As the revelries that involved a wild hoard of rabid musketeers giving a royal thrashing to Gerard and his brothers drew to an end, Porthos gave d’Artagnan a companionable slap on the behind and declared:
“I suppose now that young d’Artagnan has gotten his feet wet we should give him a proper Musketeer welcome.”
While a little distracted by the slap to his behind, d’Artagnan couldn’t help but feel a rush of excitement at Porthos’ suggestion. Finally, after all his journeying, he had reached that point that he had always dreamed of; the honor and glory of the Musketeers.
“Shall we to a tavern?” Aramis suggested.
“Well,” Porthos said, thoughtfully eyeing his other two comrades in arms, “that wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.”
As long time companions, it was common for the three of them to understand things that went unsaid - an arch of Aramis’ well shaped eyebrow, a quirk at the corner of Athos’ normally serious mouth. And so the hint of a suggestion in Porthos’ words was immediately understood.
“Perhaps my own residence would be a better choice for our revelry,” Athos suggested.
“Ah yes,” Porthos cordially concurred. “The house of Athos is far more suitable for the kind of celebration I had in mind.”
Aramis demonstrated his accord by another barely perceptible shift of the eye brow. Only d’Artagnan remained genuinely nonplussed by the entire exchange, and followed his friends like an obedient dog.
The house of Athos was indeed the best locale in which to spend the remainder of their night; Athos’ silent servant met them at the door and made haste with bringing wine aplenty.
“D’ArTANgnan,” Athos said, cheerfully tossing a bottle to his young friend, “You are now almost a man. The only thing that remains is what Porthos was alluding to, earlier.”
“Almost a man?” d’Artagnan looked at all of them, aghast. “Haven’t I proven myself nobly on the field of battle? I’ve won my rightful place beside you, protecting the king.”
“Yes, yes,” Aramis confirmed, “You won the day, and you got the girl. However....”
“However,” Porthos interrupted, leaning into d’Artagnan’s ear, “there is one more, ancient Pirate tradition that begs fulfilling before you can truly become a true servant to the king, God and country.”
“Perhaps he isn’t ready for it,” Athos suggested as he uncorked a bottle of wine, taking a sip. “He is, after all, not quite yet a man.”
This was all too much. Would they really continue to insult his honor with such words? “I am ready for anything that a Musketeer needs be ready for,” d’Artagnan shot back, hesitating only a moment before continuing, “... whatever that may be.” Then taking a gulp of the proffered wine, he added, “What the hell are you guys talking about, anyways?”
“In order to truly be a Musketeer,” Aramis began to explain, as calm and factual as if he was explaining a passage of scripture, “One must completely understand our creed. One must experience it fully, embrace it completely into his being. One for all. All for one.”
“Uh huh,” d’Artagnan mumbled, non-committally.
“You see, young d’ArTANgnan,” Porthos interjected again, “As truly as the sun rises in the West...”
“East,” Aramis corrected.
“East,” Porthos went on, undeterred, “So true is this creed, and so true is the way which we are about to impart upon you. This tradition, passed down to me from the great Blackbeard himself...”
“Strip.” Athos said simply, interrupting the both of them.
d’Artagnan stared at him. “Strip?”
“You heard me the first time, boy. Clothes. Off. Now.”
“Nakedness is truly next to godliness,” Aramis agreed.
“Are you going to spank me again?” d’Artagnan asked, the question directed towards Athos, as his eyes got wider.
“Ok,” said Porthos, holding one of his hands up in a halt, “What is he talking about?”
“See? I told you he wasn’t man enough,” Athos shrugged.
“I am too!” d’Artagnan started to pull off his tabard, taking care to fold it carefully and set it aside before starting to unlace his shirt. “I’m just trying to figure out what the hell is going on here.”
“In a word?” Aramis offered. “Bukkake.”
“Kakke,” Aramis repeated, calmly. “Something in which we shall school you.”
“Er...” d’Artagnan started again.
“On your knees, boy,” Athos commanded.
“On Blackbeard’s ship this was a right of passage,” Porthos said, patting d’Artagnan’s shoulder to encourage him down to his knees. “The entire crew would step forward to perform the rite. Perhaps once you have proven yourself more we will allow you the honor of the same from the rest of the Musketeers. But for now, as we are friends, we will share this moment with you, d’Artagnan.”
“For nothing is more noble than for a man to sacrifice himself for a friend,” Aramis noted in agreement. “The ancient Greeks called it Agape.”
“Not wine,” Athos corrected with a growl. “Love, you fool. Love that you will come to understand as far more important than that of any pretty lady of the court.”
“I hate to point this out,” Aramis chimed in, “But why is he still wearing his shirt?”
Athos gave a low, slightly exasperated sigh, stepping forward to grab the bottom of d’Artagnan’s shirt and draw it off over his head, tugging it slightly as the boy’s mass of curls impeded its progress. “Follow instructions, boy. I won’t ask you again.”
“I’m sorry, Athos,” the young lad stammered. “I will do whatever you wish. Whatever this... bu.... is that you want of me.”
“Impressive,” noted Porthos, watching the exchange. “Perhaps there is hope for the lad yet.” Porthos stretched out his tired muscles and unbuttoned his pants. Exchanging a knowing look, Athos and Aramis followed suit.
“Pay attention, young one,” Aramis said, reaching to curl his fingers around the cock of Athos. He began to stroke slowly, coaxing the organ to full hardness. “This is the understanding that true friends have. This is what you truly must learn. In closeness comes unity, in unity comes strength. This is the very core of the musketeers.”
“In strength comes come,” Porthos added, taking himself in hand.
“Woah,” d’Artagnan mumbled, shifting his eyes from one cock to another that have surrounded him like an unexpected siege. “Um...”
“Are you paying attention?” Athos asked, nonchalantly, as he did everything else.
d’Artagnan was forestalled by an involuntary movement of his hand, which shot out of its own accord towards the cock closest to him, which happened to be Aramis’.
“Woah, hey, hands off, buddy!”
“Look but don’t touch!”
“That’s gay!” Athos reached over instead to mirror Aramis’s movements, stroking his erection as Aramis continued to work his cock.
“Yes, don’t be gay, d’Artagnan,” Aramis admonished. He rocked into Athos’ touch a little. “You must keep in mind that this endeavor is a noble one, not to allow oneself to yield to the temptations of the flesh.”
“I still don’t understand,” d’Artagnan said a little helplessly, eyebrows knitting together as he looked between the three men around him. “And why am I in the middle?”
“Uh... well,” Porthos grunted, still stroking himself with a measure of concentration.
“Shut up,” Athos said. “This is about trust. It’s about surrendering one’s self and acquiring a new self through..,” he trailed off a bit, due to Aramis’ ministration. “Yes, just shut up.”
Even Aramis’ normally calm voice was a little laboured. “There is a great wisdom in knowing when to cease questioning and simply learn.”
“Exactly,” Porthos agreed, though his attention was more on his own cock than on d’Artagnan himself, the organ slick with arousal as he worked it a little faster.
Beginning to understand the aim of this lesson, d’Artagnan briefly considered protest. But he had, after all, promised to do whatever was asked of him. His very honor as a Musketeer was at stake. What if they had thought him a coward? What if he got cast out of the corps? To lose the respect of the men he had so hoped to become peers with was unthinkable!
“Good,” Athos murmured, watching d’Artagnan through narrowed eyes, voice low and throaty. He and Aramis seemed to be perfectly in tune with each other, as efficient in this as they were on the battlefield, mirroring each other’s actions effortlessly. “Perhaps there’s hope for you yet, boy.”
D’Artagnan was beginning to wonder whether this was how Rochefort had lost his eye, but he was terrified of opening his mouth, under the circumstances. Also, he did not wish to do anything further that might be construed as “gay.”
“Don’t worry,” Porthos said, breath laboured. “This is very good for the hair.”
“Hair?” The word was out of d’Artagnan’s mouth before he could stop himself. Unfortunately his chosen moment to speak was also the moment that Aramis’ ministrations attained success. Athos gave a low groan, rocking up into his fist, the result of his passion spurting hot and slick from his cock and onto d’Artagnan’s cheeks and parted lips.
“I win,” Athos declared.
“Fuck, you cheated!” Porthos shot back, increasing the speed of his own hand on his engorged member.
“Patience is a virtue,” Aramis disagreed, rocking up into Athos’ grasp.
Whether or not patience was a desirable quality was the last thing on d’Artagnan’s mind. “You came on my face!”
“And in your hair,” Porthos added with a long sigh of relief, jerking himself as he followed Athos’ lead, spurts of creamy jizz landing in d’Artagnan’s lush mop of curls.
“Ugh! You guys!” d’Artagnan flailed, helplessly.
“Aramis, for fuck’s sakes!” Porthos turned on the last man to finish. “What is it with you?”
“Tantra,” Athos explained, simply.
“Tantric sex has NO PLACE in bukkake!” Porthos insisted, forcefully.
“Right... here I go then....” Despite remarkable calm, Aramis’ eyes closed briefly in pleasure as he joined his friends, come painting streaks on d’Artagnan’s cheeks and forehead, matting his eyelashes.
After a long moment of kneeling blindly, d’Artagnan felt something soft pressed into his hands, delicate fabric with lace. Not quite caring what it was, he used it to wipe blindly at his face, removing the come from his eyelashes and cheeks. His hair, he feared, was a completely lost cause.
“Treasure that,” Porthos instructed, and d’Artagnan opened his eyes to see a very fine handkerchief in his hands, edged with delicate crocheted lace and embroidered with the initials ‘CBT’. “It was a gift from the Empress of Uruguay.”
Athos and Aramis, meanwhile, had returned to sit at the table, bottles of wine in hand.
“Is that it?” d’Artagnan asked cautiously, half afraid that there was more and half wishing he could do something about the erection that tented the front of his own trousers. He presumed that wasn’t part of the ritual.
“Have a drink,” Aramis said simply, passing him a bottle of wine.
Athos nodded, taking a swig. “After all, we have much to celebrate. You’re a Musketeer.”