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D’Artagnan was introduced into Athos’ rooms with a loud, wide gait that made it clear even before Athos saw him that he had indeed been doing exactly what Athos had advised him not to do. It was understood that d’Artagnan was, of course, his own man, capable of making decisions for himself as any other – perhaps more than any other – but there were yet some things which Athos endeavored to steer him to or away from, and when these councils made in earnest confidence were ignored he was within his rights to be displeased. This was doubly so when it was related, as it so often was, to d’Artagnan’s personal dignity, a thing which Athos respected and aimed to nurture. Triply so when it involved engagements with women of whom he did not approve; that is to say, any women.
Entirely unaware of, or maybe simply uncaring of, Athos’ displeasure towards his recent actions, d’Artagnan strode into the room singing. He was not drunk, but certainly not sober, rouged as much from wine as from pleasure - though, Athos was at least somewhat relieved to note, the impeccable care put into his dress and face was undisturbed from how it had been set by Planchet earlier in the afternoon. Throatily calling out the last few lines of his ditty, a thing picked up from the company of Musketeers and not entirely reproduced with success, d’Artagnan swept his hat from his head, opened his arms, and took a small bow. Athos, who was sitting by the window with an open book, did little more in response than raise his brows in acknowledgment. Undeterred, and likely not seeing the grim countenance of his friend, d’Artagnan sauntered over and sat himself down in the chair adjacent to Athos’, immersed in a cloud of fragrance composed of alcohol and ladies perfume.
“What a day!” d’Artagnan exclaimed, scooting his way over so that they sat side by side.
“Athos, we must do something about it! We should go out and take in the city, the lights and the people. There is a world out there in need of love, and I am bursting to the seams with it! I’d feel a proper miser not to share.”
Mulling over his bottle, Athos did not reply.
“You went to see your Englishwoman again.”
Finally recognizing that he was in some trouble, d’Artagnan had the presence of mind to look repentant, if only just, opening his large black eyes widely and turning down his chin with a small smile.
“You knew that I would,” he said placatingly, leaning in to grab at Athos’ hand and press it sloppily, “and you know that I have to! For Constance.”
“And I have made my opinions upon both such things clear already,” said Athos, not quite angry enough to pull away and so switching hands to take a drink with. Far too giddy with emotions and wine, d’Artagnan did not recoil from his admonishment, leaning in to nuzzle against Athos’ shoulder, the cool velvet a balm on his flushed cheeks.
“I cannot leave her in peril,” he crooned, bringing the hand he’d captured up to his lips and teasingly nipping at the tips of his fingers.
“You can,” said Athos coldly, “and you should.”
“Athos,” said d’Artagnan, growing a bit frustrated at the lack of succeess he was having, “I love her.”
Irritated despite himself, Athos remained impassive.
“You may do as you like, I will not stop you. A man must do as he deems right and moral, no matter what he is told by others. If you insist on pursuing your ruination, it would be a fool’s errand to try and interfere.”
Disgruntled but feeling as if he had made his point enough, d’Artagnan kissed Athos’ knuckles, worming closer.
“I promise you, I know what I am doing, and what I must do. Have faith in me.”
Then, proving he was yet intoxicated by his passions, he placed a bold hand on Athos’ thigh.
“You can be mad at me, if you wish, but not so mad, I hope, as to keep from enjoying my company. You would not deny me that, would you, Athos?”
Athos, who was in all honesty somewhat drunk himself, and whose blood ran hot when he thought of the potential harm d’Artagnan did to himself, reacted more strongly than he might have in a better mood. He stood abruptly, so that his chair nearly toppled back and d’Artagnan likewise. With the evening light behind him, he appeared wreathed in red and gold, the ribbons of his suit fluttering like the feathers of an avenging angel, and d’Artagnan lost his breath.
“If you want to keep my company, you can have it,” said Athos, voice as measured and calm as ever, “but you will have it on my terms. You will have what I give to you. Is that clear?”
D’Artagnan practically leapt into his arms, held back only by the memory of their previous interactions and the correct behavior they required. Gripping the sides of his seat white-knuckled, he instead looked up at Athos with a barely restrained excitement and gleaming grin.
“Yes, of course!”
It was unfair that he was so perfectly beautiful even when Athos was aflame with jealousy he knew he had no right to feel and fear he hoped he had no cause for. The drink had made d’Artagnan’s brown cheeks ruddy, but his eyes were still clear and bright. The care given to his toilet today enhanced his natural qualities not enormously, but enough to draw forth the ringlets in his curls, the twist of his mustache, the red plumpness of his lips. In looking at him this way, seeing his beauty, his eagerness, and knowing that his ardors had been stirred to such heights by another, Athos made a decision inside to be cruel. It was not a fair one, and he was aware of this, but d’Artagnan had come to him, even after disobeying his council, knowing he had done him wrongly, still smelling of that woman, and begged for it. If he was to learn anything from Athos, it would be that he meant what he said.
“Undress.”
Only too happy to comply, d’Artagnan began to do so without another word, practically tearing away his belts and doublet. As he did so Athos strode around him, not towards the bed but to the chest of drawers by the door, atop which sat several unopened bottles and a full pitcher of water beside a glass. This was for himself, usually, kept at the ready by Grimaud, but he had not yet touched it today. By the time he had filled the cup d’Artagnan was struggling out of his hose, holding onto a bed post to keep upright.
“Athos,” he breathed, hopping out of a leg, “leave that alone and come on!”
Waiting until d’Artagnan had divested himself of his obstacles, Athos replied, “this is for you. Come here.”
Shrugging, d’Artagnan did so, a little too excited to care. He was glowing, warm from the walk between his not-quite-mistress’s house and here, and already keen enough on their play that Athos could see a wet shimmer in the black curls between his legs. He took the glass from Athos cavalierly enough and drank, first a mouthful and then the glass as the realization hit his body of how the alcohol had wrung him out. Finishing with a satisfied gasp, he again turned his attentions to undressing, this time his partner, but Athos stopped him, lifting the pitcher again.
“Have some more.”
Not quite understanding his insistence and wanting to feel skin on skin, d’Artagnan pushed him away, groping for his buttons.
“Not right now. There are much more delicious things to drink, between the two of us.”
Athos stayed his hand.
“You will have your fill of that, I promise you, but first you will have your fill of this.”
He held the refilled glass out firmly. Frowning, d’Artagnan took it from him and began to drink, much less quickly. It was obvious that there was some game afoot, and he was not the type to ask about the rules of a game unless forced, but he was, for once, at a loss of where to start his guessing. Athos watched him drain the second glass in total silence and then, to d’Artagnan’s astonishment, filled it a third time.
“Athos,” he began, but rather than go through another round of inquiries that did not touch on their target, Athos made his intentions clear enough.
“I will not have you while you’re still full of her wine.”
The reaction in d’Artagnan was one mixed of indignation and flattery. He grabbed the glass, but hesitated.
“I’m not drunk,” he said, less to impart the information upon Athos, who he was fairly certain knew, than to probe him for further explanation, but none was offered. Athos merely indicated to the glass.
“Drink.”
He did. He did until Athos had completely emptied the pitcher, which was not a thing insubstantial, and his stomach sloshed uncomfortably with fluid, though he was admirably skilled at not showing it. There is a thing almost supernatural about the lengths a young man will go to to satisfy his body’s hungers, often to the detriment of he and any others in his vicinity. Already the rational back of his mind was urging d’Artagnan to think twice, but Athos had begun to undo his own buttons, finally, and whatever benefits may have been gained from retreating evaporated from his thoughts.
Since Athos had shrugged him off several times already, and he was not fond of looking foolish, d’Artagnan simply admired the skin revealed to him, inch by inch; a canvas fair and noble, the kind of flesh worn only by the most dignified of God’s creatures, brocaded here and there with scars of varying shape and size that told tales of a man whom d’Artagnan saw as something of a deity. The fact that Athos was so very marked only attracted him more. D’Artagnan did not see them as signs of failure, even though each one was a memory of a touch of the blade or ball, but rather as evidence of just how many battles Athos had fought, how often he had thrown his life into the line of fire for king and country. Too young to know fear of such injury, d’Artagnan saw, in some capacity, a vision of his own hopeful future, and so he drank in the sight more fully than he had the wine or water, guessing at those whose origins he did not know with the same passion and fantasy as a man might imagine the meanings of the sighs of his mistress.
Athos removed his doublet and shirt, sweeping his hair back over his muscular shoulders, and, leaving his clothing on the end of the bed, fixed d’Artagnan with a strong stare that sent a rush of liquid heat between his legs. Eager for the opportunity to be commanded, d’Artagnan hurried close again, wrapping his arms around Athos’ waist and searching for a kiss. Athos denied him.
“On your knees.”
D’Artagnan pretended at a grumble and then descended as asked, but not without taking his time, kissing every inch of skin he could on his way down, breathing in deep the masculine scent Athos exuded and becoming more wild with intoxication as he did. Athos’ chest was broad and flat, his breasts no longer more than small protrusions from his pectorals, long bound and beaten into formlessness. D’Artagnan loved them, ran his hands and tongue across them at every opportunity, even after Athos had informed him that he had very little sensation in them and did not particularly find the contact stimulating. He only passed them by after Athos made a small sound of impatience, something unusually harsh for him and which sent a zing of fear through d’Artagnan’s blood along with the instinctual arousal that came naturally to him in situations of obedience.
When he reached Athos’ waistband he paused only to nuzzle into the sparse dark hairs trailing up from within, licking a quick stripe across them to taste his salt. He began to undo the ties of Athos’ waistband and this time was not stopped, giving d’Artagnan a giddy thrill as he deftly rid them both of the obstacle between them and pulled down his breeches, hose and all. Already Athos’ erection was plainly visible, the pink nub of his cock peeking between his labia at attention. Immediately, d’Artagnan moved to take it into his mouth, but suddenly found himself again stymied when Athos grabbed him by the hair with a motion as quick as a striking snake.
“I did not give you permission for that yet.”
Squirming in his uncomfortable squat, d’Artagnan tried to look up at him despite the firm hold on his curls.
“Athos,” he said, half-wheedling, “come now, don’t let your annoyance cross into cruelty. Allow me the opportunity to make reparations with you, and prove to you how surely you have my love and friendship.”
“You may,” Athos replied flatly, “when I have told you that you may.”
Rankling despite knowing he was the one in need of forgiveness between them, d’Artagnan projected his lower lip, brows knitting.
“And I must now have permission even to please you?”
“Especially to please me,” said Athos, “when it is so obvious that it is you yourself you please most.”
Embarrassed at being caught, even though he was not at all ashamed to admit that it was true, d’Artagnan quit pushing back against Athos’ hold on him and bowed slightly, assuming a pose far more appropriate for apologies. After a moment of keeping him in place to ensure the message sank in, Athos released him.
“Alright,” he said, tone soft enough as to almost be forgiving, “you may suck.”
D’Artagnan sprang upon him. He would have been as exuberant even if he were not seeking to remove some of the venom from Athos’ opinions regarding his personal life, but it lent a somewhat softening edge to his actions uncharacteristic of his usual modus operandi. Under normal circumstances, d’Artagnan serviced Athos with such ardor that one might have thought he felt every lick and suck he delivered, digging his fingertips into Athos’ hips and shaking his own in time to his movements. Currently, his attention was all on Athos, seeking out any signs of approval or its negative counterpart as he wrapped his full lips around the cleft of Athos’ cunt and sought out his shaft with his tongue. Athos grunted, placing a hand upon the back of his skull and guiding him in, a firm touch that sent shudders down d’Artagnan’s body and settled deep down below where his stomach still shifted uncomfortably under the weight of its burden.
Though his presence gave the appearance of a much larger individual, d’Artagnan himself was actually rather small, barely reaching five feet of the king’s measurement, and the difference between he and Athos became quite notable when they sought to come together so closely. Though it was not an insurmountable difference it required that d’Artagnan sat up upon his heels rather than down on his knees to reach Athos’ cock comfortably, and so he squat, bracing his hands on Athos’ thighs. It did not help the discomfort of how full he was, but his determination was great enough that he did not care to pay it any mind. Settling in to his work, he thought only of Athos, of his smell, his taste, of the smooth firmness of his skin beneath his palms, of the shifting muscle inside so tightly honed from battle. Athos was everything to d’Artagnan that a perfect man should be, with his strength and dignity, the power of his convictions and the casual ease with which he remained at all times far above the things low and ugly in the world. As much as he was determined to carve his own path and prove his own merits in the way he so chose, d’Artagnan lived for the praise of this man, and so despite his refusal to apologize or reflect upon his actions in visiting the English lady, he doubled his efforts now to earn that which he could not in other ways.
Athos’ cock was tight and hard on his tongue, pushing its head out from the hood proudly. Using his tongue to stroke against the base of the shaft down to the divot of his hole, d’Artagnan sealed his lips and sucked earnestly, inhaling deep of the sharp musk of Athos’ arousal. His own pussy was soaking through his small-clothes, but he was hardly aware of it, barely drawing breath for how focused he was upon Athos. Though he could feel Athos’ sensuous response to his efforts, emotionally he still was unmoved, and the hand on d’Artagnan’s head remained stern. He was directed without words to stay close and careful, pulling back to flick his tongue across the head on occasion but otherwise remaining sealed to Athos’ prick without opportunity to think.
For a while, d’Artagnan was content to mindlessly submit himself to the flow of sucking cock. There was little in service he found more calming, something that let him entirely become a tool to be used, guided and controlled but also relied upon, trusted. Sometimes he believed he could cum from sucking off Athos alone, simply immersed entirely in the feel of him pulsing against his tongue and his hands on his head, knowing that he was being good, that this great gentleman was totally absorbed in him and what pleasure he was bringing him. There were times when Athos would don his strap, one of a series of finely made false cocks purpose built for his uses that he wore on a similarly bespoke leather harness carefully belted to his hips, and he would have d’Artagnan suck that instead, as if it truly were an extension of his own body. That was equally satisfying, despite the taste being one of inhuman quality, leather or ivory or glass, doting praise and worship upon the mechanism used to bring him such joy. He was sloppy at first, inexperienced and more than a little daunted by the stiffness of Athos’ collection, but very quickly he learned, as he did in all aspects of his life, how to master the task, and in little time the feel of the hard shafts sliding in and out of his throat had him swaying in place in an aching loneliness between the legs.
The effect of his devotions drained the wine from his head, just as Athos had desired, but this in time meant that he realized, with rather increasing discomfort, that it, and all the water Athos had forced him to drink, had only one place to go, and the great quantity he had imbibed of both expedited the process alarmingly. The shifting of his hips gradually transformed from the gentle mimicry of sexual motion produced by instinctual desire and more into the nervous fidgets of a man in a hurry. Apparently this was obvious enough of a change for Athos to be aware of it almost as soon as he was, because when d’Artagnan glanced up at him through his lashes he made out a sort of knowing glint in his eyes, not mean but yet unforgiving.
That was enough to drive d’Artagnan to push down the feeling and work at Athos harder, because it annoyed him that Athos knew and it annoyed him that nature had chosen to shame him. He did not blame himself out of stubbornness. He did not blame Athos out of affection, even if he considered him to be part of his annoyance. Blame and annoyance were not enough, however, to overcome the call of the body’s basic needs, and d’Artagnan was able to stave off the rapidly advancing pressure in his bladder only for some minutes longer, which, in his discomfort and frustration, felt like hours. The squatting position he had put himself in did not help, as it called repeatedly to the forefront of his mind the correct posture of urination and thus tantalized him with the ease at which he might relieve himself, but he felt that changing how he crouched too obviously would betray just how deeply uncomfortable he was to Athos, a thing that he very much did not want to do. He attempted to subtly bring his knees closer together, but he had pushed in so close to Athos that they bumped against his calves rather quickly and he was little better off for it. Eventually, there was nothing he could do but admit defeat.
“Athos,” he said, voice thick and syrupy through his slick lips, “a moment, please.”
Rather than giving him this moment, Athos continued to hold d’Artagnan by the back of the head close to his heated sex, so that when he spoke he had to keep one cheek pressed to Athos’ hip.
“What is it?”
The fact that he was already aware of the answer was known to them both, but d’Artagnan was keenly aware that Athos liked him to speak clearly of his wants and needs at all times intimate, particularly when doing so was in some ways embarrassing to d’Artagnan and thus titillating. Still dizzy with the warm pleasure of Athos’ prick, which jutted proudly out at full hardness before him, d’Artagnan swallowed and tried to center himself.
“I need to relieve myself.”
Athos said nothing. D’Artagnan suddenly found himself quite afraid.
“Please,” he tried, remembering that he was in a place of humility here and smiling nervously in an attempt to cover for it, “please, Athos, may I just take the time to-”
“No.”
Even knowing the position he was in, d’Artagnan had not held any expectation within him that he would be denied the right to such an urgent freedom of bodily autonomy. Knitting his brows in a vague confusion, he attempted to speak more plainly.
“I do not mean to break away from you, or to shy from my duty, but I am only a man. It will take but a minute, I promise you, a minute in which I will think of you only, and then I will return to your side with as great a love as ever.”
Athos was still holding him, gazing down with an impenetrable dark look that made d’Artagnan shiver, his pussy throbbing with want.
“I understand what you ask of me,” he said calmly, “and I have replied as I see fit.”
Seeing that d’Artagnan’s patience had begun to wane towards one of the impulsive fits of anger to which he was prone, Athos stayed him by curling his fingers in tighter and yanking lightly at the ball of hair in his grasp.
“You have done me a great disservice tonight by coming here to ask love of me after having aroused your ardor with that woman. No, do not try and deny that which you have done, I know it, and you have been most indiscreet about it. I have told you before that even in your follies I will stand at your side, because you are a good man and you have my affection, it’s true, but that does not mean that you may take advantage of this quality of my heart. If you want my attention tonight, you will obey. If this is not to your liking, leave me to my peace and say nothing of it after.”
Taken entirely aback, d’Artagnan stammered, growing red to the roots of his hair. He could have once again insisted upon the importance of his seeing the English lady in his quest to recover Constance from whatever dangers may be set upon her, but Athos was already well aware of this excuse as well as any other he might formulate and approved of none of them. With any other man this repeated rejection of his word would have d’Artagnan furious, but to hear such things from Athos was like a hand squeezing upon his heart. But, he was young, and proud, and unwilling to risk potentially humiliating himself in a manner far worse than simply accepting harsh words or taking a couple of swats. He gave up his struggle, begrudgingly, and looked up at Athos with a protrusion of the lower lip and low brows.
“What would you have me do, then?”
The grip upon his hair relaxed. D’Artagnan did not release his breath, waiting.
“If you truly want to apologize, then you will have to do as I say, without question, even if you do not like it. Do you understand?”
He was in a disadvantageous situation here, and that made him only the more surly. D’Artagnan did not want to leave, and he did not want to disappoint Athos, but he also did not want to make it seem too easy for his own wayward interests to be overcome by his worship.
“And if I do not do as you like?”
Athos’ expression did not change.
“Then I will punish you.”
That answer inspired a whole host of responses within d’Artagnan that clashed with one another, primarily a deep seated need he was unsure of how to comprehend and the red-eared blustering of a young man who considered himself too old to be scolded. It was not the first time that Athos had used such verbiage with him, nor would it be the first time the threat had been carried into action against him. Though the camaraderie between the Inseparables and himself was unbreakable already, they were not above coming to blows at times, often in play and occasionally in anger, but that was not to what was referred. In the rare instance in which he had acted in a way displeasing to them, Athos in particular, d’Artagnan had found himself subjected to a sort of erotic experience that was wildly exciting to him and equally humiliating in a manner that most confused him but drew him back again and again; being held tightly in someone’s arms while another used him, or having his own orgasm withheld repeatedly until tears prickled at the corners of his eyes from the sheer frustration of it. More than once Athos had pulled him across his lap or bent him over some object or other, even having him restrained by Porthos’ iron hold, and whipped his backside like a naughty pageboy. D’Artagnan had fought and clawed and spat threats during all of it, but the way he had cum after had been so violently powerful that he would catch himself in a daze at his post remembering it, miserably wet between the thighs.
Hearing those words now, d’Artagnan looked away petulantly. He ground his teeth, he clenched his fists, he bit at his lips and wrinkled his nose, he huffed and muttered. Athos was patient throughout it, watching him with the same discerning eye as always, so certain in his control, so self-assured, so caring beneath his dark shadows.
D’Artagnan felt hot everywhere. He stilled himself, breathing hard.
“Yes, Athos-”
“Athos? Is that what you are to call me now?”
At this time it had only been something spoken of but twice before during their intimacies, but d’Artagnan knew in an instant what he wanted, and in that same instant that he too desired it, so badly it was as if he could do nothing else but obey. It frightened him, and he considered how quickly he might be able to rise and attempt an escape if he chose to strike at Athos instead.
“Monsieur,” he said softly, itching in his skin.
“My apologies, Monsieur. I will do as you say. Command me.”
Though he did not outwardly express his reaction to this, d’Artagnan was close enough to observe the slight twitch of Athos’ cock, and felt the heat against his cheek increase. He wished he was still sucking on him, throat tight.
Pleased or not, Athos was still firm in his tone as he released d’Artagnan and said, “Sit back upon your heels and show me your pussy.”
A little unsure of himself and compensating with a sort of moody shrug which Athos thankfully did not comment on, d’Artagnan scooted back a few feet so that Athos, who was leaning up against the end of the bed frame, could see him well enough. Still squatting, he angled himself back just enough that his hips canted forward, just revealing the pink slit of his cunt through the black curls of his pubic hair. Just doing this had his breath hitching as a small pang of pain stabbed at his full bladder, and he almost closed his thighs in an attempt to stifle it. Athos caught the movement and slid his boot out to tap against the inner side of his knee.
“Wider,” he ordered. D’Artagnan shook his head, chewing his mustache.
“Athos- Monsieur,” he corrected quickly, “I can’t. I need to relieve myself.”
Through clenched teeth, he gave Athos an imploring look. He knew the chamber pot was barely a few feet away, tucked in its place under the bed.
“Please.”
The earnestness of his request did not soften Athos’ heart.
“Spread your legs wider,” he said, “and show yourself off to me. Do as I say.”
Sweat rolled down d’Artagnan’s back. He tasted the salt on his lips as he swallowed again, dry mouthed despite how painfully hydrated he was. Athos did not hesitate in his order, though, and so, after a moment of contemplation, d’Artagnan slowly spread his thighs as wide as he could in this position, bracing himself on one arm back against the floor and with the other reaching downward. His fingers slipped through the sweaty curls and forked against his vulva, already swollen and red despite having not been touched once. His own skin was jarring enough and he found himself almost afraid of it, because of how diverse his needs were at the moment, but being of a brave disposition d’Artagnan soldiered on and quickly pushed open his labia, exposing himself entirely to Athos’ scrutiny.
It was very exciting to be seen so clearly by Athos, and another hard shot of need tore through him like a musket ball, but the pining of his cunt echoed disastrously through his bladder, and d’Artagnan was again forced to catch himself to keep from shutting his legs. Athos remained standing, watching as he arranged himself quietly until he had finished. Nervous, d’Artagnan kept his head down, but watched him through the corners of his eyes, unable to resist hoping for a glimpse of some positive expression to cross Athos’ face and lift the corners of his unwavering frown.
“How do you feel?”
The question caught d’Artagnan somewhat off guard, but he did not fail to answer.
“Hot,” he said, “and full.”
Athos nodded.
“Do you want me to fuck you?”
Grimacing at how powerfully the words hit him, d’Artagnan glared at Athos’ shoes.
“I want to piss.”
He hadn’t meant to be so crude, but it was the only defense he still had.
“That isn’t what I asked you,” Athos replied, unbothered.
“Yes,” d’Artagnan snapped, thrumming with energy, “of course I do, but-”
“Touch yourself, then.”
Neither of them moved, watching the other cautiously in the way two animals might upon meeting, sizing the other up in uncertainty as they determined whether their next move would be one of war or peace. D’Artagnan saw Athos, tall and pale, his broad chest slowly shifting with breath, blue veins just barely visible beneath his fair skin drawing lines towards his dusky nipples where they drooped upon his flattened breasts, the smattering of hair between his pectorals that trailed down across the impressive architecture of his abdomen – he saw all of this, all of the beautiful man who was so cool on the outside but so very warm beneath, and his pride became so small in comparison. He wanted Athos to fuck him, genuinely, desperately. He wanted to be held down by his brawny arms and to know that he was owned.
Readjusting himself, d’Artagnan brought his other hand towards his groin, keeping his vulva spread enough to remain fully visible to Athos. He hesitated, again struck with an uncomfortable pang in his lower belly, but Athos was still and silent.
“Yes, Monsieur.”
Two fingers carefully brushed down the hood of his clit, light enough to ignite goosebumps across all of his skin, hairs raised on end. D’Artagnan was not normally so nervous with himself, but he feared any sort of abrupt sensation might shock a reaction from him he did not want. That light touch was enough to make his hungry body remember its appetite, though, and his next move was to begin rubbing small circles over the nub, setting his teeth tightly.
“Good boy,” said Athos, and d’Artagnan felt himself clench down in imploring desperation, hard.
He really was so very wet, enough that he did not need to slick his fingers to keep their movements on himself lubricated whatsoever. What little of his hole could be seen between his spread labia was already a deep color, swelling in anticipation. The delicacy of his initial movements very quickly became too much to bear, and within a minute’s time d’Artagnan was rubbing himself hurriedly, lips parting in hot, sticky gasps.
Athos had pulled his breeches back up around his hips, though he did not redo the laces, crossing his arms as he leaned back casually and observed. D’Artagnan tried to avoid looking at him, less out of discontentment than because the sight of him was too much right now, too attractive, and it was bound to make him weak enough to shatter. All of his breeding and all of the solid backbones of his ancestors that gave him such fire in his blood could do nothing against this one man of nobility. He had to focus purely on the way he was touching himself, because everything else was confusing and dangerous. Athos knew, as a good soldier did, that the battle had been won long before it ended, and he pursued the offensive with the gallantry victory awarded him.
“Tell me again: how do you feel?”
D’Artagnan squeezed his eyes shut.
“Good,” he admitted, swaying on his heels, “but it hurts.”
“What does?”
“My bladder.”
It was true; though arousal had somewhat abated the imminent threat, he felt himself grow more full every moment, and the pressure of his compressed abdomen as he hunched over himself became not a simple discomfort but a jarringly sharp prodding. It did not stop him from continuing to increase his pace, swirling his fingers over himself until the sound of it filled the room.
“You only have yourself to blame for that.”
“I know,” said d’Artagnan, before he could stop himself, breath hitching as the release of the words of submission he had been holding back pitched a dizzying wave of voluptuous heat through him. Athos too readjusted himself. D’Artagnan thought of his blunt, pink cock, and barely held back a moan.
“Is your clit hard for me?” asked Athos. D’Artagnan nodded.
“Yes,” he gasped, “it, it’s throbbing.”
“And your pussy?”
“It’s empty.”
D’Artagnan groaned, his cunt twitching visibly.
“I want you. I want you, but-”
This time Athos said nothing, and he cut himself off, shivering, head falling back across his shoulders, wildly working himself over. He was flushed from his cheeks to his chest, sweat drawing lines between his peaked breasts and darkening the hair on his stomach. His curls seemed to fall apart from their already wild natural arrangement in thick coils across his shoulders, wild from heat.
“Do you want to cum?”
Chewing on his lip, d’Artagnan shook his head.
“Yes! I do, I do, only- Monsieur, I really can’t…!”
“Why can’t you?”
“Athos!” d’Artagnan spit, forgetting himself in the moment, “you know very well why-!”
He hissed, finally unable to bear the pressure, squeezing his thighs shut around his fingers so quickly they did not have time to retreat, cupping himself as if to hold back the need in him. Athos lunged forward, grabbing him by the knees and wrenching them apart almost as soon as they'd come together. D’Artagnan growled and grabbed at him, but his fingers remained over his cunt, poised with quivering tension.
“I did not say you could stop.”
Athos was so soft, so intense. D’Artagnan could smell the wine on his breath, the flames in his lungs, and it made him ache. He shook his head, straining to breathe.
“Athos!”
Just as fast as he’d sprung upon him Athos grabbed d’Artagnan’s chin, forcing him to look up, even if his eyes remained tightly shut.
“What do you call me, boy?”
“Monsieur,” d’Artagnan breathed, “Monsieur!”
His fingers moved on their own accord, unable to resist the order, and d’Artagnan did not fight to stop them. Athos was so close now and he was burning, burning for him to speak again, to touch him harder. He barely held d’Artagnan where his hands lay, gripping with only enough force as to imply what he could really do. D’Artagnan wanted him to squeeze. He wanted bruises.
“I can’t,” he muttered, still stroking himself, “I’m going to- Monsieur, please, let me-”
D’Artagnan’s bladder throbbed, but his pussy was gushing. His clit was so hard beneath his fingers it was like playing with a marble, and every slip of his fingertips echoed through his body in ripples, ringing in his ears. Athos was very still, keeping d’Artagnan’s head aloft in his hand.
“Hold it in, boy. Be good for me.”
Wild with frustration, d’Artagnan turned his head to half kiss, half bite at Athos’ thumb, groaning and hissing.
“Monsieur, I can’t! It’s not my fault, you know this, you know that I cannot…”
“You drank her wine,” said Athos coolly.
“Diable!”
His legs were shaking from supporting him under this weight. D’Artagnan was a young man, growing vastly more experienced with every day, but never had his own touch been this intense before, like he had to keep masturbating himself or he might die, and at the same time so powerfully sensitive to everything that continuing to do so might have the same result, and his bladder hurt and Athos was still holding him open, watching how he twitched and sweat with an honest patience despite how he fought.
“Damn it! Damn it!”
That was all he could manage before jerking violently, a small but unmistakable squirt of piss escaping past his fingers. Immediately d’Artagnan pulled away, again shutting his legs, but Athos was right there to grab him and keep him spread. He fought back, now entirely from pure animal panic at the thought of losing control of himself, and Athos fought in return, grappling his wrist as d’Artagnan tore at him, shaking.
“Don’t-!”
Athos’ hand forced its way between his thighs, and d’Artagnan only had a moment to realize what was about to happen and brace himself before he felt two fingers, slender and strong, push between his folds and into his cunt. D’Artagnan yowled, beating a closed fist against Athos’ shoulder harder than he ever should, but Athos held fast, forcing him back to give himself better access as he bottomed out to the palm. They tumbled towards the floor, d’Artagnan still half upright and thrashing. Athos braced a knee on one of d’Artagnan’s thighs, muscles like steel, and began to rapidly frig him. There was nothing d’Artagnan could do, pleasure exploding through his body and drawing a sharp cry from his lungs as if he had been pierced through. He convulsed, frenzied in his attempts to stop the impending disaster, but Athos’ fingers knew him so well, pressed against all the right places as he fucked him so fast and hard that the orgasm d’Artagnan had been staving off fell upon him in an instant.
“Monsieur!” he howled, twisting as if to escape his own flesh as his hold over himself failed. His bladder released violently, pumped out of him like water from a well as Athos continued to mercilessly finger him. D’Artagnan’s entire body seized, cumming with horrifying intensity. He clung to Athos, clenching around him, drenching Athos’ wrist with streams of piss. It seemed unending at first, the pleasure of relief and the stirring in his cunt that finally released the tension in his gut, a crest of ever rising erotic sensation that left him helplessly tumbling into Athos’ arms. Even when the first waves began to ebb, he was lost, breathing in great open-mouthed gasps as Athos’ pace slowed, stroking up against the roof of his vagina as the heel of his palm ground against d’Artagnan’s throbbing clit and working great pressure into the most tender nerves of both.
D’Artagnan was drained of everything. When it was over, he was shaking, dripping with sweat, his cunt ripe and red around Athos’ fingers as the last pale trickles of urine leaked into his palm. For a long and blissful minute his mind was entirely blank, pleasure overwriting all other senses.
“There,” said Athos into his ear, “are you proud of yourself?”
The full realization of what he had done flooded into d’Artagnan like cold water. He sat in a puddle of his own making which extended across the floorboards some ways and lapped dangerously against the edge of the rug. The utter shame that gripped him was so incapacitating that he did not react at first when Athos grabbed him by the upper arm, only coming to his senses when he was yanked up to his feet. By then, however, he was already stumbling over himself as Athos practically threw him to the bed.
“You see that what you do will always follow you, particularly when there is a woman attached. I will never remove from a man the freedom to live as he pleases, but when you come to me like this, bringing to me a smile won from you by another, you bring her into my house as well.”
Falling across the side of the bed on his stomach, d’Artagnan braced and pulled himself up on his elbows, wanting to say something, even if he was not sure what, but Athos barked another order at him and he froze like a hare in the sights of a hawk.
“Stay!”
Athos was, d’Artagnan realized (now that he was again concerned with something besides the state of his impending orgasm and the fullness of his bladder), more visibly effected than he had seen him before. D’Artagnan did not have to look to hear the was his breaths came harsh and hot, or how his normally light step fell hard upon the floor as Athos crossed the room and retrieved something – what, d’Artagnan did not know, be it a bottle or a blade, an escape or a means of execution. It did not matter to him. When Athos returned to his side he pushed his heels flat on the floor and raised his ass anyways.
“And now you have disobeyed me twice,” Athos continued, the steadiness of his voice unwavering.
“Do you truly want forgiveness? Do you repent your ways with an earnest heart?”
Rubbing his face into the blankets that smelled so strongly of Athos, d’Artagnan started to speak, only to lose himself to a moan when Athos grabbed him by the back of the neck and pinned him down.
“You’ll take what you have earned.”
He let go, a thing d’Artagnan sorely regretted, but only for a moment, because within the next there was a quick cut in the air and a burst of pain across his buttocks. Athos had in his hand a crop, or a whip, or a switch, and he proceeded without any warning to beat d’Artagnan soundly with it. D’Artagnan dug into the bed, too breathless to cry out. Every strike was sure, leaving a red stripe behind across his backside with a crisp crack. At times, d’Artagnan had found himself wondering, as he admired his bruises in the mirror, how many others had felt Athos’ punishment like this, something that stirred jealousy he was not yet emotionally mature enough to understand in his callow breast.
Pain was something any good soldier faced with unwavering determination, but the cut of steel or the strike of a fist was entirely unlike the intimate discipline Athos doled out. There had been no build up, and he was still so sensitive and overwhelmed with the utter depravity of what had just occurred. Even now as he began to twist and shout with every lash, d’Artagnan’s mind was reeling with the memory, and despite his having only just cum he was somehow still inspired with a lust most inexplicable. The extreme emotions he had experienced all evening left d’Artagnan’s defenses exhausted and increasingly penetrable; his fleeting but bright passions for his English lady, interspersed with the frittering memory of Constance and his promises made to her, the need he had felt all evening to find the man he admired most and share with him these tender feelings even knowing that he should not, and the way both his guilt and love were galvanized to their extremes at by him. D’Artagnan felt deeply always, even if this depth proved to have been mined into false earth, but never so deeply as he did now, bucking and shouting so loudly it was a wonder no one had burst into the apartment under the impression that some unlawful mischief was occurring.
It was not the measured, slow spanking he was accustomed to from Athos, and it ended as abruptly as it began. D’Artagnan’s ass was barred with welts and as painfully hot as if he’d been sat in burning coals, but he only squirmed in place, thighs rubbing together. Athos tossed the weapon aside carelessly and strode to the bureau with such purpose that the floorboards shook. Then he was back, and d’Artagnan recognized immediately the light jingle of buckles at his back, and he arched up, moaning, presenting himself like a bitch.
“Oh,” he groaned out, “oh, please!”
He could hear Athos’ breeches being shucked off, and the fastening of belts, and he started to turn over to confirm with his eyes what he already knew to be true, but Athos grabbed him again; not hard, but enough to give warning. D’Artagnan couldn’t help but moan at the contact alone, as if Athos’ palm on his waist was the most deliriously sensual of touches, and Athos responded with a small, throaty noise, a thing very rare for him even in private. The pleasure of having earned it lit up brilliantly inside d’Artagnan’s breast. Leaning over his back, Athos kicked d’Artagnan’s legs apart, making room for himself in the place he had conquered. D’Artagnan’s heart fluttered when he felt the prodding of cool leather against his burning backside.
“Is this what you want?”
Athos’ breath washed over his back. D’Artagnan nodded blindly, biting at the sheets. The length of the dildo rubbed slowly between his buttocks, allowing him to feel the choice of tool Athos had made for the night, and d’Artagnan recognized instantly which of the small collection in his friend’s cabinets had been chosen. It wouldn’t have mattered to him particularly, but there was something intimate about the stitched leather rod, the softest of Athos’ pricks and the first he had used upon d’Artagnan. He knew it had not been picked at random, and he melted for it, raising his hips as best he could to rub back against him. Athos stroked down his back, far more gently than anything else he had done this evening, cupping at his sore ass and soothing the inflamed skin. Then, Athos flipped him onto his back, legs hanging off the bed. D’Artagnan splayed himself open.
“It’s alright.”
He did not realize until Athos’ fingers traced along his cheek that he had shed tears, pushed so far between the pain and pleasure that his body had required yet another kind of release. Turning inward to nuzzle at Athos’ hand, d’Artagnan kissed at him.
“Good boy. You did very well.”
The strap bobbed into d’Artagnan’s belly as Athos bent down and pressed their foreheads together.
“I forgive you.”
D’Artagnan smiled at him.
“You always do.”
Then his expression became slightly more sober.
“Thank you, Monsieur.”
Athos stilled, something quietly passing over his face, and then grasped at his prosthetic, raising himself up to line them together. D’Artagnan spread his legs wide, and then with both hands pulled open the lips of his pussy, far too eager to pretend at shame.
“Please,” he repeated, even as Athos was already pushing the head of his strap against him. He was so wet that, despite being unlubricated, there was no resistance. Athos sank in with visible effort to restrain himself, gripping d’Artagnan’s hips tight enough to bruise. D’Artagnan moaned, falling back against the bed and locking his thighs around Athos in return. They came together soundly, fitting with such perfect conformation that one might entertain the delusion that Athos had somehow known the exact dimensions of his boy long before they had met, when the item in question was first commissioned, handed down to him by some divine premonition in anticipation of their meeting. Neither man would ever admit to such fanciful thoughts, but at times, especially in such moments as currently described, both were guilty.
Athos began to fuck him, watching intently the point where they connected as he rocked his hips. D’Artagnan’s cunt was small and tight, owing as much to his relative inexperience as to his skinny frame and taut muscles, and he gripped the shaft of the dildo so that every thrust revealed its pinkness. Though he lay upon his back, d’Artagnan was not idle in accepting what he was given and participated by pushing up into every motion, matching the rhythm set by Athos perfectly. Apart from displaying his enjoyment openly and offering Athos a taste of the friction he enjoyed in return, this also allowed Athos the visual banquet of his undulating abdomen, golden and shining with sweat, his arms straining where they twisted into the sheets, and his small breasts bouncing atop his pectorals. Athos ran a hand up his stomach, feeling how his muscles writhed, tracing the small moles and scars that drew the eye across the canvas of his skin. D’Artagnan looked down at him through heavily lidded eyes, and there was a radiance to his happiness, relieved by forgiveness, as the sun glowed only more luminously after rain.
Very quickly the two of them worked the speed of their coupling up to match the frenzy of their emotions. The whipping had only made d’Artagnan more lustful than before, infused with the sense of duty that brought him purpose, and Athos, who kept his heart always shadowed, could not truly hide just how much he wanted him mutually. He hunched over d’Artagnan, who raised his hips to accommodate him, and gripped his willful breasts, their lips coming together hungrily. Even with his body pulled halfway off the bed, their rocking rubbed d’Artagnan’s raw buttocks into the linens painfully, reminding him with every thrust that he’d earned this pleasure with pain and humiliation, and it made him clench so hard it hurt. Athos squeezed his tits like clay, perking up his small nipples before pinching and pulling at them, drawing away from his mouth only to bite down upon his throat. His hand was still damp from d’Artagnan’s piss. It should have been disgusting, but neither of them found that they cared. D’Artagnan would have licked it clean himself, if he could. Instead he clawed Athos’ back and arched into him, begging for more, asking to be hurt. He groaned like he had been run through the heart.
“Thank you,” d’Artagnan gasped, nipping at Athos’ ear.
“Thank you, thank you Monsieur. It feels so good, you inside me, so very good! My God, My God! Athos, you are too good to me, oh!”
Athos doubled down and rode him hard, the sweet sucking of d’Artagnan’s pussy on the strap filling his ears in orgiastic song.
“Touch yourself,” he growled into d’Artagnan’s shoulder, “rub your clit. Make yourself cum around me.”
D’Artagnan cried out as if his words had been a physical caress, throbbing so hard that Athos could feel it through the implement that joined them, and his hand drove between their bodies hurriedly. Athos knew he must still be raw from how he’d frigged himself before, had seen how dark and protruding his clit was as he pushed inside, but d’Artagnan showed no hesitation in finding himself and pinching the nub between his fingers to rub himself furiously.
When he wore the harness, it became an extension of his body just as his sword did when in his hand, and he wielded it with the same deadly accuracy. It provided little physical stimulation for the wearer, the straps concerned with keeping the dildo fastened to his body only passing around his thighs without contact against his pussy, but the satisfaction Athos found in subduing his partner far exceeded that which came from the bare and basic release of his tension. The mind and heart were the parts of his whole which troubled Athos greatly, and it was these that needed the excuse to be freed from the burden of inaction. He was harder than ever when striking a good blow, watching d’Artagnan jolt and howl around him as the places inside him most vulnerable were pressed upon in exactly the right way, stroked with the perfect accuracy to have his eyes rolling about in their sockets and his heart stuttering in ecstatic paroxysms. He needed to drive d’Artagnan crazy, and d’Artagnan in turn needed to make him mad.
Beneath him, d’Artagnan succeeded in just that, twisting up against Athos and spewing a variety of curses in his sex-roughened accent both of somewhat-pure French and those unique to the Béarnais dialect. The Parisian tongue had had no effect upon his during the months here, and never would. Athos did not want it to. He loved the thick affect of d’Artagnan’s speech, and the roughness of his hands, and the sun kissed color of his skin. He loved that he was untouched by the schemes and intrigues of the city, born of a nobility honestly earned and up-kept. That he was nothing like the fair specter that haunted him. D’Artagnan was a creature so raw and rare.
He laid his head beside d’Artagnan’s and listened to his heaving breaths. It was eminently apparent from the way he was shaking that d’Artagnan was close again. Athos grasped one of his buttocks and squeezed hard, relishing the harsh gasp of pain it earned him, increasing his pace as he was urged. D'Artagnan's breasts were pressed against his chest, and he could feel his heartbeat behind them, thundering like the hooves of a courser flying across the field. Even in submission, d’Artagnan fucked like he was in battle, as if his life depended on his pursuit of victory, if not for him then for his master.
“I’m cumming,” d’Artagnan choked out, pushing his nose into Athos’ hair, “Monsieur, I’m cumming-!”
“That’s right, let go. Cum for me. Cum, my dear, my boy.”
D’Artagnan’s eyes rolled back and he bucked such a wild spasm that Athos had to cling to him to stay grounded. He fucked the strap in to the base and then remained there, grinding down and pinching d’Artagnan’s fingers between their bodies, still frantically working his clit. This orgasm hit him with a less explosive rally, but was no less powerful, protracted by the joy of Athos finding his lips and kissing them deeply. Entangled until they were but one, their bodies heart to heart, the pretensions of the Englishwoman and Constance and the past and the fear it engendered could not penetrate between them. Though neither could yet find the words to speak it, or the clarity to think it, there was, clear to the eyes of the angels who guided by the hand all true lovers, a bond unbreakable between them. One day, when they were ready, it would be the greatest relief either had experienced to admit.
His orgasm rolled on until he was limp and quivering in Athos’ arms. They were still kissing, even as the last of his strength waned in the glowing warmth of his final spasms, saliva slicking their beards. When Athos pulled out from him he almost seemed to deflate, calm and soft and contented. He was no longer concerned with Athos’ anger, certain of his place in his bed from the taste of his tongue. Athos was allowed to be angry, maybe even right to be, and it would not be enough to tear them apart.
“Grimaud!”
Despite the heat in his cheeks and the continuing heave of his chest, Athos called with a stone like calmness that contributed to d’Artagnan’s comfort more than anything, assured of his authority and satisfied in ordered subservience. The door opened almost immediately, Grimaud’s gaunt features emerging from the shadows as silent as the stagehand come to arrange the scene. Athos was in the process of removing the harness, and d’Artagnan managed to push himself up on his elbows to watch, throbbing with echoes of pleasure at the sight of his naked majesty.
Gesturing at the floor, Athos made a small sign to which Grimaud nodded, almost managing to fully suppress his look of mild indignance, and d’Artagnan still had the presence of pride enough to realize with immense embarrassment what position he had put the good lackey in. Athos allowed him to be so, hanging his equipment off the end of the bed post by his clothes before he pushed d’Artagnan back down.
“I am not done with you yet.”
And with those few words d’Artagnan had forgotten entirely about Grimaud’s sorry job of scrubbing his piss off the floorboards, wide-eyed and thrumming as Athos climbed atop him and came to position himself above his chest. Never before had d’Artagnan been afforded such a clear view of Athos’ intimate places, and he committed the sight to memory with the reverence of a man faced with a living miracle, a holy idol. Arousal had made Athos darkly colored, his cock standing out erect, glistening with moisture. Knowing that no command was necessary here, he lowered himself and sat squarely upon d’Artagnan’s face, weaving his fingers again into his wild curls as d’Artagnan leapt up to take him into his mouth once again.
“That’s right,” Athos said, barely a whisper, and he had that distant look in his eyes he got sometimes when he lay with d’Artagnan, when he hoped it wasn't able to be seen, a look that almost appeared to be something close to peace. He rocked slowly into d’Artagnan’s lips, relishing the way his moans vibrated against his cunt.
“You won’t do that again, will you?”
D’Artagnan made a noise that could have meant anything, plaintive and blissful. Athos chose to accept it. Stroking d’Artagnan’s bangs back between his flexing thighs, Athos released a long held sigh of pleasure.
“Good boy,” he purred, voice dropping low.
“You take instruction well when you want to. I only wish you would apply yourself so ardently to things more important than the intrigues of women.”
That drew an only marginally less pleasant sound. D’Artagnan could make no promises with his lips sealed around Athos’ prick, but neither did he attempt to refute Athos, licking and sucking with ever increasing enjoyment. The sight of him so utterly devoted and dominated curled tightly in Athos’ gut, and he growled softly.
“Since the duty of your education falls to me, I will ensure that this lesson is one well remembered. I’m going to make you cum until your cunt aches with every step, until you cannot wake nor sleep without feeling the impression I’ve made inside you. How will you sit across from your mistress and make flattering conversation while the shape of my cock still throbs inside you? At least then I will be content, knowing that with every movement you burn from where I have fucked you out, that, even days past, your thighs will bear my fingerprints. When you look upon her lips, no matter how well shaped, I will have you think of mine where they have kissed you, and how her hand, which you have informed me is flawlessly formed, cannot compare to the way mine spreads you around it. This is my oath, and I swear it to you.”
D’Artagnan was red beneath him, sighing and moaning with such a vulnerable need that it would have been impossible for Athos not to desire him. Petting him adoringly, he found his heart entirely calmed, the certainty of his fondness outweighing the nagging guilt. As Grimaud knelt and scrubbed the floor, nose wrinkled, Athos rode himself to his first orgasm of the night.