He knows David is trying his best not to, but it bears reminding the little boy exactly why he was here in the first place – to get the job done himself where he had previously failed in finding a suitable replacement in the time allotted – and one reminder would hopefully suffice through the night.
David groans and writhes – either because the leather belt binding his wrists was too tight and leaving bleeding welts that would be difficult to cover up, or because he’s succumbing to whatever could possibly be pleasant about Ces fucking him sideways on the floor – either way, he’s in pain, and there’s chalk in his wet hair, rubbing off the floor onto his sweat-slicked back, and the ritual is wavering.
It’s disgusting, the kiss. Unnecessary – the sex was necessary; that’s why it’s rough enough to make David beg. But it’s just the illusionist’s way of being nice; he won’t stop, but he’ll kiss and get David off after he’s emptied a load between his legs, anything to make David feel better about holding still and kneeling there shamelessly as it dribbles down the raw insides of his thighs.
When the phone rings, Ces is unconscious, buried knee-deep in his own weaves of magic, so David, still panting, possibly about to throw up but at least with a shirt on, answers the call. The client sounds pleased. David tries not to break down over the phone.