Size Doesn't Matter (2/2)
Author: Rkowhore79
Title: Size Doesn't Matter
Pairing: Centon..with a few mentions of Codiasi here and there I guess:)
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Somewhat non-con, there might be some blood spilled, some screaming...you know, the usual;)
Disclaimers: No beta, yada yada...all these mistakes are mine and mine only. And of course it is AU, as always. I do what I please with mah boyz. I always do;)
Word Count: 12,406
Feedback: Yes PLEASE!
*Author's Note: I started this fic a year ago this June, forgot about it, just found it a few weeks ago and have been struggling to finish it ever since. It was originally supposed to be for my lovely twin, Erica's, birthday (last year lol) but it has since evolved into something bloody and brutal and I know she isn't really into all of that sooo....it is now just a fic for my archives.
*Edit: I absolutely hate breaking up fics that aren't supposed to be in parts, but I just tried to post and LJ is telling me it's too big sooo...gonna have to cut it up. There's no way I'm going to go back and read this sucker again trying to find stuff to axe. I'm sick of looking at this!
John practically bowed his head in prayer as he allowed Randy to fit the black leather strap around his mouth. The outside was as smooth as silk, but the underside was rough and chafed at the sensitive skin around John's mouth. The material had a large hole in the front to allow access to his mouth, but the back snapped tight around his head. As his head was tilted back, he saw through lowered lashes the blindfold that Randy next procured from his little shop of horrors. So it was bondage night at casa de Orton, huh? 'Alright,' he nodded to himself; he could handle that. John's world went black as the matching blindfold was secured around his eyes. When Randy was done with him, all that was visible was the top of his sandy brown hair, and his nose. He wondered how long the blindfolding would last, though. Randy usually liked to look into his eyes as he worked; he liked to witness the fear and pain he found there.
John's senses were now almost completely cut off. He had lost the ability to see as well as to feel. Tasting, hearing, and smelling were all still in play, though; and he had a feeling that the only thing he was going to be tasting was Randy's cum, the only thing he was going to be smelling was that of his own fear, Randy's sweat and musk along with his sexy cologne. But it was what he was going to hear that worried John the most because he knew just what that would be.
The sound of his own screaming.
But it wouldn't be the kind that made the neighbors call 911, oh no. It would be the sort of relentless screaming that occurred only in one's mind; the type of screaming that shattered souls and brought powerful men to their knees in devastating defeat. It would be the screaming that split, previously sane, minds into two very different irreparable halves.
Taste.
Sound.
Smell.
Those were his only friends now; he had to rely on them. The sound of Randy rustling around in his bag made John's ears prick. What now? He smelled something...sweet as his ears again picked up another sound; that of a cap being popped open from a bottle of some sort. He heard a squirting sound and then a sucking one. If he didn't know any better, he'd say that Randy was jacking off, but that couldn't be right. Randy would never. Not when he had Cena bound and gagged in front of him, ready and willing to do anything he asked of him. No, something else was going on here and he knew he was about to find out because as soon as the sounds had started, they abruptly stopped.
"You know what, Johnny boy?" Randy said, almost conversationally, as if he wasn't staring down at his incapacitated lover to whom he was about to commit sinful acts upon. "Most of the time when you drink, your mouth gets really dry, almost painfully dry, and I can't fuck a dry mouth; ya know what I'm saying? That would be like fucking a tube of sandpaper, no, I need to stick my dick into something moist, something wet and slippery. Is your mouth wet enough for me, Cena?" he asked, monotone.
John felt his parched lips tug against the gag and his already dry mouth get even dryer. He could barely swallow. The alcohol had dehydrated his saliva and his mouth was as barren as the Sahara.
"You don't have to answer that, love," Randy laughed. "I already know the answer; that's why I've prepared myself. You can thank me later."
John had no idea what Randy was going on about but as soon as he felt the wide tip of Randy's cock enter his mouth he understood.
Taste.
The taste was that of...it took John a second to figure it out, banana cream pie. Randy had slicked the sweet smelling, and tasting, lube all over himself and was currently prodding John's gagged mouth with it.
"Mmmmm," Randy moaned. "That's more like it. Nice and wet for me." He grabbed the back of John's head and forced the entire length down his throat. "Muuuuch better," he groaned loudly.
John wanted to throw up. Randy knew he hated the taste of banana, he fucking knew it; and yet he had practically injected his dick with it just to show John who fucked who around here. "Asshole," John muttered as best he could around the cock in his mouth and the gag strapped around it.
"You say something, Cena?" Randy demanded, pulling his dick out and slamming it back in with enough force to punch a hole through the back of John's throat. "Because if you've got something to say," he drawled, jack hammering John's mouth with all the finesse of a, well, a jackhammer. "Just go ahead and say it." He swirled himself around in John's mouth, making sure to coat his taste buds with the sickly taste of banana. John's stomach lurched, but he held it in check. He had never thrown up during one of Randy's assaults on his mouth before, and he wasn't about to start now. Who the hell knew what Randy would do if he did that. So instead he just mentally gritted his teeth and took him all in. When Randy started to fuck his mouth slower, he used the tip of his tongue to trace lazy patterns around the head just the way he knew Randy liked, and when Randy pounded into his mouth like a wild animal he just sat there on his knees, trying as hard as he could to balance and keep himself upright.
"Shit," Randy moaned as John's long tongue worked its magic on him. "You've got the dirtiest little whore mouth I've ever fucked," he grunted. John smiled as best he could. That was the closest thing to a compliment as he was going to get tonight. He wondered what else Randy had in store for him, but he knew that he wouldn't have to wait long to find out. Randy liked to switch tortures almost as fast as he had begun them; always keeping John on his toes and leaving his body a quivering bloody, mess as Randy jumped from toy to damaging toy like an ADD riddled child. This was just Randy's idea of foreplay; the gag, the blindfold. This was all child's play, and if there was anything that Randy Orton was not, it was a child. He was going to have to try and make this last as long as he possibly could. As soon as the though entered his brain, though, Randy squashed that hope; reading his mind like only he could.
"You're boring me, Cena," Randy barked suddenly, yanking his glistening cock from John's mouth. "Where did you learn to suck dick? From a lesbian?" John hung his head in shame at Randy's harsh words and waited for the punishment that was sure to follow such a berating. His gag did not allow him to speak, its only use was to keep his mouth in a permanent state of readiness, open at all times. Lube pooled at the corners of his mouth; Randy had really loaded it on himself and John wanted to be sick.
"Get the fuck up," Randy ordered, the sound of his voice commanding and powerful. "I'm gonna have to send you back to Batista you keep this shit up."
John's eyes widened in terror underneath his blindfold and he shook his head rapidly, silently begging Randy to give him another chance. He'd do anything, anything to keep from being sent to Batista. The man was a beast. An honest to goodness vile, depraved, maniac who had ripped John's mouth to shreds the last time Randy had pawned him off on him. John could hear Randy's evil chuckle as he fought to scream from behind his gag.
"Oh calm down, Cena," Randy replied to John's silent pleas. "Last time Batista was through with you I couldn't fuck you for over a week. That's not gonna happen again anytime soon. Good to see you learned your lesson, though. Now, get. Up. Because for every minute you made me endure that horrible blowjob, that's how many lashes you're gonna get with Mr. Tickle." Randy laughed softly at the name and yanked John to his feet. "Oh yeahhh," he purred, running his long fingers down the left side of John's face. He frowned when he failed to find any wetness on his skin. He'd have to do something about that because he was in a mood. And when Randy was in a mood well, then, you had either let him take it out on you, or get the hell away from him as fast as you could. Obviously, John was in no position to go anywhere, not that he would have given the chance anyway.
Randy rummaged in the bag nearby. Mr. Tickle. Yet another one of his "toys", so aptly named for its ability to bring anything but a tickling sensation to those on the receiving end. But that was Randy for you; sick bastard that he was.
"You ready for me?" Randy asked, not even waiting for an answer before he brought the whip down across John's tender flesh for the first time that night. John's back arched in a horrific way as the strap cut into his skin and drew a line of fresh blood. Unable to scream, his teeth practically bit through his tongue in protest. "Oh, baby," Randy moaned at the sight of John's back being split open. He lowered the whip and brought his index finger down to the fresh wound, trailing it through the sticky substance. "Bleed for me, baby," he breathed heavily. "Oh God."
John was given a moment of reprieve as Randy reveled in the first marking that he had made. His tongue flicked around the edges of the wound before sinking into the deeper part of the gash. He nipped at John's flesh and John's cock responded to the slow torture by hardening to almost painful degrees. 'Traitor,' John growled to his body as it continued to express its enjoyment of Randy's sexual depravities. The whip cracked down once again and John's mind howled in pain, whereas this time instead of biting his tongue, he practically swallowed it. Randy had made sure to make the second cut intersect with the first, creating an X across the middle of John's back.
"X marks the spot," Randy laughed at his own joke, bending down to once again make love to the gashes with his tongue. John's back convulsed and his knees buckled against the foot rest of the bed until he slid entirely down to the floor with a thud. His hands tied in front of him and pinned underneath him, mouth gagged and eyes wide shut to the world, John lay there at Randy's feet. Randy kicked at John's body a bit in disappointment.
"Come on, baby," he cooed. "I haven't even started yet. You know you love it when I make you hurt so good," he said in a low breath. "Don't make me make it hurt so bad," he threatened, his voice changing in an instant. John felt his balls tighten and that warm feeling flowed through him. Randy was more than capable of making good on that threat, too. John whimpered from the floor, gasping for air as he felt Randy's foot dig into his lower back.
"Fine," Randy growled. "We'll do it your way." And with that he drew back his arm and reigned fury down on John's body with the force of Satan himself. His whip knew no boundaries; had no aim. It just sought after flesh wherever it could find it, and find it it did. John's body shook and practically levitated off of the dirty hotel room carpet. His mouth fought to scream, his hands struggled to break free to end his suffering, but to no avail. He was helpless; defenseless against Randy's wrath. The strap sizzled through the air and it sounded like the damn Fourth of July in Hell in that damned room. Firecrackers were going off on John's skin, the whip blazed through the air like a rocket, sparks and blood flying across the room. The droplets canvassed the room; a macabre splatter painting decorating, what was once before, dull walls.
John's cock tightened so hard that he thought his skin might burst. "Hurt me," he begged through the gag. The two words came out as nothing but jumbled sounds, but Randy understood; he knew how much John loved the pain even if he himself would never admit it out loud, Randy's whip got him talking.
Got him screaming.
Randy stood over him, wielding the thin strip of leather like a professional. He was pure evil and pure domination as he sliced through John's tender flesh like a hot knife through butter. The more cuts he inflicted, the more raw skin he'd have to love so intimately.
"I'm a bad, baddd man," Randy breathed harshly over John's prone body, borrowing a line from one of Cena's horrible rap songs. John shuddered underneath him. God, that man could do or say just about anything and John, or at least his body, would always get immensely turned on. The whipping seemed to go on for hours, but really lasted all of two to three minutes. Two to three extremely long minutes. The bone chilling sounds of leather against flesh bounced off of the walls and then fell back upon them, sinking into the wood and capturing them for eternity; their own little twisted sound recording booth.
It was never enough for Randy, nothing was ever enough. Not enough blood, not enough screams, not enough tears. He wanted it all, he wanted to evoke every last bit of John that he had to offer and devour it for himself. As if John's sanity, John's very essence, his life, could become his own. Nothing was ever good enough for Randy, either. He was never satisfied, sexually, emotionally, or physically. His body was a well oiled machine, going through the motions of a normal life but deep down inside he was empty; a shell of an existence hovered inside of him devoid of any emotion whatsoever. Human contact to him was nothing more than an annoyance, a pesky fly that needed to be swatted away, and swatted away hard.
Sure he knew how John felt about him, he understood such matters, he wasn't stupid after all. He just wasn't wired correctly. The parts of his brain that should respond to such love and affection were dim, old warehouses on the bad side of town that had been boarded up and surrounded by warning signs to those who dared trespass.
Randy was bad news and yet still John couldn't get enough of him. Which, when you think about it, probably made John even more insane than Randy. To that end, they were perfect for each other. John was the light that shone through, illuminating Randy's darkness, and Randy was the inky shroud of death that gave John purpose and life; life that Randy subsequently reneged on and took back, a cruel Indian giver if there ever was one.
But what he took, he also gave back. It was a vicious circle and Randy played it out to the fullest extent. He was wearing John out with a precise rhythm of lashes and licks, and then just as quickly as it had begun, the punishment stopped and John was left draped over the bed wheezing and gasping for air. His body was a mess of welts and raw purple, bloody gashes etched into his broad back and shoulders. His blood mixed with Randy's saliva and streamed down his body in ghoulish rivers, pooling in the small of his back.
"Had enough yet, Johnny?" Randy looked down at John's limp body and shook his head. The vision below him was sickening, and it would have had any other man screaming and running for the nearest exit. But not Randy. Sometimes he wondered just what was wrong with him, but when such weak thoughts dared entered his mind they were quickly pushed out by an even more dominant voice thundering in his ears.
'I think you mean, what is wrong with THEM!' it bellowed, snapping Randy out of such hesitant ponderings and reassuring him that there was indeed, nothing wrong with him. It was everyone else, the "normals", as he liked to call them, that were the strange ones.
John nodded his head rapidly as best he could with his face pressed into the mattress where he had fallen after the last blow. He had had enough, he had had enough to last five lifetimes if not more, and he wanted nothing more than to just crawl into the soft bed beneath him and let Randy love him tenderly. But he knew that was never going to happen, not now, not ever.
Randal Keith Orton was a sick, deviant individual, and until he tired of him, John was his human play thing. He might as well have been stacked on a shelf at the local toy store with the rest of the dolls. "Pull his string," the box would read. "Pull his string and listen to him scream!" "Doll comes with real blood you pour into a hole on the top of his head." "Stab him with the attached plastic knife and watch him bleed!" "Fun for every psychotic boy and girl!" That was John; a real life doll at Randy's beck and call. There was a thin line in their relationship, a line that ran right down the center of John's heart and cracking it into two completely different pieces. On one side lay the piece that endured the torture, Randy's dark moods, and lack of emotional connection with little to no resistance. On the other was the real John, the John that existed B.R.O: Before Randy Orton. This was the side that fell in love with him, that allowed himself to be subject to such atrocities in the name of that love, and that was the side that would allow him the strength to continue to do so for eternity if need be.
True love exists; you just have to be willing to put up with everything that goes along with it once you find it, no matter how painful it may be. Emotionally or physically.
There was a thud as Randy dropped the bloody strap of leather to the floor at his side and then some rustling noises and the sound of Randy muttering to himself as he searched for the perfect device to deliver the coup de grace upon John's defenseless body. Relying on only his available senses once again, John was sure he knew what Randy had found, and his balls shriveled up immediately at just the thought.
The spreader; Mr. O, aptly named for its ability to turn John's asshole into a wide, gaping "O", perfect for Randy to plug shut with his dick. Mr. O was a flat, plastic device with a large hole cut into the front, two prongs on the back, and a tiny crank on the front. When inserted properly and then cranked, the prongs separated, moving to the left and to the right, thus spreading the subject's asshole wide open. Once secure, it was immovable until the crank was released and the prongs moved back into place allowing it to be slid out. There was a strap attached to the cruel toy which went around the victim's waist and tightened it even further.
John let out a small, pitiful moan. It was the best he could muster through his gag. His body was still sprawled out, half across the bed, half on the floor where he had fallen a few minutes earlier. Had it really only been a few minutes? It felt as though the sun had gone down and come back up again in this seemingly never ending night of explicit mind rape. John's body trembled in fear at what horrors were still to come.
You are my everything.
He swallowed hard as best he could with the gag forcing his mouth into a permanent screaming state.
"Oh, oh, ohhhhhh," Randy dead panned, effectively ruining Usher for the rest of John's life, as he zipped his bag back up and kicked it aside, the spreader in his hand. Fear knotted in John's belly, a feeling of intense dread settled over him, and apprehension took over.
"No! NO! NOOOO!" he screamed, the words coming out in a garbled jumble of spit and sound. His head shook rapidly back and forth, sending arcs of blood careening off of his back and onto Randy like a wet dog shaking itself off and soaking its owner after coming in from the rain. Had his eyes been visible, Randy would have wondered at the intense look of trepidation and panic he saw in them and then he would have smiled, increasing John's terror ten fold.
"A little pain never hurt anybody," Randy hissed for the second time that night, drawing out the syllables in the last word. John's back arched and he fought against his bindings but they held, successfully imprisoning him, and he was at the full mercy of Orton.
It was indeed, a horrifying thought.
John tried to kick out his legs but Randy just chuckled and swatted them away, forcing John back down onto the bed.
"You know you like it once I'm in there, baby doll," Randy muttered as he fiddled with Mr. O. "So stop trying to fight me and just let Mr. O work his magic." John moaned in defeat, his entire body weak from the alcohol and the sensual whipping he had just endured. He heard the fatal click that meant the device was in ready mode and he steeled himself against the hot white pain that he knew was coming. His entire body tensed, a bad move his brain knew, but his body was wired for survival and for fighting back, for putting up some resistance against the pain. His mind and body engaged in a power struggle; "Stop fighting," his mind warned. "Brace yourself," his body argued. "Don't let him do this to you." Tears trickled down John's handsome face from underneath his blindfold and he mentally gritted his teeth, definitively putting an end to the argument. He allowed his body to inhale deeply through his nose as best as he could with his mouth open the way it was, and subsequently let it out slowly and smoothly, counting to five as he did so. He repeated this process a few times until he had sufficiently calmed his body and his mind as well as his nerves.
He'd survived this before, he'd do so again. It really didn't hurt once his body had adjusted to the initial intrusion. After that it was more of a nagging, pulling sensation that the force of Randy's dick moving around inside his body quickly squelched. He felt Randy's hand on his right ass cheek, kneading the hard muscle there. He felt Randy lean down slowly until his breath was ghosting over the small of John's back and with a slight flick of his tongue; he lapped at the drying blood there. John cringed and felt himself harden at the same time.
Randy was one sick puppy.
Randy switched sides and began massaging the other side of John's ass while his mouth worked over his back; his tongue tracing the cruel gashes engraved there. A warm feeling started to unwind in John's stomach as he began to relax a bit. This was the loving that Randy was capable of, unconventional as it may be, and it was all John was going to get so he reveled in it. He let his body loosen up some and his heart rate slowed considerably.
The calm before the storm.
The groping and licking continued silently for a few minutes, Randy's face stoic in its demeanor. He was getting no enjoyment out of giving John pleasure, but the taste of John's blood really got his dick hard.
Well, hard-er.
The blood always did that to him and when he was younger he tried to find out why but soon gave up trying as he got older; when he realized that he didn't care why the taste of blood turned him on, when he gave in to his bizarre fetishes and started letting himself enjoy them. Enter John. A sexy, solidly built man to whom Randy found himself drawn to from day one and who, while squeamish at times to Randy's demands, went along with whatever Randy's sick and twisted brain came up with. Whether it be rough sex involving any one of the numerous toys that Randy possessed, sexual torture, the whipping, the bondage, the clamps..whatever it was, John indulged Randy's fantasies and for that, Randy highly admired him.
John felt Randy's hands and mouth abandon his skin and his body threatened to tense up again but he quickly stopped it. That wouldn't do him any good at this point. He heard Randy pick up Mr. O and he struggled to position his hands more comfortably under his body since he was unable to move his arms out to the side.
"You're being such a good boy for me tonight," Randy breathed as he slowly inserted the soft plastic into John's hole. "So good that I almost, almost said I'd save Mr. O for another night but you're already strung up and laid out so beautifully for me, Johnny that I say we go for it. What do you think? Do you think I should stretch your asshole out as wide as it'll go and then pound you through this mattress? You think you'll like that, Johnny? I think you will," Randy continued without waiting for a reply. "Matter of fact, I think you'll love that."
John gave in to the foreign object currently working its way into his body, he breathed out deeply as the prongs went out to the side and widened him. A burning, ripping sensation coursed through his lower half as his body struggled to adjust. 'Just breathe,' he told himself as he let all of the air flow out of his body, rendering his big frame pliable and loose.
"Gonna enjoy. This," Randy breathed harshly, the words coming out in short gasps as he positioned the toy and locked it in place. He tightened the strap around John's body, pinning his dick down in the process. "Mmmm," he sighed, eyeing his handiwork. "You look delicious, Johnny," he moaned giving John's ass a painful slap. His back arched at the stinging blow and saliva dripped out of his mouth, soaking the sheets below him. He felt Randy's fingers slide around in the blood on his back and then heard the sickening sound of him coating himself with the sticky crimson substance.
This was going to be one messy night.
Randy chuckled as if he could read John's thoughts. "You don't know the half of it, Johnny boy." That was all the warning John got before Randy plunged his blood streaked dick deep inside of John's body, thrusting in extra hard through the plastic hole. Randy groaned as the tiny, rubber teeth that lined the opening tickled up and down his cock with every thrust he made in and out. The friction was unbearable, the sight of what Randy was doing to his lover's body deranged, yet fascinating at the same time and Randy was entranced; he couldn't look away. John's body convulsed underneath him, the force of his thrusts driving him down harder onto the mattress as the sheets muffled his strangled cries and pitiful attempts to scream.
It would go on like this until Randy got bored and decided he wanted to come. Oh he'd pull out every so often, if only to lube himself with more of John's rapidly crusting blood, but that was just about the only reprieve that John would get. Randy's grunts echoed perversely in the otherwise quiet room. The sucking sounds coming from below him only intensified his lust as the blood flowed freely from John's ass; the crimson rivers standing out in stark contrast to the pale flesh of John's legs as he was fucked mercilessly from behind. The strap dug into the tender skin of his cock, chafing the sensitive tip as he slipped up and down. Here and there Randy would stick a finger in one of the opened wounds on John's back and lazily swirl his finger around in the raw flesh eliciting, what would be if his gag didn't prevent it, a bone chilling shriek from the bound man.
Heat pooled in John's belly as that one, magical spot inside of him was continuously brushed against during each one of Randy's powerful onslaughts. It was horrifying and at the same time wonderful; that feeling of complete helplessness. The total lack of control over what was happening to your own body; that feeling was euphoric and John couldn't get enough of the high it gave him. If Randy could understand his cries he'd hear John screaming "harder!" and grunting out expletitives left and right to further encourage the force of Randy's thrusts.
Sex. Blood. Screams. Lust. Heat. Passion. Pain. It all melded together that night into one long concerto of the damned and Randy was the demented conductor.
Some might call it "rape", but John and Randy just called it "normal" because, after all, a little pain never hurt anybody.
***
The sun was just coming up, a breathtaking purple hue taking over the world, when Randy was finished with him. Thick smatters of milky white cum dotted John's back, mixing with the dried blood and turning it pink. It all slid in goopy piles down the expanse of his broad back, down his ass crack and eventually landing on the floor where it stuck to the carpet. John was unaware as the spreader was pulled from his overworked and throbbing hole and the strap was undone; he was in a completely different place, the here and now non-existent to him.
Randy exerted himself, using what little energy he had left to turn John around so that he was facing him. He deftly untied the ropes from John's wrists and pin pricks of blood promptly appeared in the divots the rope had made in his flesh. The gag was next to go and finally the blindfold, Randy loosened the soft cloth and let it drop, bringing the harsh reality of daylight down in full force upon John's face.
John's lifeless eyes stared up blankly as Randy's body dripped sweat onto his. His mind was shattered; his body broken and mangled. It was going to take him at least a week to recover from this most recent brutalization; if not more.
True love.
Plunk, plunk. A few more drops of sweat fell from Randy's face, splashing onto John's, but he didn't even blink. He just stared into space, his mind separated from his body, and for this moment in time John Cena ceased to exist. Oh, the body was there, bruised and battered as it was, but the man himself, the soul of John Cena, was destroyed. Crushed like so many discarded soda cans, his spirit had been broken. Only one man had the power to bring him back from this devastation. Only one man had the power to bring life back into those dead, empty eyes, and he wasn't going to do so anytime soon; not when he wanted to enjoy his handiwork for as long as possible. When the time was right, though, he'd right the horrible wrong he had unleashed on his lover but for now....for now he wanted to bask in the blood lust of sex and pain that he had created on the canvas of the mattress below him.
This was Randy Orton's world. John Cena was just living in it.
Whatever grave miscarriage of justice you believe has been perpetrated against you, remember, there is always someone else who is suffering ten, if not fifty, times worse than you. Oftentimes that person is even someone whom you are close to, someone with whom you share your hopes and dreams with. Someone who would go to the edge of hell and back for you, and has; a lot. Someone who just hides their apprehension and wariness behind a jovial laugh and a dimpled smile, waiting for the night that you come and hurt them in that wonderful, beautiful way that only you know how.
"Still think size doesn't matter?" Randy growled, his lithe body hovering over John's like a vision straight out of the Kama Sutra.
Title: Size Doesn't Matter
Pairing: Centon..with a few mentions of Codiasi here and there I guess:)
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Somewhat non-con, there might be some blood spilled, some screaming...you know, the usual;)
Disclaimers: No beta, yada yada...all these mistakes are mine and mine only. And of course it is AU, as always. I do what I please with mah boyz. I always do;)
Word Count: 12,406
Feedback: Yes PLEASE!
*Author's Note: I started this fic a year ago this June, forgot about it, just found it a few weeks ago and have been struggling to finish it ever since. It was originally supposed to be for my lovely twin, Erica's, birthday (last year lol) but it has since evolved into something bloody and brutal and I know she isn't really into all of that sooo....it is now just a fic for my archives.
*Edit: I absolutely hate breaking up fics that aren't supposed to be in parts, but I just tried to post and LJ is telling me it's too big sooo...gonna have to cut it up. There's no way I'm going to go back and read this sucker again trying to find stuff to axe. I'm sick of looking at this!
John practically bowed his head in prayer as he allowed Randy to fit the black leather strap around his mouth. The outside was as smooth as silk, but the underside was rough and chafed at the sensitive skin around John's mouth. The material had a large hole in the front to allow access to his mouth, but the back snapped tight around his head. As his head was tilted back, he saw through lowered lashes the blindfold that Randy next procured from his little shop of horrors. So it was bondage night at casa de Orton, huh? 'Alright,' he nodded to himself; he could handle that. John's world went black as the matching blindfold was secured around his eyes. When Randy was done with him, all that was visible was the top of his sandy brown hair, and his nose. He wondered how long the blindfolding would last, though. Randy usually liked to look into his eyes as he worked; he liked to witness the fear and pain he found there.
John's senses were now almost completely cut off. He had lost the ability to see as well as to feel. Tasting, hearing, and smelling were all still in play, though; and he had a feeling that the only thing he was going to be tasting was Randy's cum, the only thing he was going to be smelling was that of his own fear, Randy's sweat and musk along with his sexy cologne. But it was what he was going to hear that worried John the most because he knew just what that would be.
The sound of his own screaming.
But it wouldn't be the kind that made the neighbors call 911, oh no. It would be the sort of relentless screaming that occurred only in one's mind; the type of screaming that shattered souls and brought powerful men to their knees in devastating defeat. It would be the screaming that split, previously sane, minds into two very different irreparable halves.
Taste.
Sound.
Smell.
Those were his only friends now; he had to rely on them. The sound of Randy rustling around in his bag made John's ears prick. What now? He smelled something...sweet as his ears again picked up another sound; that of a cap being popped open from a bottle of some sort. He heard a squirting sound and then a sucking one. If he didn't know any better, he'd say that Randy was jacking off, but that couldn't be right. Randy would never. Not when he had Cena bound and gagged in front of him, ready and willing to do anything he asked of him. No, something else was going on here and he knew he was about to find out because as soon as the sounds had started, they abruptly stopped.
"You know what, Johnny boy?" Randy said, almost conversationally, as if he wasn't staring down at his incapacitated lover to whom he was about to commit sinful acts upon. "Most of the time when you drink, your mouth gets really dry, almost painfully dry, and I can't fuck a dry mouth; ya know what I'm saying? That would be like fucking a tube of sandpaper, no, I need to stick my dick into something moist, something wet and slippery. Is your mouth wet enough for me, Cena?" he asked, monotone.
John felt his parched lips tug against the gag and his already dry mouth get even dryer. He could barely swallow. The alcohol had dehydrated his saliva and his mouth was as barren as the Sahara.
"You don't have to answer that, love," Randy laughed. "I already know the answer; that's why I've prepared myself. You can thank me later."
John had no idea what Randy was going on about but as soon as he felt the wide tip of Randy's cock enter his mouth he understood.
Taste.
The taste was that of...it took John a second to figure it out, banana cream pie. Randy had slicked the sweet smelling, and tasting, lube all over himself and was currently prodding John's gagged mouth with it.
"Mmmmm," Randy moaned. "That's more like it. Nice and wet for me." He grabbed the back of John's head and forced the entire length down his throat. "Muuuuch better," he groaned loudly.
John wanted to throw up. Randy knew he hated the taste of banana, he fucking knew it; and yet he had practically injected his dick with it just to show John who fucked who around here. "Asshole," John muttered as best he could around the cock in his mouth and the gag strapped around it.
"You say something, Cena?" Randy demanded, pulling his dick out and slamming it back in with enough force to punch a hole through the back of John's throat. "Because if you've got something to say," he drawled, jack hammering John's mouth with all the finesse of a, well, a jackhammer. "Just go ahead and say it." He swirled himself around in John's mouth, making sure to coat his taste buds with the sickly taste of banana. John's stomach lurched, but he held it in check. He had never thrown up during one of Randy's assaults on his mouth before, and he wasn't about to start now. Who the hell knew what Randy would do if he did that. So instead he just mentally gritted his teeth and took him all in. When Randy started to fuck his mouth slower, he used the tip of his tongue to trace lazy patterns around the head just the way he knew Randy liked, and when Randy pounded into his mouth like a wild animal he just sat there on his knees, trying as hard as he could to balance and keep himself upright.
"Shit," Randy moaned as John's long tongue worked its magic on him. "You've got the dirtiest little whore mouth I've ever fucked," he grunted. John smiled as best he could. That was the closest thing to a compliment as he was going to get tonight. He wondered what else Randy had in store for him, but he knew that he wouldn't have to wait long to find out. Randy liked to switch tortures almost as fast as he had begun them; always keeping John on his toes and leaving his body a quivering bloody, mess as Randy jumped from toy to damaging toy like an ADD riddled child. This was just Randy's idea of foreplay; the gag, the blindfold. This was all child's play, and if there was anything that Randy Orton was not, it was a child. He was going to have to try and make this last as long as he possibly could. As soon as the though entered his brain, though, Randy squashed that hope; reading his mind like only he could.
"You're boring me, Cena," Randy barked suddenly, yanking his glistening cock from John's mouth. "Where did you learn to suck dick? From a lesbian?" John hung his head in shame at Randy's harsh words and waited for the punishment that was sure to follow such a berating. His gag did not allow him to speak, its only use was to keep his mouth in a permanent state of readiness, open at all times. Lube pooled at the corners of his mouth; Randy had really loaded it on himself and John wanted to be sick.
"Get the fuck up," Randy ordered, the sound of his voice commanding and powerful. "I'm gonna have to send you back to Batista you keep this shit up."
John's eyes widened in terror underneath his blindfold and he shook his head rapidly, silently begging Randy to give him another chance. He'd do anything, anything to keep from being sent to Batista. The man was a beast. An honest to goodness vile, depraved, maniac who had ripped John's mouth to shreds the last time Randy had pawned him off on him. John could hear Randy's evil chuckle as he fought to scream from behind his gag.
"Oh calm down, Cena," Randy replied to John's silent pleas. "Last time Batista was through with you I couldn't fuck you for over a week. That's not gonna happen again anytime soon. Good to see you learned your lesson, though. Now, get. Up. Because for every minute you made me endure that horrible blowjob, that's how many lashes you're gonna get with Mr. Tickle." Randy laughed softly at the name and yanked John to his feet. "Oh yeahhh," he purred, running his long fingers down the left side of John's face. He frowned when he failed to find any wetness on his skin. He'd have to do something about that because he was in a mood. And when Randy was in a mood well, then, you had either let him take it out on you, or get the hell away from him as fast as you could. Obviously, John was in no position to go anywhere, not that he would have given the chance anyway.
Randy rummaged in the bag nearby. Mr. Tickle. Yet another one of his "toys", so aptly named for its ability to bring anything but a tickling sensation to those on the receiving end. But that was Randy for you; sick bastard that he was.
"You ready for me?" Randy asked, not even waiting for an answer before he brought the whip down across John's tender flesh for the first time that night. John's back arched in a horrific way as the strap cut into his skin and drew a line of fresh blood. Unable to scream, his teeth practically bit through his tongue in protest. "Oh, baby," Randy moaned at the sight of John's back being split open. He lowered the whip and brought his index finger down to the fresh wound, trailing it through the sticky substance. "Bleed for me, baby," he breathed heavily. "Oh God."
John was given a moment of reprieve as Randy reveled in the first marking that he had made. His tongue flicked around the edges of the wound before sinking into the deeper part of the gash. He nipped at John's flesh and John's cock responded to the slow torture by hardening to almost painful degrees. 'Traitor,' John growled to his body as it continued to express its enjoyment of Randy's sexual depravities. The whip cracked down once again and John's mind howled in pain, whereas this time instead of biting his tongue, he practically swallowed it. Randy had made sure to make the second cut intersect with the first, creating an X across the middle of John's back.
"X marks the spot," Randy laughed at his own joke, bending down to once again make love to the gashes with his tongue. John's back convulsed and his knees buckled against the foot rest of the bed until he slid entirely down to the floor with a thud. His hands tied in front of him and pinned underneath him, mouth gagged and eyes wide shut to the world, John lay there at Randy's feet. Randy kicked at John's body a bit in disappointment.
"Come on, baby," he cooed. "I haven't even started yet. You know you love it when I make you hurt so good," he said in a low breath. "Don't make me make it hurt so bad," he threatened, his voice changing in an instant. John felt his balls tighten and that warm feeling flowed through him. Randy was more than capable of making good on that threat, too. John whimpered from the floor, gasping for air as he felt Randy's foot dig into his lower back.
"Fine," Randy growled. "We'll do it your way." And with that he drew back his arm and reigned fury down on John's body with the force of Satan himself. His whip knew no boundaries; had no aim. It just sought after flesh wherever it could find it, and find it it did. John's body shook and practically levitated off of the dirty hotel room carpet. His mouth fought to scream, his hands struggled to break free to end his suffering, but to no avail. He was helpless; defenseless against Randy's wrath. The strap sizzled through the air and it sounded like the damn Fourth of July in Hell in that damned room. Firecrackers were going off on John's skin, the whip blazed through the air like a rocket, sparks and blood flying across the room. The droplets canvassed the room; a macabre splatter painting decorating, what was once before, dull walls.
John's cock tightened so hard that he thought his skin might burst. "Hurt me," he begged through the gag. The two words came out as nothing but jumbled sounds, but Randy understood; he knew how much John loved the pain even if he himself would never admit it out loud, Randy's whip got him talking.
Got him screaming.
Randy stood over him, wielding the thin strip of leather like a professional. He was pure evil and pure domination as he sliced through John's tender flesh like a hot knife through butter. The more cuts he inflicted, the more raw skin he'd have to love so intimately.
"I'm a bad, baddd man," Randy breathed harshly over John's prone body, borrowing a line from one of Cena's horrible rap songs. John shuddered underneath him. God, that man could do or say just about anything and John, or at least his body, would always get immensely turned on. The whipping seemed to go on for hours, but really lasted all of two to three minutes. Two to three extremely long minutes. The bone chilling sounds of leather against flesh bounced off of the walls and then fell back upon them, sinking into the wood and capturing them for eternity; their own little twisted sound recording booth.
It was never enough for Randy, nothing was ever enough. Not enough blood, not enough screams, not enough tears. He wanted it all, he wanted to evoke every last bit of John that he had to offer and devour it for himself. As if John's sanity, John's very essence, his life, could become his own. Nothing was ever good enough for Randy, either. He was never satisfied, sexually, emotionally, or physically. His body was a well oiled machine, going through the motions of a normal life but deep down inside he was empty; a shell of an existence hovered inside of him devoid of any emotion whatsoever. Human contact to him was nothing more than an annoyance, a pesky fly that needed to be swatted away, and swatted away hard.
Sure he knew how John felt about him, he understood such matters, he wasn't stupid after all. He just wasn't wired correctly. The parts of his brain that should respond to such love and affection were dim, old warehouses on the bad side of town that had been boarded up and surrounded by warning signs to those who dared trespass.
Randy was bad news and yet still John couldn't get enough of him. Which, when you think about it, probably made John even more insane than Randy. To that end, they were perfect for each other. John was the light that shone through, illuminating Randy's darkness, and Randy was the inky shroud of death that gave John purpose and life; life that Randy subsequently reneged on and took back, a cruel Indian giver if there ever was one.
But what he took, he also gave back. It was a vicious circle and Randy played it out to the fullest extent. He was wearing John out with a precise rhythm of lashes and licks, and then just as quickly as it had begun, the punishment stopped and John was left draped over the bed wheezing and gasping for air. His body was a mess of welts and raw purple, bloody gashes etched into his broad back and shoulders. His blood mixed with Randy's saliva and streamed down his body in ghoulish rivers, pooling in the small of his back.
"Had enough yet, Johnny?" Randy looked down at John's limp body and shook his head. The vision below him was sickening, and it would have had any other man screaming and running for the nearest exit. But not Randy. Sometimes he wondered just what was wrong with him, but when such weak thoughts dared entered his mind they were quickly pushed out by an even more dominant voice thundering in his ears.
'I think you mean, what is wrong with THEM!' it bellowed, snapping Randy out of such hesitant ponderings and reassuring him that there was indeed, nothing wrong with him. It was everyone else, the "normals", as he liked to call them, that were the strange ones.
John nodded his head rapidly as best he could with his face pressed into the mattress where he had fallen after the last blow. He had had enough, he had had enough to last five lifetimes if not more, and he wanted nothing more than to just crawl into the soft bed beneath him and let Randy love him tenderly. But he knew that was never going to happen, not now, not ever.
Randal Keith Orton was a sick, deviant individual, and until he tired of him, John was his human play thing. He might as well have been stacked on a shelf at the local toy store with the rest of the dolls. "Pull his string," the box would read. "Pull his string and listen to him scream!" "Doll comes with real blood you pour into a hole on the top of his head." "Stab him with the attached plastic knife and watch him bleed!" "Fun for every psychotic boy and girl!" That was John; a real life doll at Randy's beck and call. There was a thin line in their relationship, a line that ran right down the center of John's heart and cracking it into two completely different pieces. On one side lay the piece that endured the torture, Randy's dark moods, and lack of emotional connection with little to no resistance. On the other was the real John, the John that existed B.R.O: Before Randy Orton. This was the side that fell in love with him, that allowed himself to be subject to such atrocities in the name of that love, and that was the side that would allow him the strength to continue to do so for eternity if need be.
True love exists; you just have to be willing to put up with everything that goes along with it once you find it, no matter how painful it may be. Emotionally or physically.
There was a thud as Randy dropped the bloody strap of leather to the floor at his side and then some rustling noises and the sound of Randy muttering to himself as he searched for the perfect device to deliver the coup de grace upon John's defenseless body. Relying on only his available senses once again, John was sure he knew what Randy had found, and his balls shriveled up immediately at just the thought.
The spreader; Mr. O, aptly named for its ability to turn John's asshole into a wide, gaping "O", perfect for Randy to plug shut with his dick. Mr. O was a flat, plastic device with a large hole cut into the front, two prongs on the back, and a tiny crank on the front. When inserted properly and then cranked, the prongs separated, moving to the left and to the right, thus spreading the subject's asshole wide open. Once secure, it was immovable until the crank was released and the prongs moved back into place allowing it to be slid out. There was a strap attached to the cruel toy which went around the victim's waist and tightened it even further.
John let out a small, pitiful moan. It was the best he could muster through his gag. His body was still sprawled out, half across the bed, half on the floor where he had fallen a few minutes earlier. Had it really only been a few minutes? It felt as though the sun had gone down and come back up again in this seemingly never ending night of explicit mind rape. John's body trembled in fear at what horrors were still to come.
You are my everything.
He swallowed hard as best he could with the gag forcing his mouth into a permanent screaming state.
"Oh, oh, ohhhhhh," Randy dead panned, effectively ruining Usher for the rest of John's life, as he zipped his bag back up and kicked it aside, the spreader in his hand. Fear knotted in John's belly, a feeling of intense dread settled over him, and apprehension took over.
"No! NO! NOOOO!" he screamed, the words coming out in a garbled jumble of spit and sound. His head shook rapidly back and forth, sending arcs of blood careening off of his back and onto Randy like a wet dog shaking itself off and soaking its owner after coming in from the rain. Had his eyes been visible, Randy would have wondered at the intense look of trepidation and panic he saw in them and then he would have smiled, increasing John's terror ten fold.
"A little pain never hurt anybody," Randy hissed for the second time that night, drawing out the syllables in the last word. John's back arched and he fought against his bindings but they held, successfully imprisoning him, and he was at the full mercy of Orton.
It was indeed, a horrifying thought.
John tried to kick out his legs but Randy just chuckled and swatted them away, forcing John back down onto the bed.
"You know you like it once I'm in there, baby doll," Randy muttered as he fiddled with Mr. O. "So stop trying to fight me and just let Mr. O work his magic." John moaned in defeat, his entire body weak from the alcohol and the sensual whipping he had just endured. He heard the fatal click that meant the device was in ready mode and he steeled himself against the hot white pain that he knew was coming. His entire body tensed, a bad move his brain knew, but his body was wired for survival and for fighting back, for putting up some resistance against the pain. His mind and body engaged in a power struggle; "Stop fighting," his mind warned. "Brace yourself," his body argued. "Don't let him do this to you." Tears trickled down John's handsome face from underneath his blindfold and he mentally gritted his teeth, definitively putting an end to the argument. He allowed his body to inhale deeply through his nose as best as he could with his mouth open the way it was, and subsequently let it out slowly and smoothly, counting to five as he did so. He repeated this process a few times until he had sufficiently calmed his body and his mind as well as his nerves.
He'd survived this before, he'd do so again. It really didn't hurt once his body had adjusted to the initial intrusion. After that it was more of a nagging, pulling sensation that the force of Randy's dick moving around inside his body quickly squelched. He felt Randy's hand on his right ass cheek, kneading the hard muscle there. He felt Randy lean down slowly until his breath was ghosting over the small of John's back and with a slight flick of his tongue; he lapped at the drying blood there. John cringed and felt himself harden at the same time.
Randy was one sick puppy.
Randy switched sides and began massaging the other side of John's ass while his mouth worked over his back; his tongue tracing the cruel gashes engraved there. A warm feeling started to unwind in John's stomach as he began to relax a bit. This was the loving that Randy was capable of, unconventional as it may be, and it was all John was going to get so he reveled in it. He let his body loosen up some and his heart rate slowed considerably.
The calm before the storm.
The groping and licking continued silently for a few minutes, Randy's face stoic in its demeanor. He was getting no enjoyment out of giving John pleasure, but the taste of John's blood really got his dick hard.
Well, hard-er.
The blood always did that to him and when he was younger he tried to find out why but soon gave up trying as he got older; when he realized that he didn't care why the taste of blood turned him on, when he gave in to his bizarre fetishes and started letting himself enjoy them. Enter John. A sexy, solidly built man to whom Randy found himself drawn to from day one and who, while squeamish at times to Randy's demands, went along with whatever Randy's sick and twisted brain came up with. Whether it be rough sex involving any one of the numerous toys that Randy possessed, sexual torture, the whipping, the bondage, the clamps..whatever it was, John indulged Randy's fantasies and for that, Randy highly admired him.
John felt Randy's hands and mouth abandon his skin and his body threatened to tense up again but he quickly stopped it. That wouldn't do him any good at this point. He heard Randy pick up Mr. O and he struggled to position his hands more comfortably under his body since he was unable to move his arms out to the side.
"You're being such a good boy for me tonight," Randy breathed as he slowly inserted the soft plastic into John's hole. "So good that I almost, almost said I'd save Mr. O for another night but you're already strung up and laid out so beautifully for me, Johnny that I say we go for it. What do you think? Do you think I should stretch your asshole out as wide as it'll go and then pound you through this mattress? You think you'll like that, Johnny? I think you will," Randy continued without waiting for a reply. "Matter of fact, I think you'll love that."
John gave in to the foreign object currently working its way into his body, he breathed out deeply as the prongs went out to the side and widened him. A burning, ripping sensation coursed through his lower half as his body struggled to adjust. 'Just breathe,' he told himself as he let all of the air flow out of his body, rendering his big frame pliable and loose.
"Gonna enjoy. This," Randy breathed harshly, the words coming out in short gasps as he positioned the toy and locked it in place. He tightened the strap around John's body, pinning his dick down in the process. "Mmmm," he sighed, eyeing his handiwork. "You look delicious, Johnny," he moaned giving John's ass a painful slap. His back arched at the stinging blow and saliva dripped out of his mouth, soaking the sheets below him. He felt Randy's fingers slide around in the blood on his back and then heard the sickening sound of him coating himself with the sticky crimson substance.
This was going to be one messy night.
Randy chuckled as if he could read John's thoughts. "You don't know the half of it, Johnny boy." That was all the warning John got before Randy plunged his blood streaked dick deep inside of John's body, thrusting in extra hard through the plastic hole. Randy groaned as the tiny, rubber teeth that lined the opening tickled up and down his cock with every thrust he made in and out. The friction was unbearable, the sight of what Randy was doing to his lover's body deranged, yet fascinating at the same time and Randy was entranced; he couldn't look away. John's body convulsed underneath him, the force of his thrusts driving him down harder onto the mattress as the sheets muffled his strangled cries and pitiful attempts to scream.
It would go on like this until Randy got bored and decided he wanted to come. Oh he'd pull out every so often, if only to lube himself with more of John's rapidly crusting blood, but that was just about the only reprieve that John would get. Randy's grunts echoed perversely in the otherwise quiet room. The sucking sounds coming from below him only intensified his lust as the blood flowed freely from John's ass; the crimson rivers standing out in stark contrast to the pale flesh of John's legs as he was fucked mercilessly from behind. The strap dug into the tender skin of his cock, chafing the sensitive tip as he slipped up and down. Here and there Randy would stick a finger in one of the opened wounds on John's back and lazily swirl his finger around in the raw flesh eliciting, what would be if his gag didn't prevent it, a bone chilling shriek from the bound man.
Heat pooled in John's belly as that one, magical spot inside of him was continuously brushed against during each one of Randy's powerful onslaughts. It was horrifying and at the same time wonderful; that feeling of complete helplessness. The total lack of control over what was happening to your own body; that feeling was euphoric and John couldn't get enough of the high it gave him. If Randy could understand his cries he'd hear John screaming "harder!" and grunting out expletitives left and right to further encourage the force of Randy's thrusts.
Sex. Blood. Screams. Lust. Heat. Passion. Pain. It all melded together that night into one long concerto of the damned and Randy was the demented conductor.
Some might call it "rape", but John and Randy just called it "normal" because, after all, a little pain never hurt anybody.
***
The sun was just coming up, a breathtaking purple hue taking over the world, when Randy was finished with him. Thick smatters of milky white cum dotted John's back, mixing with the dried blood and turning it pink. It all slid in goopy piles down the expanse of his broad back, down his ass crack and eventually landing on the floor where it stuck to the carpet. John was unaware as the spreader was pulled from his overworked and throbbing hole and the strap was undone; he was in a completely different place, the here and now non-existent to him.
Randy exerted himself, using what little energy he had left to turn John around so that he was facing him. He deftly untied the ropes from John's wrists and pin pricks of blood promptly appeared in the divots the rope had made in his flesh. The gag was next to go and finally the blindfold, Randy loosened the soft cloth and let it drop, bringing the harsh reality of daylight down in full force upon John's face.
John's lifeless eyes stared up blankly as Randy's body dripped sweat onto his. His mind was shattered; his body broken and mangled. It was going to take him at least a week to recover from this most recent brutalization; if not more.
True love.
Plunk, plunk. A few more drops of sweat fell from Randy's face, splashing onto John's, but he didn't even blink. He just stared into space, his mind separated from his body, and for this moment in time John Cena ceased to exist. Oh, the body was there, bruised and battered as it was, but the man himself, the soul of John Cena, was destroyed. Crushed like so many discarded soda cans, his spirit had been broken. Only one man had the power to bring him back from this devastation. Only one man had the power to bring life back into those dead, empty eyes, and he wasn't going to do so anytime soon; not when he wanted to enjoy his handiwork for as long as possible. When the time was right, though, he'd right the horrible wrong he had unleashed on his lover but for now....for now he wanted to bask in the blood lust of sex and pain that he had created on the canvas of the mattress below him.
This was Randy Orton's world. John Cena was just living in it.
Whatever grave miscarriage of justice you believe has been perpetrated against you, remember, there is always someone else who is suffering ten, if not fifty, times worse than you. Oftentimes that person is even someone whom you are close to, someone with whom you share your hopes and dreams with. Someone who would go to the edge of hell and back for you, and has; a lot. Someone who just hides their apprehension and wariness behind a jovial laugh and a dimpled smile, waiting for the night that you come and hurt them in that wonderful, beautiful way that only you know how.
"Still think size doesn't matter?" Randy growled, his lithe body hovering over John's like a vision straight out of the Kama Sutra.