Both of them. Both places. The wall between them pressing them together from the inside. I am shaking and gripping the headboard and the sounds I am making are small and broken and continuous and the shame of them is real and present and does nothing at all.
"Too much?—"
He starts to move and makes me wrong immediately.
Hard. The lower cock driving deep into my cunt, the upper cock in my arse, different rhythms, and the vibration starts—both of them at different frequencies—lower running deep in my cunt, higher in my arse—and it goes past sensation into something total and wordless.
I fall forward.
Arms give out. Down to my elbows. He follows without breaking rhythm—dark brown skin against mine, his silver braid falling forward over his shoulder—hips driving forward and I am gasping with every thrust and the gasps are cries and I can't hold my weight. Flat against the bed. He comes down over me and keeps going and I can do nothing but grip the sheets.
Thrust.
The air goes out of me.
Thrust.
I cry out. Muffled against the pillow.
Please.
I don't know what I'm asking for.
Please please please —
Both cocks. Every thrust. The vibration. The dual fullness with every stroke pressing deeper and my clit grinding against the sheets and I can't. I can't.
I come.
Hard and sudden, clenching around both cocks at once, and the vibration makes it worse and longer and I am sobbing into the pillow and shaking and he does not stop, he keeps the rhythm, through the clenching and the shaking and the sounds I can't stop making, and the orgasm keeps going, prolonged by the vibration and the fullness and the weight of him over me, until I lose the shape of it entirely.
He slows. Not to gentle—just to deep. Long strokes. Both cocks full inside me on every thrust.
His hand finds my throat from behind. Cold. Just present, against my pulse.
"Mine," he says. Not asking.
"Yours." Before I decide to.
"Again."
"Yours." My voice is nothing. "I'm yours, please?—"
The bond cracks open.
Not a metaphor. A physical thing—a window thrown wide—and through it comes his pleasure, distinct from mine. The deep pleasure of a male who has waited six months and is here and is not as controlled as he looks. Not even close. It hits my chest like a wave and I gasp and he groans above me, quiet and real, and the claiming marks land.
Silver-cold. My throat. My collarbone. My shoulders. The mist-marks of his court settling into my skin like something being written for the first time, though I have the strange feelingit was always going to be written there. I feel each one. I feel his breathing change.
The knots swell.
Both of them. The lower cock knotting in my cunt—shifting, filling, pressing outward—and the upper knotting in my arse simultaneously. Both at once. Both places. I cannot move. I don't want to. Every small shift makes them press into me differently and I whimper with each one and I am past shame, somewhere past the last of it.
"There," he says. His voice is not entirely steady. First time in thirty-seven days. I put that somewhere safe.
"I can feel them." Barely sound. "Both?—"
"Yes."