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Edward took himself of to the dressing room and rushed through the necessary ablutions, then hurried back, retucking his shirt.

“Don’t bother with that,” said Peaches.

“What?”

“Get your togs off, Teddy. I think Jean should get to look at what he’s buying.”

He put his shoulders back.

“We’re all waiting, Valance.”

Jean settled back on the bed, clearly intent on the show.

Peaches blinked, slowly. 

Edward divested himself of boots, jacket and waistcoat, then unbuttoned his britches. He was hard enough to break through a door, and hadn’t troubled himself to wear small things so, as he opened his flap, his prick emerged, twitching, caught up in the thin, white fabric of his shirt. The other two watched, fully clothed and hungry, lounging back on the bed like the citizens of Rome at the circus.

Careful. It would help no-one for his mind to go sweeping along that particular imaginative pathway. It was hard enough to remember, exposing himself like this, that two of his truest friends in the world were watching him, not the beady eyes of bastard prefects, eager for some tearful distraction. 

He wanted Peaches’ hands on him. Wanted Dickie’s hands on him, pushing him down on to the bed, or the floor or anything, wanted to slip away in to that space where he did not need to be anyone, just flesh, kneaded and tormented by someone else’s will. 

Oh, God, yes. 

He stumbled out of his britches and his stockings, face hot, eyes burning with the knowledge of being watched. Then, almost shy, he slipped out of his shirt. Trust Peaches to make it raw, to make it fresh and dangerous again.

“What do you think?” she grinned, “Translate.”

“Peach wants to know what you think,” Edward said.

Jean looked him up and down, “Very good,” he said, in French. 

Peaches raised her eyebrows.

“He likes it.”

“It,” said Peaches, “yeah. How do you feel about being an ‘it’, tonight, Teddy?”

“What?”

“No. I changed my mind, I don’t want to know. You don’t get to talk. You get to shut your trap and do what you’re told. On your knees.”

For a second, he hesitated.

Peaches raised the riding crop, and smiled. “One,” she said.

He dropped.

“This is how you play?” asked Jean.

“Well?” asked Peaches.

“I thought I didn’t get to talk.”

“Two,” said Peaches, “and you don’t. Not on your own account. But you tell me what he says.”

“I’m sure you can work it out.” 

“Three,” said Peaches, “and four for wasting my time.” She had it down to an art, that dangerous quietness. “I’m waiting, Valance.”

“Jean wants to know if this is how we play.”

“Does he now? Well, you tell him that we play the way that I want us to play. No. Wait. Tell him that and tell him that I’m sorry it’s taken so long to get him an answer, it’s just that my toy is giving me lip. But don’t worry. I’ll give it a good thrashing, if monsieur will hold it down.”

Edward let out a little gasp of breath. “I’m not...”

“Five. You’ll say what you’re told you to say.” She ran the riding crop across her lips, light, breathing in the leather of it. “Won’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Six.”

No talking. Of course.

“Peach says,” he began, as his cock flickered at the thought of it, and he stumbled through the pidgin French, “um, that we play the way that sh- that he wants us to play and that he’s...”

He felt Jean staring at him, amused, felt Peaches’ gaze burn in to him.

“He’s sorry this has taken so long, but that,” and there it was, the old urge to dodge about the question. He breathed through the panic and the shame. “That his plaything has been trying his patience, but that…” He flashed a glance at Peaches, who was watching him, expectant, and clearly understanding every word. “That he’ll give me a thrashing, if you’re prepared to hold me down.”

“Naturally,” said Jean, “I think I should like that.” A pause, and he steepled his fingers, placing them against his lips, as though contemplating some matter of great import. “Although, tell, me, is that before or after I get to fuck that arse of yours?” Another pause. “Please, do translate that, Edward.”

Good God. Two of them. “Jean wants to know if we’re thrashing me before or after he gets to fuck me.”

“That’s not exactly what he said now, was it?” said Peaches. “So, that’s seven, isn’t it?”

He closed his eyes. “He specifically said, ‘fuck my arse,’ alright? Oh, and that he quite likes the idea.”

“Eight. Hopeless, Valance.” said Peaches. “And I think we’ll go for before, don’t you?”

“Before,” said Edward, in French, to Jean.

“Nine,” said Peaches. “I didn’t tell you to translate that. Now, get over here. Without standing up.”

He began to shuffle along on his knees.

“I think he would look better crawling,” said Jean.

Peaches nodded agreement, but insisted, “Translate.”

“He thinks I’d look better crawling.”

“Hands and knees, then.”

Edward let his palms meet the ground and came toward them.

“I am astonished, Edward,” said Jean. “You even manage to turn that in to a swagger.”

“He does, don’t he?” said Peaches, because of course the bitch could understand French perfectly well. He’d suspected it all evening. 

“Should we make it a round ten for that?”

“A good idea,” said Jean.

You’re both – Edward thought, but remembered in time not to speak. 

“Was that a protest, Teddy?”

Edward shook his head.

“Good. Now, ask your friend how he thinks you should take your licks.”

“Peach wants to know how you think I should be beaten.”

“So many choices,” said Jean, “but I think we should have you on the floor there, with your knees together and your ankles apart. Forehead on the ground.”

Ouch.
 
“Does Monsieur Peach agree?”

Edward passed the message along, and Peaches grinned. “I think I can work with that.” She slid off the bed, her legs long and elegant. “Get to it, Teddy.”