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Désir: Un jeu pour trois

(by mars)

(credit where credit is due: some of Grey's lines come directly from the hand of Vicuña herself. kudos to her!)

 

-1-

[un]

Sebastien is expecting the quiet knock when it comes. He calls out instead of opening the door, waiting for Shima to enter. Sebastien hears the boy gasp as his eyes adjust to the difference in light, taking in the candles, the spicy-sweet smell of incense, the silk and gauze on the bed.

A slow, warm pleasure spreads through Sebastien. He wonders if Shima feels the same thrill when his surprises are discovered; from the frequency of his recent "gifts" Sebastien guesses that this is the case.

"I have a game," he says, his voice not much more than a murmur, his accent making his words a rich rolling tumble like the hush-hush of the sea. The words aren't important -- the two of them always have a game. His declaration is almost ceremonial.

He holds up something in his hand, and it chimes softly, and sends candlelight dancing all over the walls.

Shima shuts the door behind him and crosses the room, his age melting away as his surprise becomes boyish delight. He takes the softly chiming ornament from Sebastien's hand with a slightly self-satisfied laugh: "I wore it again, like you asked, nii-san."

Sebastien pulls Shima to him by wrapping one arm around the boy's slim waist, sliding his hand down the small of Shima's back to curve around his ass. He can feel "it" when he presses his fingers between Shima's legs, the hardness of metal and the smooth raised jewels spreading the boy open. He earns a gasp as he rubs his thumb against the gaudy toy; he is still impressed that Shima walked all this way with such an intruder pressed inside of him. He was impressed yesterday, too, and made it well known.

But today the game is his. He takes the ring of bells back, jingles it with a mischievous smile. The light of the candles plays off the warm, gold color of the metal, the same color as the ornament between Shima's thighs. He has always had a good eye for matching things. He leans in, kisses Shima's throat. "Take of your shirt, petit. Let me dress you up, make you even more beautiful."

He reaches in his pockets, spills out handfuls of jewelry, gaudy to elegant, gold chains and red rubies and sparkling white faux diamonds. He watches Shima's eyes light up before the boy pulls his shirt over his head.

Smiling he reaches out, clamps the ring of bells to one of the boy's nipples, tightens it until Shima gives a hiss of pain. He can't help himself; his smile turns predatory, and he growls, "Don't you know, petit, that you must suffer to be beautiful? But you will like it in the end... I promise."

Shima watches him, says nothing, but seems to know that this will not be the game he expects.

 

 

-2-

[deux]

He plays a similar trick on Grey, only he does not summon him directly to the room. They meet downstairs, in the common room, and Sebastien does this to stoke the other man's constantly smoldering curiosity. He thinks, though he is not certain, that Grey is a rather big fan of a good mystery. At any rate, though the Englishman tries to hide it, he is always slightly intrigued by the comings and goings of his fellows.

As Sebastien casts the door open and allows the other man to step inside, Grey's reaction is much like Shima's, a sudden breath, a wordless admiration for the extravagance of his preparation. But the silence and shock extends as Grey takes in a new decoration: in a chair, set up like a centerpiece in the middle of the room, is Shima.

The boy is now fully ornamented, from head to foot, like some exotic harem boy. His eyes are heavily lined with kohl, his body smeared with golden paint to play up the warm bronze undertones of his skin. The bells dangling from his nipples have been joined by heavy jeweled bracelets, lengths of gold chain around his neck, a thick gold torque around his upper arm. Rings glitter on his fingers and toes, wider bands studded with jewels wrap around his ankles. A thin chain snakes about the base of his cock and slithers back into the shadows between his thighs, where the original ornament glitters, set on display by the spread of Shima's legs. Sebastien has tied them apart; he has bound Shima to the chair with a blond rope, wrapping around his legs, his arms, his throat. A kerchief of pale gold silk twists its way between Shima's lips.

Shima looks at them angrily, and Sebastien hopes Grey feels as he does about that look, feels that sudden pleasure that shoots straight down to his groin. Or perhaps the shock is still too great; when Grey does not speak or move, he shuts the door and gestures towards the bed. "Come in, m'sieur. Make yourself at home."

Grey laughs abruptly, shaking his head once. "I admit I had wondered what you two had been up to of late, but now I think... you've raised it to an art form. Am I now to be allowed to--" he coughs, as if disbelieving -- "join in?"

Sebastien slips an arm around Grey's waist, presses his mouth to the masses of white-blond hair. He keeps his voice disarming, casual. "You are certainly to join in, mon cher. Tonight, you will be the centerpiece of my show." He looks at Shima as he says this; his words are as much for the bound boy as for the man he molds his body to. He seeks out the line of Grey's throat under the bleached mane, and smiles gratefully as the other man runs a long-fingered hand through his own hair, lifting it out of the way of Sebastien's lips.

Grey sighs under the attention, but his voice is, understandably, doubting. "I'm to be the centerpiece? Surely you jest." He, too, looks at Shima meaningfully, pauses as if thinking. Sebastien swears he can hear the click of Grey's mind achieving some understanding of his place this night. "Ah....or, as they say, never underestimate the French?"

Sebastien doubles his assault on the naked skin under his mouth, kissing and biting, enjoying the mark of his teeth on the pale flesh. He waits until Grey tips his head back, sighs again, before he answers the question. "Perhaps better to not underestimate yourself, m'sieur." He gestures at Shima, but keeps his eyes on Grey. "He is beautiful, non? But you are even more beautiful, I think." He feels Shima's irritation, hears the jingle of bells as the boy strains against his bonds. Sebastien does not turn his head or look his way, however. He reaches into his pocket and produces something cold and metal to slide along the lovely contour of Grey's shoulder. "Tell me, Monsieur Gris, will you join my little game wholeheartedly? Will you play it to the hilt?"

He allows the drama of the words to hang in the air, pitches his voice to invite curiosity. He does not think Grey will turn away now, but he is not certain.

But then Grey moans, almost unaware of the sound he makes, unable to control it. "Am I not a man of my word, 'mon ami'?" he asks. "I will not do a thing merely to do it halfway." He pushes himself back into Sebastien, turning the statement into an invitation, into a challenge. Sebastien has to mercilessly crush his own noises of wanting; Grey's body is lean and firm and rubs against him just so.

"As I hoped," he breathes, slipping his palm and the metal circle along Grey's arm, taking Grey's lovely long-fingered hand into his own. Like it is a marriage proposal, he is reverent as he slides the bracelet on to Grey's wrist, making the gesture into a worshipful caress. "Then, if you will, lay yourself on the bed, and set aside all your clothes so that I may see your beauty?"

He hears Grey swallow, but the Englishman is nothing if not obliging; he crosses over to the bed, sheds his clothes neatly, folds them and places them at the foot of the bed.

Sebastien hears the soft chime of bells behind him as Grey lies down on the piles of bright silks and gauzes covering the bed. He understands: Grey is beautiful in his nakedness, with a long-legged beauty suited to a stag. The leanness of his wrist is emphasized by the lone gold bracelet adorning it. Lower down, past the dark curls at his groin, his cock is half hard, flushed rosy in contrast to the pale insides of his thighs; and Sebastien is drawn to it, climbing on to the bed after Grey, crouching over him. "Quelle beauté!" he whispers, slipping one hand into his pocket again, taking something from it and putting it into his mouth. He meets Grey's eyes, and holds them as he bends his head down, wraps his mouth and tongue over Grey's sex.

"My... goodness!" he hears Grey exclaim, and then the other man is canting his hips up, clutching at the luxurious bedspreads. Sebastien all but lets go of Grey in response, clamping his teeth around the ring he took from his pocket earlier, easing the metal band down over Grey's flesh as he draws it back into his mouth. He wraps his tongue around the hot, growing erection, coaxing it harder and hotter still, until the ring sits tight and snug around the base of Grey's cock. He sucks and licks without mercy then, two hands pressing Grey's thighs apart, swallowing Grey and then releasing him, stroking him from tip to root until the other man is incoherent with pleasure.

Just before Grey can reach his climax, Sebastien reaches into his coat again, produces a clever band of pale leather and gold, and wraps the other man tightly between his legs, around balls and cock alike. He pulls his mouth off of Grey then, rocks back onto his heels and watches: every muscle taut, Grey arches and shouts, his eyes rolling back and the white-gold of his hair clinging to his sweating skin. His cock pulses but he has no release, and he collapses back onto the bed, shuddering, moaning.

"Hardly... fair..." Grey eventually manages, still gasping, his cheeks fully flushed.

Jewelry softly chimes and jingles, a frustrated whine emerging from the boy behind them. Sebastien laughs, but he doesn't look back. "Seems petit would agree with you," he tells Grey. "But we have not even begun."

"What have I got myself into?" Grey says, but his is tone wry and he's obviously amused with himself.

"Only pleasure such as they know in heaven," Sebastien responds, melodramatic, but his laughter dissolves any seriousness. Still, he means to make Grey beg and writhe before the night is over. And better yet, to make the boy watching them both weep with frustration and wanting.

 

-3-

[trois]

He adorns Grey slowly, accompanying each new piece with pleasant sensation. He kisses each of Grey's fingers before he slides a ring upon it, tongue soothing the rough calluses on his fingertips. He hears Shima hiss at this, recognizing the very same that was done to himself. He clamps his mouth on the inside of Grey's elbow as if to drink blood from it, like a vampire or a doctor, before pushing a beaten gold armband over his bicep and clamping two heavy cuffs around his wrists. These he fastens to his headboard, its cleverly concealed hooks put once again to good use.

His tongue soothes the flesh of Grey's belly, dips into his navel, before he fits two rings into it, pinching the flesh between, giving the appearance of piercing; but he thinks that he would very much like to do this in reality: to pierce through Grey's flesh and string something beautiful through the holes he leaves.

He says as much as he clamps two more rings to Grey's nipples. "Perhaps next time we will take a hollow needle here, and push the rings through for real. What do you think?"

The Englishman's cheeks have gone red, his breathing sharp and shallow, but he manages a breathy laugh. "Not this chap, I'm afraid," Grey admits, but the catlike curiosity has returned to his eyes. Sebastien wonders if he could push him so far as to allow this permanent marking of his body. Perhaps, as he had said, next time. He links a chain between the rings, left nipple to right, teardrop pearls dangling from the very center.

At Grey's throat he dares his favorite game; he produces a long, thin knife from his sleeve. Keeping it out of sight, he kisses and sucks at Grey's throat, biting, teasing, until Grey lets out another throaty moan. Then he pricks the knife just at the base of Grey's throat, feeling the other man's body stiffen, risk a shiver... One tiny bite, one bead of blood wells up to the surface. Sebastien covers it with his mouth, laps at it with his tongue, until the sting is forgotten.

When he does this, the whisper and song of metal on metal rises behind him; Shima is straining in his chair, angry, perhaps, aroused -- most certainly, for he has always loved such games. Sebastien would like it too, to take Shima's fingers, wrap them around the blade, let him cut the light marks into Grey's skin. They would draw out alternating cries of protestation and encouragement from their guest; and then they would leave him bound to watch as they fucked each other raw, blood hot and insatiable.

But that is not the game he is playing tonight. He sets aside the knife and resists the urge to look back at Shima.

He covers the mark on Grey's throat with a thick metal choker, a lovely thing of twisting gold. But it will be there in the morning, he knows, to remind Grey of what happened this night. The thought makes him smile. Grey looks up at him from under hooded eyes, and he thinks that his work is nearly complete. He moves off of the bed, stands between it and Shima, regarding his handiwork.

"What do you think, petit?" he asks of the boy. His only answer, of course, is a muffled curse, the strain of ropes on the wooden chair, the soft ringing of the bells. "I think he looks good enough to fuck."

If Shima is the dark-eyed youth of the harem, innocence waiting to be stolen and spoiled, Grey is the harem favorite, white-gold hair the envy of all the others, elegance echoed in the delicate workings of his jewelry. Sebastien's taste run towards the former, but he still finds his lust at a fever heat, finds himself shedding his clothes eagerly to partake of the beauty awaiting him on the bed. Shima's stifled cries seem to double, his anger and disbelief at being left to watch reaching a climactic intensity. The thought only serves to make Sebastien harder, make him want the space between Grey's parted legs even more. He moves onto the mattress, sinking it with his weight, and Grey's parted mouth has never looked more inviting -- but he has one last thing to do.

The bottle of scented oil is warm still, and he pours it into his hands, rubbing the slickness between them. Then slowly, methodically, starting from Grey's feet, he massages his hands over the pale skin, moving deftly up, under his knees, between his thighs, over the flat of his belly. Into the dark curls, avoiding the heavy, straining sex, between and around and over the pinched nipples, down slender arms, over large, rough hands. Finally he moves downwards again, wrapping one hand over Grey's cock, the other slipping behind it. His slick fingers press easily into Grey, tight flesh squeezing around them; he massages warm, scented oil into Grey, inside of Grey, over his angrily flush erection. Grey moans and moans, his accent thickening his voice to a husky jumble of English pleading and cursing, his arms straining against the chains binding them to the headboard. "Please, Sebastien, please," he groans, and Sebastien does not need more encouragement; he pulls himself up, presses himself forward, and sinks into Grey's welcoming body.

From there coherent thought dissolves; he only knows that hole, squeezing him so tightly, oiled and open to him, hotter than his own blood, than his thoughts. His body seems to move of its own will, thrusting eagerly, impatiently, almost without rhythm, winding faster and faster. Grey's legs are hooked over his shoulders, and he kisses the softly chiming bangles at Grey's ankles, tastes the pungent oil on his lips. It smears over his skin, makes his hands slip, makes him collapse atop Grey with surprised laughter. But still he presses Grey into the bed, fucks him harder, until the other man is nearly bucking him off, shouting, louder than he ever would have expected, head thrown back in absolute abandonment. Sebastien reaches down, unclasps the leather ties around Grey's cock, strokes his hand over the pulsing flesh between them; and suddenly Grey's eyes clench shut, and he comes, covering them both with wetness, the acrid scent of his climax mingling with the sweetness of the oil and incense.

The clench of Grey's body around Sebastien nearly finishes him off as well, but it is the sudden sound of bells and a strangled cry that actually brings him over the edge: Shima, in his chair, coming at the mere sight of them, the frustration flooding out of him as he rocks against the bindings on his sex and the metal pushed into his ass.

Sebastien collapses, groaning Shima's name, his body straining to stay deeply planted inside Grey's. The scent of his petit's pleasure floats to him, distinct from the smell of himself and of the Englishman, and from the incense and the oil. He lays there until he regains his breath, watching Grey drowse lightly. Then he strokes Grey appreciatively one more time, and rises, his legs still shaky underneath him; he crosses over to Shima and unties him, and lays his head in the boy's lap, smearing the gold paint on his inner thigh.

"Was it good?" he purrs, taking Shima's cold hand in his own, kissing his fingertips. He can feel Shima tense, still angry. From somewhere on the bed, Grey makes a sleepy, sexy noise.

"It was," Shima admits, though Sebastien can tell he doesn't want to say so. The boy's fingers comb through his hair. "But just you wait, nii-san...."

Sebastien smiles, and presses a kiss to Shima's belly. "I look forward to it, mon petit."

And he does. Between them, the game goes on.

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