he pulled himself up by Ray's hips.
He got very close then, nevermind his concerns that the other man might try and bite his face off. They were almost nose to nose. His hand - the one not holding his weight over Ray - worked down to the vibration, then reached behind it, fingernail scraping hard against Ray's entrance, soft pad pressing against it suggestively. ]
You want me to do it. I oughta make you beg.
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There's already some distant regret at allowing Armando closer as he wastes no time in pushing himself in between his knees, getting far too involved in Ray's personal space. But his personal space was invaded long ago by this guy, and he supposes that'll carry on for as long as it needs to.
Fuck, he hoped this was worth it.
It would be worth it. He was going to win. He could take on this guy any day of the week, tied down or not.
Except... it's hard to be aggressive when what you assume will be an attack turns into a guy dropping to his knees and licking your cock. It's so unexpected that Ray's hips are jerking and his entire body is left convulsing for a second as he desperately tries to adjust to that wet, warm, perfect tongue. Not fair. Not fair at all. It's like changing the rules half way through a game and not telling the other side.
Ray's left reeling and gasping, even as lips slip further down him and teeth scrape like daggers against far too sensitive skin. This shouldn't be arousing, not when he's tied and bleeding in some bizarre mafia sex dungeon with classical music drifting in the background. This should be terrifying, and yes, there's still fear and anxiety knotted in his chest, but he's so overwhelmed by feeling and confidence and a ridiculously heightened awareness of his body that it's hard to focus on the danger of it all.
Even as those teeth wrap around him, his sense of risk is all skewed, his gazes locking with Armando portraying a clear sense of desperation because jesus fuck he doesn't want anything down there bit off, but yet still full of daring, do it, do it, I fucking dare you. God, it's the worse thing to try and silently challenge someone to, what the fuck is wrong with his brain?
Coke driven confidence or not, he still huffs out a breath of relief as he's released from the grip, breath short but heavy as Armando leans in. Ray sneers, because it's virtually the only thing he can do to show his annoyance beyond trying to bite the guys face off, but the sneer quickly morphs into a confused snarl at the scrape of a nail and pressure of a finger.
Nothing should be down there. That's an out of bounds area, and his hips lift just slightly as though trying to move away from the threat of intrusion. Slice him up all you want, but this? This is just weird.]
I oughta rip your face off, fag. Lean in a little closer, why don't you?
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Sure, maybe psychologically he could tell that it was defensive anger, that he was protecting the frightened, quivering little part of him that was rightly terrified of what was being done to him, and that was really sort of sad, but in the greater scheme of things someone who could look pure horror in the eye and come back swinging was someone the world couldn't beat down.
Ray liked him. He liked that this guy was in there doing his job, he liked that this guy was out here hunting down Benny when he got lost in the big wide world. If anyone in on the planet could be counted on to protect Benton Fraser, then it'd have to be someone like this; someone who wasn't exactly fearless, but knew when to turn it into action. Of course Ben would take advantage of that. He'd throw him in the ring with bad guys, probably literally, and see where that fear got him, and Ray would hate him for it for a little while. ]
You know-- [ He purred, and his eyes narrowed. He could play with the Fraser thing without actively bringing it up. He knew how the Mountie got under your skin, and it was worth it to remind Ray that Fraser was why he was here: ] --you got this thing all wrong. Logic says you should eat your pride, try and distract me. I could do this for hours, stretch it right out for too long, lose track of time. It's been forever. Be a right picture when my guys walk in to find me sucking cock.
[ He licked his teeth, bared them into a dangerous smile, still stroking that finger in circles. He'd need the lube to really do this, but he could fuck with Ray's head a little. He pressed just the tip inside, down to the first joint, in past muscle, rising up with Ray as he tried to get some purchase on the chair, find some space to escape into.
There wasn't any escape from this. ]
I could let you fuck my mouth. [ His low murmur was, despite the thickness of the expletives, deeply sensual, almost velvet. ] Let you choke me with it. All the way down. In and out, till you're spilling over, till I'm drowning. You like that?
[ He sank back and down, almost to his former position, and stretched out an arm, plucking up the lube from the floor, very aware of his face and Ray's knee, and keeping his chin on top of his thigh out of range of any sudden jerks. The spreader was where he'd thrown it, still splashed with blood and spittle, and he picked that up too, setting it on the edge of the chair in the space his own body made. He had a good view from down here, and Ray could see him too, could see the spreader and the lube, could maybe guess where this was going. ]
Go ahead, call me a fag again. A queer. A fanook. See if it makes you feel any better. Cause I'm no prancing, musical theater loving fairy. I'm the guy who's gonna break you open with his cock. So go on, let's see what you've got. Let's see how long that bravado of yours lasts before you're begging me.
[ He snapped open the lube, let the sound punctuate the noises in the room, licked Ray's belly, since the angle allowed. It was splashed with blood, but who's? By now he couldn't tell. ]
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But Armando made it sound so appealing. Voice as smooth as butter as told it like a story, some dirty little erotic novel of some secret affair. He made it sound good for Ray, like he could get all the pleasure from this, get a mouth to fuck and somewhere to spill his load. It sounded tempting and alluring and selfless, so much so that he just couldn't believe a fucking word of it, even as his arousal swelled at the idea of it. That finger, however, was less welcome. Even that tip, especially without lubricant, was enough to get Ray snarling softly, muscles clamping around it and still trying to lift away from it as it follows. By the end he's got his hips lifted just off the seat and his weight distributed between his legs and his arms, and it hasn't made the slightest bit of difference to that invasion.
Fuck, he must be desperate if even this was setting him off.
Blame the coke. Isn't that what the mafioso had said right from the start? That this would absolve Stanley of all responsibility. It wasn't a bad call, and even with the surging guilt at every single part of this, Ray could genuinely say the drug is the reason his heart is racing and his mind is fucked. He can't be blamed for that...]
Fuckin' try it, sure. Bet your family would love to hear one of their respected is tryin' to fuck around with cops.
[Strained, raw, his throat dry and already aching, all this aggression really not helping it along.
He doesn't dare lower his hips, not at first, especially not when he sees the lubricant and those weird ass tongs back in view; a hugely unwelcome view after last time. They were bad enough near his mouth. But then it's stupid to be sat like this. It's giving easy access. He needed to get himself tucked in and away from prying fingers.
There'd been that silent acknowledgement that kicking was a bad idea, but perhaps a shove wouldn't be included in that. After all, when his feet scrabble for purchase against the rubber with all consideration on lowering himself properly back into the chair, he can hardly be blamed if a bare foot plants itself at Armando's torso, and it can't even be blamed for pushing solidly against that body, using the momentum to push himself right into the back of the seat. His position takes up the defensive, pelvis rocking back to try and tuck his ass further into the corner of the seating and away from prying hands, but at least it gave a nice effect of shoving his chest out, a nice little addition to 'that bravado' of his.]
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But he also had a shrink, an FBI doctor he spoke to once a fortnight during his debriefing, and inevitably more psychotherapy than he could stand when he came out of it. Of course the fact that he'd no more talk to her about this incident than this stand-in Ray would talk to anyone was more or less irrelevant. He had it if he wanted it. The help was there.
No, they were both fucked. This assignment was going to ruin him, and there really was no getting out of it. Shrink or no, he was going to carry this shit around with him up until the day he died, even if that day wasn't this week or next month, and Ray was really getting off easy. Between getting fucked by a mobster or fucked by the FBI...
Get back in the game, Vecchio. Armando. You've still got a job to do. A job, right. This was a job. Fuck his life.
He was just readjusting his feet when Ray began to twist and scramble on the floor, the edge of the chair, and he felt the foot on his chest in the moment before Ray jammed himself backward using the resistance of his own body. He didn't resist for long; unbalanced, he toppled over on the rubber under Ray's feet, fell on his ass, and then sat there startled for a moment. And then he laughed--it might even have been a Vecchio laugh, it was really hard to tell - had been too long - and he was dragging himself back up, looking at Ray with his ass tucked in against the back corner of the chair and his chest puffed out like a Mountie on parade. Okay, that wasn't exactly a kick, but a moment later he's forcibly rubbing the laughter from his face, and he draws his fist back and slams it right into the side of Ray's face. ]
Alright, pretty boy. You feel that?
[ He wrapped his now aching hand around Ray's throat, closed it tight and leant in over him. ]
You do that again, or you speak a word about any of this when you leave this room, it won't be you I break. No, no, no, no, no. It'll be your sister, or your mother, or your stetson wearing friend, and I'll take half a dozen of my men with me, they like it when we go on road trips. We'll all have a go. We'll make a night of it, have a fucking party. He was real pretty your friend, prettier than you. I wonder what color Canadians bleed--do you know? A real bright red, maybe. It'll look real nice running down his thighs.
[ Always important to remind him what he was up against. Besides, Ray didn't know that he wouldn't do those things. He'd already seen what he would do to a guy who hadn't so much as hit him; just jumped him in a casino. Taking swipes at the Mountie was the way to go, though. If anyone had talked to him about Fraser that way he'd have ripped their head off with his bare hands. ]
Spread your legs. Don't you fucking make me wait. [ He squeezed his hand, then released, leaving a bruise on Ray's throat. ]
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Ray does his best to keep up the macho act as Armando stands back upright, chest still puffed like it'll somehow be enough to get the mob guy standing down to his obviously superior alpha male status. Except it doesn't.
He's not even sure why he's surprised by the strike to his face, but he is. It hits like car crash, all the force that Ray himself would put behind a hit like that. It's an experienced swing from a guy who's obviously been through it all before, a guy who knows a thing or two about fist fights and the world of physical violence. So maybe he wasn't always a paper pusher for the mob, but plenty of them work their way up from the bottom. The hit may have floored Stanley if he wasn't sat down, instead snapping his neck sharply to the side as he takes the full force of it, grunting out a sharp sound of surprise and pain. His cheek and jaw take the full brunt of it, and without his hands there to be able to clutch for his face, he's left trying to experimentally move his jaw as he starts to turn back to Armando.
The glaring daggers look is just about to come, but then there's a hand at his throat and instead he's wavering between some muddle of anger, determination, fear and realisation. Realisation that every time he messes around with this, he risks putting his friend or family (Vecchio's family?) in danger. He wouldn't put it past this crazy to do it, either. Guys like this find ways, and their lawyers are good enough that nothing ever sticks.
By the time the hand releases, Ray's gasping for air, head lowering just slightly as he sucks in a few heavy breaths, enough of an excuse for his delay in doing as he's told. But he has to. There's no way around it right now. It doesn't help that even through all of this, his dick is staying hard thanks to that ever presence buzzing squeezing around it. Shit, he hoped it was the ring and the cocaine and not some sick, personal pleasure. He couldn't think straight.
And then, after a third deep breath, he slowly creeps his knees apart, but not before that glare of his is married with a determined spit of his chewing gum in Armando's direction. How he's managed not to swallow that by now is a mystery and a miracle, but at least he's getting rid of it effectively.]
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Still, at the end of the day he really had needed to assert control again. Having the imposter fighting him back was all well and good, made him feel like he wasn't getting it so easy (and why should he get it easy, said his cop psyche; he was rooting for Ray as though he were fighting off a real mobster) but at the end of the day he had to dominate this, show real strength, shake this guy down to his core. It needed to really take something from him, so that his pride couldn't afford to take another blow, but more importantly that comment about Fraser would remind him that the Mountie really was better off anywhere in the world but Vegas. Ray would live through this, but even if he was all fight, was willing to come back just to tear Armando's throat out himself, he would never put Fraser at risk by letting him within a thousand miles of the desert again.
He knew he had him when - even panting for breath - Ray's indomitable glare was still cutting the air between them like a knife. Hate is good. Hate is better than breaking. This guy can and should hate him, it'll help him survive. Of course then he spits his gum right in Armando's face even as he spreads his legs, and Vecchio is torn between going ahead with that backhander and jamming the glob of spittle covered gum right up Ray's nose.
He does neither, lets it glance off him physically and emotionally, and he leans into Ray, lathes his tongue against his throat, draws back up to face him, back between his legs now. He was close enough to Ray's face to bite, to kiss, but he liked to think he'd frightened him enough to get past that risk. None the less, he still hovered back slightly as he found the lube between them, ignoring the device to instead spread a healthy amount over his fingers. The good old fashioned way. It was more intimate this way--it was a debate which was more humiliating, but at least it let him get real close.
Reaching for that spot again, unimpeded this time, he pushed one finger up to the second joint--drew it out and pushed in again, further, and hissed at the clutching, tight heat that pulsed around him. Even here he could feel the dull vibration. No wonder it was driving him crazy. ]
How's it feeling? You want I should turn it off? Beg me. Beg me, Ray, I'll turn it off. All you gotta do is be real polite. Say please.
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What he can't get rid of is the memory of this. Sure, he'd do his best to shove it right to the back, lock it away, but this is the sort of thing that fucks you over years later, creeping in dreams when least expected. This is the sort of thing people should see their therapists for, but this is the sort of thing that Ray will never see a therapist for in a million years. He can never mention it or discuss it to anyone, not even the guy in front of him right now.
But this was for Fraser, as so much of the problems he'd got into over the last year had been. Fraser dragged him into danger over and over again and now he's managed it without even being here to share the pain. That smug asshole better appreciate Ray's rescue when it comes.
As Armando draws in closer, Ray doesn't counter it, suitably cowed for the moment by threats on his friend, although still full of sneers and glares and that general aura of hatred he manages to emit. He's still shuddering lightly, never seeming to stop, even at the lick to his throat. He can't stop. Between anxiety and coke he's got perpetual jittering that he's long ago stopped noticing, what with more important things on his mind.
Confidence or not, this felt like a heavy defeat, his allowance of this to even happen agitating him enough to growl heavily as he feels the pressure of that first slick finger. This was happening. Actually happening. Oh, he'd fought against it, but he wouldn't even be here if he'd thought of something more intelligent than throwing himself at the first mobster he could. This was a huge fucking failure, even with the possibility of getting Fraser at the end of it all, and he hated every last bit of it. And yet... and yet still his cock stayed hard.
Even as that finger pushed deeper, even as his muscles locked in around it in a desperate attempt to get rid of the intrusion. Still he was hard and straining. That fucking ring.]
Do I look fff- hngh- ffuckin' Canadian to you?
[Who says please while they're being fingered by some ego tripping mafioso? Canadians, that's who. Only Canadians.]
Turn it offff. [That quiet buzz is enough to drive him mad as it consistently drove deep into him, thrumming a tight grip around him the whole time, while giving him absolutely no sense of true satisfaction.]
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But he stayed, worked in a second finger beside the first, and withdrew it as quickly as he'd pushed it inside, bringing his hand to the ring to press the switch down on the vibrate function. He was swollen and hard, that lovely length of him, purpling, and now trapped that way for as long as Armando deigned. Even without the vibration it was probably enough to drive Ray loopy, but that was good too. He could build on the pleasure, make him delirious with it, make it matter less if only because he couldn't think through it all. If he did it right, the entire process would blur together; the cocaine would help with that, twist it into some sort of unreal nightmare.
Vecchio wouldn't be so lucky, but he should have to live with this; with every single crisp second. It was his penitence.
Fuck, he was coming down already. He could fix that, but first he pressed his first finger back inside again, as though he were starting the process from scratch, but with the way Ray was resisting it was almost like doing exactly that. Muscles clamped around him like vices, because fighting back that way was all Ray had to do, all he needed to focus on. It made his blunt fingernails dig in more than necessary, but every time they did Ray just snarled again, and what could he say? "Relax, let me do you up the ass"? Those two things didn't really go hand in hand.
So he kept fighting this battle which neither of them were equipped to fight, and after managing to get his second finger back in there and giving it a real good go, Vecchio gave up again, slipping his fingers free and propping his hands under Ray's thighs as he leant into his belly. He'd dropped white powder there, and most of it was still all over him, even though some of it was ruined by blood. Still, there was enough that he could press his tongue into the cracks, lapping up enough of it to bring his heart back to racing, sharpen his senses, lower his inhibitions. He needed the boost for the sake of his self esteem, but then of course he'd been doing this for months. It always seemed to take a little more, and it was hard to fight the urge to let it when there wasn't enough in the world for him to spend Armando's money on as it was.
He'd given up with his fingers, but that didn't stop the onslaught. Now that he had surrendered to the idea that loosening Ray up the good old fashioned way was the sexual equivalent of leading a horse to water and forcing it to drink, he admitted that the other methods, the props he'd been more or less dismissing out of some urge to somehow be less impersonal, were probably in fact vital. He'd been stupid, even inconsiderate, to think otherwise, drawing this out like they were two teenagers bumping uglies in the back of a car when that wasn't what this was about at all.
So in went the soft, fingerwidth steel of the spreader, coated with lubricant, and maybe he hadn't warmed it up, but he applied the requisite pressure little by little, his chin on Ray's stomach, his other hand testing the gap as he stretched metal apart. When there was enough room, he fed four of the string of beads into him, smallest first, before pulling the stretcher free, letting muscle snap back down. He could feel it, lube slick fingers sliding against bare skin, sensing the stretch around the bead just underneath the surface. God--god, he was fucked up to find that hot. He pressed up, fed in the next slippery bead slowly, then drew it back out again, panting against the wet trails he'd licked on Ray's belly as he did it. He didn't think Ray would mind, or even notice, how much this was driving him crazy. And he looked back up. Imposter. And felt the most inappropriate flare of superiority rising in his chest. ]
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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.]
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It's deeply satisfying, though, when Ray - his breath hitching - snarls down at him. They're almost dirty enough words, he could figure them for real sex talk, like they were lovers who liked it rough; that this wasn't the kind of situation where Ray would have choked him to death with his bare hands if he got them free. It was a nice, if unrealistic, daydream, and it lasted half a second, because Vecchio realised almost immediately that he wouldn't enjoy that sort of sex talk ever again, and that sort of took the edge off the fantasy. He couldn't imagine, right now, ever wanting to have sex again, let alone have it any way that wasn't straightforward and vanilla in a nice dark room.
It was over.
It was over because this - everything about it; the power, the wrongness, the toys, Vecchio and Vecchio, the situation with Fraser, the cocaine - was all turning him on. He was high on it, head in the clouds, and sex was just going to be a minefield of things that reminded him of this moment. After pride and lust, he'd feel guilt, shame, disgust--all the things he ought to be feeling right now, but wasn't because of the coke; wasn't because he simply wasn't letting himself. He knew that at the end of the day this was impossibly far from the person he really was: that he was gentler than this, that he'd never deliberately damage a person the way he was breaking this man in front of him. But some dark part of him was enjoying this. Some dark part of him would still hate himself for enjoying it years down the line, and he felt like it was taking him over. In fact, he'd let it. He'd been letting it in since this assignment started, and yes, he'd heard all the horror stories about people going undercover and forgetting who they really were, knew that there were usually tragic repercussions.
He knew he was at risk of doing just that.
But if he didn't, he had to be this person while also being Ray Vecchio, and that was patently impossible. Ray Vecchio was the man in the chair with his legs spread. The world fucked Ray Vecchio, and Ray Vecchio had to grit his teeth and let it, because his hands were bound by the law, by morals and ethics and decency. He couldn't fight back even if he wanted to.
Ray moaned - not in pain - and Armando knew he had him. One moan opened the floodgates for more to follow, he just had to keep the sensation up. At the very least he had a secret weapon as far as that was concerned, but not yet. ]
What do you think this room is for? I got half a dozen of Vegas' finest on their backs for me if I want it. [ You done this before? He hadn't specified the beads. Fucked a cop, though. That was even actually true.
But then so was the kinky stuff. It was just that it had been consensual last time. A last ditch effort to spice up his relationship with Angie as their interest in each other waned.
He pulled the beads out again, one, two, three this time. Back in, one, two, three. Out, twice as fast. In, slowly again. He leaned back, pressing his nose into Ray's pubes and inhaling the dusting of cocaine that had fallen there. When he drew back, it was to flick the tip of his tongue, again, over the engorged head of Ray's cock. If anything would ache, that would be it. ]
Every time you hear a slot machine chime, you're gonna get hard thinking about this. You're going to remember being filled by me and it's gonna come down on you in the night like a weight on your chest, like a ghost fucking you into the bed. You're gonna wake up thinking about this with your fist around your cock, you dirty little slut. You can't even help it. Three hours with me, bleeding and moaning like a bitch, and it's gonna be the best sex you've ever had. You're going to hate yourself for that, aren't you? [ His voice dropped an octave, he looked up through his dark lashes, green eyes almost black thanks to the red lighting. ] Hey, Ray. Try not to scream.
[ There was a vibrator in the anal beads. He turned it on. ]
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Not to mention, depressing as the thought is, this is the most action he's had in years. This queer ass mafioso has been the first to touch Ray this intimately since Stella and that's a really fucked up thing to consider for too long. He hadn't even got laid in almost a year, which goes towards explaining why he feels excessively blue balled and like his dick might explode at any second. Worst part of it is he finds the struggle a turn on, like the adrenaline spikes of a good fight that leave you buzzing but in pain by the end of it. All this roughing up and shit talking, it's all part of it, and he thinks he could almost get on with this guy if he wasn't pressing beads into him.
There he is with a straining cock and no ability to give himself any satisfaction or blow his load, and yet his frustration is restrained well enough by Armando's attention. Even through all this his dick isn't forgotten, licked once again (but sadly only once) and getting his hips jerking upwards. The shift causes some movement below and he's grunting as he stills himself, still trying to adjust to the feeling of having them pressing inside him. It's an odd sensation to have something filling him, unusual and not what he'd ever expected he'd be experiencing in his lifetime. And yet here he is, and he'd just have to fucking deal with it because it's not like Armando's just suddenly going to stop for him now.
With each bead tugging against him, Ray's huffing out a sharp breath, resisting too much noise beyond low grunts as the pull is replaced by pushing them back in before the process is repeated all over. With his mind unfocused, his muscles start to relax of their own accord, self-preserving to make that movement just that little bit easier. He's not accepting it, not mentally, but he sure as hell didn't want to tear anything.
The little speech has got him grinding his teeth, words like slut and bitch chipping away at his pride and making him want to quickly fill it back in. The temptation to lash out again is high, a better kick, a knee, perhaps even just a spit to the face, anything to fill that shame, but his consideration is cut short by that last comment.
Scream?
What--
And then his whole body jerks upwards as one, every single muscle in him tightening so suddenly that he surprises himself. He's clamping back down on those beads and that just heightens the buzz emitting from them, vibrating deep within him where nothing has ever touched before. The scream doesn't come, his throat tightening as he strains out a breath, the sound coming out as a pathetic sounding;] Aah!
[There's just something over all pathetic about a lightly gasping, jittering, scrawny assed cop shivering his way through this like some lost or misplaced pet.
This is more unbearable than the ring. Set deeper within him and resonating throughout and impossible to counter, any tightening against it only increasing the feeling. It shouldn't feel so appealing, not something like this, but it hit every part of him too well.]
I've ha-ah-d better. [Sex, he means. Because he's not going to let this scumbag try and flatter himself with tales of amazing sex.]
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That's the moment when he turns on the beads, and Ray snaps shut like a steel trap. The wires of his body all tense at once, and he's rising out of the seat on instinct as though to escape that vibration, using Vecchio's body for height, hands and arms and legs and neck and stomach as though every muscle in him runs through the same place. He breathes out "Aah", and it's not a scream, but it's as close to one as he's gotten in the last hour so fuck it, it'll do.
Vecchio doesn't find it pathetic. Every second of fight that Ray puts up, the fact that even in the middle of this he's still holding strong to his own sense of self, endears him to his replacement by the moment. Armando will undo him, but not in a way he can't spring back from, because this guy could take on the world.
So he's powerful, he's strong, and even when he's bucking and trembling at that jackhammer going off inside him he's still himself; he hasn't retreated from reality yet, blocked out the world, let it wash over him. There was something impossibly attractive about it too. Wiry and wild with all his jagged edges, his hair limp from exertion, his eyes burst to pinpricks by the coke. Maybe he's no Marlon Brando, but he's got his own heat, a certain kind of rebellious attractiveness like Sid Vicious or something, pouring out waves of sex and potential violence like it was going out of style.
Sensing the change, everything shifted gear. Vecchio moved up so that those vice like legs were forced to clutch his hips instead, slid his arm around Ray's back, and as he turned off the vibration he supported him, lowering him back into the seat with his arm behind him, his body pressed close, his own erection nudged against the other man's.
His voice was a soft murmur; it had a lighter edge to it that wasn't there before. In another world, it might even have been mistaken as apologetic. ]
Al Capone, right? He learned all his best moves from me. Breathe out, Ray. Long and slow.
[ And even if he didn't obey, he tried to catch him on the exhale anyway, pulling the string of slippery beads out with a single jerk of his wrist. They were unnecessary now. He tossed them down on the floor and then drew his hand back up, rubbing his knuckles against his own eyebrow and leaving a fresh smudge of blood there. His hand was raw with it, but he couldn't feel it any more, couldn't feel anything except arousal, and Ray's legs, and the hot erection nudged against his own.
He was holding back, he realised. He hadn't even touched the lube yet - and yes, he did very much want to reach for it, plunge inside, get this part moving. He was holding back for some reason, though, and he couldn't put his finger on what it was. What did he want? Permission? Forgiveness? He wasn't going to get them. Vecchio licked his lips, ran his free hand back under their bodies, and for a moment he simply stood there on the brink, his thighs aching from holding his weight at the odd angle against the chair, massaging Ray's balls tenderly in the palm of his hand. ]
You ready? [ He said at last. Fuck, he was asking anyway. ]
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He can't stop it though, not when every part of him is tense and wired, shivering and straining around the unrelenting waves of pleasure deep within. It's hitting something deep within that he can't quite explain, and without being able to explain it even to himself, he turns to frustration and annoyance, snarling, legs still clamped around Armando even as he starts to shift upwards.
It comes as somewhat of a surprise at just how careful the mobster is as he shuts down that vibration, a supportive arm on Ray to lower him back in the chair as he collapses thankfully back down, sweating and panting from the exertion of it. His head drops backwards, resting at the seat back as he distantly listens to the voice, that mafioso aggression seemingly gone from the tone. There's instruction there, and while Ray doesn't want to obey on principle, it's difficult not to when his huffs for breath turn into deep inhales and long, heavy exhales. Armando catches him perfectly on one of the exhales, the beads slipping from Ray like some bizarre and exceptionally personal massage, causing his exhale to morph into a low, lasting moan, while he his muscle contracts and loosens in it's wake as if still grasping for them.
God, he needs release. He needs to get out of this somehow, especially out of that ring that's still clinging to the base of his cock like a rubber band gradually cutting circulation from a limb.
He's expecting something else to come, waiting with an anticipatory snarl, and yet instead he's met with a pause while a too soft palm cups around his balls. It's a ridiculously tender moment and Ray's half expecting pain to follow but never quite getting it. Not yet, anyway. For the moment he's just left to stare down his noses at Armando, panting.]
No.
[He can assume what he should be ready for. Whatever it is, it won't be pretty.]
Go fuck yourself.
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[ Fighting right up to the last; Vecchio could certainly respect him for that. Armando would too, probably, if he wasn't dead (he hadn't gotten a clear admission out of the FBI as to whether that had been an accident or not, but he suspected the answer was probably not).
He soothes for a moment longer, very aware of the edge of confusion that's slipped in in the meantime. This isn't natural behavior, it's creeping Ray out. Still, outside of that he's panting, gasping, jerking, moaning; a positive wreck. Even if he isn't willing to beg, if he maybe never would be, that's fine with Vecchio, his trembling body is communicating all those things for him.
Releasing his hand, Vecchio reached for the lube, not making a show and dance about it, in fact trying to hold Ray's glare in the meantime so that he didn't see what was happening between their legs. ]
Come on, Ray. Spit in my face and tell me that you love me. They make 'em hard in Chicago, don't they? Hard, hard guys. Yeah, I can see just how hard.
[ And soon enough - too soon and not nearly soon enough - he was nudging just the tip of his cock against Ray, slathered in as much lube as he could get out. Vecchio shifted back, put a little distance between his body and the other man's so that he could look down between them, so that he was far enough away from the detective's teeth that he didn't lose an ear or get his throat ripped out for the invasion. Using his hand to guide himself, he pressed into muscle, breached and slid deeper, guided by the path he'd already beaten into submission with the beads.
He'd expected it to be harder than it was, but that wasn't to say it was easy either. His hand pulled away soon enough though, and while one of his arms was still wrapped around Ray - not that he had anywhere to go - the other flattened itself in the middle of his chest, as though a reminder to himself that he was supposed to keep his distance.
And he watched, positively enraptured - and this at least was probably due to the cocaine - by the sight of his cock disappearing inside, embraced by that wonderful tight heat, that glove of knotted silk that pulled taut around him, working like iron cables snapping in a high wind.
Vecchio fell still, let Ray adjust to the sensation--though not for too long. He didn't want him to think he'd gone soft. He was panting, aching for friction, driven near crazy himself by waiting. ]
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He needs that off and he needs pleasure. What he doesn't need is some other guy's cock, but it appears as if he's going to get that no matter what he was hoping for. Ray would consider it a selfish fucking move, but then he remembers this isn't his lover and this isn't some scenario for him to get his rocks off to in some creepy ass sex dungeon. This is punishment. This is sending a message for him to think twice before he ever tries to invade in the families business again, and it works. Right here and right now, even without Armando removing his grip and lining himself up, Ray can safely say his lesson is well and truly learned.
After this he could get Fraser and get the hell out of town. After this. All he had to do was endure. And jesus, what a thing to endure.
Armando tells him to spit and he holds off because maybe that's some weird kink this guy has got going on. Some rapey little love to get spat at, just like his apparent enjoyment for getting his hand ripped to shreds. Ray does spit words though, trying to drag some sense of control back into his world as his arms strain up against the two ties.]
See how hard my fist is when I punch you a knew asshole, cocksuker. I'll tear ya to shreds. Rip you to pieces. Your boys are gonna come down here to find me fucking a new hole in your head. They'll have to drag me off your lifeless fuckin' corpse. I'll-- fuck.
[That distance between them is a good job, because right as he feels that breach, he gets the sudden urge to bite into something and not let go. Without the other nearby, he's forced to bite down on his own bottom lip, grunting and growling around it as Armando presses in. With the aid of all that lube, and the beads that had come before, the pressure is less intense than before, but it still hurts like hell.
It's the stretch that gets him, pushing wider than what had come before until he's pretty sure he's going to tear something, if not internally, then one of the hundreds of muscles in his torso that are currently keeping him almost lifted off the chair again. This isn't like before, where there was a relenting pause between each bead. This is solid and thick and determined.
Tempting as it is to kick out, it's difficult for Ray to control himself much as it is, and so instead of a solid side kick to the side, his legs stay tight around the body between them, one uselessly wrapping around as if that'll somehow prevent it all. It can at least try and keep Armando where is is and not moving back, but even that doesn't seem too helpful in the current situation, especially not considering one leg can't match up to the other's entire body moving.
But there's a pause. Almost like a moment for adjustment but that can't be right. Maybe the mobster is so coked up that he just needs time to think; he sure does seem fascinated just by looking. Fucker.
Dick in him or not, Ray still pushes against the hand on his chest, snarling like a rabid dog as he acts like he's lunging for a bite. Entirely impossible, held back as he is, but still worth the visual attempt, even if the lean does cause a shift below that sends a shiver up his spine.]
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And yet it is sort of like that. It's like he's taking this out on himself, because this guy is Ray Vecchio in a manner of speaking. He's his replacement, the stand-in; he has to take whatever shit Ray Vecchio would take in the same situation, and right now Ray Vecchio deserves, more than anything, to be punished, beaten, pushed beyond the brink for what he was doing.
It was messed up, but he was messed up. He couldn't be blamed for a little of that after everything he'd been put through out here in the desert.
So he held still once he was inside for a little longer than he meant to, and tried to pay attention, but ended up not flinching as Ray tried to take a bite out of his arm or something. It ended up paying off, making him look invulnerable rather than just stoned, and that was fine too. The bite to Ray's lip, that would work out, would swell like a balloon by the time his guys came back. All of this, all of it, was working out better than he'd thought.
So what if he was unwilling, if this was all yet another part of the Armando mask that was infecting Ray? He was hot and horny and high, and the world, and this cop detective, were his for the taking if he wanted it. He was a nasty mobster, an all around bad guy. He could have anything and anyone he wanted and he knew it. He didn't owe the world anything, he just steadily fucked it and laughed while it bled. He was Armando Langoustini, cruel consigliere, ruthless killer, insane and beautiful and--
Bleeding, he was bleeding into it--
Ray was trying to hold him still with his leg, but he couldn't keep him there forever, although Vecchio changed his grip first, moving both hands down to grip the other man's hips. He held him as he pulled out, then wrenched hard down on them, tugged Ray's hips toward his own and pushed back into him. Again.
God, he didn't care any more. He'd done everything he could to make sure it wouldn't hurt, and if Ray wanted to keep it up then so be it, he didn't give a shit if he was walking round sore for weeks after. If he tore something. It wasn't his concern any more--all he wanted, all he cared about was that glorious friction, the heat, the racing of his own pulse, and the flat out vicious race to orgasm.
It had been much more than a year, and he was high, and turned on from the verbal jousting and what equated to gangster foreplay. He wasn't going to last long. But that was fine, neither was Ray. Huffing, his breath ragged pants, but none the less keeping his moans restrained to low throaty noises that gargled in his chest, he kept moving, a slow but rough pace now. He unclamped one hand back from ray's hip, gliding it - still wet with lube - over the head of his restrained cock. ]
Say the word. You know the one I want. Say the word and you can come.
[ Single syllables were so much more functional when it came to restraining his own moans. He couldn't afford to break the illusion now. ]
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