Chapter 3

Both bedrooms sat one story above, up the narrow stairs; the house had been designed as long and slender. The second bedroom had, in theory, been Cam's, if anyone had ever inquired: a convenient fiction. They'd used it for guests, on occasion; a certain circle of friends knew about certain preferences, in terms of liking men and liking specific pleasures.

Cam had lost touch with most of those friends, gradually, through the last six years. Hugh had been more outgoing, more playful; Cam in the wake of grief had not known how to talk to people, how to be alone in a group of men partnered and paired. He had not wanted to flirt with anyone else; he had not wanted to find anyone else. He'd stopped replying to any invitations beyond a quick meeting at a coffee-house or a professional association. He'd let connections ebb.

He wondered, now, whether things might've been different if he hadn't. But then he wouldn't've been so lonely, and he might not have looked at the scandalous Earl of Thorns in the rain outside a bookshop and seen a kindred loneliness there…

They were here now. And he brought Blake and Ash back to his bedroom, with the tall narrow rain-lashed windows and the long emerald curtains and the bare floors under a thick woven colorful rug, local, not imported, but nicely textured and good for muffling sound.

The walls were generally bare, practical, plain. Cam's main indulgence was the novels; Hugh's had been scientific equipment, new alchemical projects, glass and heat and exploration of ingredients. Neither of them had cared much for art or fripperies.

They'd had one other indulgence, of course.

Ashley's eyes were lakes of excited hazel. "I like your bed."

It was a very nice bed, large, four-posted, strong enough for certain activities. Cam said, "I'm pleased you do," and put a hand on the nape of Blake's neck. "You remember where we keep things, lad?"

"Yes," Blake said. "Do you want me to fetch them?"

"Aye. Naked."

He heard Ash's tiny gasp, at that. He didn't look over; he watched Blake. Who readily, easily, stripped for them: no protest, purely obedient. He was luscious naked; Cam had always thought so. Rugged, powerful, sun-bronzed; scarred, having been knocked about, but solid. Gloriously masculine, too, in shoulders, thighs, broad chest, proud thick erection.

Blake went to the tall chest in the corner, opened it. Turned. "Rope, and the cane?"

"You did ask for it."

Ash shivered. "A cane…"

"He'll feel good." Cam gathered Ash up for a kiss. "I promise."

Blake came back with a length of heavy golden rope, smooth, made for this purpose—Cam had known someone, years ago, who'd been quite good at that, and discreet—and also the slim length of wood: polished, straight, a smooth dark line that could be a gentleman's fashionable accessory, if one wished to pretend it was only that.

Cam did not wish to pretend it was that. Not here, not now.

He took both, balancing the weight. He and Hugh had learned, had explored desires, together. He had not practiced much, since. One night, three years before Blake, because he'd been so lonely and so empty. It had been good in terms of simple release, but not as good as Blake Thornton, kneeling with devout supplication.

Blake waited now, naked, for command.

Cam said, softly, "So eager for us, aren't you?" and stroked his cheek. His Blake needed a shave; the texture was good, though. "Against the bedpost, I think. For a demonstration."

Blake nodded, and went: arms up, back and arse and thighs bared to them, prick pressed against hard wood.

"Oh…" Ash's voice danced over the sound. "You actually…tie him to the post…"

"Not every time. But you want to see it." He caught Ash's hand, drew him over: talking while binding Blake's arms, wrists, tight enough for support. Blake moaned, hips shifting; Cam let him rub himself against the post, since it'd only be more torment. "It'll work over the bed. Some other options. The cane's more…special occasions. Started with my hand, last time. Finished with that, too, come to think of it—my hand on him."

Ash petted Blake's naked back. He was, Cam noticed, decidedly hard: prick full, eyes wide and dark. Ash touched the rope, and then Blake's outstretched arms, running a hand along muscles. Blake whimpered, hips moving more. Ash stroked his shoulder, his hip. The curve of his arse. "You like this? Being ours, being at our mercy…knowing we can do what we like, to you…"

"Yes," Blake begged. "Yes."

"You'd stop us, though." Ash hesitated, though his hand snuck around to find Blake's stiff prick and tug. "If it truly hurt, if you didn't like any of it…I know you want to please us…"

"I do," Blake gasped. "To please you…to be good for you…"

"Reminders," Cam said gently. They had talked about it, somewhat; it'd only been a month, both his boys had been ill, and Ash had been more or less a virgin. They'd had some frank discussions, combined with mostly cautious exploration. "You say stop and we'll stop that particular thing. You say your word, your signal, and we'll stop it all."

Blake nodded, and made a helpless sound, because Ash was teasing his prick.

Ashley asked, "Can we stop it, as well? If we need to." It was a good question, a responsible one.

"Oh. Aye. You think of the word you want. Mine would be mandrake, his is viola, if you recall." They'd said it, but he wasn't sure Ash remembered; it'd been part of one of those discussions, theoretical rather than practical. "If you'd just want to use stop, for now—"

"Oh, let's say an?dunos," Ash said, "classical Greek, freedom from pain, and so on. Though…we're not doing too much, tonight, are we?"

"No. Just enough."

"I might like more," Blake said, cheek against the bedpost.

Ashley laughed. Cam said, "Ah, there you are," and tapped his thigh, weightlessly, with the cane. "I was wondering. Only ten. And then we'll take you to bed, and fuck you, while you're feeling it."

"Yes," Blake said. "I want that, please."

"Good boy," Cam said, "now show Ash how good you are, for us," and nodded at Ashley.

Ash moved a step, giving him space. Cam adjusted grip, tested a practice swing—not connecting—and adjusted again. It had been some time; he was also fairly sure that for Blake it was more about the submission, the capitulation, taking what was given, than the actual pain.

He did not make Blake count. He did aim, neatly. The impact echoed, red and bright.

It was Ashley who gasped aloud, though Blake moaned. The line burned pink across his backside; Cam had planned it there, shockingly visible.

"Oh," Ash said. "Oh—Blake, are you sure…" But his tongue also darted out to lick his lips, leaving them pink and wet. He was breathing faster.

"I'm sure." Blake's voice came slower, heavier, as if opium-laced. "It's good…it's right, taking this…knowing I'm yours, belonging to you, and I'll feel it and I'll know it and I'll be good at taking it…"

"You are," Cam told him. Again. Harder: reinforcing the point. And again.

He'd said only ten, but he spaced them out, deliberately uneven, keeping Blake guessing. Thighs, as well. Shoulders, twice. Back to that pert arse. Blake made beautiful noises, not hiding his responses: quivering, panting, sobbing a bit, hips lifting and moving and rocking his prick against the bedpost. His hands opened, closed: secure in their bonds.

Ashley was mesmerized, breathing fast, entranced. "He looks so…"

Radiant. Transcendent. Given over to the impacts, to the heat, to everything happening to his body. Cam saw it in Blake's face, felt it in the rock-hard line of his own cock. He put a hand on Ash's hip. Ashley murmured, "Can I also be naked?"

"By all means."

Ash stripped—clumsily, quickly, leaving clothing in a heap—and came back, tall and slim and fair and eager as a youthful dominant partner could be. He touched Blake's arse, ran a hand over welts. Blake groaned, shuddered, arched his back.

"Blake," Ash mused, petting him. "You look so lovely. I never thought…I wondered what you'd be like, in bed. You told me once you'd let a lover—a countess—tie you up. You wanted to shock me. I thought about that story every night for weeks. That you could want that, that you would…I pictured it. I pictured me instead of her. You being all mine, tied up, so you were helpless, begging, needing me to touch you."

Christ. Ashley truly was good at this. Cam found himself impressed.

"I didn't really know anything, then. I'm learning." Ash pressed fingers into a welt. Blake groaned, a deep contented pleasure-sound. "I don't want to hurt you. I just want you to know you belong to us. And we love you, and you deserve to be loved, and if you need to feel it, to know it, in all of you…we can both do that." He glanced back at Cam. "How many?"

"Up to seven," Cam said, amused. He had an idea of where Ash was going, and he hadn't expected it, but he was on board. "You want to try, then?"

Blake's inhale was audible even against the bedpost; he turned his head to look at Ash.

"One or two," Ash said. "It won't be hard, I mean in terms of—of strength. I just…think I should know whether I like it, and how it feels. And he's ours, both of ours, so I want to show him that."

"Oh God," Blake said, "oh God, Ash, Ash, please—but you don't have to—but yes—but don't think you have to, for me…"

"You love this, and I love you." Ash's grin borrowed some of Blake's devilishness and made it more fey and luminous, in hazel eyes. "Besides, I want to for me. Have you seen you, like this? Do we own a large enough mirror? We should."

"Here." Cam handed over the cane. Put his own hand on Ash's: demonstrating, guiding. "Here, and this motion…I'll show you more later if you'd like. Practice. For now, like this."

Ash nodded. Stepped in to kiss Blake's cheek, with tenderness. Then stepped back. And swung.

And, fuck, that was gorgeous. The two of them. The portrait, the motion, the light and dark. The way Blake cried out at the impact—physical, emotional—and arched up, and then softened, melted, collapsed into the ecstasy and the anguish of it. The awe in Ash's face at the realization, the response.

Ash did it again, a little more gently, and said, "Nine." Blake was sobbing softly, whispering, "Yes, yes, yours, yes…" as if unable not to speak, to assent, to submit.

Ash slid the cane between Blake's spread thighs. Nudged it upward: making sleek wood rub along delicate vulnerable places. Blake gasped, jerked in place, sobbed Ash's name, and then Cam's.

Cam said, judging that one, "All right, we're nearly good," and held out his hand. Ash returned the cane promptly, and said, "Too much?"

"Mmm…no. He'd havve stopped you. But I want to watch you fuck him, and you're asking a lot, teasing him like that." He put a hand into Blake's hair, leaned in closer, murmured against the curve of Blake's ear, "All right, lad?"

"Mmm," Blake got out, shuddering. "Close. His, yours…oh, fuck, Cam, please. It's wonderful. It's so much."

"Thought so. One more, we said; you good with that?"

"Yes." Blake's eyes drifted shut, opened: holding profound tranquility. "Very good."

"Love you," Cam told him, and got back to it: one more, the hardest, laced across earlier lines. Blake cried out, and sagged against the post.

Ashley put a hand over his own mouth. "Was that—"

"I asked. He said to." He tossed the cane onto a chair, did some untying, caught Blake when those wobbly legs gave way. "Come here. All of us."

Ash listened immediately, and settled with Blake on the bed, caressing him, murmuring low words, telling him how good he was, how amazing, how wonderful. Cam lost his own clothing in rapid order, kept the rope handy, came back. "Hands."

"You're not seriously going to—after that, it's not too—"

Blake held up both wrists, weakly.

"Oh," Ash said. Blake, sprawled across the sheets, winked at him. Cam laughed, though it was more of an exhale, and bent to kiss Blake's shoulder. He'd been pretty sure this wasn't as rough as the first encounter they'd shared, when they'd both been so desperate; and equally pretty sure that Blake was presently aware of and exaggerating some reactions.

Only some, though; the emotions, especially when Ash had taken up the cane, were real. The yielding, the submission, the desire to be overwhelmed and dominated and claimed: that was real.

He only did Blake's wrists, and quickly, and relatively loosely because Ash was looking somewhat anxious. He said, "Good?" and Blake agreed, lying stretched out in bed between them, a decadent sacrifice for the taking, golden rope and dark hair and tanned skin and surrender. Cam said, "I want to watch you both, so you'll let Ash fuck you, but you won't finish, yourself, until we say," and Blake nodded.

So they did.

Sweetness, yielding and taking; the light and the dark, the slickness of oil, the way Ash moved, tender and still a touch incredulous at being given this, but strong and sure, hands and cock and caresses drawing Blake under him, open for him, for each thrust. Cam, beside them, kept one hand resting over the rope around Blake's wrists; he ran a hand along Ashley's thigh, and watched Blake's blissful eyes track the motion, shared between them.

Ash was new to sex in general and not entirely thoroughly healthy; he did not try to make the thrusts last long, but it was beautiful, an artwork, the tension of his body, the release, the way Blake moved in response to being filled. Ash whispered, "Oh, yes, both of you, yes," with Cam's hand stroking his leg, and in that moment Cam wanted nothing more than to stay in this bed with them forever.

Might've been a disloyal thought. Or not; surely not, so many years gone. And it was pleasure, and it was true; he knew that he was allowed this.

Nevertheless he shivered all over, not from want, and he could not have said why. The yes, the undeniable fact of the yes: so painfully vivid.

Blake's fingers curled down, above looped bonds, to touch his hand. Blake's eyes were huge and awash with submissive ecstasy, but awake, and intent, and full of love.

Cam kissed his arm, below the rope. Blake murmured a wordless sound of contentment.

Cam fucked him like that, after Ash had withdrawn and was cradling him: Ash's hand was working Blake's poor neglected prick, with an impressive degree of assertion. Blake's body was open, pink, messy with the spill of Ash's release; Cam took him hard, made him moan, made sure Ash was watching. All of them, together.

He whispered, "Come for me, while we fuck you, like this," and Blake trembled and stiffened and tightened around him, obedient to command.

They finished together, a breaking cresting burst, Cam spilling into him and Blake's completion pulsing out across his stomach and chest and Ash's relentless hand.

They kissed each other, touched each other, in the aftermath: moving together, the way they fit.

Cam found lotion, salve, a cloth; and took care of the worst welts. Blake sighed with pleasure at being cared for, and Ash kissed him soundly, with tongue, and then looked up. "I think I see. I mean…that was like poetry. All of it. Like music."

"Indeed it was." Cam kissed him, this time: feeling that sweet scholar's mouth open beneath his demand. "Lovely."

"Very good," Blake said, nestled between them, drowsy. "Thank you."

That might be something they'd need to discuss, later; Cam wasn't sure about the gratitude, there. Might be a fine line to walk, if their Blake wanted to say it; but he did this for the bracing clarity and the delight of shared desire, and he did not like the idea that Blake needed to thank them.

He caught Ash glancing at him, too. Ah, well, then; they would likely discuss it. Not just yet, though.

He said, to Ash, "So now you've done that; you'll be good at it, I'd say," and played with Ash's hair, because it looked like starshine in the night.

"I have done that." Ashley's eyes glinted. "I enjoyed it. I think we all did. Though…I am yours, too, you know. And, oh, I love you. I love you both."

"Yes," Blake said, half asleep, safe and tucked into them.

An I love you, in this bed, in this home. So many tangles, so many truths. So many memories, and places he'd be leaving, so soon. A fortnight. Fourteen days.

Cam did want that. He did. Just at the moment he knew it more intellectually than emotionally: that same piece of his heart that cried out in dismay at the strange-familiar space of this bed, with those words in it.

He said, "Both of you get some rest. I'll wake you in a bit, and we can have a late supper, and bathe, aye? We had a proper bathing-room put in; I'll show you." And the rain came back, drumming across pointed rooftops and cool windowpanes, behind his words.