Content notes can be found here

Edward knelt on the floor, legs splayed and vulnerable. The carpet was rough against his forehead, his prick hanging down. He felt his nipples contract, his feet arch themselves in expectation. 

“Now,” said Jean, who was clearly another of the devils who had pushed Edward’s life along its current path, “if I simply do this…” There was the sharp pressure of square heels cutting in to Edward’s back and neck, “I doubt my friend will be able to move. I thank you for the Monsieur Peach, and charming it is too.” 

On instinct, Edward struggled, but powerful legs pushed him downwards. 

“Keep your arse up, Valance,” said Peaches, “I want a clear aim.”

Edward’s thighs trembled and he fought the ridiculous urge to fight. If he did, she would no doubt think of something to do to punish him for it. 

As it was, she ran the cold tang of the crop along his back, starting from where the toe of Jean’s boot rested, then along his spine, between his buttocks, as she swaggered around to stand behind him. Edward’s breath caught in his throat, and he bit his lips to stop himself from moaning. His arse was high, bare and exposed. He heard her level herself, test the crop against her hand. 

“No, this is good,” she said. “I think I’m looking forward to this.” 

Gentle, she laid the clapper against his skin, taking aim. “You can scream if you want to,” she said. “No-one’ll think less of you.” 

But before she had said the last word, the crop cracked against his bare flesh with stunning force. Edward clamped his jaw shut, tasting blood, feeling his skin startle in to agony.

That had broken skin, that must have broken skin. 

One, he thought from schoolboy habit, but before he really had time to register it, before he could steel himself, the crop came down again, again, again. 

Good God, he really was going to cry out if she didn’t slow it down, if she didn’t... 

No. Edward’s hands clenched to fists as the onslaught flew on. Every flinch pressed his back in to sharp boot heels, sent him back down to his awful crouch. Surely she was stripping the skin from his legs, surely she wasn’t aiming carefully enough, surely...

Oh, God. He was too drunk for this, he was...

It stopped. 

Slowly, Edward opened his eyes, let out the breath he had not intended to hold. That never helped with the pain, and he should know it by now. Nearly, very nearly, he sank down to the ground, nearly he relaxed, but no – that was against the rules, wasn’t it? They didn’t like it when you did that.

“You can let it up now,” she said, and her voice came from a long way distant, but the pressure on his shoulders stopped, and there were feet in shining, buckled shoes on either side of his head. “I think our guest would like his prick sucked.”

He was shivering, his whole skin slicked with sweat and given over to goose-pimples. As he came up to his knees, his torn skin screamed out as it chafed across the wet flesh of his thighs. Edward tried to keep his head bowed, but a firm, dry hand beneath his chin pushed his head back. He stared in to a benevolent, distinguished face. 

“So this is what you are like,” the man said, wondering, tender. He wanted to fall on the kindness of that voice as though it was a sword. “And I thought you a gentleman.”

And then there were buttons being undone, and there was a cock, half stiff, being moved out of the man’s britches, and Edward’s mouth was being pushed down on to it. 

This, now this, he could do. He could put his entire self in to it. He covered his teeth with his lips and gently, gently bit the still yielding flesh of it, felt it quicken to his touch, and ran his tongue along the shaft, concentrating on pressure, on the way the skin was suede soft to his caress, the way that the thing swelled and thickened in his mouth as he moved up and down, bringing his lips closer, closer, to the fabric of the man’s britches, the dark tangle of his pubic hair.

A hand kneaded the back of his neck, holding him down, and Edward pressed back against it, giving the slightest hint of a struggle, even as his whole world shrank down to the motion of his mouth running around and along and over this prick. He ran his hands along wiry thighs, cupping bollocks in his hand, massaging. A groan fell down to him, making him press hard, push more of the length in to his mouth, and then pull back, licking across and around the head, back again, and once more, teasing with a gentle scrape of teeth and...

Hard fingers pinched his ears, twisting, and at that, he was water once again, liquid and without form. 

“That’s enough of that,” said Peaches’ voice. “I thought we was going to see you fucked tonight.”

There was spit on Edward’s lips, and on his fingers, on his chin. Below him Jean’s cock twitched. 

Edward moaned.

“That’s it,” she said, “tell your friend he can bugger you now, if he still wants to.”

“I,” said Edward, “Peach says that you can... you can bugger me now. If that’s what you want.”

Jean pinched Edward’s lower lip between a finger and a thumb and tilted his head up so that Edward was falling in to dark, dark grey eyes. “Yes,” he said.

“Kneel up on the bed,” Peaches said to him, “with your hands behind your back. I want you to keep ‘em there.”

He obeyed. As he moved in to place, she came round in front of him, and took his prick in her hand, careless with her nails, scratching. 

He cried out, not able to help it.

“I suspect he’s already open for you,” she told Jean. “He’s a bit of a slut.”

Again, Edward moaned, and she closed her fist upon his prick, pressing hard. 

“Calm down, you. I don’t want you to spend yet.”

It felt as though he’d come at a touch. 

“Do I-” asked Jean.

“Lean forward,” she commanded, and Edward bent at the waist, still feeling her hand upon his prick, the slow massaging pace of it. Again, he gnawed his lips, “make yourself easy for the gentleman.”

The sound of Jean spitting, the feeling of a wet finger pressing against his arse-hole. Edward gasped as something with rough nails pressed in to him, opening him up. 

But he had been here, had been through so much more than this, so it was easy to relax, to let his body yield. 

“Ah,” said Jean as he finger slipped inside, first one, then another. He pulled them out, slow, slow, and Edward felt the head of a prick press against his arse, pushing, urgent.

Fuck. He was dry. This was going to hurt.

Don’t tense. Don’t struggle, don’t... 

But Peaches’ lips were on his own and he was being kissed, and she swallowed the cry he made as Jean thrust inside him, the burning of his skin, and then that deep and unmistakable sense of being filled, of being taken, of being wiped away. 

He made a sound that was not a word or a plea or a moan, heard Jean’s gasps behind him as he pushed deeper, deeper, grasping Edward’s hips until he pressed sharp against the burning welts the crop had left. 

Peaches’ hands were busy at her own buttons, her hand slipping down to stroke her own quim, which he knew would be hot and wet at seeing him used and hurt like this, and Edward wanted nothing more than to bury his face in to it, than the worship her whilst she watched this, while she watched him thrown down on the bed and used, like an animal, like an object, like...

“I want you to hold him upright,” she said to Jean, slow and clear, “but do it so it hurts.”

“Ah,” said Jean. For a moment, the hands were taken from Edward’s hips, and there was the sense of shifting cloth, and then something soft but unyielding was slipped around his throat, “you mean like this?” 

Jean pulled whatever-it-was backwards, and Edward had no choice but to be hauled to kneeling upright, hauled back ruthlessly on to Jean’s prick, because it was that or choke. He tried to struggle, to pull away, but the thing around his throat only pressed tighter, just below the point of pain. 

No. It was pain, but pain from the arch in his back, and the soreness in his thighs, and he loved it. He fell in to it, as Jean fucked him harder, harder.

“That’s it,” said Peaches, “that’s just lovely. Now,” and she wriggled down close to him, out of her tight britches, “I want that prick of yours. Uh-uh. Keep your hands behind your back.”

Edward whimpered, trapped between them as she slid herself on to him, rubbing the head of his cock between the lips of her cunt, letting him feel the way that she was wild and sweet and swollen for it. She barely fucked him, just letting him move back and forth, letting him in a touch, just a touch, and every time he lurched forward to her the thing around his neck pulled him back.

He was beyond frustration, beyond language, just moaning now, just letting them have their way with him. When she spent, he cried aloud and was rewarded with a vicious stab of cock deep inside him, a yank on his neck that made him choke and nearly fall backwards. 

“Oh, God,” he said, when he could breathe again, “Oh please.”

“You speaking, boy?” said Peaches, circling her hips, forgetting to make her voice husky and deep and male, “Are you talking?”

Oh God, oh God. 

“For that, you don’t get to spend,” and she pulled herself on to him completely, shoving him backwards and down, and he nearly bit through his cheeks trying to stop himself, his body shaking wild with it. 

Jean groaned, gone far now, his hand clasping on to Edward’s chest, pulling him back with every breath, away from the sweetness of Peaches’ cunt, and with the rope, or whatever-it-was, about his throat. 

“Is that not unkind to the boy?”

“That’s how he likes me,” she said, and pressed herself against him, crushing him between them, kissing his gasping lips and reaching around them both to grasp Jean around the waist, which made the older man lose control. 

With a few swift strokes, he was done.

As Jean pulled back and away, Edward whimpered, broken, reaching after Peaches, who pulled away too.

 “If it wants to finish off,” she said, “it can do on his knees, on the floor.”

Edward stumbled off the bed, bruising his shins and nearly screaming out at the way his arse and thighs scraped on the bed, new bruises and contusions ringing through him. He’d scarcely got his cock in his hand before, shamed and ruined, he was coming, and staring up with dazed eyes into Peaches’ scornful, possessive face.

“Oh God,” he said again, and fell forward, smearing his jism all over his arms, his face, his thighs. 

And, for a moment he lay there, abject, broken, destroyed. 

Then, there was a warm hand on his back, rubbing his neck, a kiss laid on his cheek. 

Then, there was Peaches’ voice, coming from a long way away, “That’s it, Valance. Well done. Let’s get you back on the bed.”

And another arm, wiry and strong, was lifting him, and another voice was saying, “There, Edward, there.” and he was being wiped clean with a handkerchief of fine, white linen that was scented with Briton lavender, and the touch of it was so damnably tender that he started to cry, shaking ugly tears, and wanted to fall down in to the floor and never be seen again.

“Shhh,” said Peaches voice. “There’s my Teddy. My beautiful boy,” and he was lying against her arms and her bound breasts, and her fingers were in his hair.

Then there was Jean, curled up against him from behind, whispering away in his scramble of English and Latin and French, “Ah, Edward, my sweet boy, my friend, you are so very lovely when you weep.” 

And soon, very soon, the three of them were fast asleep.