12. Henri #3
David had turned his face away, cheeks burning crimson.
Embarrassment radiated off him, but Henri wasn’t embarrassed.
Not for himself. People had called him worse, done worse, in lace far smaller and rooms much darker.
He felt the ache of it for David. For the boy who didn’t belong here, who had no way out, whose body was betraying him in front of the one man who would never let him forget it.
Henri reached for the waistband. “Let me,” he murmured, reverent and unhurried. He peeled the panties down slowly, past narrow hips and trembling thighs. David stepped free without a word, every movement fragile.
Henri steadied him, guiding him into place—kneeling again, straddling Henri’s thighs without settling his weight. Their bodies were close, almost touching, but not quite.
Across from them, Marc leaned forward on the opposite couch. He’d been lounging, lazy, but now his eyes glinted with sharp interest.
“Spread him,” he said. “Spread him as you do for me. Let me see how pretty he looks with his pink hole glistening.”
David stiffened at the words, embarrassment flashing over his flushed face.
Henri stayed silent. He slicked his fingers—the quiet snap of the lube cap loud in the cabin—and steadied David’s hip with his other hand. His thumb circled slowly, grounding, before he pressed the first finger in with all the care Marc loathed.
David shivered. His body clenched tight, breath catching high in his throat. Henri watched every flicker: the drawn mouth, the twitch of his jaw, the shallow rise of his chest. He gave him every scrap of attention Marc never had.
“You’re okay,” he whispered. “I’ve got you. Breathe.”
A second finger slid in beside the first, stretching him with patient pressure. Henri curled them forward just enough.
David gasped. His head dipped, lashes low, lips parting on a sound closer to want than fear.
Henri stilled. “There?” he asked.
David nodded, breath hitching. His pupils were blown wide, his body softening under Henri’s hands. The tremor that ran through him wasn’t panic. It was release—the drop Henri knew too well.
Then the word came, almost lost.
“Please.” A raw whisper, shaped more by need than thought. “Please, I want you.”
Henri looked at him. Really looked. Submission, yes, but not hollow. Need threaded through it, dragging him under.
Heat rushed through Henri’s chest, sharp and aching.
“Are you sure?” he asked quietly.
David nodded again, quicker this time. Henri could feel the shift in his breathing, the warmth radiating off his skin in waves.
And then Marc cut in.
“Louder.”
The word was calm. Unhurried. But it rolled through David with ice.
Marc hadn’t moved from the opposite couch. He had leaned back again, legs wide, cock in hand, stroking himself with lazy disinterest. But his eyes, fixed, unblinking, were hungry.
“You want to be fucked, sweetheart?” Marc’s voice dripped indulgent cruelty. “Say it as though you mean it.”
David’s spine stiffened. His hands curled against Henri’s chest. But his gaze remained locked with Henri’s.
His voice cracked, but he forced it out. “Please... I want you to fuck me.”
Marc’s mouth curved. “Good boy. That’s more like it.” His grip shifted, thumb dragging slow over the head of his cock as he stroked. Still lazy, but his eyes burned as he watched.
“Turn him around. I want to watch his little cock bounce.”
Henri didn’t move at once. He pulled David in instead, chest to chest, holding him for one breath longer than Marc allowed. His hand slid between them, cupping David’s cock and balls. Small, yes, but hard and so responsive.
David trembled at the touch. His lashes fluttered, his throat worked around a sound he didn’t voice, and he nodded.
Henri guided him back carefully, turning him slowly, keeping his balance steady. David climbed onto his thighs again. This time facing forward. Facing Marc.
His palms pressed to Henri’s legs for support, back bowed as he tried to line himself up. The posture left nothing hidden. Every inch was on display.
David’s hand reached back, fingers trembling, and guided Henri’s cock to his entrance. Then he began to lower himself.
It wasn’t smooth. His thighs shook as he sank inch by inch, breath quick and shallow.
Henri had stretched him carefully, but not enough to make this easy.
The restraint that had protected him now caught up with them both.
Pressure built too fast. His body resisted. Not rejecting, but not yielding either.
His brow furrowed, his breath stuttered. Sweat gathered at his temple as he fought his own muscles.
Marc’s voice drifted across the cabin, low and edged with mockery.
“That’s it. Fuck yourself for us. Be a good little toy.”
David rocked forward, then back, searching for the right angle. He tried again, lowering himself deeper, but the position worked against him. His balance tipped, weight pitching too far forward. He froze, thighs taut, jaw locked.
Henri’s hands closed firmly on his hips. “Easy,” he murmured. “You’ve got it. I’ve got you.”
David nodded, but the motion lacked conviction. He pushed up, then down again, hips jerking in shallow, uneven motions. The rhythm never came. His hand slipped on Henri’s thigh, catching himself too quickly. Frustration flickered across his face, followed by something worse. Humiliation.
His cock had softened, not much but enough to droop, bouncing in an awkward rhythm. His cheeks burned. He kept his eyes lowered, trying harder, breath hitching with each clumsy push.
Henri saw it all. The shame, the effort, Marc’s unrelenting gaze pinning him down. He shouldn’t interfere. He knew Marc wanted the struggle, wanted the faltering. But Henri’s hand still slid around him, curling around David’s cock.
He stroked him firmly, slow at first, then matching the uneven roll of his hips. A clear, deliberate act, done in full view of Marc.
David gasped, the sound raw, his cock twitching in Henri’s hand. It stiffened again under the steady touch, his breath catching less from strain now and more from the arousal creeping back. His body shuddered, but leaned into Henri’s chest, clinging to the one point of steadiness offered.
“Don’t worry,” Henri whispered, low enough for only him. “You’re doing fine. You’re perfect.”
David shuddered, his cock jerking in Henri’s fist, breath quickening with need rather than effort. His weight settled more fully against Henri’s thighs and chest.
Henri’s chest ached. He wanted to tell him to stop fighting for rhythm, to let go, to let Henri carry him, guide him. But Marc wanted the opposite. Marc wanted the flailing, the humiliation.
David rocked again, his cock throbbed against Henri’s fist, hardening as Henri stroked.
Then he stilled, chest heaving.
Marc’s sigh cut the air, sharp and theatrical.
Henri didn’t wait for the next order. He slid his arms beneath David’s legs and lifted him.
David gasped, hands clutching at Henri’s forearms as his knees hooked over the crook of Henri’s bent arms. His back pressed into Henri’s chest, his body opened, every vulnerable part on display.
Henri braced his feet wide on the cabin floor, adjusted his grip, and drove up into him.
David cried out. The sound cracked high, breathless, when Henri didn’t stop. Thrusting again, harder. His weight pressed fully back into Henri’s chest, legs trembling where they draped over his arms. Henri tightened his hold, keeping him steady, refusing to let them collapse.
Marc made a low, satisfied noise. Henri didn’t look. Couldn’t.
He kept moving.
He drove up into David with brutal rhythm.
Not because he wanted to. Though God, he did.
Every squeeze of David’s body, every helpless cry seared through him.
But because Marc demanded the performance.
Violent. Possessive. And Henri hated how easily his body obeyed.
Hated how instinctively it fell into Marc’s rhythm.
He despised this.
Despised how good it felt.
And still he couldn’t stop.
Heat coiled low in his spine. His arms strained from the effort of holding David aloft, legs hooked over his forearms, back pressed tight to his chest. Pressure twisted in his gut, tightening with every clench around him.
Henri shifted one arm lower, taking more of David’s weight so the other could close around his cock. He stroked him hard, matching the merciless pace of his hips.
David shattered. A sobbing moan tore from his throat. His spine arched, head falling back against Henri’s shoulder as his body convulsed. He came in broken bursts, shuddering, spilling hot across Henri’s hand.
That was all it took.
Henri groaned, breath caught in his throat. His body locked, then snapped forward in one final thrust. He buried himself deep, grinding up into David as he came, teeth clenched against the sound he couldn’t hold back.
Silence crashed down.
Henri held him there, still trembling, still straddled. He pressed his face into David’s shoulder and stole a single breath, one heartbeat to pretend it had ended on his terms.
He didn’t see Marc move.
Not until it was too late.
A hand clamped onto David’s arm and yanked. Hard, furious. The boy hit the carpet with a soft grunt, too stunned to cry out, curling against the base of the couch.
Henri reached for him, instinctive, but Marc was already on him.
Fingers knotted in his hair, jerking his head back until his scalp burned.
“You think that was yours to take?” Marc hissed against his ear. “You think you come without permission now?”
Henri opened his mouth, but his legs were swept from under him before the words could form. He hit the floor hard, arms splaying, the breath torn out of his chest.
Marc didn’t pause. He tore Henri’s pants the rest of the way down, shredding the waistband, dragging his boxers with them.
“Face down.”
Henri obeyed, elbows braced against the floor, only for Marc’s palm to shove the back of his neck and slam him flat. His cheek pressed into the carpet, breath muffled against the fibers.
Marc angled him toward the couch. Toward David.
The boy had scurried back, pressed into the corner, knees hugged tight to his chest. His eyes were wide, red-rimmed, fixed on Henri.
Henri couldn’t bear it. His gaze dropped shut, shutting David out, shutting Marc out.
“Beg.”
His voice cracked before it even rose. “Please.”
Marc’s grip tightened in his hair, cruel.
“Please, Marc. Fuck me. I’m sorry. I should’ve waited. Please...”
He didn’t finish.
Marc didn’t prep him. Didn’t touch him with care.
Henri heard the slick snap of the lube cap, then Marc’s cock shoved inside him. Pressure. Pain. A brutal stretch that came too fast.
Henri bit into the carpet.
Marc fucked him as punishment. As correction. Each thrust drove him harder into the floor, his arms trembling, cheek grinding into the rough carpet, tears sliding hot and silent.
And then he left.
To London.
The click of a ceramic mug.
Laughter, soft in another room.
Sunlight spilling across a kitchen table.
To warmth.
To Michael.