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The door Vegas stared at was pristine and plain; simplicity in all its glory. It was painted red, the shade somehow oozing authority and expensiveness despite being merely a color. Vegas liked it. Often times he found himself delighted in how the color was so similar to that of blood. He liked to think the color had some form of metaphorical relevance to what usually happened inside the room that it protected the outside world from. Though he knew it really did not. He just liked the color. No ulterior reason.
He smiled slightly, looking downwards in a quick glance at the wooden boarded floor. The minor family often prided themselves in their efficient and surprisingly clean work effort, despite the work they truly partook in being not entirely incomparable to messy. However, clearly this was not apparent all the time as the wood was mottled with a flurry of marks. Line upon lines of scratches adorned the floor, the occasional overlay of a scuff mark from what Vegas can only assume is derived from shoes being dragged against the surface.
Sighing, Vegas couldn’t help but feel a little let down at the prospect of his new toys being unconscious. The disappointment was short lived. He supposes he’ll just have to wake them himself, and that makes it even more fun.
Looking up, he spares a glance towards his own bodyguards. He only brought two with him, though he doesn’t really need any to begin with. He’s more than capable. The two men hold serious expressions on their face, furthering their look of ugliness as frankly; They are not blessed in the looks department. One is stout and stocky, an unlucky combination of genetics whilst the other is slightly too tall, his limbs gangly and making him look over imposing yet awkward. But they’re good at what his father hires them to do, and somehow they still manage to look intimidating enough that Vegas hasn’t decided to swap them out yet.
“You ready?” He asks, gaging eye contact with the short one and then the tall one. The one on his left nods vigorously, clearly enthused whilst the other opts for a simple “yes sir”. In response, Vegas offers them a smile full of teeth. He always makes sure to be nice to the bodyguards employed to protect him, always wants them to feel cared for. Even though in reality, he couldn’t give less of a shit whether they lived or died.
“Good.” He says, moving his hand forwards to grip the door knob. Before he turns it, he moves his body around to look behind himself at them. “Good work on getting them in here.” With that, Vegas turns the door knob and opens the door.
The door opens with a slight creak, faint enough that it’s barely audible. The room is doused in darkness, like a thick blanket of black. Vegas has to squint to make out a faint outline of two bodies directly displayed in the middle of the room. The sight makes him grin, an all too familiar sense of power blooming within him.
He switches on the light switch with a practiced ease, admiring how it covers the room in a warm red glow, coating the room in series of varying undertones of red.
“Go light the candles.” He orders the two men to do. “Be quiet.” Vegas adds, not even sparing them a proper glance as they do exactly that. The sound of matches against sandpaper alert him long before the first glow of candlelight illuminates the walls. Whilst the men continue lighting the rest of the candles, Vegas turns around briefly to shut the door. He outstretches a hand towards the door but is stopped by a formation of an idea.
Vegas grins and waits for his men to finish. “Actually, both of you stand watch outside the door. Make sure no one gets in.” The men offer him expressions both in varying degrees of surprise, but quickly school them back into impassiveness.
“Yes sir,” The short one says. “Call us if you need anything.”
Vegas waves his hand at them, flicking it outwards as he masks his face in politeness. “I’ll be sure to. Good work on the presentation, once I’m done I’ll call you in to help clean up.” Vegas finishes, clicking his tongue in satisfaction as the men leave and close the door with a light thud.
He has to give it to them, they really did do a good job at presenting his new toys.
Directly in the middle of the room, are two chairs both holding two men. Their hands and feet are bound with thick rope, forcing them into immobility. Just like Vegas requested, they stay clothed, both wearing black suits that would almost hold some grandeur of importance, if they weren’t torn and tattered. The fight had not been a clean one.
The observation evoked memory of what had happened. Flashes of the fight lighting up in his mind. Now that Vegas had calmed down, he felt merely a small undercurrent of annoyance at what had happened. Sure, at first he had been beyond pissed off— Furious, in fact at the obvious disrespect Kinn had committed towards Vegas with ordering his own men to investigate the minor family. Vegas had been ready to kill the two bodyguards sent by Kinn to sniff him out. But now he felt more detached, more apathetic and cool to the situation. Perhaps because he won, or rather, because of how pathetic the sight of the main family’s esteemed bodyguards so easily bound was. Their heads were covered with sacks, blocking Vegas from being able to see their face.
He whistles with familiar confidence, the sound clear and sharp and loud enough that it causes one of the body guards to groan and stir, their hands moving just barely noticeable against the restraints. Vegas watches with rapt attention as the realisation they are bound, strikes the bodyguard. Their groan turns into a pitiful whine before descending into irregular breathing, their breathes coming in short and leaving entirely too soon. They struggle desperately against the bounds but to no avail, each failed attempt ending in a whimper. Vegas thinks the sight is quite cute, how desperate they are to escape and how increasingly hopeless their movements are becoming. With a slump, the bodyguard collapses backwards against the chair and Vegas decides that’s his cue to introduce himself.
With a few measured strides, Vegas advances until he stands directly in-front of the bodyguard. His presence causes them to tense, seemingly frozen still. Vegas laughs lowly, loving how powerful this fear makes him feel. Like he’s a predator in front of his prey and ready to pounce.
He rips the bag off their head, throwing it to the side carelessly. “Rise and shine.” He says, smiling. The absence of the bag reveals a surprisingly attractive face, despite how their expression is wrought with fear. The bodyguard has brown hair, the shade deep enough that from a distance it would look black. His eyes are sharp and angular, and his nose too big and soft in comparison. But the clash of features compliments his facial shape well. He’s not Vegas’ type, but Vegas doesn’t find him ugly.
Covering his mouth is duct tape.
The bodyguard stares upwards at Vegas with clear fear written in his eyes, eyebrows so far up his face.
Vegas smiles in a way he knows makes him look warm and trustable and everything he is not. With that expression, the bodyguards eyes soften, the fear evidently lowering and instead being replaced with apprehension. He’s wary of Vegas, but not enough.
That won’t do, but Vegas intends to draw this out so he stops himself from evoking that fear tenfold. At least for now.
Instead, Vegas turns to face the other bodyguard who hasn’t stirred.
They look pitiful, slumped against the chair. Oddly small looking, despite how large their frame is. He stares for a few more seconds, raking his gaze up and down the body. Their suit is less messed up then the other, leaving Vegas to assume they must be the more skilled bodyguard. Clearly not skilled enough, considering how they still ended up at Vegas’ mercy.
He advances towards the body, sparing no time to rip the bag off their head too.
The action somehow doesn’t wake them, the only sign of life being the way their body shifts minutely before stopping. Vegas takes his time to wake them, deciding to first examine their face. Their face is tilted downwards to the side, showcasing an angular jawline, though their face is small allowing a softness to blanket their features. Still asleep, their eyes are peacefully closed, eyelashes dark and long causing light shadows to form underneath their eyes. Their nose is average, sharp yet soft. Black hair messily covers their forehead, slightly matted with blood in some areas. Vegas supposes they’ve been more roughed up then he first assumed. The analysis doesn’t make him feel anything of importance, just the urge to rough them up more.
He smiles, bringing a hand to rest on the side of their jaw and tilt their face to face him. They look strangely innocent and youthful. Vegas has the urge to corrupt that innocence. To mark his face with bruises and replace it with ugliness. He turns to the side, sparing the other bodyguard a glance. They stare at him with wide eyes, still wary. Which is exactly what they should be.
Vegas tilts the face upwards, brushing his thumb against the duct tape and feeling the small curve from the plush of their lips.
In a sudden movement, he rips off the duct tape violently. It makes a harsh ripping sound and Vegas knows its painful.
It must be, considering the person wakes up suddenly with a pained yelp. Their eyes open wide, momentarily confused as they lean forward in a daze. “Huh?” They say, voice slurred from apparent disorientation.
Vegas grips their jaw tight and leans forward until they’re faces are centimetres apart. “Had a good sleep?”
A flash of recognition crosses their face, before settling into fear. Vegas thinks they look pretty when terrified. “Vegas?” They stutter out.
“That is I.” Vegas responds, his grip remaining. He recognises the face staring at him as Pete, Tankhuns bodyguard. Or was. “You’re probably wondering why you’re here.” Vegas says, turning to look at the other man and adding: “Well, both of you.”
Pete opens his mouth to respond, Vegas places his finger against his lips and stops him from doing so, making a shushing sound. “It’s okay. You’ll find out soon.”
Retracting his hand, Vegas continues. His voice and body language entirely confident and self assured. “Or perhaps you both already know.” He straightens his back, revelling in how their entire attention is on him and him only. Vegas makes a show of wiping his pants of any imaginary dust before walking over to the other bodyguard and clasping the side of his face, like he had done to Pete.
Perhaps due to how he hasn’t done anything physically to them yet, the bodyguard doesn’t struggle out of his grip nor does he lean into it— still, he is entirely too trusting for his own good. Vegas brushes his thumb against the full of his cheek, already imagining how pretty it would be coated in blood. Even prettier caved in and collapsed, he thinks, the idea of repeatedly punching his face into disfigurement equal parts enticing and arousing.
His cock stirs at the thought of inflicting that degree of pain, and he has to resist the urge to bring a hand down and palm himself through his pants.
“What we’re you doing at the minor house? Here for a little visit?” He spares Pete a wayward glance, analysing his body language and coming back happy with what he sees. They don’t trust him, but they don’t necessarily distrust him. The fact neither of them are trying to escape their restraints is testament enough.
“Well, I’m always glad to welcome new faces. So really, I don’t mind.” He says, even though he very much does mind. “Anyways, what’s your name?” The bodyguard tries to speak, but his words are muffled beyond recognition by the duct tape. Vegas grimaces and says I’m english, “My bad. Here let me.”
He makes a show of pulling off the duct tape with upmost delicacy, far more slower than he did with Pete, and far less painful. “This doesn’t hurt, does it?” He says, and continues pulling whilst the bodyguard warily shakes his head in response.
Once done, he discards the tape and goes back to holding both sides of the bodyguards face. Forcing eye contact. An unknowing and unwilling prey staring at a knowing predator.
“Here let me,” he continues, moving to untie the rope that holds his wrists and ankles. “Your name?” He prompts once having untied him fully, moving his hands back to give him space.
The bodyguard takes a few moments, but he finds his voice. “Ben,” he croaks out.
Vegas smirks, partly at how fucked up his voice sounds, but also at what he’s about to do.
Coiling his hand into a fist, Vegas mutters: “that’s nice,” before slamming his fist against Ben’s cheek. Upon contact, a loud crack resonates across the room. Ben howls loudly in pain and in quick succession Vegas hears Pete make an aborted yelp.
He doesn’t look at Pete, instead far too enraptured with Ben and his current pain. He feels giddy with hotness at how a mottled and dark bruise is already forming against the redness of Ben’s cheek.
Ben moves to grip his cheek, still howling in pain. His breathe comes in fast and short and he crumples forward. Vegas takes the opportunity his distraction provides to roughly grab his shoulders and pull him out of the chair, to his feet. Vegas laments that if he weren’t currently crumpled over in pain, he would be far more taller than himself.
In a swift motion, Vegas punches him once more. This time his fist connects with Ben’s jaw instead, and has Vegas biting back a moan from how delicious the following scream Ben emits is.
For extra measure, and mostly his own amusement, Vegas punches Ben again. The punch lands in the middle of his face, forcing his head back, and Vegas hears a vicious snap. He feels the bridge of Ben’s nose collapse under his fist, a flurry of blood pouring out of his nose quick enough that it gets on Vegas’ before he has time to pull his hand back.
Ben screams, loud and hoarse and Vegas feels his knees buckle from how turned on this much power makes him feel. Dropping to his knees, Ben whines as pain from his kneecaps making contact with the hard floor is paired with what Vegas has done to him.
“You fucking idiot.” Vegas says as he pushes Ben to his back and clamours onto him, his thighs bracketing Ben’s waist. For a brief moment, Vegas sees a look of confusion cross Bens face as his erection presses against him, before melting into visceral terror. Vegas makes a show, making sure Ben sees as he puts on a pair of brass knuckles. At that, Ben begins to struggle and tries his best to escape. In response, Vegas pushes down more of his weight, forcing Ben to feel his hardness. “How dare you.” He snarls as his fist connects with Bens face again, and again. He continues punching Ben, even as his screams turn into whines and then whimpers, until nothingness.
He watches as each of his hits connects with Ben’s skin, watches as the metal rips the flesh. The lacerations cause more blood to pool in the hollow of his cheeks, the crimson stark against his pale skin. It’s beautiful. Vegas moves to punch Ben’s face straight on. His eyes are vacant, pupils small. When his fist connects with Ben’s mouth, Vegas feels how the plush of his lips rips apart, feels how the entire top row of his teeth dislodge with a sick pop. He continues punching, even when his fists and brass knuckles are coated in a deep crimson. He continues even when Ben is barely recognisable, even when his eyes nearly pop out his skull from the force of each blow.
His chest heaves from the exertion, blood rushes in his ears and south, yet he continues.
Vegas only stops when a voice breaks him out of his sadism induced haze.
“Vegas?” Pete says, voice wavering and full of horror. What causes Vegas to pause, however, is the undercurrent of determination that is thick within his voice.
He’s intrigued, so he tilts his head back to stare at Pete. “Yes?” He asks in a sweet tone. It sounds entirely authentic. Vegas is always sure everything he does in life is a game of smoke and mirrors, never revealing his true self. Because there isn’t one to reveal.
As he replies, he leans back. Relaxing as he waits for Pete to speak.
“I…” Pete trails off and is silent for a long moment. “He was a good man. A good bodyguard.”
At that, Vegas laughs. His laughter is loud and boisterous and he does not stop until tears for, I’m his eyes. With a bloodied finger, he wipes them away.
“A good bodyguard? No. You’re mistaken. He’s none of that— was none of that.”
Petes hand flex, as if trying to coil into a fist. Most likely he’s imagining killing Vegas, getting revenge for his now dead friend. It’s pitiful.
“Stop lying!” Pete barks out, eyes scrunching shut to most likely prevent tears. Vegas watches with interest as Pete tilts his head down, breathing in deeply.
Human emotion is ever so interesting to watch.
Finally, Pete looks back up. Any trace of fear or horror gone from his features, instead only determination. “Fuck you Vegas.” He bites out, full of loathing and genuine disgust.
A curl of arousal forms within Vegas, settling low within his gut.
“Manners.” Vegas admonishes, half laughing as he abandons punching Ben to stand up instead. “I would have thought swearing was forbidden working for the main family. Suppose they’re getting slack.”
His footsteps are loud as he walks towards Pete. As Vegas gets closer, Pete begins to struggle against his restraints but does not get anywhere near free. When Vegas is merely a meter away, Pete finally stops his struggles in defeat.
Seeing Pete give up has Vegas dizzy with hotness, feeling so incredibly in control. Powerful.
He clamours onto Pete’s lap. Pete is both physically larger and taller than Vegas, so he easily fits on his lap. His thighs bracket his waist, similar to how he had sat on Ben. Pete must be aware of that too, as he tenses, evidently expecting Vegas to attack him too.
Vegas doesn’t.
Instead he makes sure he doesn’t lean his entire weight on Pete, so as to not make him aware of his erection— for now, at least.
He’s still wearing the brass knuckles, which are painted red. Congealed blood lays in the curves of it and he takes a minute to admire the look. Then, he presses them against Pete’s cheeks.
Pete’s eyes go wide, a mix of shock and anger. He opens his mouth to speak but Vegas presses his other hand across it, stifling any possible sound.
He makes a tutting sound as he smears the brass knuckles against his skin, desecrating it with the blood. Due to some of it being dry, not a lot of it is applicable but enough for it to be visible. For Pete to feel the cold liquid be forced upon him, marking.
Pete grimaces against the cold of the metal, leaning back to try and escape it. Like all his past attempts, it’s a failure.
Vegas tilts his wrist, furthering smearing the blood on Pete’s cheek bone. The red encapsulating his face in a permanent, almost comical, blush.
After a few more strokes, Vegas ceases his movements. Pleased with what he’s done, he leans back and removes both his brass knuckles. Carefully aimed, he throws them directly at Ben’s corpse. They make a dull thud as they hit his clothed body.
At that, Pete struggles vigorously. His hands violently attempt to rip out of their binds. Vegas bars his hands against his upper torso, forcing him into stilled submission. “If you value your life, I’d advise you to be good and stop struggling.” He finishes, finding it quite a shame he has to say those words. He quite likes the visualisation of Pete struggling, or resisting but failing to do so.
As expected, Pete complies. “Good boy.” Vegas compliments, schooling his expression into one of seriousness and voice into one of affection. It’s a funny combination, even Vegas can admit that. But Pete does not laugh, nor does his expression of disgust let up. If anything, it increases in intensity.
“Open your mouth,” he commands. Petes mouth stays in a straight line, refusing to open. “If you don’t want me to bash your skull in, I suggest you do as I say.” Vegas cranks an eyebrow upwards, to further exaggerate his point.
Finally, Pete’s mouth opens slowly to reveal a row of white teeth and a pink tongue.
“Good. Good.” Vegas exclaims, patting Pete’s bloodied cheek with an almost giddy satisfaction. Extracting his hand, Vegas makes sure Pete sees the dried blood that adorns it. He brings it towards his nose and sniffs the harsh metallic copper smell, like pennies. His eyes flicker closed as he allows himself to briefly relive the memory of killing Ben and when his cock begins to harden, he opens them and shoves his thumb forwards Pete’s open mouth, placing it upon the pad of his tongue.
He feels the tongue move back, as if Pete would rather swallow it than taste Vegas. To counter, he increases the downwards pressure. “Lick it off. The blood. Now.”
Another few seconds pass and Vegas notes that this will probably be a common theme tonight, of Pete resisting only to be made to give in. Gingerly, Petes tongue presses upwards and curves around Vegas’ thumb. He refuses eye contact with Vegas, instead closing his eyes in obvious anger. Pete’s tongue is warm as it licks the blood off his tongue, coating him in wet saliva.
With a pop, Vegas pulls out his thumb and quickly shoves two of his fingers back in. The same apprehension is evident, but this time Pete is quicker to lick it off. Most likely wanting to get this over with.
Which is a pitiful hope, considering this will be comparable to pleasure when compared with what Vegas will do to Pete tonight.
Vegas continues placing more fingers inside Pete’s mouth, until both his hands are clean of blood. He retracts his hand and grips Pete’s jaw, leaning forward to command “swallow.” Petes eyes are full of hatred, yet he still obeys.
Pleased, Vegas pulls his hand back. His palm still has some remnants of blood so he opts to lick it off himself. He licks a eager stripe across the flesh, laving the skin until clean. The blood tastes distinctly like pennies, with a salty yet sweet undertone. He does the same to his other hand, all to Pete’s apparent muted horror.
Once done, Vegas decides it is time for the fun to begin.
He leans his entire weight down upon Pete’s waist, who groans from the sudden added pressure. His groan, however, turns into a gasp once he becomes aware of Vegas’ hardness which presses against his abdomen. Vegas notes how a light blush forms on his cheeks and the tips of his ears, finding it rather endearing.
Casually, Vegas moves to loosely choke Pete. This time Pete doesn’t struggle, instead tensing entirely. His body shakes and vibrates ever so slightly, like a plucked string of an instrument. As if torn between flight or fight.
Vegas forcefully tilts his head backwards, exposing the pale expanse of his neck. He swipes his thumb up and down, brushing against his windpipe and feeling his Adam’s apple move as Pete swallows in clear tenseness.
Leaning forward, Vegas exhales against his skin. His breathe is hot and controlled, eliciting goosebumps to form across Pete’s skin. He grins, lips sinisterly curving upwards. He’s sure the smile does not truly reach his eyes, despite how delighted he is.
Vegas mouthes against Pete’s skin, tilting his neck further upwards to provide himself with more access. He licks a stripe up his neck until he reaches his jaw, turning to bite the skin hard enough to leave marks.
True to his prior determination, Pete stays silent. The only sign of him being any way affected is how he stays tense. Barely moving. Vegas supposes he’ll have to change that.
He pulls back and gives Pete a once over. His chest heaves up and down, betraying his dedication to stillness in favour of inhaling breathe after breathe. Vegas visualises his chest collapsing from the pressure of each gasp.
His hands clench, ever so slightly, as Vegas resists the urge to extend his hands towards Pete and pull his ribs back to feel his beautiful heart, wet and warm against his finger tips. Vegas wants to taste Pete, his blood, his saliva— everything, and savour it. Oh, how he wants to feel the weight of Pete heady against his tongue, coating it and Vegas wants Pete to see him do it, to have no other option but let him.
In response to his new direction of thoughts, his cock hardens further. Growing in size. Vegas grins wide enough it hurts as he presses his erection against Pete, forcing him to feel the size of it.
Pete stills. He gulps and Vegas doesn’t hide the way his gaze trails down his neck at the motion, watching his adams apple move up and down.
Vegas presses his thumb further against Petes windpipe. Feeling the slight pulsation it gives against his skin. He trails his thumb upwards to rest against the curve of his Adam’s apple. He lurches forward, breathing heavy against the skin and resisting the urge to bite it. Vegas wonders how Pete’s skin would feel as it tore, how delicious his yelps of pain would sound— would he scream like Ben? Or rather, would he just whimper? Vegas wishes to find out, but he resists.
Instead he opts to retract his thumb and lean back. Gaging eye contact with Pete. “Don’t be scared. I won’t hurt you, as long as you don’t misbehave.” He finishes the words with a sweetly innocent smile. One Pete evidently does not believe.
He pats Pete’s still bloodied cheek, making an admonishing sound. “Speak up. Do you understand?”
A few moments. Until finally, Pete barks out a: “Yes,” Vegas tilts his head and waits until Pete adds a dejected, “I understand.”
A sharp spike of arousal strikes Vegas, ripping through his being. Pete’s acceptance of his fate deliciously hot and tantalising.
Pete looks slightly scared for a brief second, before quickly masking his expression back into one of neutrality.
At that, a light shiver wracks through Vegas, barely noticeable. Vegas’ hips jerk forward as he is unable to help himself, the arousal clouding his senses and usually impeccable self control.
With a small gasp, Pete fights to escape the contact, seemingly pushing himself back against the back of the chair and away from his hips in a failed attempt to regain control so hopeless it would almost be pitiful if it weren’t so gratifying.
“Good. Good boy.” Vegas rasps out, clamouring forward further until both him and Pete are pressed impossibly close together. His body against Pete’s has his thighs twitching and stomach flipping.
“Get off me,” Pete yelps out, seemingly haven forgotten the sentiment Vegas had said earlier.
The words have Vegas barking out a laugh. He rolls his shoulders back, tilting his head backwards and allowing his eyes as to fall laughter wracks his body. For what feels like an eternity, Vegas continues laughing, only stopping when his throat feels rough and laughter becomes slightly hoarse.
After taking a moment to recover, Vegas leans forward again. When he speaks his voice is dark and serious, each word punctuated slowly and drawn out. “Get off? You want me to get off of you?” He begins to laugh once more, stopping after a few seconds to continue. “No, no, no, no.” He mutters, fastening the frequency of each ‘no’ as he goes on. “Pete, I intend to destroy you. Both physically and mentally. I want to pull each of your fingers back until they snap like twigs. I want to peel your skin away with a knife and peer inside you, feel the way your organs pulsate against my finger tips. And when I’m done? I’ll send you to Kinn. Perhaps I’ll put you in a box with a red ribbon or better yet— perhaps I’ll take my time and send him parts of you. Your eye first, maybe your grey and rotting heart last.”
Pete’s eyes widen. Scared. An undertone of defiance, pitiful in its presence. Vegas grinds down against Pete and audibly moans. The contact his cock makes with Pete intensely arousing. A hotness buzzes under his skin, one he chases with each roll of his hips against Pete’s.
He stops. Opening his eyes, Vegas stares at Pete. “I could do that. The idea is very enticing. But I won’t.” Pete’s eyes grow ever so slightly relieved at his words. Vegas prides himself on how easy he can read the other.
Vegas swipes his thumb over Pete’s face, trailing it upwards to press lightly against his eyelids. “No. I suppose your eyes are too pretty for a fate like that.” Pete exhales shakily, his breathe warm against Vegas’ skin. “Tell you what, I’ll let you live.”
Pete’s mouth falls open, jaw slack. Vegas takes the opportunity to wrap his hands around the circumference of his neck before speaking again, alive with a gleeful sadism. “Do you want that? To live?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” He says. “I’ll tell you what I’m going to do instead. Is that okay?” He waits for Pete to nod, after which finally continuing. “Firstly,” his free hand tugs at the straps of Pete’s belt. Unbuckling it. He palms Pete’s crotch, delighting in how it fills up beneath his touch despite how Pete writhes to escape it. Grinning widely, Vegas fishes out his cock and grips it. “I’m going to fuck you so rough, that your hole is still loose by the time Kinn finds you.” He thumbs at the slit. Pete gasps before whimpering. “And you’ll be able to do nothing but take it. I’m going to fuck you even if you say no, even if you close your eyes and pray for it to end— I will not give you that mercy.” He fists the base, squeezing hard.
“No, stop!” Pete sobs out, body writhing in utter terror. Vegas doesn’t stop. He ignores Pete’s pleas and continues working his cock. He tugs at it, until Pete is fully hard in his hand. Pete’s pleas have devolved into delicious sobs that have Vegas moving to palm himself with his free hand.
“Wow,” Vegas laughs out in disbelief. “Your cock is so small.”
Pete hands struggle against their ropes and Vegas looks up briefly to see tears streaming down his face, diluting and streaking the blood down his cheeks. He sobs, throwing his head back. Vegas makes a cooing sound, looking down to see a bead of precum dribbling out the top of his cock. “Oh?” He says as he thumbs the slit, dragging the fluid around the head. “You’re such a slut that you’re getting off from this?”
“No, No!” Pete sobs louder, “stop it!” His hips involuntarily jerking forward, further towards Vegas.
“You say stop, but your body says otherwise, Pete.” Vegas coons into his ears before laughing. “You’re fucking desperate for it.” Pete arches his back, despite the cries that leave his mouth.
Vegas begins to fasten his tugging, pulling at Pete’s cock with determination. “Fucking slut,” he breathes out. Pete whines, half out of desperation and half out of pleasure. The sound encourages Vegas to tug harder, moving his hand fast and hard on Pete’s cock. The lack of lube stings, most likely more painful than pleasurable for Pete and Vegas delights in how each tug is rough and entirely too dry to be comfortable. Wanting to inflict even as much discomfort as possible.
Pete’s head falls back, openly sobbing. His shoulders shake as he repeatedly cries out for Vegas to stop, each cry accompanied by a following “Please, no!”
His pants have never felt so tight.
Despite what he says, Pete’s hips practically bounce off the chair to sloppily thrust into his grip. His cock wet with his own precum and the chair near squeaking from the power of his struggle between chasing pleasure and wanting to escape.
Vegas takes the opportunity to choke Pete into forceful silence. He continues jerking Pete off whilst simultaneously increasing the pressure on his neck, until he’s sure his neck could potentially snap if he squeezed any tighter.
The asphyxiation has Pete struggling against his bounding for an entirely different reason, to live rather than escape.
“You want to breathe?” Vegas asks, leaning forward to press his mouth against his earlobe. He bites it, pulling the flesh back. Pete furiously nods— well, attempts to and makes a sound similar to a gasp and a whimper, with an undertone of pleasure. He loosens the hold, just so slightly but enough to have Pete furiously inhaling a breathe. Vegas fastens his movements, pumping Pete’s cock and whispers in his ears. “Okay than,” He retracts his hand from Pete’s neck to instead grip his jaw in a searing hold. Forcing him to stare at Ben’s corpse. At the congealing puddle of blood that surrounds him. “Come for me.”
Pete heaves one last sob, hips stuttering before stilling completely. His eyes are uncharacteristically vacant as he stares at Ben. He gasps before coming hard, spilling into Vegas’ hand and eyes rolling to the back of his head.
Vegas takes the opportunity to haphazardly take out his own cock, languidly pumping it until it fully hardens. It doesn’t take long to do so, considering how arousing his play has been up until now. Sloppily he strokes himself, aiming to quickly finish whilst Pete is still too fucked out of his mind to do anything but try regain breathe, collapsed against the chair.
He thumbs his slit, spreading the already formed precum around the head and using it to lube his descent downwards towards the base. Gripping, Vegas tries to mimic the feeling of being tight inside Pete. Fucking his hole.
With a sigh, he comes. His orgasm is sharp and strong, leaving him feeling blessedly full for a brief moment and then completely full, satiated. A delightful juxtaposition of sensation. Ropes of his cum land on Pete, desecrating not only his skin but his honour. What was left of it, now taken from him by Vegas.
He heaves in a controlled breathe, chest rising and falling harshly from the intensity of his orgasm.
Pete, is still unresponsive. Vacant. His head still frozen and tilted backwards. The only sign of his consciousness being the still flowing trail of tears that run down his face and slide towards the floor behind him. The sight would evoke a deep feeling of despair and dejection within any normal person who witnessed it— that, Vegas knows.
But Vegas is not normal and instead, it has him moaning as another heady spike of arousal hits him, his thighs constricting tight where they bracket Pete’s waist.
He wishes to further desecrate Pete, to consume his self respect entirely until it is gone. Until Pete is living, but not alive. A vessel for Vegas to attach himself to and absorb wholeheartedly.
Vegas noncommittally tugs at his cock as he stares at Pete, each tug chafing and uncomfortable against his still sensitive skin whilst he contemplates what to do next. He hums at a particularly pleasant idea. Perhaps he could untie Pete and fuck him on all fours with a tightly fisted grip in his hair, forcing him to take his cock all whilst looking at Ben.
Another thought occurs, of him hooking his fingers into Pete’s mouth and forcing him open to take his cock. He would leisurely fuck that pretty little mouths of Petes, his cock hitting the back of his throat with each thrust. Given his track record Vegas can assume Pete would whine and beg for him to stop, but his attempts would be in vain. Vegas would fuck faster, harder.
A small moan leaves him, causing Pete to slightly stir but otherwise staying unconscious.
Vegas has the urge to roll his hips against Pete’s own, to grip his small cock in his hand until it fills out. The urge is tempting, but he resists. Instead, he brings his hand downwards to trail up Pete’s clothed chest. Feeling the fabric under his fingertips, Vegas further debates what to do. His fingers spread apart to loosely cup Pete’s pec. It feels slightly squishy, not entirely dissimilar to that of a tit.
The observation makes Vegas perk up. To force femininity on Pete would open countless opportunities. All of which would make Pete cave in on himself and what he stands for, after all— What man wouldn’t feel ashamed if made to do the things Vegas has planned?
He smiles. Moving to briefly cup Pete’s jaw, he tilts his head. Brushing his finger over his cheek, Vegas makes sure to coat his finger tip in a good amount of cum and blood before retracting it. He brings it to his mouth, taking the digit in and sucking it clean. Tasting himself and Ben.
Standing up, Vegas clamours out of Pete’s lap. He takes a few moments to put his cock back in his pants, hissing at how sensitive he still is. Sensitive and half hard.
He brings his hands down to pat his legs off of any dirt, though he doubts it would really do anything.
Than, he whistles lowly the tune to a song he does not know the name of. Vegas turns away from Pete and away from Ben, before walking towards the red door. His hand clasps around the door knob before turning it with ease, and then pulling open the door itself. The two bodyguards situated outside straighten up at Vegas’ introduction, but otherwise do nothing.
Vegas briefly stops whistling to spare one last look towards Pete. His mind made up, he turns back forward and walks out the door. Letting it close with a clack. He continues walking, advancing past the bodyguards in quick, confident strides.
He stops halfway down the hallway. Without sparing a glance, he commands a simple yet order. “Clean the room. Leave him alive and untie him.” His back straightens up before he says the last part, voice jovial and light. As if humoured by what he’s about to say. “I want you both to order lingerie, make it pretty and feminine. I intend to make him play dress up next time I visit.”
Vegas winks to no one in particular before smiling and leaving Pete and his men behind.