"Get," says Carmy distinctly, "Fucked, Cousin," and struggles a little against that arm so that he's grinding back on Richie. It's futile, halfway because he's in a delicate fucking balancing act between all his points of contact with the shelves and halfway because he doesn't want to get away at all.

Then he puts his mouth around Richie's fingers, cheeks flaming like they've been slapped because it is gross, it's a big unhygienic D for Disgusting, and he sucks them so hard he hopes Richie feels it in the root of his fat dick, sympathetic. They taste sweat sour. The other ones, spit-slick, are perfect enough maybe he could cream his panties if they weren't cutting off his circulation. But if he lets go to touch himself he won't have the leverage to push back on them anymore, collide himself with Richie's body.

He spits fingers out and puts blunt teeth into the meat of Richie's palm, makes an aggravated noise, pleasure dragged out of him. Reorganizes his weight, slapping his hand against metal, crunching forward, so he can get a hand between his legs and claw at the stupid fucking panties that he thought would be hot to wear under his chefs pants today. Dick, he needs his dick out, forget blue balls he's gonna injure himself. Rocks on the ball of one foot. Sob-laughs in relief when he finally manages it, gets a hand on himself and tugs.