Chapter 4 #4
I slide out with a final, reluctant thrust, and Hessou moves into the space I’ve left. He strokes himself once, then guides himself in slowly, and I watch, captivated, as Jean’s jaw drops in an overwhelmed cry.
I step to Jean’s front, hands on his flushed cheeks.
“You’re doing so well,” I say, kissing the corner of his lips.
He turns into the kiss, moaning directly into my mouth as Hessou begins to move.
“F-feels so… it’s so good… hnnnn… ah!” he pants, words breaking.
I hold his face and kiss him again, swallowing every noise.
Behind him, Hessou is murmuring too. Praise. Filthy, elegant things. His hands roam Jean’s hips, his belly, his sides. He’s tasting with his whole body.
Jean is a mess.
There’s no dignity left in him, and that’s something beautiful to see. His face is a slick mess of sweat and spit, his eyes red-rimmed and leaking. Every time Hessou fills him, a loud, broken moan tears from his throat, mixed with little fragments of yes and please and God, all tangled together.
I stay with one hand cradling his jaw, the other wrapped gently around his cock where it’s trapped in the pastry bag. It jumps with every thrust Hessou delivers, and Jean sobs out a moan when I give it a squeeze.
“You’re almost there,” I whisper, stroking his cheek with my thumb.
Hessou hums against Jean’s skin, then licks a stripe up his neck and bites down hard enough to wring a scream from Jean’s throat.
“You’re perfect,” Hessou murmurs into his ear. “You will remember this every time you touch yourself. That it took two of us to fuck you open.”
Jean groans and nods against my palm. He tries to speak, but the words die in his throat, his hips pushing back helplessly against Hessou’s cock, trying to keep him deeper.
I kiss him again, letting him moan into my mouth.
“Doing so well, mon amour.”
Hessou’s rhythm changes. It becomes something deeper, somehow. More brutal. There’s a new sound now, thicker and wetter, and Jean cries out. His leg buckle, and I catch him by the shoulders, holding him upright while Hessou fucks him through the tremors.
“Please, please… I c-can’t… fuck, please…”
I reach under the bag and cup his balls, which aren’t as heavy as before, rolling them slowly in my palm.
His whole body contracts.
Jean comes with a strangled sob, his body curling into mine. It’s more than before, impossibly more. He screams as it pours out of him, jerking with each spasm.
“There,” I murmur, thrilled. “That’s it. All of it.”
Behind him, Hessou groans.
He’s still buried inside Jean, watching me collect every drop. His hands hold Jean open, spreading him just slightly, letting the mess drip, drip, drip.
Jean twitches, cock probably so hypersensitive, his face buried in my shoulder.
I untie the plastic bag and check its contents. It’s so much. I know he came multiple times, but is it even possible? I poke inside, letting my fingers feel the consistency and the warmth, licking them clean one after the other, sighing at the flavor.
Jean moans again, softer now, looking dazed and aching, but not protesting when I gently milk the last spurts out with my fingers. I think he wants to be emptied.
Hessou finally pulls out, his cock ridiculously hard.
“Fuck,” he mutters, stroking himself. “He feels amazing.”
“I know.”
Jean slumps over the counter, and I cradle his head, kissing his forehead as he murmurs something lost to exhaustion.
“You were perfect,” I say.
Hessou comes up beside me, hand still lazily stroking himself.
We stand shoulder to shoulder, bare skin sticky and flushed, sweat drying over muscle. Jean is half-asleep against the counter now, hair damp, cheeks burning, body open and limp, still twitching faintly when touched.
Hessou’s hand finds mine. His cock is heavy and full, same as mine, both of us pulsing with the need that’s been building through all of it. The bowl waits on the counter—warm, glazed with Jean’s first offering.
Hessou leans in, nose brushing my cheek.
“Together?”
I nod.
We press together, hips aligned, our hands wrapping around both cocks—his darker shaft beside my own, both slick and hot.
Hessou kisses me, mouth open and tasting of berries and pure want, the slick sound of our hands moving together filling the kitchen.
It’s filthy, shameless, and something only we would see as art.
I whimper into his mouth as I come, pulsing into the bowl, painting over the mess Jean left behind. Hessou follows instantly, groaning into my neck, his cock twitching beside mine as he adds his own.
When we’re finished, we keep holding each other. Breathing. Kissing lazily, mouths damp.
Hessou chuckles low against my jaw.
“God, I missed this filthy mind of yours.”
“I missed yours too.”
I dip my fingers in the bowl, swirling it all together—thick, warm and sinfully glistening. I bring them to my lips and suck, eyes fluttering shut.
The taste hits the back of my throat like a revelation.
Sweet and salty. Heavy and floral. Human and beyond human. I can taste Hessou’s aftersmoke, the creamy weight of Jean, the bright note of myself. Alchemy.
My knees almost buckle.
That’s it.
The taste I’d been looking for all along.