"Hands on the railing," he says, against my ear. "Don't let go."
He presses the upper cock to my arse.
Cold and thick and the vibration starts at base frequency, involuntary, his biology before his intention—and I make a sound against the morning air and grip the railing hard. Heworks in slowly. He always does this slowly, even now, even here, even with the court waking below us and the sound of my breathing carrying out over the stone.
"More," I say.
He drives deeper. The upper cock seated fully, and the stretch and the vibration running together—and the sound I make goes out over the court and I don't try to stop it. His hands lock on my hips.
"Anyone walking below can hear you," he says, against my ear. Low and certain.
I know.
"Good," he says, and drives in again.
He moves. Long and hard and I grip the railing and I am loud, I am embarrassingly loud, and the sound of it echoes off every stone surface of the manor and carries out over the grounds and I cannot stop it and I find, halfway through trying, that I don't want to. That something in me wants the court to know. Wants the whole ancient stone-and-mist-and-amber-lantern court to know what this is.
Mine, I think, and then immediately:his.Both. Both at once.
"The lower," I say. "Please—both?—"
"Ask properly."
I hate him. I grip the railing harder. "Please. I need your lower cock, please?—"
He presses the lower cock to my cunt.
Cold where I am burning and I am already wet and already desperate and when he presses in the sensation doubles—the upper vibrating in my arse and the lower filling my cunt and the wall between them impossibly thin—and the sound I make is not a word.
"There she is," he says, rough. "Taking both."
He moves with both and I lose sentences. I lose the court below, the lanterns, the cold morning air, the fact that Rosalind'sbaby is almost here and I am about to be an aunt and my own daughter is already there in my body, the fact of her, the permanent fact of her. I lose all of it except his hands on my hips and both cocks driving into me from behind. The upper cock at its high tight vibrating hum. The lower cock at its deeper throb. Two different frequencies at once, reaching different parts of me simultaneously, and together they are impossible, they leave nowhere untouched.
"You're soaking," he says. "Running down my balls. All of that is mine."
"Yours—" A thrust. "Yours, yes?—"
"The whole court is going to know," he says, against my throat. "What you sound like. What I do to you."
"I don't care?—"
"I know you don't," he says. "That's why."
He turns the vibration up and I come—fast and sudden, my cunt seizing around the lower cock and my arse gripping the upper, both vibrating through the orgasm—and I am loud, I am very loud, and it echoes off every stone surface of the manor and carries out over the thinning mist and I cannot stop any of it.
"Again," he says. Like it costs him nothing.
"I can't?—"
"Again, Claire."
I come again. Both cocks vibrating at their different pitches, my walls clenching, my legs shaking, the bond between us running open and his—satisfaction? certainty? something older and more complete than either—arriving in my chest alongside my own sensation until I can't tell where one ends.
"That's it," he says. "That's my good girl."
"Please." Into the railing. My knuckles are white. "The knot. Both. Please?—"
"Say it properly."