Chapter 10 #2
He moves behind me. Cold hands on my hips. I feel him line up: upper cock at my entrance, lower cock pressed flat and heavy against my lower belly from outside. I grip the headboard.
"Too big," I say. Smaller than I want it to.
"You'll take it," he says.
He presses in.
An inch. Another. The upper cock—thick, curved, cold—and I exhale through my teeth and grip harder and my body opens around him and the vibration starts at base frequency and I gasp.
The lower cock presses hard against my abdomen with every forward thrust. Outside.
Inside. Both at once. My body has no framework for this and doesn't need one.
"There," he says.
He starts to move.
Deep strokes. The upper cock pulling almost all the way out and pressing back in. The lower dragging against my belly on every thrust. My hips roll back to meet him before I decide to—greedy and undignified and past caring—and he makes a sound above me that is nothing like patience.
I am crying out with every thrust. Just the sounds, happening on their own. My thighs soaked. The vibration constant inside me. Thinking is not available.
The orgasm crests.
"Please—"
He pulls out.
I moan. Involuntary and wretched and my hips press back looking for him and find nothing. The absence is enormous.
His hands shift my hips. Deliberate. Repositioning with the calm of someone who has known how this ends for six months. I feel the angle change: the lower cock, thick and straight, now pressed to my entrance. The upper cock above, curved, pressing from behind against my arse.
I understand what he is doing.
"Wait. I can't—"
"You will," he says.
He pushes the lower cock in.
Thick. No curve. Blunt fullness pressing into my cunt inch by inch and my mouth falls open and no sound comes out. I feel every bit of it in my stomach. The upper cock finds my arse and presses, cold and patient.
I try to reach back. He pins my wrist.
"Breathe."
I breathe. He works the upper cock in—slow—and the wall between them is impossibly thin and the stretch of both together is enormous and real and I make a sound that is not a word.
Full.
Both of them. Both places. The wall between them pressing them together from the inside. I am shaking and gripping the headboard and the sounds I am making are small and broken and continuous and the shame of them is real and present and does nothing at all.
"Too much—"
He starts to move and makes me wrong immediately.
Hard. The lower cock driving deep into my cunt, the upper cock in my arse, different rhythms, and the vibration starts—both of them at different frequencies—lower running deep in my cunt, higher in my arse—and it goes past sensation into something total and wordless.
I fall forward.
Arms give out. Down to my elbows. He follows without breaking rhythm—dark brown skin against mine, his silver braid falling forward over his shoulder—hips driving forward and I am gasping with every thrust and the gasps are cries and I can't hold my weight.
Flat against the bed. He comes down over me and keeps going and I can do nothing but grip the sheets.
Thrust.
The air goes out of me.
Thrust.
I cry out. Muffled against the pillow.
Please.
I don't know what I'm asking for.
Please please please —
Both cocks. Every thrust. The vibration. The dual fullness with every stroke pressing deeper and my clit grinding against the sheets and I can't. I can't.
I come.
Hard and sudden, clenching around both cocks at once, and the vibration makes it worse and longer and I am sobbing into the pillow and shaking and he does not stop, he keeps the rhythm, through the clenching and the shaking and the sounds I can't stop making, and the orgasm keeps going, prolonged by the vibration and the fullness and the weight of him over me, until I lose the shape of it entirely.
He slows. Not to gentle—just to deep. Long strokes. Both cocks full inside me on every thrust.
His hand finds my throat from behind. Cold. Just present, against my pulse.
"Mine," he says. Not asking.
"Yours." Before I decide to.
"Again."
"Yours." My voice is nothing. "I'm yours, please—"
The bond cracks open.
Not a metaphor. A physical thing—a window thrown wide—and through it comes his pleasure, distinct from mine.
The deep pleasure of a male who has waited six months and is here and is not as controlled as he looks.
Not even close. It hits my chest like a wave and I gasp and he groans above me, quiet and real, and the claiming marks land.
Silver-cold. My throat. My collarbone. My shoulders. The mist-marks of his court settling into my skin like something being written for the first time, though I have the strange feeling it was always going to be written there. I feel each one. I feel his breathing change.
The knots swell.
Both of them. The lower cock knotting in my cunt—shifting, filling, pressing outward—and the upper knotting in my arse simultaneously.
Both at once. Both places. I cannot move.
I don't want to. Every small shift makes them press into me differently and I whimper with each one and I am past shame, somewhere past the last of it.
"There," he says. His voice is not entirely steady. First time in thirty-seven days. I put that somewhere safe.
"I can feel them." Barely sound. "Both—"
"Yes."
I can't finish the sentence. The knots shift like fog, filling every space, and the fullness goes past full into something that doesn't have a word.
"There," he says. His voice is not entirely steady. The first time in thirty-seven days it has not been entirely steady. I put that somewhere safe.
"I can feel them," I say. Barely sound. "Both of them—"
"Yes."
"They're so—" I can't finish it. The knots shift like fog, filling every space, and the fullness goes past full into something I don't have a word for.
The release comes.
Court magic first—cool silver flooding through both cocks at once, filling me from both sides simultaneously, and the cold of it inside me makes me cry out.
Then the second wave, the seed—hot and distinct, following behind and filling the spaces the silver left—and the sensation of being filled from both sides in two separate waves makes my whole body shudder.
He groans above me, louder than before, and I feel his hands shake slightly where they grip my hips.
He is not as controlled as he looks.
I hold that. I put it somewhere next to my name and his, the only things I still have.
He wraps around me.
Cold everywhere, the claiming marks burning soft on my throat, the knots holding me full and still, and his arms come around me and he pulls me against his chest and I go.
My face against his throat. His heartbeat slower than mine.
The bond between us humming warm and silver in the space where the wall used to be.
I came here as a spy.
"Yours," I say, into his throat. I mean it completely. I am aware of the professional catastrophe of meaning it completely and I mean it anyway, and the shame of that is different from all the other shame tonight—quieter and deeper and not something I can think my way out of.
"I know," he says. His hand moves to my hair.
I close my eyes and let the knots hold me and sleep.