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Waking up is hard to do, and happens only in slow, steady increments, but whatever Waylon's been drugged with this time is different from what Gluskin had claimed would calm him before. It feels like some kind of terrible hangover, his head pounding, body aching, eyes falling shut and refusing to open again for long minutes at a time, though he never quite falls asleep. And forget speaking; his throat is too raw for him to even think of that, but still a groan of despair escapes him and it feels like barbs on his insides.
There's a chuckle close by. The Groom, no doubt, watching him struggle back to consciousness.
"Come on, whore. Open your eyes and look at me - I know you can do it."
Waylon doesn't want to. He wants his eyes to stay shut so that he can pretend none of this exists even as he meets his end, wants to be home with his wife and children at the very least, and in the most ideal situation, he wants never to have taken up the contract at Mount Massive in the first place.
"Now, now. Don't be stubborn. That's a terrible quality in a woman." Fingertips, cold and rough, curl harshly through Waylon's hair, jerking his head back so that his throat is bared. "Not that it matters much now. You've already gone and shown your true colors... Just a useless slut like the rest of them."
A terrified moan fills the air, and Waylon realizes it's himself, sounding just like all those men who came before him.
"Ah, but I'm a forgiving man, darling. Don't worry - your beauty greatly makes up for that terrible personality you have. And we can work on that too... You know I can make you better."
Better. The word makes Waylon jerk, and he finally realizes that he's restrained on the table once again, arms held tight by ropes, though his feet are free, at least. His breathing comes faster, small and wheezing in his own throat.
"I've decided we should take a... different approach this time," the Groom says, voice filled with all the menace Waylon has come to expect. "You're a slippery one, you know? Don't think I'm going to give you up again."
"Please," Waylon begs, throat protesting at his words. "Please, please, don't do this, I don't want to die like this!"
"Don't you worry yourself. I'll start slow." A hand slides up his calf, squeezes lightly just below his knee. "First, we need to clean you up. Now don't struggle, I've dressed you for some... modesty. Not that you deserve it. But I won't be pleased if you cut yourself and get your things all bloody."
Weakly, Waylon lifts his head and opens his eyes to look down at himself. He's been dressed in a pair of silky-looking panties, a little too small on him, and not particularly modest at any rate. It doesn't make him feel any safer, except that he hopes the old out of sight, out of mind adage holds true for Eddie.
His state of undress isn't the only thing that catches his eye, however; the elegant silver handle of a straight razor glints in the low light before he closes his eyes once more, swallowing against the fear of what's coming next. That kind of thing could do a lot of damage, after all, and he has no doubts that he'd be punished if he were to step out of line. It strikes him too to wonder where it even came from, but then after the events of the night, he wouldn't be entirely surprised if there's some lunatic employee here with a penchant for sharp objects.
"You don't have to be embarrassed, darling," says Eddie, his hand absently petting at the curve of Waylon's knee where it meets his thigh before dropping away again. "I understand that this place takes things away from you... I'm sure you would have kept up appearances if you'd been able, but don't worry. I'm going to make you feel like a woman again. Just be patient."
The sharp, distinct sound of a blade being dragged over leather fills the air then, making Waylon cringe. It goes on for so long that it's almost startling when it ceases, and he jerks as something cool drizzles over one leg first, then the other. Cool touch follows afterward, spreading the liquid across his legs in a manner that feels too intimate, like a caress. He's reminded of the way he used to do this to Lisa, kneeling by her feet and rubbing lotion onto her legs after she'd showered, her skin soft and smooth under his hands. An addictive feeling, but he didn't know it would feel like this to be on the receiving end; if Waylon wasn't aware of exactly who was doing it, he might have enjoyed it.
He doesn't, though. He feels unnerved and confused, the effects of the drug lingering, and he'd much rather pretend none of this is happening, though Eddie doesn't make it easy - even when his hands are gone and Waylon breathes a sigh of relief, it's only momentary. Then he's back, brushing lather up Waylon's shins, delicate whorls that tickle a little, and his legs unintentionally pull together, trying to escape the feeling.
"Darling, I thought I told you not to struggle. You don't want to upset me, do you?" asks Eddie, one hand clamping down tight on Waylon's ankle.
"It tickles," he explains, voice hesitant.
Eddie barks out a single laugh. "Ah, is that so?" he wonders, not altering the stroke of the brush in the least. It isn't surprising to Waylon that he enjoys teasing like this, so cruel, doing everything for his own pleasure. He strains not to show how it bothers him, but despite his efforts, his body keeps trying to twitch away, which amuses the Groom to the point that he goes on far longer than he should have to.
In a way, Waylon is glad for it. It's far more innocent than whatever else Eddie is planning to do, filling him with a temporary sense of safeness so long as Waylon keeps amusing him like this. But it does stop eventually, the brush clinking against something as it's placed down, and then there's the touch of a blade against Waylon's ankle. His eyes shoot wide open, shock causing him to jolt slightly against the table.
"Careful now, darling. You don't want to ruin your beautiful skin," says Eddie. He draws the blade up in one long, smooth stroke that leaves Waylon panting in terror, waiting for it to slip up and slice him open. Miraculously enough, it doesn't, but that doesn't stop dread from filling him again, washing away whatever small comfort he's managed to grasp as he watches Eddie reach over and wipe the razor off on a grimy-looking towel.
Once more he poises it at Waylon's ankle before sliding it up with ease, and the grim realization strikes Waylon that he's probably done this to countless other "brides." That, however, does not alleviate his fears, and not wanting to incur Eddie's wrath, he forces himself to lay very still as he works at the lower portion of Waylon's leg.
There's silence though, and nothing in the way of punishment; Eddie is incredibly focused, his cold eyes intently watching the place where blade and skin meet, not once looking up to check on his bride. And his large hand remains curled around Waylon's ankle, never moving away, though he shifts his grip to turn it and get at the back of his calf once. The attention makes Waylon nervous, but part of him finds it pleasing; he's always appreciated having someone's full, undivided attention, and apparently that still holds true when the one paying attention to him is a murderer who wants to cut his cock off.
There are a few last swipes of the razor, taking care of spots Eddie has missed, and then's finished. He puts the razor down, picks the lather brush up instead. With the same teasing strokes as last time, he covers Waylon's thigh, ticklishness overtaking him once more and causing his legs to part slightly.
Eddie smirks up at him with warped lips. "Darling, have some patience. There's plenty of time for that after I fix you," he teases, dropping his eyes again as he positions the razor at Waylon's knee and makes quick, short swipes over it before progressing up his thigh in steady passes.
It's unsettling, how Waylon begins to trust him with this as the minutes pass, as if his current lack of violence will carry through to the end. How easy it is to start feeling lulled into a sense of comfort. The way Eddie concentrates so hard on the soft scrape of the razor before wiping it clean gradually becomes a soothing, repetitive motion that feels admittedly rather good to Waylon. It soon has him on the verge of relaxation... or something else; perhaps it doesn't help that the only other person who has touched him with this level of intimacy and care is his wife - sending him into a confused spiral of underlying arousal every time Eddie's touch lines up with how Lisa would have done it.
He isn't startled when Eddie grips the pliant flesh at the insides of his thighs, rolling them further apart with hands that are so sure of their right to touch. They don't linger too long, probably disgusted with the hair there, and then there's the razor again. The pull of it against the sensitive skin of Waylon's inner thigh is somehow a different feeling - dangerous, but it makes his breath catch and that sickening arousal truly kick to life in his belly.
Before he can start to berate himself too much, though, Eddie's pushing his leg up, lathering the underside quickly, then resuming the process of shaving him. Waylon squirms, biting down on his lip as the blade starts at the crease of his ass before moving upward to the bottom of his knee once more, humiliated that he's somehow getting off on this. Especially with how closely Eddie is looking at him... He has to see that it wouldn't take that much persuasion at all for Waylon to spread his legs for him, and when did he become so easy? All it takes is a few touches that remind him too much of Lisa and he's practically panting for it? It shames him how right Eddie had it when he called him a slut.
When his leg is dropped down again and his right one is taken instead, he's grateful for the distraction, though he realizes it's going to be much more delicate a task than the left; Eddie assesses it with impassive eyes, razor held aloft as if he's going to slash downward rather than continue shaving. Eventually, he tuts at it and picks up the brush again, lathering around his wound.
"Such a shame, darling... Why you'd think you have to run from me, I'll never know. Especially when you've gone and ruined your leg; how do you expect to walk down the aisle like this?" he wonders.
Waylon doesn't respond; he knows that Gluskin wants a quiet, obedient wife, and even if he's certainly not the material a wife should be cut from, he can be quiet and obedient. This time, he doesn't react to the soft strokes of the brush, the sudden grim, serious look on Eddie's face making him feel like it wouldn't be appreciated very much.
"Ah, well. I'm sure you realize how silly you were. We'll stitch it up later," Eddie continues, putting the brush down and picking the razor back up. He lifts Waylon's calf to cradle it in his hand, fingers brushing the raw edge of his wound, but Waylon forces himself not to wince away.
Then Eddie's drawing the razor up his skin once more. The first few strokes are long and thorough, but once he gets to the wound, he uses the same short, quick motions that he'd used at his knee, which has Waylon shifting uneasily.
Eddie clamps down harder on his calf at that, making him hiss in pain. "Darling, I'm not going to hurt you, but if you don't keep still then I simply can't be held responsible for anything you cause me to do," he murmurs, his silky voice a threat.
His hands are no comfort on Waylon either, sinister disguised as sweet, but Waylon can't quite trust himself enough to differentiate. All he knows is that the rough curl of a hand around his ankle feels like a claim, and that the thumb Eddie trails after each stroke of the razor is rough and pleasing. It all serves to wind him up further, the way the Groom wavers between gentle care and hard anger; it confuses him, makes things feel good that shouldn't feel good. The hands on his thighs, owning him. The way Eddie talks down to him, like he's convinced he deserves Waylon. The broad, frightening attractiveness of him that Waylon is barely even comfortable admitting to himself. All of it, so wrong.
It's torturous; now that he's started thinking of just what Eddie could do to him, he can't stop, and it's driving him insane. His skin is suddenly aware of each point Eddie comes in contact with him, and when the tip of the razor drags down the wanting flesh of his inner thigh, Waylon actually moans.
Eddie glances up at him, giving him a knowing look, but he doesn't actually speak just yet. He continues, more amused than ever by what he can do to Waylon, and by the time he's nearly done, Waylon is gasping softly, legs shaking with the strain of not tilting his hips up in an offering.
"You look so eager," Eddie murmurs finally. "Such a debauched face. Not long now until I'm done, my love, but you're making it so hard to hold out."
Waylon licks his lips, his breathing getting louder, more hurried. Each time the blade moves over his flesh, he finds it harder not to beg, though he isn't sure what for, and when Eddie pushes his leg up to get at the underside of it, he practically whines for attention.
Eddie's bladework doesn't budge an inch, however, no matter how much he claims Waylon is tempting him. He works at the same steady pace, covering the length of his leg then wiping off the razor before repeating again. Waylon is shaking even harder, biting his lip as Eddie bends his leg back toward his chest, wanting it to be over for reasons completely different from the ones he'd had at the beginning.
The razor is wiped off one last time before Eddie folds it up and places it down, using the towel to wipe up the remaining lather at a pace that feels glacial to Waylon. But when that's done, finally he pulls Waylon close to him, jerking one leg over his shoulder and caressing up the length of his thigh, stroking the soft hairless skin with a pleased smile on his face.
"You feel lovely, darling. We're one step closer to making you into what you're meant to be," he says, rubbing his face against Waylon's calf before placing a kiss there that makes Waylon sigh. Hands trail up and down his thighs, fingertips brushing the sensitive insides before moving back outward leaving heat in their wake. Waylon doesn't speak, but parts his legs further, a silent plea that makes Eddie chuckle.
"You're so excited to become my wife, aren't you?" he asks, pressing his hips forward against the back of Waylon's thigh, making him feel the hard cock trapped in his pants for a split second before he cups his hands under Waylon's knees and pushes them back against his chest. Then he slides his hand down to press a thumb against the panties over Waylon's hole, rubbing against it slowly until Waylon lets out a moan. "Hold still, darling. Let me make you wet."
He ducks down then, tugging the panties to the side just enough to get at Waylon's hole. The first touch of his tongue makes Waylon cry out, legs jerking, hands tugging against the ropes holding him fast, and Eddie delivers a slap upon the flesh of his upturned ass.
"Still," he hisses, and when he's satisfied with Waylon's lack of movement, he presses his tongue firmly to his hole once more. He starts out slow, exploratory, lapping just until Waylon begins to give under him, then withdrawing.
It's maddening, and the position gives Waylon no leverage, so he's forced to accept the tease of it until Eddie decides to give him more. In the meantime there's only the rhythmic back and forth of Eddie's tongue, as if... Oh. He thinks he's eating out something completely different, Waylon realizes, and Eddie only confirms it when he pulls back to speak.
"See, darling? See how wet I make your cunt?" He rubs his thumb over Waylon's hole again, smiling giddily down at him from between his legs. "I know I can make you feel so good. Don't you want that... forever?"
Waylon moans in response, desperate for Eddie to stop talking and get back to it, but he doesn't - just nods as if he's actually been given an answer. "I know, my love. You don't have to speak, just let me make you feel good now... It's the least I can do when you'll be bearing my children soon. Painful business, but you'll make me the happiest man alive."
He seems to wear himself out on words after that, and his hands drop down, gripping tightly at Waylon's ass and holding him open with his thumbs, pressing his tongue in easily with the slickness he's created. Waylon actually bucks up a little at that, ab muscles clenching in his stomach as a startled moan breaks free of his throat, which seems to please Eddie into pushes his tongue deeper, the squeeze of his hands around the flesh of Waylon's ass bruising in intensity.
So far gone, Waylon doesn't even realize how strange it is that he enjoys it, the dull edge of pain something that he'd usually shy away from. But he delights in those slaps and in the way Eddie's tongue forces him open, spread wide for whatever he desires as saliva drips down, soaking into Waylon's panties and mingling with the precome wetting them. It's almost enough for him to start begging, but not quite, not even when Eddie pulls back and returns to lapping at him.
It doesn't take long for him to tire of it, though, and when he does, he turns his head, resting his lips against the warm skin of Waylon's thigh in a kiss. "You're so beautiful," he says. His voice is rough and strained. "I knew you'd be just right for me; such a beauty. That's why you ran, isn't it? I'm sure you've had many suitors, but you were waiting for me, weren't you? You just had to be sure of me... But I swear I'll make an honest woman of you."
Waylon sighs in response as Eddie's hands slide up the backs of his thighs, stroking at them and kissing them like he doesn't want anything else in the world. His lips are rough and twisted but to Waylon they feel as nice as a pair of soft, pretty ones when they latch onto his skin, sucking hard at the underside of his thigh until it's so painful he wants to push Eddie away. His skin buzzes with the soreness, undoubtedly bruised, and he whines and tries to pull his legs together, but Eddie just moves to his other thigh and repeats himself, marking Waylon up like he belongs to him already. And that thought is the one that gets him, the one that breaks him.
"Come on, make me yours," he whispers, and Eddie grins at him as he dives down, mouthing frantically, wetly at Waylon's hole like he's trying to devour him. Waylon cries out, oversensitive to the point of pain when Eddie digs his thumbs into the bruises on his thighs, using his other fingers to spread his hole wide for his tongue to take him, sloppy and rough. Each press of his mouth makes Waylon moan, and he shivers at the way Eddie grips him so tightly.
"Darling, you understand, don't you? Only I can make you feel like this," Eddie says, breathing hard as he pulls back. "You're mine now, only mine."
Waylon nods frantically. "I know, I'm yours, I'm only yours, just... Please, fill me up, you told me you would."
A growl, animalistic, comes from deep in Eddie's chest and his fingers rapidly tug the ropes around Waylon's wrists free before pushing him onto his belly and tugging his hips up and back. The sound of him unzipping his trousers fills Waylon's ears, and for a moment he panics, worried that Eddie is going to actually try to push in like this.
One hand reaches out to spread Waylon open again, and he squints his eyes shut, frantically trying to prepare himself for the pain. But it doesn't come. Instead, there's only the sound of Eddie grunting and fucking his fist, and Waylon nearly jumps out of his skin when he feels come land on his hole, so much of it that it starts dripping. He shudders, spreads his legs further, and Eddie grunts, slapping the curve of his ass hard enough to bruise.
"You little whore," he hisses. "So hungry for my come in your cunt, aren't you? But you don't deserve my cock just yet... do you even deserve this? You've been awfully bad, after all... Why don't you beg for it?"
"Please," Waylon moans, face turning hot. "Please give me your come, let me start our family..."
Those words seem to drive Eddie even wilder, and then there are two thick fingers pressing Eddie's come into Waylon's hole, making him shudder and mewl. He feels slick inside and it never seems to end when he expects it to, Eddie finding more and more come on his skin to push into him until he feels uncomfortably full, and then Eddie's hand cracks against his ass again.
Waylon gasps as he feels a trickle drip out, and Eddie grips one cheek hard, slapping it until Waylon cries out. "Don't spill it after you've worked so hard for it, darling. Keep it inside," he demands, catching it on two fingers and pressing them back into Waylon, bumping against his prostate.
It's too much for Waylon at last; his body quivers when he comes, clenching tight around Eddie's fingers as he spurts strands onto the table between his legs. Eddie chuckles meanly, and for a moment Waylon is terrified, but it seems he's amused more by the way Waylon has gone so tight around him than by the idea of cutting his cock off.
"Ah, what a dirty girl. But good all the same," he says, thrusting his fingertips against Waylon's sensitive insides. "And you're all mine now."
Waylon whines, starting to feel more than a little pained at the pressure inside of him, but Eddie doesn't stop. He just fucks him with his fingers until Waylon is open for him, dripping wet just like he'd promised, and then he pulls free.
"Stay just like that, darling," he says, voice low and intimidating as he ties Waylon's arms again. "Give it some time to take... I'll be right here with you, so be a good girl for me."
Waylon nods weakly, rolling his head to the side as a hand curls through his hair again, and this time it's pleasant. "I will," he murmurs tiredly. "I'll be your good girl."
At least until he can escape again. But Eddie doesn't have to know that.