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The Snitch convulses violently against his leather bindings as thousands of volts of electricity passes through him. When Coyle lets up with his prod, he lowers his head, spittle and blood dribbling onto the burlap sack over his head.
“You can’t talk, but you sure as hell can dance,” Coyle grumbles. “Shit, if I ain’t careful I might really do some damage.” He steps closer to the makeshift electric chair, so close that the Snitch can smell the cop’s lit cigarette over the nauseating stench of his own charred flesh.
The Snitch chokes out a sob. “Please. I’m sorry. I’m- so sorry. Whatever you… you think I- happened… Fuck. I’m guilty,” he blubbers, disoriented. Coyle clicks his tongue.
Coyle swings his electrified baton into the Snitch’s gut, tearing a scream out of his throat as his body involuntarily jerks. He braces against the restraints on his wrists and ankles as the electricity courses through him. His skin crackles and blisters, blood steaming and bubbling from his open wound.
“I know you did it,” Coyle yells over the sharp sound of electricity arcing. “What I need from you is details, sweetheart! We cain’t very well prosecute off’a half-assed horseshit!”
At this point, Coyle’s words hardly register to the Snitch. His head is swimming, fogged over with relentless throbbing pain. His eyes feel like they’re going to pop out of his skull. Despite attempts to formulate some kind of response- anything that might persuade Coyle to show him mercy- all that tumbles from his lips is a pathetic, broken whimper.
The silence that follows does nothing to assuage his fear of the cop’s lack of clemency. The Snitch flinches harshly at the sound of Coyle’s stun baton once again crackling to life, but judging by the lack of white-hot pain surging through his body, Coyle was using it on himself again.
The Snitch can feel the cop’s eyes boring a hole into him as he lets out a groan of pleasure. Coyle lowers the prod to lightly graze the Snitch’s leg; the muscles in his thigh spasm from the residual electricity.
“Looks like someone’s a little excitable today,” Coyle says as he shifts his baton to prod at the Snitch’s crotch. He hadn’t noticed his unfortunate half-erection until Coyle pointed it out- no doubt as a result of muscle contractions from the cop’s interesting persuasion tactics. The Snitch languidly thrashes his head against the chair, unsure of what he’s trying to convey himself.
“I tell ya’ what,” Coyle takes a drag of his cigarette. “I’ve worn out the stick. Perhaps it’s high time we try out the carrot. Would you like that, Danny?” He punctuates his faux-suggestion with a raspy chuckle.
Every time Coyle says his name, bile rises in his throat. He’d told him in a fit of sincerity and desperation, during that brief period where he believed there might actually be a way to correctly answer the questions Coyle was fielding him, to somehow satisfy him. When he didn't feel like, with every second that ticked past, he was barrelling towards inevitability.
“Please. Oh, God. I’ll do anything,” Despite hardly understanding what the other man is saying, the Snitch moans words of assent.
(And even if he had said no, he doubts it would dissuade Coyle from doing… whatever the hell he’s going to do.)
Coyle clambers onto the chair, grunting lightly as he settles to straddle the other man, hands resting on the Snitch’s forearms and baton tucked safely into his belt. Ah, yes. The carrot.
He puts his cigarette out on the Snitch’s shoulder. “I help you out with this… perversion of yours,” he practically spits out the word, “and you give me that sweet, sweet information.”
The Snitch whines. It’s taking everything in his power to not burst into sobs. He doesn’t know, yet, if this is any better than the prod. Even though it wasn’t a question, he nods feverishly, and grits his teeth at the white-hot pain of Coyle pressing his gloved thumb into the fresh cigarette burn on his flesh.
The officer is unnervingly quiet as his hand travels from the Snitch’s shoulder up his neck, then, through the burlap sack, his face. He almost-tenderly caresses his jaw, cheek, browbone, and if it were anyone else the Snitch might begin to think it pleasant.
It’s as though Coyle can read his mind- as soon as he begins to think about letting his guard down, the man roughly gropes his chest with his other hand. The Snitch quietly groans at the sudden skin-on-skin contact, the first he’s felt in God knows how long.
“Shit, from where I’m sittin’ you really do look like my second wife,” Coyle says, entirely too loudly, laughing at his own joke.
Coyle’s hands travel further and further down, catching on the dried blood and burn scars littering the Snitch’s stomach flesh. Coyle’s hands reach his belt and the Snitch begins trembling, ankles trying against his fetters. God, what did he agree to?
“What’s the matter, honey? Cold feet?” Coyle sneers as he aggressively undoes the Snitch’s belt and shimmies his pants down his thighs, exposing his semi-hard cock. Coyle grabs it roughly with a gloved hand, thumbing at the tip. The sudden hand on his dick punches a groan out of the Snitch, who wiggles his hips slightly.
He’d be lying if he said this didn't feel at least a little pleasant. He couldn’t remember the last time he got any attention in this department. Then again, on account of his brain getting fried hourly, he couldn’t remember much anymore.
Coyle strokes him a few times, enough to get him mostly hard, and then pauses to spit in his hand. The feeling of the slick leather against his dick is definitely a bizarre sensation, though not entirely unwelcome. Coyle is almost fully leaning into him now, producing grunts of his own despite not receiving any direct stimulation.
Perhaps the Snitch had underestimated how pent up he truly had been. Within a couple of minutes, he’s panting heavily and damn-near ready to burst as he bucks off-rhythm into Coyle’s hand. Pleasure twists in his gut as the obscene sound of wet leather against skin nearly deafens him.
“Please- oh, God. Please, just, let me- I can’t take it,” he babbles, screwing his eyes shut.
Coyle suddenly rips his hand away, forcing a whine out of the Snitch as he cants his hips into nothingness.
“Don’t want you having all the fun, now do we? I want my cut of the action, too. I deserve it,” he mutters as he leans in close to the Snitch’s face, the smell of tobacco still heavy on his breath.
The Snitch hears the metal clinking of Coyle unbuckling his belt and unzipping his pants. He shifts against the Snitch as he pulls down his slacks to release his dick.
He pumps himself a few times for good measure, then scoots forward to rut their cocks together, ungloved hand resting steadily on the other man’s shoulder. The Snitch gasps at the double-whammy of his dick once again getting touched and the feeling of Coyle’s rough, electrical-burnt dick against his. It would make him nauseous weren't he currently so desperately horny.
Coyle quickly frots their cocks together, heavily breathing directly into the Snitch’s ear now. Their precum mixed with Coyle’s saliva provide for a mostly smooth experience. The Snitch sloppily jerks his hips with Coyle’s thrusts, swiftly nearing orgasm again.
“Please… Please, God, oh, fuck,”
“Christ, boy… Don't you know any words… other than ‘please’?” Coyle grunts, punctuating his sentence by squeezing their cocks.
“Fuck…‘m… Sorry,” the Snitch groans as he cums, spurting onto his stomach and his and Coyle’s joined dicks.
Coyle continues roughly stroking them as he chases his own orgasm, and as the Snitch comes down from his high it quickly becomes overstimulating. He thrashes weakly, fingernails digging into the wooden armrests as he moans tiredly.
He finally cums, semen mixing with the Snitch’s on his stomach, head buried in the crook of the sweaty and overstimulated Snitch’s neck. Coyle wordlessly stands up, pulling up his pants.
He wipes his semen-covered glove on the other man’s slacks, deigning to pull them around his waist but not bothering to zip them.
“Looks like you got off easy this time, you alluring piglet,” he mutters, smirk evident in his voice as he lights another cigarette.
The Snitch hiccups.