Page 107 of Rears & Vices

“Please,” Vitya whispered.

D’Arcy put a hand up to Everard’s hip and squeezed hard. His eyes fluttered open, hazel, teary, yellow-purple beneath with bruising; Everard mouthed, Mine. D’Arcy’s eyes squeezed shut.

No, it wasn’t going to take much time at all.

The rocking of Everard’s hips became Vitya’s, and Vitya’s prick slid forth and back across D’Arcy’s tongue, pushed into his throat; they all groaned. D’Arcy’s fingers clutched deep in the flesh of Everard’s hip, the first barometer for which Everard was grateful; the second being D’Arcy’s other hand, far below, deliberately stroking a very pink prick.

Everard had watched before, watched D’Arcy have a man with his mouth, stroke himself too. It’d never been like this, never so close; Everard had never touched in the moment. Never loved them both. Now he wanted to be everywhere at once. Instead, he put his left hand atop Vitya’s, tangled it deeper into sable curls.

When he breached Vitya—Vitya preferring a cock directly, being very against fingers in the beginning—it was careful, excruciatingly slow, and accompanied by a litany of hard breathing, cursing and shuddering, goose-pimple flesh going pliant. D’Arcy drew back, murmuring praise and admiration until he could resume.

They shortly found themselves on borrowed time. Everard went as slowly as he could bear, partly because of the torture of already being on the knife’s edge and partly because though he’d said D’Arcy could take it and he knew it to be true, he still worried—for all of them. Vitaliy would never forgive them if they made him inflict so much as a bruise, even practically thirdhand.

But slow worked well. Everard rocked and rocked until he was fully seated, D’Arcy’s pulls bringing him forward, Vitya’s full, sweet arse pushing insistently back.

Eventually, D’Arcy slid free with a cough, impatient, and took matters into his own hands: he put them on Vitya’s hips and worked him backward, onto Everard’s length and forward again.

Vitaliy gasped, slapped a hand over Everard’s on his stomach, squeezed hard.

Everard looked at their interlaced hands, D’Arcy’s beneath, taking control, Vitya’s wet, slicked prick between; spotty black, fraying streaks of white overlaid it all.

“God.” He was much too close⁠—

Then D’Arcy growled, “Give him your arse, Vee. As though you mean to.”

Vitya’s reaction was extraordinary. Russian curses fell snarled from his lips; he clawed at the panelling behind them, clutched at Everard’s hip; he shook, and groaned like Everard had never heard.

And then he moved. He gave Everard his arse, utterly and totally.

Everard held him up, held still, held back his own release by a bare, splintering thread. “Holy—Jesus—God. Vitya.” He wasn’t going to last. “Preston,” he said, urgently, “come up here, I want—I need— Ah— Mmph!”

Salty-sweet, breathless, ruthless, D’Arcy’s lips on his sucked nearly every bit of consciousness Everard had left.

D’Arcy pushed Vitaliy fully against him, demanding they both still; unyielding as a standing stone, he pressed them against the wall. Everard thought: the whole ship could have rocked then, could’ve listed hard, and they would’ve gone nowhere. He felt the ridges of panelling behind him, slick with his own sweat, felt Vitaliy around him, hot and clenching. His vision swam as climax receded marginally.

In contrast, between them Vitya was incoherent, trembling, deep within the dark, heady place where one seeks release and nothing else. His head on Everard’s shoulder rolled.

“Fuck—you—bastard,” he mumbled.

That was meant for D’Arcy, who gave a soft, almost-cruel chuckle. “I have you, Vee.”

Slowly, not letting Vitya gain forward ground whatsoever, D’Arcy began to rut. Everard thought he must have had a hand on Vitya now, perhaps was frigging them together, but he couldn’t tell. He had eyes closed, was focused desperately on not spending: every one of D’Arcy’s movements shuddered through to his core.

Vitya writhed, tried to move: he jerked forward, then back onto Everard, his thighs trembling, slick all over with sweat. His moans and desperate short pants were loud in Everard’s ear, not helping matters in the least.

D’Arcy, ever observant and sometimes merciful, increased his pace. When he reached up and grasped Everard by the shoulder for leverage, Everard opened his eyes to find D’Arcy’s own glazed, fixed hotly upon him, feverish with love and awe and clear, heartbreaking relief.

“Mine,” Everard rasped. “Mine, mine. Both of you.”

Vitya shook between them. His breath turned shallow and almost nonexistent; he clutched at both of them in frantic, sliding grasps, pleading—and gasped and tensed and quietly came, wet heat everywhere. His arse clenched around Everard, and that was it, Everard was right there, coming with a searing lurch like tripping and falling in a dream, releasing deep, deep, deep⁠—

D’Arcy laughed triumphantly and followed fast with a low, satisfied moan, his fingertips sunk in Everard’s shoulder, his teeth in Vitya’s.

When the spinning ceased somewhat, Everard was pleased and surprised to find he was both detached from the others and still standing, if leaning fairly heavily upon the panelling. Vitaliy was slumped over D’Arcy’s shoulder, half-asleep already; D’Arcy murmured to him sweetly, affectionately as they stumbled over to the cot.

Everard shook his head, to see if the vision would waver away, like a sex-induced mirage, but it didn’t. It continued, all the way to the point where D’Arcy laid Vitya down and rearranged his limbs for comfort.

Vitya murmured something enquiring, too muffled by bedding for Everard to hear clearly.