“Is it time for his bedtime story, yet?” Gaby asked, her slender fingers tangling in Illya’s hair, not nearly cruel enough.
“Depends.” Napoleon tilted his head, perched as he was on the edge of the bed, shirt off and trousers undone, stroking his prick almost absently. “Only good little children deserve bedtime stories. Have you been a good child, Illya?”
Illya—whose ankles were chained separately to the bedposts, thighs straining after two hours of being spread that wide—didn’t reply. He glared, instead, because the plug in him wasn’t as half big as he needed it to be, and Napoleon knew that. Napoleon and Gaby both knew it, tormentors that they were.
“He waited for us at home, like the nice boy he is,” Gaby reasoned, because while Illya had been sweating it out on the sheets and leaking pre-ejaculate onto his abdomen, Napoleon and Gaby had been at the opera for a mission. Gaby still had her pearls on, even if she had nothing else on. “He didn’t slip free of his cuffs.”
“Sons have to wait for their parents,” Napoleon said, dismissively. “If they’re to be rewarded with the dicking they’ve been aching for, they have to ask.” Napoleon met Illya’s gaze pointedly.
Illya ground his teeth. And considered going un-fucked, tonight, but there was something he required more than a “dicking,” as Napoleon put it. Illya hated admitting it, but he was perpetually starved for words of praise, for Gaby’s sweet voice going husky with approval, for Napoleon’s gravelly compliments about how tight Illya was, and how prettily he took it.
“Pride and prizes do not go together,” Gaby agreed. “Well, Illya? Shall Mommy ride your face and get it all wet for you? Or would you prefer tears to wet it? Daddy’s huge cock always makes you cry, doesn’t it?”
Illya’s erection dribbled, despite the rubber ring that circled its base like the most evil of vises. “Mother,” he said, hoarsely. “Please.”
“Please, what? You have to be detailed, dear.” Gaby’s filed nails raked across Illya’s Adam’s apple, making him shiver. “When we punish you, you must choose between the cane or the whip, between Mommy’s chokehold or Daddy’s bare palm. When we claim you, you must choose between Daddy’s cock or Mommy’s pussy.” She smirked. “Or Daddy’s pussy and Mommy’s cock. So? Which is it?”
“We’re generous, giving a miscreant like you choices.” Napoleon pinched Illya’s left nipple, twisting it viciously. The pain sparked and leapt, and Illya’s nerves sang.
“I’ve earned those choices,” Illya gasped.
“Is that so? You reckon sucking Daddy’s dick for breakfast earned you anything other than the load I shot down your throat?” Napoleon smiled, frightening and beautiful. “Getting a sense of entitlement, are we?”
“And to think we’d humbled him,” Gaby tsked, and her disappointment made Illya whine, for a moment, before he could help it. “We thought we had a devoted, obedient son.”
“As it stands,” Napoleon said, meditatively, “perhaps we ought to neglect him all night long, fucking one another while he watches, untouched.”
God. No. That would be… That would unbearable. “I—I want Father to fuck me,” Illya said, finally, surrendering as he inevitably did.
“So formal,” Napoleon complained. “Do you not love me? Am I not kind to you, even when you don’t deserve it?”
“You—you are. You’re more than kind to me—”
“Then should I not be ‘Daddy’? Say it.”
Illya flushed, all over, shame and eagerness coiling in him and making him squirm.
“F-fuck me, Daddy.” Illya glanced away, humiliated, as the mattress beside him shifted and Gaby rose to straddle him. Her skin was exquisitely soft against his ears, and it was like being enveloped in satin, warm and soothing, although the delicate legs currently wrapped around him also hid muscles strong enough to snap a man’s neck. Gaby was, as Napoleon often called her, the world’s loveliest noose. A hangman’s rope in human form.
“What about Mommy?” Napoleon urged. “Or do you desire only me?” He grinned at Gaby. “I told you he had a favorite. And that the favorite was me.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Gaby toyed with her pearls, her attention fixed on Illya’s lips, which he licked, knowing how she liked it, how she liked the reminder of how skilled his tongue was, how patient, how dedicated. “He’s a momma’s boy, through and through.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Napoleon sighed, mock-forlornly, as he, too, got into position between Illya’s knees. The broad tip of his prick pressed against the throbbing, pulsing, oily mess of Illya’s hole, without bothering to pull out the plug. God, this would kill Illya. “Aren’t you going to un-cuff his hands, so he can play with your breasts? You enjoy that, don’t you?”
“Will just playing with them satisfy him?” Gaby laughed lowly, dragging her damp labia over the jut of Illya’s chin and visibly delighting in his stubble. “Hm, let’s see. If you bring me off quicker than Daddy comes, Illya, I’ll let you suckle on my tits. My baby can’t sleep without Mommy’s milk, can he?”
“Or Daddy’s, for that matter,” Napoleon put in, with a distinctly a competitive tone, and as if to prove himself, drove in to the hilt with a single thrust.
Illya screamed, arching, his chains rattling. The plug had been small but it wasn’t that small, and having Napoleon inside him hurt, it hurt so badly, so deeply, so much—
“Oh, look, he’s crying,” Gaby said, shushing Illya and petting his cheeks, which were, indeed, streaked with tears. Fat drops seeped out of the corners of eyes and trickled to his temples, ticklish and strange. “Just like I said he would.”
“Poor lad,” Napoleon rasped, and his pity sounded vaguely sincere, even, as he rubbed Illya’s sweat-sticky belly like he would a fevered child’s. “Daddy didn’t mean to hurt you, darling.”
“Yes, you did,” Gaby chastised, “but I can’t blame you, honestly. He does relish his agony. Or rather, he relishes where it takes him.”
Illya’s mind had gone quiet, suddenly and totally, like a gun with a silencer, or a skull that had been struck again and again until the brain within it bled into itself and concussed. What that was happening to him was muffled, somehow, distant. His body hitched in random, over-sensitized twitches whenever a particular sensation sharpened to clarity, as if the polished veneer of shock that covered him was sanded off in places, rough beneath the numbness that filled him.
Not as thoroughly as Napoleon’s cock filled him, or as inexorably. But Illya just melted around it, the resistance literally fucked out of him, until he felt like a hot pat of butter parting around a knife, his limbs going lax and his thighs falling open. Like a whore’s.
He shuddered, struggling to breathe, but when he inhaled he found himself surrounded by a sea-salty musk, by slick pressure and endless heat, by dripping juices that mingled with his tears, confusing him.
Soon, those juices were flowing into his sagging mouth, smothering him as he gulped them in, irrationally greedy, positive that he would die of this water-torture in spite of it quenching his thirst. His tongue was parched, and when a grip yanked at his hair until the roots of it stung, he licked, and licked, and licked, because he had been trained to, and his training did not fail him, even in extremis.
He was—he was a good soldier. A good son. A good boy—
“Ah, you flawless thing,” Napoleon was saying, “so perfect, so yielding.” He was moving carefully in Illya, the plug inching further with each nudge against it, but all Illya experienced was a gentle undulation, as of a boat rocked by waves. Ripples of shimmering pleasure radiated outwards from where Illya was penetrated, combined with an acute, increasingly intense feeling of being cored, the plug’s tapered end seeming to go on forever, deeper and deeper and deeper…
Gaby was humming, as she tended to do before she came, grinding down on him with a brutal rhythm that gave him no opportunity to pant as he craving to. Illya was dizzy from a lack of oxygen, his lungs crushed by a growing weight, his vision misting and sparkling oddly.
“Don’t asphyxiate him,” Napoleon said, distractedly and even less sincerely than he had earlier. “That wasn’t what we’d discussed, for today.”
Gaby snarled and didn’t stop, fisting Illya’s hair in her grasp and riding him twice as hard. Illya wished he could thank her, but all he could do was slobber and slurp as his jaw went slack, unable to lick anymore, his eyeballs rolling back in their sockets.
“Better get him off before he passes out,” Napoleon chuckled, harshly, and brushed his knuckles slowly along Illya’s swollen cock, teasing it, before easing the ring off.
Illya came instantly, spurting jets of semen that burned their way out of him like acid, spattering his chest. He couldn’t groan, or yell, or moan. All his hips managed was a weak lurch that didn’t complete itself, and his consciousness was going dark, a bolt of black silk thrown over him like a funeral shroud.
Dead. He was dead.
So this was what death was like.
It resembled relief.
“He’s glossy with your come,” Napoleon was saying, admiringly, as Illya drifted gradually into awareness. “And his own. He’s practically glazed with it. I didn’t expect him to keep coming after he fainted. He was going off like a fountain. Quite astonishing, really.”
“Illya regularly outperforms our expectations, doesn’t he?” Gaby said, and her fondness mingled with Napoleon’s admiration to make Illya quiver, to make him yearn to weep. With gratitude or with sheer, overwhelmed helplessness, he wasn’t sure. His soul was cracked and fragile, all jagged shards and partially-glued pieces, like damaged pottery that was still in the process of being repaired.
“He’s awake.” Napoleon’s features wavered into focus above Illya, and Illya blinked. “Welcome back, Peril. We’ve untied you, so you can turn over, if you need to. Give your quads and your hamstrings a break. Not to mention your glutes. I removed the plug. Ouch.”
But Illya couldn’t budge. He just lay there, continuing to blink, until Napoleon assisted him in turning over, helpfully adjusting the pillow so that Illya’s face was turned aside on it, allowing him to respirate easily. His ribcage was sore, like it invariably was after breathplay, and his ass was bruised, like an overripe fruit. His cleft was tacky with lube and Napoleon’s leavings, filthy and gummy and disgusting, and his torso stuck uncomfortably to the sheets. He muttered unintelligibly.
“It speaks!” Napoleon exclaimed. “Or not. I do find his monosyllabic grunts adorable, but I miss his threats. There’s a special charm to having your life threatened in a thick Russian accent. By the same Russian who calls you ‘Daddy’ in bed.”
“Nonsense. Mommies have more fun.” Gaby, who had padded away to the bathroom, returned with a moist towel. She wiped Illya clean, down there, around his inflamed, smarting anus.
Illya tried to summon the energy to be embarrassed. Or angry. Anyway, it was stupid, to be angry with a woman for taking liberties with him after he had begged her, just thirty minutes ago, to take liberties with him. Not that he could ever be angry with Gaby.
The towel was heavenly and marvelously cooling, so Illya decided to curse at Napoleon later, after he had recovered the ability to follow that cursing up with wall-slamming. And sparring. And—
Illya was jostled slightly as Napoleon and Gaby settled on either side of him, sheltering and close, their fingers linked atop the dip of Illya’s spine.
Gaby kissed his forehead, tender as she rarely was. “Goodnight, gorgeous boy. You’ve made us proud. Very, very proud.”
Illya’s heart jolted and shook. A raw, wounded noise escaped him, and Napoleon nuzzled into his nape.
“Hush, Illya. It’s all right. We’re with you. We’ll always be with you.”
No, you won’t, Illya would have said—stubbornly, accusingly—but he was so desperate to believe the lie that he couldn’t argue. His denial remained clogged up in him, buried under the lassitude he could not fight, like he fought everything else.
Because here, at last, he could dare to hope that his cracks were mended. Here, he could dream that his seams were joined.