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Is that what we look like, Francis thinks, watching James writhe and moan on his berth as Edward fucks into him, thighs straining, handsome face red with his exertions. Beneath the broader, more muscular man, James, folded near in half with his ankles hooked on Edward’s shoulders, looks some lithe, ethereal thing, though he’s sweat-drenched and flushed from face to cock.
Francis had been skeptical when James first asked—begged—for this, wondered whether James, as much as he exulted in Francis’s fingers or even fist after being fucked, could stand a series of hard, unyielding cocks, a new one replacing the previous as soon as it began to soften. But though James had grown warm and pliant, almost doll-like, as first John and George and now Edward made use of him, his vocabulary of wordless sounds had only grown in volume and urgency. Looking at him now, Francis sees every sign of overstimulation—eyes wandering without managing to fix on any one point, hands clenching and unclenching over the bedsheets without ever really finding purchase—and yet he continues to beg Francis’s lieutenants to fuck him harder and deeper, manhandle him so they might take their fill, pleas that Francis confirms with a quick nod before his officers obey.
That a man of four-and-thirty can hold within him such a wellspring of desire and need, Francis can hardly comprehend (and stranger still that such a man would so fervently desire him). James had spent once on John’s yard, and again speared on George’s tongue, though his second crisis had yielded only a few pathetic drops of seed, since dried on his stomach. His cock lies there, too, soft and small, jumping in time with Edward’s hard, unrelenting thrusts.
When his lieutenants had agreed to this, Francis had forbade them in no uncertain terms from laying hand or mouth on James’s prick. Here James is only permitted to obtain his pleasure from within, as an object of other men’s use, a receptacle for their desire and their seed. Edward is fucking into him with precision, Francis can tell, hitting the seat of his pleasure unerringly (he is pleased, and unsurprised, to see that his first lieutenant must be an experienced sodomite). With each thrust James lets out a little whine, and in response Edward fucks him sharper, faster, giving no quarter.
“Oh, God,” James moans, turning his head from side to side, questing about blindly. “Oh, Daddy, Daddy—”
Immediately Francis goes to him, strokes his hand through James’s hair, and James pushes against it like a needful cat. “Shh, pet,” Francis says, “I’ve got you.”
He loves James like this—his obstreperous, confident nature relinquished to Francis’s control and ownership. In truth, Francis loves each and every version of James that the man is willing to show him and has come to view his ability to control a room with admiration and pride rather than jealous distaste, but this particular James belongs to Francis, is entirely contingent on his dominance, his solidity, his protection. This senseless, desperate creature is his alone, to share as he will—James would lap and suck at no one else’s callused fingers to taste the accumulated flavors of a day’s work, as he does now, heedless of any disgust. James would bite at the webbing of no one else’s thumb to choke his screams and sobs.
In the contortions of his face, the thrashing of his limbs, Francis can see that James is, unimaginably, nearing his third crisis of the evening, torn between resisting the concomitant pain and throwing himself towards some new, excruciating horizon of pleasure. “Fuck, Daddy, I—fuck!” James keens, muffled, into Francis’s hand; then, tearing his head away and staring wild-eyed toward the ceiling: “More! God, oh God, I need more, please, Daddy.” His hand lashes out to grab Francis’s bicep and his fingers dig in, hard; he bites down on his lips, a sure sign he’s on the edge of tears. “Oh, Christ, now, I need it now!”
With his free arm Francis slaps him across the face, hard, and James sucks his breath in through his teeth. From the corner of his eye he sees George, still dressing to leave, startle at the noise. “I won’t have you making demands of me, boy,” Francis snaps. “Is that understood?”
Tears well up in the corners of James’s eyes like little pearls and he nods, over and over, as frantic in his obedience as he is desperate from overstimulation. Francis takes pity and returns to stroking his hair. “You needn’t worry, lad. I won’t leave you unsatisfied. Tell me what you need.”
“You, Daddy,” James sobs out, more loudly than Francis imagined he was capable of, after his lengthy litany of groans and whimpers. Not for the first time this evening, he’s thankful he’d had the foresight to order Thomas to clear out the quarterdeck. “Need you inside.” Edward stills above him, but James shakes his head vigorously. “No, no, both. Please. Oh, Christ, please.”
He’s hit all at once with the vivid image of James’s precious, greedy hole stretched between a pair of thick cocks, forced into containing far more than God had ever intended it to accommodate.
Were he rational, and patient, and gentle, he would tell James no, not just now, whisper into his ear lurid stories of how they would get him ready, stretch him over days and weeks until he could take two men as if he were designed to do so. But James wants to hurt, and Francis, perverse creature that he is, is all too inclined to let him.
He looks straight into Edward’s wide eyes and gives a curt nod.
When Edward draws out his yard, James’s arsehole, red and swollen as a ripe cherry, clenches and slackens at the sudden absence, letting out a dribble of John and George’s commingled spend. Gently, Edward lowers James’s legs from his shoulders; James breathes shallow and labored, eyes shut and limbs akimbo, while Francis quickly strips down. Then Francis is clambering up onto the berth, rolling James onto his side as delicately as he can manage so he can get his own body underneath.
James groans at being moved; it must aggravate those tender places where he’s sore and used. “Shh, sweetling,” Francis soothes, hooking his elbows under James’s armpits. “I’ve got you.” With only the most meager help from James, who feels more like a ragdoll than an animate man, Francis pulls James up his body—his front to James’s back, like they’re some eight-limbed creature, splayed out and waiting to be taken. He slings James’s arm over his neck, and admires up close the reddened flesh of James’s chest, the rich funk of him.
Carefully, Francis pushes his cock, achingly hard, against James’s entrance, sinks his teeth into the side of James’s pectoral—James gasps—and pushes in. It’s easy, easier than it’s ever been, the way smoothed by the seed of two men and the vigorous fucking of three. James moans weakly, and Francis nearly spends right then, to know so intimately what James has already endured and to understand what he still craves.
It’s not a simple thing to thrust into James from his angle, when he is so incapable of holding up his own weight, but Francis pushes in and out slowly, enjoying the moist, filthy noises made by James’s abused hole. James screws shut his eyes and tilts his head back; his cock remains quiescent, but he groans with each thrust. He’s slick with perspiration, his curls damp and clinging to his neck; underneath him, Francis is warmer than he’s been in years, and, with James’s full weight atop him, more stable, more secure, than he ever imagined he could be.
“Not enough,” James manages to sob out, “Daddy, it’s not enough”—then, as Francis thrusts up, hard, “oh fuck oh fuck please, more, please Daddy,” and Francis can see tears squeeze out from the corners of his eyes. James has begun to tremble in his arms; when Francis reaches down to trace his fever-hot rim, he gives a full-body shudder. Francis’s index finger slides in alongside his cock with little resistance, and James sighs, as if he can finally, with the added stretch, relax. Even just the one finger has made James markedly tighter around him, and he wonders how long he’ll be able to last with Edward’s cock pulling James taut.
“You’re doing so well for Daddy,” he says, roughly, and James smiles, blissfully unabashed, until Francis slides in a second finger alongside the first. When Francis begins fucking James with his cock and fingers all at once, James moans and writhes, wanton and shameless, bracing his feet against the bed and trying to fuck back against Francis despite his lassitude.
“I’m ready, I’m ready, Christ,” James forces out, voice thin and reedy, an edge of his daytime willfulness creeping into his affected deference. In most other circumstances Francis would punish him properly for this cheek, slap his buttocks hard enough to bruise and have James sitting gingerly through the next morning’s command meeting, but he and James alike are by now far too eager for such an interruption. “Patience, greedy boy,” he scolds instead, though it’s difficult to maintain the stern tone James so adores when the man is nearly thrashing on his cock and two of his fingers.
Already Francis can feel the very edge of his crisis bubbling and roiling, tightening in his groin, so perhaps he rushes the rest—though James scarcely responds to the next pair of fingers, which push in smoothly beside Francis’s cock. He tries to shift and move his clustered digits to stretch James as well as possible, but his thighs ache, and the pressure around him is already so intense that each press of his knuckles against his yard summons black spots into his vision. James is silent, now, beyond his rhythmic gasps and keens; he’s stopped valiantly trying to fuck back against Francis, but he spasms with each thrust of Francis’s fingers, shivers each time Francis sinks his teeth into the flesh of his flank. When Francis withdraws his hand, he groans in earnest—“Ahh—oh, mmm,” before collapsing, fully limp, in his arms.
Francis nods at Edward, who is stroking himself at the foot of the bed, eyes wide and fixed on the spot where Francis and James join together. In some other world Francis might have watched a man like Edward pleasure himself for long minutes, then used the memory to motivate his self-abuse for years afterward; but he can’t now imagine turning to anything in those moments besides thoughts of his boy, needy and desperate and near-insensible for having been so well fucked.
At the touch of Edward’s cockhead to his hole, James hisses, and Edward stills; Francis rubs his hand, tacky with seed, soothingly down James’s side. “Are you ready, sweet lad?” Francis asks, trying to access the steadiness and control in which he knows James takes such solace, though his voice wavers.
“Yes, yes, please,” James says, high and thin. He grips Francis’s shoulder with his strong sailor’s hand, hard enough to hurt.
Edward’s eyes are half-lidded as he holds himself against the base of Francis’s own cock, against James’s entrance, sliding his cockhead along James’s rim. With all the authority he can scrounge up from near the precipice of orgasm, Francis says, “Fuck him, Edward.”
For a moment the tension in James’s rim, around Francis’s prick, feels unbearable, impossible, beyond the extent of human endurance—and then Edward slides in smoothly, and Francis briefly believes he’ll spend from the feeling of another cock, thick and warm, pressed up so tightly against his own. James makes little noises—breathy gasps—and releases his grip on Francis as Edward finds his seat within him.
“Christ,” Francis grits out, desperately trying to pull himself down from the edge. He will give James precisely what he wants; he will not fail here. “A moment, Edward.” Edward’s eyes are glazed, and he bites his lip—it must take a feat of willpower for him to resist fucking James with abandon—but he obeys, remains stock still, breathes deep and long.
James is beautiful still, even—especially—after submitting himself to such thorough use, begging for things so shameful and unimaginable in that world they’ve long left behind. Tears cling to his eyelashes, which flutter over smooth, elegant cheeks. This musty berth seems no place for him—he is far better suited to a grand, lush tableau, his features granted to some delicate fairy, or perhaps a youthful Ganymede, stolen away on the wind.
Francis had not thought, before, it was possible to love someone so.
“Please, Daddy,” James whimpers, and Francis kisses, softly, across his pectoral, tastes the salt from his skin, sucks on his ruby-red nipple and elicits a tiny moan.
“All right, lad,” he says. “All right.” He can’t look up to Edward—can’t bring his eyes away from his boy, his James—but Edward nevertheless understands, draws his yard almost fully out and starts fucking James in earnest.
It’s like the pressure, the lovely drag of skin against skin he feels when James pulls them both off in his large hand, coupled with the heat and intimacy of being inside him—but also far more than either, the tightness of James’s channel more complete and overwhelming than he could have imagined. Francis reaches down to feel Edward’s cock pulling in and out of James alongside his own and can’t entirely comprehend the reality of it, that this is the hole he’s licked and caressed and sucked and fucked into, now stretched taut like rubber.
James moans pathetically each time Edward sheathes himself fully, though he makes no other movement. He seems entirely removed from any sense of his surroundings, like some newborn creature, pink and blind, squirming directionlessly and liable to be crushed beneath an errant boot. But when Francis feeds him three of his fingers, James suckles the seed off them immediately, draws them back to the edge of his throat, gags and chokes and spits and runs his tongue between them.
“Such a good boy,” Francis murmurs, “look at you, look at you taking two cocks for your Daddy. Can’t believe—” Edward shifts his angle slightly, and Francis can’t keep himself from gasping—“can’t believe it, your cunny was made for this, to take cock after cock. What a little cockslut you are, James. What if they could see you back home, hm? See what a nasty little sodomite you are. You nasty slut.” He slaps James’s buttock, hard—and to his shock, James keens, loud, shudders like he’s fevered, his channel clenching near painfully around Francis’s and Edward’s cocks. James’s flaccid yard gives a twitch, but nothing comes out—he is already entirely spent, and yet somehow has managed to come again, dry, split open by two cocks.
With that knowledge Francis’s orgasm barrels into him—his vision blacks out, he clutches James, and pulses deep inside him, his spend joining that of his lieutenants. He hears a chorus of harsh breathing and can’t tell the difference between his gasps and James’s, and those of Edward as he pulls out his yard. Francis is vaguely aware of the sound of Edward stroking himself fiercely, his stifled grunts, then his seed streaking over Francis’s bollocks and James’s hole.
Weightless and yet entirely held down by James’s weight atop him, Francis strokes up and down his sides and presses soft kisses wherever he can reach—James’s flank, his armpit, the inside of his arm. “You did so well, darling,” he whispers again and again, between kisses. Slowly, he shifts himself up beneath James until he can lean fully against the bulkhead, then cradles James’s head on his chest and strokes his damp hair. James is making little sounds, tiny stifled whimpers, his shoulders jumping the slightest bit as the rest of him remains still and lax.
“Shh, my love,” Francis whispers, petting James. “Shh. I’m so proud of you.”
Only then does James cry, fully, in great, gulping sobs, holding tight to Francis. Francis cradles him through it, as his chest hair grows damp and salty with tears, as the shaking of James’s shoulders becomes intense, near-violent, and then, slowly, diminishes. James doesn’t stir when Edward, now clothed, quietly takes his leave, but keeps his face pressed into the mess of snot and tears he’s made on Francis even as his breathing evens out, as though he can’t stand to be even a hair’s breadth farther away. Francis pulls James tighter against him.
There has never been anything small about James—not his stature, or hands, or presence, not his prick, not the vast repertoire of ways in which he wants to be used—but he seems now some shrunken, insubstantial thing, the pride and fear both wrung out of him. No one has ever let Francis see them thus, so consummately helpless, and yet this precious, luminous creature has turned himself over to Francis with an assured trust. A kingly gift, magnificent and unsought—and all his own—when before he had clawed for his barest earnings.
“Francis,” James murmurs at last, almost inaudibly, against his skin.
“Yes, my love?” Francis says, thumbs rubbing circles on James’s back.
“Thank you,” James says, hoarse. “Thank you.”