“Do you remember that night in New Brunswick?”
Adams started at the sound of Franklin’s voice so close to his ear. He had come into the men’s room of the Marquis de Lafayette’s chateau in order to gain a few moments of peace – he realised that attending such parties was necessary for the smooth passage of diplomacy and his fledgling nation’s future, but had to admit he found them tiring. Especially after Franklin had got a few lines of snuff into him, put on his leather chaps and begun exhorting the other party guests to turn a hose onto him so that he could demonstrate his ‘theory of cooling’.
But now, he had been found.
Straightening, he turned to face Franklin. He could not help but notice the man’s shirt was already dripping wet.
“Of course I do,” he hissed. “There’s not a day goes by that I don’t regret it.”
Franklin raised a sceptical eyebrow. “Regret it, indeed?” he said. “You seemed to be quite enjoying yourself at the time. You certainly hopped into bed willingly enough.”
Adams scowled, pulling his face into his double chin. “You said you were going to explain your theory about the transmission of colds through perspiration and respiration.”
“And so I did!”
“I was not expecting such a… a practical demonstration,” Adams said. But even as he venomously spat out the words, he could not help but remember the feel of Franklin’s skin sliding against his own, or how he had clutched at the man’s tremendous rolls of fat as if trying to force him to go faster, faster…
As if that weren’t bad enough, the man had been right, and Adams had come down with a horrible cough not two days later.
“I was forgetting that you are not quite the man of science that I am,” Franklin said smugly. “You know that in science, practice is the only sure way to demonstrate a theory.” He smirked, his hair dripping water and bodily oil down his shirt front.
Adams drew himself up. “I may be just a simple man of words, but I know devilry when I see it, and you sir --”
“Oh ho!” Franklin interrupted him. “Devilry, you say! I think we could ask your friend Jefferson what you know about devilry, don’t you?”
Adams felt himself blushing scarlet. How did this man know about that? He and Jefferson had made an agreement that they would never talk about it, especially not here in France. The only other way that Franklin could possibly have known…
Hamilton! Adams cursed internally. That foreign-born whoreson must have betrayed them! But they had had an agreement!
Adams closed his eyes. Oh God! He admitted to himself that since arriving in Paris he had managed to put the sordid details of that evening almost completely from his mind. Hamilton was far away now; although Adams had no great opinion of his honesty, he did not believe that Hamilton would reveal anything while both he and Jefferson were in France. No, Hamilton would not do that unless he could watch them both squirm.
What a fool he had been! He should have known Hamilton would never have invited him and Jefferson to dinner unless he had had some ulterior motive. He should have known to refuse, or at least have become suspicious, when Hamilton kept filling and refilling their wine glasses. That was the problem with Hamilton – he could be charming when he wished it, and the man was a chameleon, all things to all people. When you were with Hamilton everything seemed possible, and before you knew it you were running stark naked through a British encampment, saying awful things about the meagre proportions of the King’s manly parts, and inviting them all to pleasure you orally.
The next day he’d bring you your coffee as if nothing had happened. Or so General Washington had told him.
Adams didn’t remember anything much after dinner the night he and Jefferson had visited Hamilton – all he remembered was waking up on the chaise longue in Hamilton’s living room with no clothes on, and the horrific realisation that he was not alone. Jefferson, his long arms and legs splayed in the manner of a giant ginger spider, lay beneath him.
Then Hamilton had pranced in (Adams had come to realise that this was his only mode of locomotion), showing him some disgusting caricatures that one of his odious friends in the press had apparently made the night before, of Adams and Jefferson enjoying a tryst on that very chaise longue. It was impossible for Adams to tell whether the pictures were true to life or if they were merely the horrible imaginings of Hamilton – though ordinarily he may have been able to hotly deny it, he had drunk so much wine that evening that he could well believe his long-simmering attraction to his red-haired friend had been given the impetus it needed to boil over. No doubt Hamilton would have merrily encouraged it, the spare Cassius!
He and Jefferson had never discussed that evening. He did not know what was in Jefferson’s heart. He dared not ask.
The only thing Adams knew was that Hamilton would have no compunction about revealing all if he even slightly detected an advantage to doing so. Adams had thought that, so far at least, he had escaped that.
“I see you know exactly what I’m talking about,” Franklin’s voice catapulted Adams back into the present. “Hamilton seems to have come by a very interesting treasure, a very interesting treasure indeed!”
“I had his word he would never disclose what occurred on that night,” Adams said. He did not add that this was conditional on both Adams and Jefferson writing to Hamilton every morning to tell him that he was by far the most beautiful member of the Continental army, and going into great detail about what they liked best about him.
Franklin smirked. “It seems that Hamilton, even when separated by an ocean from the Marquis de Lafayette, cannot help but share what titillates him.” Franklin dug into the fat folds of his stomach, pulling out a somewhat soiled piece of paper. He handed it to Adams.
Even though he knew what it was, Adams opened it. Yes – it was a copy of one of the pictures Hamilton had had made on that evening in his house. Even under these dreadful circumstances, Adams felt the stirring of blood in his loins as he looked down upon it, the only memories that now existed of his moments of unity with Jefferson. Oh, how he wished he could recall in his own mind the expression of ecstasy on his friend’s face as it was recorded here on this parchment!
Adams refolded the paper. “What is it that you want?” he asked, handing it back to Franklin, who tucked it back within his folds.
Franklin smiled. “Mr Adams, I admit that when I first saw these pictures, I was hurt. Here I was, thinking I was the only one to have sampled your delights! But now I see you have been sharing them freely.”
Adams looked at him. “Hardly,” he said drily.
Franklin waved a hand. It was a habit he had picked up in France. “No matter,” he said. His face suddenly grew serious, his eyes darkening with lust. “Do you know that I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you?” Franklin asked, his hands, surprisingly swift for a man of his size, darting out to grasp Adams’ wrists. “Every night since that inn in New Brunswick – never a single moment of rest! A thousand Parisian rent boys have paraded their wares through my bed, and yet it’s you – it’s you –!”
Franklin trailed off. Adams stared at him. What fresh hell was this?
Slowly, like the beginning of a fleshy avalanche, Franklin moved towards him until his lips were pressed against his. Adams stood stock still. His heart belonged to Jefferson, he told himself – but even as he reminded himself of this, he felt his stomach begin to flutter in response to Franklin’s kiss. Almost without his conscious will, his hands seemed to work their way free of Franklin’s grip, and plunge themselves into the depths of his dripping, greasy hair, pulling Franklin closer.
“Oh ho!” said Franklin, breaking the kiss. “Not so unwilling as it would seem!”
“Be quiet,” Adams growled in his curmudgeonly way, pulling Franklin’s face again towards his own, locking their lips together.
How their tongues warred against each other in those moments! It was as if Adams had taken the whole store of his grievances against circumstance, against Hamilton, and his frustrations with the French style of diplomacy and plunged it all into the depths of that kiss. Franklin raised his arms and began tearing off Adams’ jacket, pushing it over his broad shoulders, off his arms so that it fell to floor. He then began tugging at his cravat. Adams responded in kind, pulling Franklin’s still-moist shirt out of his breeches, lifting it over his head. But even as he felt his nether regions expanding, pressing into the softness of Franklin’s enormous gut, some small portion of his mind could not help but wish it was Jefferson with whom he was performing this artless dance of love.
Neither Franklin nor Adams heard the men’s room door open until it was too late.
“Oh, excuse me –” came the all-too-familiar voice from behind them.
“Jefferson!” Adams cried, jumping away from Franklin’s embrace.
Jefferson’s face had turned grey. “Adams!” he said. “You – but I thought – that night at Hamilton’s –”
Adams gasped. “Jefferson – do you still think of that night? Do you… do you regret it?” He was almost afraid to ask.
“Regret it?” Jefferson cried. “How could I regret it? How many times have I tried to tell you how I felt – how I yearned to repeat it when we were both lucid enough to remember such bliss!”
Adams gaped. “You tried to tell me? But how?”
Jefferson cast a hand to his forehead. “So many ways! I sent you letters with hairs plucked by my slaves from my personal region placed inside the envelope! I have mixed my bodily emissions into the ink with which I wrote it! I signed off the letters with ‘Yours jizzily’!”
Adams frowned slightly. “I thought that said ‘jauntily’.” He thought for a moment. “And I did wonder if you had been moulting.”
Jefferson let out a small cry of despair. “You see? You ignore my obvious signals of attraction – and now I find you rutting in a toilet with him!” He pointed an accusing finger at Franklin.
“No!” Adams said desperately. “Only because I thought you didn’t care for me and I thought we could never be! Only because I was so lonely in this strange country! Oh Jefferson, Jefferson!” he cried.
For a moment, all three men stood in silence, the air heavy with tension and misery.
“Gentlemen,” Franklin broke the silence. “It seems we have a love triangle. Tell me – have you been in France long enough to understand the meaning of the words ménage a trois?”
Jefferson sucked in a breath. “Indeed I have, my good sir,” he said. “However, as I understand it, it is only Adams and myself who have expressed mutual attraction – how do you fit into this equation?”
Franklin smiled serenely. “Quite simply, good sir. If I am not included, I will tell everyone what I have seen here this evening.”
Adams and Jefferson were silent. Even they, who would eventually be heralded as two of the greatest intellects in history, could see no way out of this predicament. Eventually, Adams spoke up.
“Jefferson, he has seen the pictures – the ones that were produced that evening that we shared on Hamilton’s chaise longue.”
At the sound of Hamilton’s name, Jefferson inhaled sharply. “That man!” he muttered, seemingly to himself. “I ask you, how can the devil take so fine a form?”
There was a moment of silence while Adams frowned slightly. “Yes, quite,” he eventually continued. “But I feel I must tell you: I have sampled Franklin’s passion one time before – long before the evening we shared at Hamilton’s! – and I did not find it wanting. Indeed, quite the opposite.”
At that, Jefferson seemed to look at Franklin in a new light. “Is this the case?” he said. “If this is true, then I suppose all I can do is submit to my fate!”
He moved towards Adams and Franklin, throwing off his blue velvet jacket and tossing away his powdered wig to reveal the red hair beneath. Franklin reached out an arm to draw Jefferson close, before pressing his mouth to Adams’, kissing him deeply as Jefferson worked feverishly at the buttons of Adams’ shirtfront.
Franklin turned unhurriedly and now kissed Jefferson, taking his time as he did so to work open his own breeches and dropping them to the floor, allowing his huge stomach, finally free of its satin prison, to sag out, covering his groin entirely. He kicked off his buckled shoes with a lightness of movement that did not seem possible for a man of such proportions, his vast buttocks jiggling merrily as he did so. Even Jefferson had to admit that the effect was quite hypnotic.
“Now then,” said Franklin, standing nakedly before them, arms akimbo, “Jefferson, let me see those Fantapants.”
Jefferson needed no further prompting. He pushed off his shoes and stockings and was just beginning to open his breeches, when Franklin reached out a hand to stop him. “No,” Franklin said. “Let him do it.” He pointed to Adams.
Adams immediately leapt into the fray, standing on tiptoes to reach Jefferson’s lips with his own, even as his hands worked at Jefferson’s breeches. He felt Franklin come up behind him and take up where Jefferson left off, pulling off his shirt and then reaching around his portly frame to work off his breeches.
Jefferson’s carroty hair spilled down his alabaster cheeks, which were now flushed from arousal, as Adams finally opened his breeches and let them drop to the floor. Jefferson stepped out of them gracefully, kicking them to rest with his shoes in the corner. All three men now stood naked; for a moment they stopped to admire Franklin’s mastodon-like proportions, Adams’ pert roundness, and Jefferson’s long, sinewy frame, and then they fell on each other like ravenous beggars falling on a feast.
All was lost in a blur of flesh and sweat: Adams could no longer tell whose hands were touching him where. Eventually he found himself lying on top of Jefferson, with Franklin at his rear. He began to slowly slide his way down Jefferson’s long body, kissing and touching as he went. He could feel droplets of grease on his back as Franklin grasped his hips and lathed his shoulder with his tongue; Adams slid down further still, until all he could see was Jefferson’s vast crop of gingery pubes as he leaned down to take his engorged member between his lips.
“Oh!” he heard Jefferson cry out as he began working at the stiff, throbbing meat with his tongue, pushing the creamy thighs apart as he did so. How long had he waited for this moment! He raised his eyes to look at Jefferson’s face, lost in an ocean of pleasure, as he sucked.
From behind him he felt Franklin’s belly press against his buttocks. Franklin was not content to merely watch – he reached around from behind Adams and grasped his hard muscle tightly, working it slowly at first, and then building pace to match the rhythm of Adams’ ministrations to Jefferson.
The anticipation of this evening was too great, however, and neither Jefferson nor Adams could hold out long against the respective onslaughts upon their organs. Jefferson came first, crying out loudly and shooting his salty load into Adams’ mouth. Adams swallowed eagerly, lapping at the excess that ran down Jefferson’s hard member, a moment before his own conclusion overtook him, covering Franklin’s hand with liquid warmth. Adams felt a spurt of heat against the backs of his thighs, informing him that Franklin too had enjoyed the spectacle. For a moment they lay together, one on top of the other, breathing deeply, satiated for the moment at least.
Franklin was the first to move – reaching into the pile of clothes he had discarded earlier, he pulled out a huge tub – the label identified it as beaver grease. He opened the lid and began to slather his hand in the substance.
Jefferson stirred from his position at the bottom of the pile. “What is that for?” his vast intellect required to know.
Franklin smiled. “My dear sir, I know you are unversed in this form of love. So you will simply take my word that this marvellous stuff will ease your passage – so to speak.”
With that, Franklin reached down beneath his belly and began applying the grease to himself – despite the fact that he was easily the eldest of the three, he had already recovered and it was clear that his rod was again hardening for another round.
Adams seemed to come back to life then, sitting up and reaching for the tub of beaver grease. “Ah, I remember this,” he said. “How much easier I walked the next day because of it!”
Jefferson, feeling a little abashed at his relative lack of experience, began to reach for the grease himself. Franklin pulled it away from him. “Ah, wait just a moment,” he said. “Turn around.”
Mutely, Jefferson did so. Franklin smiled to himself. How well this slave master did what he was told! Dipping his fingers into the grease, he reached down.
Jefferson gasped as he felt the slick digit slide inside him. At first it was just one, but then another joined it – then another. What was this? He barely had time to think about it before he felt the fingers crook upwards, and a wave of pleasure broke over him, turning his knees to jelly. He fell forward, bracing himself on his hands and knees as his back arched like a cat’s.
Adams thought he had never seen anything so lovely in his life as Jefferson swaying and gasping under the skilled workings of Franklin’s fingers. He let his own hand drift down to his once again hardening member, pulling at it slowly as he watched the spectacle before him. Finally Franklin withdrew his fingers from Jefferson and grasped his hips, preparing himself. He thrust forward without warning, burying himself within Jefferson’s depths. For a moment Jefferson’s mouth opened in what might have been pain, but then he moaned as Franklin moved within him, pressing hard against his prostate.
They remained like this for a few moments, Franklin making only small movements, mindful of Jefferson’s ass-virginity. Eventually, he could take it no more.
“Adams… please…” Franklin gasped out. “Quickly – your friend, he is so tight – I’m not sure how long I can last…”
Moving quickly, Adams took up position behind Franklin. He knew that Franklin was used enough to this style of love that he could simply enter him with his manly parts without first preparing him with his fingers – but all the same, he was careful to apply plenty of beaver grease before making his move.
Franklin sighed as Adams entered him. For a moment all three men paused, then they began thrusting, Franklin into Jefferson and Adams into Franklin, slowly first, then faster and faster as they became used to each other’s rhythm.
“Oh, don’t stop,” Adams heard Jefferson sob from the front of the chain. Looking around Franklin’s impressive shoulder, he could just see Jefferson’s russet locks as they swayed in time with Franklin’s thrusts.
Adams gripped Franklin’s hips tightly, feeling his fingers sink deeply into the folds of fat stored there, watching his member appearing and then disappearing into the immeasurable crease of Franklin’s buttocks. The grease from Franklin’s hair, now mixed with sweat, ran freely down his back in rivulets.
Oh, how he had missed this – that night in the inn came back to him now, when Franklin had so thoroughly educated him in this way of love, showing him just how and where to touch to get the greatest reaction. In the morning they had had to burn the sheets, lest the innkeeper’s wife guess that they had spent the previous evening spurting their man liquids all over them.
He again heard Jefferson cry out from in front of him. He watched, fascinated, as Jefferson’s fingers curled over against the floor of the Marquis’ bathroom, watched as he pressed himself backwards to meet Franklin’s every thrust. Then the sensations of his own body caught up with him again and he closed his eyes and threw his head back, pushing himself into Franklin with abandon.
And so it went, each man holding out as long as he could – finally, Adams heard Jefferson heave out a long moan before seeing him fold to the ground, completed. Franklin lasted only a few moments more, before expelling himself into the depths of Jefferson’s rectum. Adams himself followed at almost the same moment, pulling out at the moment of his release to mix his own fluid with the mixture already thick on Franklin’s back.
They lay together, quiet at last, their hunger for each other satisfied. After a moment, Franklin’s great sonorous snores were echoing off the walls of the bathroom. Adams, nearly exhausted, crawled past him and lay down next to Jefferson, finally taking his friend – now his lover – in his arms. He slept.
“Mon dieu!” said the Marquis de Lafayette from where he had been watching from the doorway. “Zese Americaines know how to party.”