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Farkhad took a sip of wine from a faceted glass and returned to the conversation with the brothers. They were seated on a blanket-draped divan in his study at the Stillwater. He himself sprawled among the cushions on the floor, watching them with a gaze already beginning to cloud from intoxication.
"So once again… you read each other's minds during sex? Did I get that right?"
Peter, chewing on some loukoum Farkhad had recently brought from the Capital, burst out laughing, covering his mouth awkwardly with his hand. He seemed even drunker than Farkhad himself, and any little thing in this conversation amused him, coloring his cheeks with a tipsy flush.
"Yes," Andrey answered for him, attempting a serious tone, "an erect dick sends a radio signal straight from the brain, which is received by the twin's brain and…"
His words were cut off by Peter laughing again, this time joined by all three in the room. Once the laughter stopped, he leaned towards Farkhad and placed a hand on his shoulder, as if apologizing for the mockery of his question, though Farkhad felt no offense — the brothers amused him just as much as he amused them.
"It’s merely practice. We’ve been together all our lives, and I can tell what Andrey is thinking and what he wants from barely perceptible reactions that would escape a stranger’s eye. There’s no magic involved. We’re simply twins, and we’ve been fucking since early youth."
They had told Farkhad everything yesterday, during another long evening which had become their daily ritual, changing only in location and sometimes the number of participants. Besides him, only Eva knew — as observant as he was, she too had noticed the loud silence between the brothers. Unlike Eva, Farkhad had had the tact not to ask first, and he patiently waited for them to decide to reveal their secret to him. Truth be told, he hadn't even expected it to happen at all, but here they were, both confessing their feelings to him, and then talking all night about their own relationship and sharing their reflections on the loftiness of their bond; comparing themselves to Osiris and Isis.
Today the reflections continued, and Farkhad listened: everything was new to him, everything fascinating; he had never met people like this before, and he was in love. At first, only with Peter, but now, increasingly convinced of the brothers' inseparability, he had fallen for both — differently, but as two parts of one indivisible whole.
"Reading Peter’s mind during sex isn't that hard. Try reading his mind when he hasn't spoken for a few days and you have a project deadline," Andrey continued, laughing, after which Peter, taking a sip of wine from Farkhad's glass, flicked a fig at his face.
"You're astonishing," was all Farkhad could manage in reply. "I've never doubted my abilities as a lover, but I'd give a lot to learn to understand someone the way you do."
"You're about to," Andrey replied, and suddenly grabbed Peter around the waist, pulling him close. Peter, barely managing to set the glass on the floor, cried out in surprise and fell onto him, sprawling across the divan. Andrey settled himself more comfortably under him and bent his knee, positioning it between Peter’s legs. "So then, a practical lecture on satisfying your own brother with minimal effort. Study aid: Peter Stamatin. Conditions: the study aid remains clothed and is not permitted any actions or comments without my command. Touching the study aid is not allowed for anyone except the lecturer. As the lecturer's assistant, I task you with tying the aid's hands with a belt."
Farkhad awkwardly pulled the belt from Peter’s trousers. He didn't resist, calmly waiting, then shot him a challenging glance and grinned impudently, extending his hands. Farkhad caught himself feeling embarrassed: until the last moment, he'd thought Andrey was just showing off, and hadn't expected Peter to join the game so readily. Two pairs of identical eyes watched mockingly as he fastened the belt and sat back down on the floor.
"Where shall we start? You've spent enough time with Peter; what kind of touch does he like?"
Farkhad felt his mouth go dry.
"The small of his back."
"Correct," Andrey replied, beginning to slowly stroke Peter’s waist. His loose shirt rode up, exposing his pale sides and the trail of hair below his stomach. "But that's not enough, especially since he's lying on his back. What else does he like?"
"His neck," he said quietly. What was happening still seemed too spontaneous and wild to be real, and Farkhad held his breath, afraid to make a sound and disrupt the unfolding spectacle.
Meanwhile, Andrey carefully brushed Peter’s hair aside, baring his neck, and left a long kiss below his ear. All the while, Peter stared unwaveringly at Farkhad – he no longer smiled, but audacity played in his eyes. Yes, this is us. We are this close. This depraved. Look at us. Admire us.
"You can touch your brother anywhere, anytime, like yourself," Andrey continued, pulling away from Peter’s neck. One hand still caressed his sides, while with the other Andrey unbuttoned the top button of his shirt and slipped beneath the collar. "But that doesn't mean boundaries don't exist at all. They are blurred, expanded, but only because I know when to really stop. And I learned this after getting kicked in the balls by him a couple of times as a child."
At these words, Peter smiled again. He looked pleased and relaxed, lying in Andrey's arms like a doll, allowing his brother to be in control.
"We learned everything on each other," Andrey seemed to have forgotten Farkhad's presence, musing into the void. "Imagine having a person you've been with your whole life, who knows everything about you. Someone you can practice kissing with for the girls, whose body you can explore, who you can wake up in the middle of the night with a hard-on, someone you can try things with that you saw in erotic pictures your classmates brought…"
Farkhad couldn't. For all his architect's imagination, he couldn't. Of course, he wasn't an only child, but many of his brothers and sisters had died in infancy, and too great an age difference prevented him from even thinking about anything like that.
"…You look the same… and you smell the same, too. Your bodies change simultaneously. But everyone around condemns your bond, and that pushes you further into each other's arms. Only your brother truly understands you…"
Andrey broke off, noticing how Peter, whose trousers no longer concealed his growing arousal, was humping against his leg. As if waking up and remembering what he'd been talking about before, he turned to Farkhad again.
"Now that your brother obviously needs you, you can go further," he placed his palm on Peter’s cock and squeezed it through the fabric of his trousers. Peter exhaled, letting out a soft gasp, and thrust back against it. Then Andrey drew his leg even closer, pressing more firmly into his groin, and began to stroke him slowly, his other hand continuing to roam over his neck and chest. "Your brother's pleasure is your responsibility. Whatever you may be doing, it must always come before your own. You must think, always, of how to make your brother feel good."
Peter moved shamelessly against him, hips rolling forward without the slightest attempt to hide his delight, his satisfied gaze fixed on Farkhad. Andrey's movements gradually quickened, making Peter arch more and more under his hand.
Farkhad felt a wave of heat spread through his body. He was drawn to the twins, seized by the urge to join them — to touch Peter with a second pair of hands, to caress him and be caressed in return. But he couldn't move — not only because of Andrey's prohibition, but also from a reluctance to disrupt this intimate tandem. He gripped himself through the silk of his robe and, catching Andrey’s approving smirk, slipped his hand beneath the folds, granting himself the long-awaited pleasure.
"One more thing," Andrey continued, his words now drowning in Peter’s resonant breaths. “You’ve surely noticed that when pleasure drives him to the edge, Peter will latch onto you with his mouth — bite, mark, leave bruises. Or talk too much — less common, but it happens. If you’d like to avoid that…”
Breaking off the phrase, he silently placed his palm on Peter’s cheek and stroked his lips with his thumb. In that instant, Peter took it into his mouth and began to suck, taking it to the base with wet, eager sounds.
"I don’t know where he gets it from," Andrey smiled again, noticing Farkhad's changed expression, "but sometimes it's better to let him gnaw on your fingers, otherwise he won’t leave a single patch of your neck unmarked."
Farkhad wished Peter would leave no patch of his neck unmarked. Wished Peter would latch onto him and moan with pleasure right into his skin. But for now he could only watch — and he did not feel deprived in the slightest. He was entranced by the sense of being admitted into something so intimate, so sacred, as the love of two men who shared the same face. He had been let in on a big secret, and now he was permitted to see what many could only dream of.
Occasionally taking his hand away from Peter’s groin, Andrey let it wander over his body — stroking his thighs, his stomach, the line of his ribs, slipping beneath his shirt to touch his nipples. All the while, Peter kept grinding against his leg — without Andrey's hand's help, it was clearly not as comfortable, and Peter writhed, desperately seeking the right angle.
"Everything in this process is interconnected," Andrey's breath grew heavier with each phrase. "Imagining yourself in his place isn't enough, because even though our bodies are the same, we desire different things. You need to know where to press," with these words, he placed his palm on Peter’s Adam's apple, pressing lightly, which disrupted and cut off his moans, and Peter opened his mouth, releasing the finger. "But simply knowing isn't enough either. You need to feel your brother like yourself," Andrey removed his hand and, letting Peter catch his breath, again stroked his tongue with his thumb, urging him to close his lips around it. “And to feel him as yourself, you must join with him in your mind… in simpler terms, imagine yourself in his place.”
Farkhad didn't miss how much Andrey's voice had changed — how the pauses between his words had lengthened, punctuated by uneven breaths. Finishing the thought, he closed his eyes, pressing his forehead against Peter’s head, continuing to move his hands over his body. His hips moved in unconscious rhythm with his brother’s.
“Only when you feel what he feels — when your consciousness merges with his body — will you understand what it means to be one. To be twins.”
As Peter’s writhing intensified, his moans grew more insistent and demanding. He was no longer looking at Farkhad; his eyes were closed, and his bound hands kept reaching between his legs, only for Andrey to move them away each time. Farkhad looked at his bare feet and noticed his toes clenching and unclenching.
“He’s had enough of touching, and the clothes are rubbing him raw. He wants my hand down his pants," Andrey added, briefly lifting his head from Peter. It was as though he were reading his thoughts aloud. “But that won’t happen. And he knows it. It drives him mad.”
As if to confirm his words, Peter let out a displeased sound, and Andrey squeezed his cock, whispering something into his ear — too quiet for Farkhad to catch. Showing no reaction, Peter continued to whimper in his arms.
"But he likes it," Andrey's voice had become very low and faltering. His fingers massaged Peter’s balls through the fabric, and he buried his nose somewhere near his temple, continuing his commentary. "He feels so good right now, so pleasant, he can't think straight at all. He wants it to end soon, and at the same time, for it to never end."
Peter’s hair clung damply to his face, and Farkhad found himself thinking that he might never again behold anything more beautiful. It was utter submission — submission offered so easily by the usually defiant Peter, trusting his brother completely. He felt no shame in debasing himself here, before Farkhad, allowing Andrey to work him up and force him to writhe frantically from his touch. Andrey, beautiful as the devil himself, who now unconsciously mirrored the movements of Peter’s body, resonating with him, fused into a single rhythm, taking pleasure only from his pleasure.
Farkhad could have watched forever. This was no lecture; it was theater, a performance in which the spectator must not intervene. He scarcely dared to breathe, afraid of breaking the spell, and it seemed to him that he stood not a meter away in a modest room, but across the vast divide of a grand stage, accessible only to the actors upon it.
Yet just as the brothers appeared to have forgotten his existence entirely, Andrey suddenly said:
“Enough.” Then, bending once more to Peter: “You may.”
Peter opened his mouth, and Andrey withdrew his finger, not interrupting the exhausted moan that followed. A tremor passed through his body, and a pale stain spread across the dark fabric of his trousers. Andrey removed his hand from his cock and simply stroked him under his shirt, as Peter continued to writhe beneath his palms.
Only when he relaxed and began to go limp did Andrey brush the hair from his face, stroke his head, and place a gentle kiss on his forehead. Peter stared somewhere at the ceiling, taking deep breaths. His hips still moved lazily by inertia, and his whole body seemed seized by post-orgasmic spasms.
"It's very important," Andrey continued stroking his hair, "at the end, to tell him he's your beloved brother," he leaned close to Peter’s ear again and lowered his voice. "You hear me? You did so well. I love you."
Peter didn't react, continuing to breathe deeply, but this didn't trouble Andrey, and he calmly went on:
"Now he needs time to recover. I kept him in an awkward position, in restrictive clothes, pressed on his most sensitive places, forced him to endure it all — all of this under your observation, too. When there are too many sensations, he might suffer nervous exhaustion. Best not to touch him at all for a while."
With a deft movement, Andrey unbuckled the belt from Peter’s hands and carefully slid out from under him, leaving him lying on the divan. He himself was still aroused, as was Farkhad, who had been continuing to grip his cock in his hand all this time.
"Is he really all right?" Farkhad tried to call out to Peter, but he didn't answer.
“Neither of us has been entirely right since the day we were born,” Andrey said with a crooked smile, taking a sip of wine. “Don’t worry — if he didn’t enjoy it, he would have made that very clear. He’ll come to us once he’s rested. In the meantime, we can attend to one another,” he sat on the floor between Farkhad's legs and placed a hand on his thigh.
Farkhad pulled him into a kiss, simultaneously unbuttoning his trousers. No lover, and not even a single bacchanalia in his life, had matched the twins in spectacle, in openness, in that tantalizing air of mystery. He felt special and, although deep down he understood the absurdity of the thought, he felt he had almost become a third brother. Perhaps disappointment awaited him one day, and he would be punished for his naivety, but right now, one pair of light eyes with burning desire was studying his bare torso, and the second was watching them from the divan with growing interest in what was unfolding. He was in the best possible place, and he was utterly happy.