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Another day’s luncheon has been prepared and eaten around their squad’s small campfire. Six months into the siege of la Rochelle, the daily routines of camp life have ceased to be a matter of conscious thought. Watches are stood with mechanical regularity. Tents are pitched and inspected. Meals are prepared and served. Men wake, sleep, eat and drink and fuck in a well-ordered routine. Occasionally a sortie will break up the monotony. But sieges are a monotonous business. Any entertainment has to come from within.
After each meal their squad’s dishes are carried off by d’Artagnan and Brasseur and delivered to the purveyor, whose servants will scour them for the evening meal. Then d’Artagnan returns to Athos’ side. After six months, d’Artagnan no longer shoulders all the traditional duties of the youngest recruit alone. He and Brasseur split the worst of them. The rest have been reallocated among the older members of the squad. The siege is dragging on far longer than anyone had expected. No one thinks it fair to continue putting all the duties on one boy.
“I hear there may be a raid tomorrow,” de Guignes says hopefully.
“Rumors,” Laflèche says dismissively. “Even if there is something they’ll send the regulars to do it. Not glorious enough for the Musketeers.”
“Forget the glory. Sitting on our arses isn’t glorious either.”
“If you’re that bored, I’ll find something better for you to do,” Laflèche says. There’s no more than the barest hint of threat in his voice, but it’s enough for de Guignes to get up quickly and mutter something about mending a broken strap.
“He needs to learn patience,” Laflèche mutters.
“Easy for us to say,” Havet disagrees. “We all brought our entertainment with us.”
Athos gets up, gesturing to d’Artagnan to follow him. He has no desire to stay and witness another lecture from Laflèche about sex not being the only good and all the other forms of entertainment de Guignes and Havet should be enjoying.
Inside the tent, Athos sits down on his camp chair and tugs his boots off. D’Artagnan whisks them away and sets them outside, to be cleaned later. Then he settles down between Athos’ legs and immediately tries to swallow Athos’ cock down.
Athos stills him with a hand in his hair. D’Artagnan stops obediently, tipping his face back and waiting quietly for further instructions, as he’s been trained. But he’s doing a poor job of hiding his sudden worry. The duty rotation has their squad at leisure for the rest of the day, and with camp well-established their duties are minimal. D’Artagnan’s probably wondering what Athos intends to do with an entire free afternoon. The answer is: nothing in particular. D’Artagnan would be better served asking what Athos intends to do with the evening to follow. But then, d’Artagnan doesn’t yet know about the conversation Athos had had this morning with Aramis and Porthos.
Instead of answering d’Artagnan’s unspoken question, Athos fingers the silky strands of hair between his fingers. D’Artagnan relaxes. He loves having his hair played with. Athos only does it when he’s in a very good mood.
“I think I will have you grow it out further,” Athos muses. D’Artagnan’s eyes widen, and he smiles. He’s been lobbying for another inch or two for a few months now. Athos had initially refused. D’Artagnan’s hair is already shoulder-length, an indulgence on Athos’ part, and he had worried that any more would be unacceptably dangerous. But, as d’Artagnan had pointed out as part of his ongoing campaign, many Musketeers wear their hair down to their shoulder-blades. Most of them have a beard that could be grabbed, too, while d’Artagnan is required to shave twice daily. Even the Captain wears his hair just that little bit too long. Of course, everyone knows the reason for that, but it’s correct behavior to pretend that the Captain does it for his own preference.
As everyone will pretend that d’Artagnan does it for his. In this case it’s true; Athos would just as soon keep it at it current shoulder length. But that’s between the two of them. Everyone else will assume that d’Artagnan wears his hair longer to please his master. And Athos is pleased to please d’Artagnan in this.
“Another inch,” Athos decides. He pictures it curving gently around d’Artagnan’s cheekbones, brushing Athos’ thighs as d’Artagnan sucks him awake in the mornings. Yes. “You may thank me,” he adds.
“Thank you,” d’Artagnan says at once, breath warm on Athos’ cock. “Thank you, Athos, thank you – I’m so happy.”
Athos taps d’Artagnan’s cheek. “Is that the only way you thank me?”
D’Artagnan immediately dives back onto Athos’ cock. Athos stretches, leaning back on his chair and letting d’Artagnan’s talented mouth do its work. It had been a lot of effort, teaching d’Artagnan to suck cock so expertly. He’d been pathetically bad at it the first time he’d tried, though his enthusiasm even from the start had made up for much in the way of technique. Now, though, d’Artagnan has both, and it’s not long before Athos is spilling down his throat with a sigh.
D’Artagnan cleans Athos with kittenish licks of his tongue, as he’s been taught, and then continues to simply hold Athos’ cock in his mouth. He leans his head against Athos’ thigh with a sigh of his own. It comes out more as a rumble in his chest. Athos continues to stroke d’Artagnan’s hair, and d’Artagnan shivers in an echo of pleasure. A quick look down confirms that the fabric over d’Artagnan’s crotch is wet with release. It proves that d’Artagnan is truly taking Athos’ lessons to heart. When one’s own pleasure is not the primary goal, one learns to derive pleasure from service.
“You’ve been doing very well,” Athos tells him. D’Artagnan shivers again. Athos’ boy has always been desperate for praise and approval; he loves it even more than he had used to love direct physical stimulation, when he had been allowed such. Weaning d’Artagnan off the need for a mouth or a hand on his cock had been easy. Now d’Artagnan can come untouched from only a cock in his mouth, or the right combination of words in his ear, or the thick, full slide of Athos’ cock in his ass. D’Artagnan’s experienced no other stimulation for months. Which is going to make tonight’s events even more special Athos’ precious boy.
Not that d’Artagnan’s pleasure is the primary object. Not that any of this would be going to happen for d’Artagnan’s sake alone. But Athos believes in God, and in the just reward for one’s actions, and Aramis’ request is just further proof that good service will always be rewarded.
“Tonight we’re going to do something different,” Athos says. “I’ve been speaking with Aramis and Porthos. They’ll be joining us.”
D’Artagnan makes an inquisitive sound. The vibrations from his throat rattle pleasantly through Athos’ cock. If he were a younger man it might have twitched.
“You recall what happened when we were captured a year ago,” Athos says. It’s not really a question. None of them have been able to forget it. And indeed d’Artagnan stiffens under Athos’ hand, even its comforting touch forgotten in the distress of the memory.
“Aramis is still having trouble dealing with it,” Athos goes on regretfully. He’d hoped that the chance to exact bloody revenge on their captors would help start the healing process, and that time and Porthos would do the rest. For the most part they have. But there’s still one wound that remains unscarred.
“He can’t accept Porthos within him,” Athos explains. “He wishes to, and he tries, but when he does he has flashbacks.”
D’Artagnan makes a sad, pained sound, burrowing closer to Athos. Athos nods, letting his hand drift down to the back of d’Artagnan’s neck and squeezing reassuringly. D’Artagnan understands, probably better than Porthos or Athos, how difficult that must be for Aramis. D’Artagnan enjoys sucking Athos’ cock, and knows better than to object to hand-jobs or other means of delivering pleasure, but his favorite act by far is fucking. D’Artagnan truly needs it to remain centered and calm. If Athos goes too long without letting d’Artagnan take his cock within him, d’Artagnan grows bratty and sullen. When d’Artagnan gets that way nothing will do but that Athos pins him down, straps him until his pert little ass is glowing red, and then fucks him so hard he limps the next day. The idea of going without a cock up his ass for a full year is obviously distressing to d’Artagnan.
“I know,” Athos soothes him. “And Aramis has been trying. Porthos doesn’t object to being taken by Aramis, but a full year without balance has been trying even for him. The problem isn’t Aramis’ will. It’s his memories.”
Athos pauses, considering how best to put this. “Porthos is large,” he says delicately. “His body is large, and he is equally proportioned all over. When Porthos lies atop Aramis, it reminds Aramis of his captors. And when Porthos tries to enter Aramis, the same issue presents itself.”
D’Artagnan makes a noise of unhappy understanding. He suckles gently on Athos’ soft cock and watches his master with soft eyes, waiting to hear what his role in fixing this will be.
“Aramis has suggested that the issue is one of control,” Athos explains. “Porthos is larger than him. Porthos would never hurt him, of course, but the fact remains that if Porthos wished to hurt Aramis, he would probably succeed. So Aramis can’t feel safe. Aramis suggests that, to overcome this, he should first try to accept penetration from someone who could not defeat him in a fight. Someone small. Someone well-trained and under Aramis’ clear subjection.”
D’Artagnan’s eyes widen. The boy’s no fool: he knows where this is going.
“You,” Athos spells it out anyway. “You’re considerably smaller than Porthos – in every way – ”
D’Artagnan blushes. It’s charming.
“ – and Aramis has great faith in both of us. You should be honored by that. Aramis doesn’t trust easily.”
D’Artagnan’s blush intensifies. He drops his eyes modestly, but Athos can tell d’Artagnan’s pleased. As well he should be. Of course, Aramis has trusted Athos long before d’Artagnan entered the picture, and most of Aramis’ trust of d’Artagnan is predicated on his trust of Athos. Aramis trusts Athos to have chosen his boy well, to have trained him thoroughly, and to be able to maintain the strictest control over d’Artagnan. But it’s still a credit to d’Artagnan that he’s taken Athos’ training so well. For d’Artagnan to be this skilled and obedient after only a year is impressive. It proves Athos’ eye had been good.
D’Artagnan is a natural servant. He won’t leave the Musketeers as Athos, Aramis and Porthos will one day. D’Artagnan has no title to assume or family to go back to. It’s a fortunate case of expectation matching inclination. D’Artagnan wouldn’t be happy at the top of the pile, an unchallenged leader or a master. He’s meant to be a career soldier, a servant of the state. The boy’s flexible enough for the long haul and the inevitable promotions that will follow. He’s strong enough to maintain discipline within the ranks, subservient enough to kneel to his titular superiors. Treville’s eye is already on d’Artagnan. Whenever Athos is finally forced to leave the Musketeers and return to his title and his wife, Treville will probably take d’Artagnan on as his personal project.
All of that is in the future, though, many years hence. And there’s no need to cloud d’Artagnan’s focus with such lofty thoughts. D’Artagnan knows Athos will make sure he’s cared for; that’s all d’Artagnan need know.
D’Artagnan fidgets between Athos’ legs. His fingers, curled around Athos’ calf like an anchor point, tap restlessly.
“You may speak,” Athos says indulgently. He’d expected d’Artagnan to have questions.
D’Artagnan disengages carefully, not forgetting to place a careful kiss on the head of Athos’ cock before he tucks Athos away in his trousers, damp and still warm from the heat of d’Artagnan’s mouth. That done, d’Artagnan is allowed to settle into a loose tailor’s crouch, taking the pressure off his knees, and ask his questions.
“Aramis asked for me particularly?” D’Artagnan’s voice is timid and a little awed.
Athos has to smile. It’s so like his boy for that to be the first thing he wants to know. He doesn’t know what had caused the damage to d’Artagnan’s self-worth, but he’s been like this since Athos has known him. One of Athos’ tasks is to build d’Artagnan up to know his own value. Clear rules, a firm hand, and generous praise are the methods Athos has chosen.
“For you particularly,” Athos confirms now, making sure his pride in d’Artagnan is clear. “Aramis knows you’ll behave correctly.”
“Of course I will,” d’Artagnan says at once. His chest puffs out a little; Athos sees it fondly. Then d’Artagnan’s eyes fall. “But – I don’t want to disappoint you, either.”
“You won’t,” Athos promises. He cups d’Artagnan’s chin, thumb stroking the line of his jaw. “Of course you won’t. And I’ll be there the entire time.”
D’Artagnan still looks worried. “You said Aramis wants – wants me to – ” d’Artagnan blushes again. “But you’ve been teaching me… isn’t it wrong?”
“No, no,” Athos soothes him, amused as he untangles this sentence and realizes what’s bothering his boy. “Not if it’s what Aramis wishes. Pleasure isn’t right or wrong depending on who experiences it. Your intentions are what matter. If you were to ask, unprovoked, if you could fuck Aramis – that would certainly be rising above your station. But at Aramis’ request you may do it, if I approve. Do you see?”
D’Artagnan nods slowly. “It’s because my pleasure comes in the service of Aramis. Right?”
“Exactly right,” Athos praises. “Your pleasure isn’t irrelevant or wrong; it’s merely under the direction of your superiors. If I say that you are to please Aramis, you’ll do so. If he says you are to fuck him, then you’ll do exactly that. And if you derive pleasure from fucking him, that comes as your due because of your service to him.”
“All right then,” d’Artagnan says in satisfaction.
“Any other questions?”
“What about Porthos?”
“Porthos will be involved in whatever way he wishes,” Athos says firmly. “I will be placing you at both of their disposals.”
“But do you have any ideas?”
“I do,” Athos says after due consideration. He cups d’Artagnan’s chin. “The entire purpose is for Aramis to learn to take Porthos again. Porthos has said he wishes to take you as you take Aramis – to use you as an instrument with which to fuck his lover. It will be a new experience for you.”
D’Artagnan pales. “Porthos is very large.”
“Yes,” Athos agrees. “As I said – it will be a new experience for you.”
“But you’ll be there the whole time?”
“The whole time,” Athos promises.
“Then I have no other questions,” d’Artagnan says.
He still looks a trifle nervous. Athos studies him carefully. It won’t do for his boy to be afraid. No one means him any harm; no one will gain satisfaction from his pain. D’Artagnan must understand this. He must know it in his bones. If d’Artagnan is afraid, Athos has failed as his master.
But no. Athos searches d’Artagnan’s face and posture carefully and is satisfied that it’s only nerves, not fear. Nerves mean that d’Artagnan wishes to please and is only worried he might fail. That’s good. That means that d’Artagnan understands how important this is, and how much trust is being placed in him, and that he has fully embraced his position in Athos’ life (and Aramis’, and Porthos’).
“Why don’t you go see if your help is needed around the camp?” Athos suggests. A little fresh air and exercise will do him good. And the work will keep him too busy to fret. “I’m sure someone will put you to work. Tell them you have until dinner, but you’re to eat with me and you’re busy afterwards.”
“Yes, Athos,” d’Artagnan says obediently. He rises to his feet. Not gracefully – he’ll never be graceful – but the gangly coltishness of the young country boy has mostly been worn away. Athos misses it sometimes. He’s proud of the man d’Artagnan is becoming, but the boy he’d been had been beautiful, too. Well, such is the nature of the world. And in spirit d’Artagnan will always be Athos’ boy.
“Take your cloak,” Athos instructs. “It’s chilly.”
D’Artagnan dons it obediently. He hesitates before leaving, though.
“Yes?” Athos asks.
D’Artagnan leans forward suddenly, burying his face in Athos’ lap and hugging Athos’ legs. “Thank you for your faith in me,” he breathes. “I won’t let you down.”
Athos strokes d’Artagnan’s hair for a moment. “I know you won’t,” he says. Then he tugs d’Artagnan up. “Go on.”
“Yes, Athos,” d’Artagnan says again. He goes.
Athos smiles fondly at the closing tent flap. Then he reaches over for the personal kit bag that contains his more specialized supplies. He’s been saving one last vial of lube for a special occasion, and he suspects tonight will be it. Aramis and Porthos will have their own for Aramis, of course. They always stock well for extended journeys, and Aramis has connections that allow him to obtain more. Athos has allocated his space in other ways. But he’s not completely unprepared for d’Artagnan’s needs.
Athos has seen Porthos’ cock, after all. And d’Artagnan has been a very good boy. Yes. D’Artagnan’s more than earned a little extra help when it comes to taking Porthos for the first time.
That decided, Athos takes up a book to pass the time until dinner.
Dinner passes uneventfully, though Athos has to prompt d’Artagnan to eat more than once. Athos’ boy keeps pausing, spoon dangling forgotten from one hand while he stares at Aramis or Porthos. In the end Athos allows d’Artagnan to return his plate still half-full. If d’Artagnan doesn’t have much appetite there’s no point in forcing him. And given the size the cock that’s going to be churning up his guts shortly, perhaps it’s just as well that d’Artagnan’s stomach isn’t completely full.
Athos does insist on d’Artagnan’s having dessert, though. He wants to keep tonight’s focus on Aramis and Porthos. D’Artagnan sucks his cock expertly, no longer embarrassed to service his master out in the open by the fire at night, and swallows his after-dinner meal without complaint. Athos tucks himself away in satisfaction. In his youth, he might have been ready to go again before the end of the night, but fortunately he’s older now. Athos needn’t worry his own lust will interfere with the evening’s events.
Brasseur takes the dishes away; d’Artagnan fetches water and banks the fire. Then Athos rises and beckons to d’Artagnan. Aramis and Porthos join them, and all four retire together.
De Guignes, watching them go, opens his mouth to comment. Laflèche shoots him a quelling look. The other Musketeer subsides.
“Don’t be scared,” Athos murmurs.
“I’m not,” d’Artagnan says, obviously lying. “Brasseur says there’s nothing to be scared of. He does groups often. He likes them.”
“Brasseur’s a slut,” Athos says. He uses the term without censure. The other young man in their squad had come to Paris already experienced in the ways of male loving. His problem had been the opposite of d’Artagnan’s. Left to his own devices, Brasseur would be fucking the whole regiment weekly. Havet has his hands full keeping Brasseur in line.
D’Artagnan is a different case. His inexperience requires a slower, gentler approach. But, if Athos isn’t blinded merely by his own preference, he thinks d’Artagnan’s future potential exceeds Brasseur’s. Brasseur enjoys service well enough, but he’ll enjoy being served just as well when he reaches that stage in his life. Athos doesn’t think d’Artagnan will. Some boys never become men. Preparing d’Artagnan to embrace that life is a sacred charge.
The point is – “What’s easy for Brasseur may be harder for you. That’s all right. We’re not expecting you to be perfect. We do expect you to be honest.”
“We don’t want to hurt you,” Porthos rumbles from Athos’ side. “You must speak up at once if anything causes you pain.”
“Real pain,” Athos amends. A certain amount of discomfort is to be expected when being fucked, after all.
“I will,” d’Artagnan promises. He sounds relieved.
Which tent to use had been a matter of some debate. Athos had initially wanted to use his, since it would be familiar to d’Artagnan and hopefully put him more at ease. Aramis prefers using his own tent for much the same reasons. After some discussion, a compromise has been reached. They’ll use Athos’ tent. But they’ve used the afternoon to bring in several items from Aramis’ and Porthos’ to make the space feel more comfortable.
D’Artagnan enters the tent last and kneels blinking in the entrance, taking in the changes. They’re not many. These tents are larger than the one-man pup tents the Musketeers carry on field missions, since they’re intended for long-term use. There’s room for a small folding table and two camp chairs. A man may stand upright in the center. And most Musketeers maximize the space available by sharing a single bedroll. But that still doesn’t leave much to work with. In this case, Aramis had brought over his bedroll and laid it out next to Athos’, since they need room for three. Aramis has hung a crucifix over the tent’s entrance where he’ll see it from the ground. Porthos’ curious carved lantern has also come, the story of which Porthos has never shared. It lights up the tent farther but casts odd patterns on the tent wall. D’Artagnan appears fascinated by them, reaching out to trace one with curious fingers. Aramis relaxes in their presence. To him the flickering lights mean safety and comfort.
“Wine?” Athos offers. He sits down in his usual chair. D’Artagnan immediately shuffles over on his knees to undo Athos’ boots, relaxing further at the familiar routine.
“Please,” Aramis says. “And I think some for d’Artagnan as well.”
Athos considers this, then nods his assent. D’Artagnan perks up with interest when he’s handed the cup. He tastes it eagerly. Athos doesn’t usually allow d’Artagnan spirits. But Aramis is right in this case; they’ll help take the edge off.
Aramis drains his glass at once and holds it out for a refill. Porthos nurses his. Athos produces a second bottle and tops Aramis off, then himself. D’Artagnan drinks his slowly. He understands that there won’t be any more.
Athos sets his still-full second glass aside and unbuckles his belt, shedding his outer layers. As if this is a signal, Porthos and Aramis do the same, disrobing entirely. D’Artagnan, still fully dressed, looks at them and swallows. Even flaccid Porthos’ girth is obvious and impressive. Some of d’Artagnan’s nerves visibly return.
“Drink,” Athos says, holding the cup to d’Artagnan’s lips. It serves the dual purposes of distraction and relaxant. Athos doesn’t take the cup away until d’Artagnan has swallowed it all. Over d’Artagnan’s shoulder, Athos watches Porthos lay Aramis down gently and begin to make love to him, kissing and teasing, fingers wet with lubricant.
By the time d’Artagnan finishes the wine, he’s beginning to feel its effects. Athos had been generous with the pour. D’Artagnan’s far from drunk, but the buzz makes his eyes go soft, and he smiles up at Athos with heartbreaking earnestness. “I won’t let you down,” he says again.
“I know you won’t,” Athos promises. He sets d’Artagnan’s empty wine-glass aside and gives d’Artagnan a gentle nudge.
D’Artagnan goes over to Aramis and Porthos willingly. Porthos has two fingers inside Aramis already. This part isn’t the problem, from what Athos has understood. Aramis’ rapists hadn’t bothered to stretch him out first. The problem comes later.
Porthos withdraws his fingers and passes d’Artagnan the oil. “You continue with Aramis,” he instructs. “I’ll get started on you.”
“On me?” d’Artagnan asks, startled. He twists over to look at Athos.
Athos smiles at him. Reaching into his pocket, he produces the saved bottle of lube and hands it over to Porthos. “On you,” Athos tells d’Artagnan. “Because you’re a good boy, and you deserve it.”
“Oh,” d’Artagnan says, a breathy choked little exhale. His eyes are over-bright as he stares at the bottle in Porthos’ hands. His smile is sweet, so that Athos can’t help bending to kiss it. D’Artagnan tastes like the peaches they had grown at la Fère in Athos’ childhood, his surprised pleasure fizzy on the tongue.
“I told you,” Athos murmurs to him when they separate. “Your pain is never the point.”
“Thank you,” d’Artagnan breathes. “I don’t deserve it – I doubted you, I did – ”
“Shh,” Athos comforts. “I know you did. It’s all right. It’s natural for you to be nervous. Now you know: I will always take care of you.”
“Yes,” d’Artagnan says again, and kisses Athos once more. Then Athos settles d’Artagnan back in Porthos’ arms and goes back to his chair.
“I don’t need any more right now,” Aramis says, tugging d’Artagnan to lie down next to him. “Let’s do d’Artagnan.”
“All right,” Porthos agrees. He unstoppers the bottle Athos had handed him and dips his already wet fingers in. They come out coated and gleaming. Porthos sets the bottle aside carefully on the small folding table and kneels to press them into d’Artagnan, gently, his other hand holding d’Artagnan’s balls out of the way.
“Oh,” d’Artagnan says in surprised pleasure, bucking at the unfamiliar touch. Porthos’ fingers are bigger than Athos’, and d’Artagnan’s probably feeling the burn. But the lubricant will make the slide sweet in a way it hasn’t been for d’Artagnan for a long time. If the arch of d’Artagnan’s body is any indication, he appreciates it.
“Come here,” Aramis says, tugging d’Artagnan closer until Aramis is cradling the boy. Aramis slides his finger into d’Artagnan’s hair and guides d’Artagnan’s lips to his nipples. “Athos says you suck well. Prove it.”
D’Artagnan goes to work with a will, lapping and suckling at Aramis’ chest while Porthos continues to manipulate d’Artagnan’s hole, eventually adding a second finger. D’Artagnan twists under Porthos’ ministrations. He pants like an untried boy. From his elevated angle in the camp-chair Athos watches d’Artagnan’s hole flutter around Porthos’ fingers. The other Musketeer’s hands are of a piece with the rest of him: the two thick fingers together are nearly as large as Athos’ cock.
Aramis chuckles. “Porthos is good at that, isn’t he?”
D’Artagnan moans his agreement. He’s not suckling as assiduously as he had been a minute ago. Athos frowns, but Aramis doesn’t seem to mind. He’s amused at d’Artagnan’s reaction to Porthos’ touch.
“Had a lot of practice lately,” Porthos says self-deprecatingly.
“Even a master must remain in practice,” Aramis says lightly, not reacting to the reference. He gives Porthos a wicked smile, then leans down to murmur in d’Artagnan’s ear. “They’re large, aren’t they? You feel like you’re full already. I love his callouses. The way they feel when they rub inside me – there’s nothing like it.” Aramis shivers. D’Artagnan does, too.
“But you’ll have to take more than that tonight,” Aramis goes on. “He’s got two inside you right now – only two. You’ll take one more before you’re ready for his cock. And even then, when you feel him for the first time, oh, you’ll think you’re a virgin again.”
Porthos looks up sharply. Aramis had started off calmly enough, but by the end of this speech bitterness has seeped into his voice. Aramis is frowning down at himself, d’Artagnan apparently forgotten. Porthos reaches for Aramis automatically. But Aramis flinches slightly, and Porthos stops, hand frozen in midair.
D’Artagnan has followed the entire exchange. Porthos had pulled his fingers out in his attempt to go to Aramis. It leaves d’Artagnan free to roll onto all fours. Athos’ sweet boy climbs into Aramis’ lap, twining his arms around Aramis and kissing him. Aramis makes a surprised noise, but doesn’t recoil. D’Artagnan is slender and coltish, and so obviously eager for Aramis’ approval that it doesn’t occur even to Aramis to view d’Artagnan as a threat. The tension in Aramis’ body relaxes and he kisses back. Porthos watches them both with a relieved smile.
Aramis ends the kiss. “Thank you,” he says, smiling at d’Artagnan.
“Yes, thank you,” Porthos echoes. He strokes a grateful hand down d’Artagnan’s back; d’Artagnan arches into it, especially when Porthos returns to toying with his hole. Even through his pleasure, though, d’Artagnan still looks over his shoulder to where Athos sits.
“Perfect,” Athos tells him simply. “You did exactly right.”
“Let’s do it,” Aramis says. “I don’t want any more time to think.”
“Why not try it like this?” Porthos suggests. “With you sitting up?”
Athos nods. This seems like a good idea.
But Aramis says, “No. No, I need it to be the same. I won’t let anything remain from them.”
At Aramis’ push, d’Artagnan climbs out of his lap. Aramis takes a deep breath and squeezes Porthos’ hand. Then he lays down on his back and arranges himself.
“All right,” he says. “D’Artagnan – ”
“Let me check you one more time,” Porthos interrupts. “Let me make sure.”
Aramis sighs, but nods. Porthos leans down and checks to make sure Aramis is stretched enough, wet enough.
“All right,” Porthos says after a moment. He reaches over and picks up the nearest lubricant – Athos’, not that Athos minds. Porthos slicks d’Artagnan’s cock efficiently. D’Artagnan can’t help thrusting into Porthos’ touch; it’s been months since anyone else has touched d’Artagnan there, part of d’Artagnan’s lessons about subordinating one’s own pleasure. Athos hasn’t forbidden masturbation – he’s not cruel – but a life of service doesn’t leave much time for solo play. As d’Artagnan has grown more adept at finding his release while pleasing Athos, too, there has simply been less of a need. Athos suspects d’Artagnan had managed to forget how good the touch of another could feel.
Athos will have to add a regular milking to d’Artagnan’s routine. Perhaps weekly. D’Artagnan shouldn’t be unused to touch. He merely shouldn’t take it for granted. Athos has clearly overshot somewhat; he’ll correct that in the future.
In the here and now, Porthos takes his hand away after only a rapid stroke up and down, leaving d’Artagnan thrusting into empty air. “Save it for Aramis,” Porthos murmurs, amused.
“As soon as you please,” Aramis adds impatiently. “Porthos – ”
“Of course,” Porthos says, laying his hands on d’Artagnan’s hips. “D’Artagnan, relax. Let me guide you.”
Aramis reaches up and lays his own hands over Porthos’. Together they urge d’Artagnan to shuffle forward, still on his knees, between Aramis’ spread legs. Porthos changes his grip to support d’Artagnan’s upper body, eliminating the need for d’Artagnan to lean forward and use his arms to support himself, preventing d’Artagnan from looming over Aramis. Aramis leaves his hands on d’Artagnan’s hips. Slowly, carefully, Aramis guides d’Artagnan home.
D’Artagnan and Aramis both gasp. Porthos, by contrast, holds his breath – and holds d’Artagnan. D’Artagnan’s body visibly trembles with sensation. Buried deep in another man for the first time, after months of touch deprivation, it must be overwhelming. Athos can see the muscles in d’Artagnan’s body lock up, torn between the conflicting need to thrust and the certain knowledge that he must not. Porthos’ grip on d’Artagnan tightens, keeping him still.
Aramis’ tension radiates out of him like a living thing. D’Artagnan’s cock is barely average length and on the thin side. Nothing compared to Porthos or, Athos would bet, Aramis’ rapists. Easy to take. But size isn’t the problem. Aramis hasn’t accepted a cock within himself for nearly a full year. Not since he’d been raped. Yes, two of Porthos’ fingers dwarf d’Artagnan’s manhood. But it’s not a function of size; it’s a function of identity. Even a cock as small as d’Artagnan’s must feel overwhelming.
The tendons in Aramis’ wrists and neck stand out with the strain. One hand quests blindly; Porthos changes his grip on d’Artagnan to be one-handed and reaches back out, twining his fingers with his lover’s. Aramis’ turn white with the force of his grip. His eyes seem almost to be burning.
D’Artagnan begins to shake harder. Athos finds himself out of his chair before he knows he means to move. He kneels behind d’Artagnan and wraps his boy up in a gentle embrace.
“Shh,” he murmurs directly into d’Artagnan’s ear, feeling d’Artagnan relax almost immediately at the familiar voice. “It’s hard, I know. You want to move and you mustn’t. But you’re doing so well. I know how hard you’re working to hold still. I’m so very proud of you. Just be still. Listen to my voice. Relax. I’ve got you. You’re not going to fail. I’ll help you. I’ll make sure of it. Be still.”
Porthos had released d’Artagnan the moment Athos had taken him into his arms. He clearly wants to help Aramis and just as clearly has no idea how. They’ve both tried everything they could think of on their own. If any of it had worked, they wouldn’t have asked Athos for help in the first place.
“Just hold my hand,” Aramis whispers to Porthos. “Talk to me, let me hear your voice – ”
In a burst of inspiration, Porthos throws himself down on the bedroll next to Aramis, putting them at the same level. He doesn’t reach out to gather Aramis in his arms, obviously fearful that Aramis’ fear will read his embrace as a form of restraint. He only grips Aramis’ hand between both of his own and says, “I’m right here, Aramis, right with you, everything’s okay. Athos and d’Artagnan are here too. That’s d’Artagnan you feel. And if he tries to hurt you so help me God I will rip him to pieces.”
D’Artagnan stiffens in fear. Athos tightens his embrace, never faltering in his litany of soothing praise. But Aramis – Aramis laughs. It’s a wet, tear-stained chuckle, but it’s more in the way of mirth than they’d heard from him in a long time.
“Thank you,” Aramis whispers. “I – I’m ready to continue.”
“I don’t know if that’s – ” Porthos starts.
“Please,” Aramis says. “I want to. I won’t be conquered by this. I won’t let them win.” He takes a deep breath. “Keep going, d’Artagnan. Don’t stop again.”
Athos and Porthos share a long look. Then Athos nods to d’Artagnan.
D’Artagnan’s hips snap forward like the hammer on a musket, all the coiled tension released at once. Aramis cries out with it. D’Artagnan moans, too, nearly overwhelmed. Athos has seen d’Artagnan like this before. It won’t do. At this rate it will be over too soon.
Athos reaches up and grips d’Artagnan firmly by the back of the neck. Grounding him and asserting his control. “Steady,” he instructs. “You’re not ruled by your body. Nor controlled by your desires. Remember everything you’ve learned.”
“You,” d’Artagnan gasps. “You rule me.”
“That’s right,” Athos agrees, letting the steel show in his voice. “Listen to my voice. I’ll count for you. You may thrust only once per count. Take a deep breath. Good. Now. One. Two. Three…”
D’Artagnan shudders all over with the effort of obeying, but Athos is implacable, and d’Artagnan is too well conditioned to ignore his master’s voice. Under Athos’ direction d’Artagnan sets a steady pace, neither too fast nor too slow. Aramis isn’t experiencing the fucking as pleasure yet. The air around them is thick with the ghosts of his rapists. But Porthos never stops talking or holding Aramis’ hand. Aramis stares at d’Artagnan’s face, reminding himself that he can force d’Artagnan to stop any time he wishes, and at d’Artagnan’s hips, where Athos is obviously in control, holding d’Artagnan’s pace steady.
“Athos,” d’Artagnan pants. “Athos, please. I’m, I can’t, I can’t, please…”
“You can,” Athos says firmly. He releases one hand from d’Artagnan, who moans with the loss of this control, and fumbles hastily with d’Artagnan’s hair. Athos had bound it back before coming here, thinking it should be out of the way. Now he frees it to tumble down d’Artagnan’s back like a miniature waterfall. He releases d’Artagnan entirely – his hips stutter with the effort of maintaining the rhythm by himself – and ties the freed length of cord that had been a hair tie around the base of d’Artagnan’s cock.
D’Artagnan shrieks at the feel of it binding his flesh. Athos checks, worried, but it’s not too tight. D’Artagnan’s protest is entirely involuntary. His orgasm had been closer than even Athos had realized; the cock ring comes none too soon.
“Hurts,” d’Artagnan sobs. “Athos, please, it hurts.”
“No, no,” Athos soothes. “It doesn’t hurt. It just doesn’t feel as good.”
“Please,” he begs. “It feels like it’s cutting me in half.”
Athos tugs on it again. It gives beneath his fingers, showing clear daylight between itself and d’Artagnan’s skin. “It’s not,” Athos repeats. “It feels that way. I know. You were close, weren’t you?”
“Yes,” d’Artagnan sobs.
“Too close,” Athos says sternly. “You’re not to come yet. Look at Aramis. He’s barely begun to enjoy it.”
D’Artagnan shakes his head back and forth in denial, tears leaking from his eyes. Athos reaches around and seizes his chin in his hand.
“Look at Aramis,” he orders again, gripping more tightly when d’Artagnan doesn’t immediately obey. “Look.”
D’Artagnan pries his eyes open and looks. Aramis is watching them wide-eyed. His cock is still mostly limp, but firming under their gaze. The fear is finally beginning to ebb from his face. Helped, Athos realizes suddenly, by his show of dominance. It’s proving to Aramis that he really is in control. That d’Artagnan is no more than an object in tonight’s tableau, a sex toy under Athos’ direction, made over to Aramis for the duration of the evening. Safe.
Porthos sees it, too. He smiles up at d’Artagnan and Athos in joy. “You’re doing it,” he whispers.
D’Artagnan takes a deep, shuddering breath. “I’m doing it.”
“You are,” Athos says intently. Willing d’Artagnan to believe. To find the inner strength necessary to follow through with it, though it’s grown much, much harder than Athos had bargained for.
“Keep moving,” Aramis says.
Slowly at first, d’Artagnan resumes thrusting. As his thrusts speed up, Athos senses d’Artagnan achieving a new state of serenity. D’Artagnan’s own arousal becomes distant and unimportant. He’s focused entirely on Aramis’ needs. Athos praises his boy lavishly, so proud he could nearly burst with it.
Aramis’ cock hardens further. The last of the fear leaves his face, to be replaced with pleasure. He nearly laughs aloud. It comes out as a moan. Porthos, watching him, breaks into a disbelieving smile.
“Love you,” he whispers. “Oh, God, Aramis.”
“Porthos,” Aramis says back. “Want it to be you. Wish it were you.”
A look of longing crosses Porthos’ face, but he shakes his head. “Better not to rush it,” he says regretfully. “Finish it with d’Artagnan this time.”
“You in him,” Aramis says. “Like we planned. Please, Porthos?”
Porthos hesitates. “Are you sure? You wouldn’t rather I stayed here?”
Aramis’ look hardens into determination. He reaches out with his free hand and stops d’Artagnan from moving. “I’m sure,” he says.
“As you command,” Porthos says hoarsely.
There’s a few moments’ pause while everyone reshuffles positions. Porthos props Aramis up with a few pillows, so he’s not completely supine, and glares when Aramis tries to protest. Athos shifts sideways so Porthos can press up behind d’Artagnan, but keeps one arm around d’Artagnan’s shoulders. With his other hand Athos reaches over and takes Aramis’. Now they’re all connected. A warm circle surrounding Aramis, protecting him, cherishing him. Just the way it should be.
Porthos checks d’Artagnan’s hole again and finds it somewhat wanting. He grabs the lube and restretches it hastily.
“I’m good,” d’Artagnan says breathlessly.
“Be sure,” Athos directs. He won’t sacrifice d’Artagnan’s needs for the sake of a few seconds.
“He’s good,” Porthos confirms. The large Musketeer slicks himself up rapidly. “Take a deep breath, boy.”
D’Artagnan obeys. As he lets it out, Porthos slides home.
D’Artagnan sucks the breath right back in with a shocked cry. “Oh my God,” he swears. “Oh, oh, God, Athos – ”
Athos tightens his arm around d’Artagnan’s shoulders. “You can take it,” he says, low and intense. “D’Artagnan, do you hear me? I have faith in you. I know your limits. These aren’t they. You are so much stronger than you think you are. You could do wonders if you’d only believe. But it’s all right. I’ll believe for you. I know. And I’m telling you you can do this. You can take it. Take it all. So proud of you, d’Artagnan. You’re doing so very, very well.”
D’Artagnan grips Athos’ shoulder, punishingly tight. Athos takes it. D’Artagnan needs the release. His precious boy gasps around the strain of taking Porthos, short panting breaths that help him get the sensations under control. Athos can envision it perfectly, supplying snatches of memory from his own brief novitiate. D’Artagnan is pinned between the huge hot length in his ass behind and the throbbing incompleteness of his bound cock before. His body screams at him to move, but no direction can bring the relief he seeks. His mind demands that he pleasure his masters, but all their demands seem contradictory. D’Artagnan must move with Porthos, but he must not thrust until Aramis says. He must serve Athos, but he must be under Aramis’ instructions. He must receive Porthos and give to Aramis. D’Artagnan cries out blindly for help.
“Move,” Aramis orders. “D’Artagnan, move!”
Released, d’Artagnan drives forward, self-control frayed and nearly gone. Aramis takes him willingly, thank God. Porthos moves, too, and Aramis’ hips rise to meet them both. The two lovers lock eyes over d’Artagnan’s shoulder, and reach around him to hold hands.
“I will never let anything like that happen to you again,” Porthos swears.
“I won’t let it keep me apart from you any more,” Aramis replies in kind.
The two of them fall into rhythm so naturally it’s as if d’Artagnan doesn’t exist between them. Athos’ boy goes limp. He lets Aramis and Porthos move him without regard for himself. It’s breathtaking to watch. D’Artagnan has found a place inside himself that very few people can access. He’s truly subordinated himself to Aramis and Porthos’ needs. Athos is right: d’Artagnan is something special, and he’s destined for so much more than an ordinary life.
Porthos comes first. He roars his completion and shoves deep into d’Artagnan, making d’Artagnan spasm even in his state of relative insensibility. He shoves d’Artagnan forward into Aramis in short, sharp thrusts and reaches around to stroke Aramis’ cock with an oddly gentle touch. Moments later, Aramis comes too, wide-eyed and silent and beatific.
Porthos withdraws and reaches out to Aramis. Athos pulls d’Artagnan away, letting the two lovers reunite. They embrace each other with tears and laughter as if that one shared orgasm is the solution to all of their problems. It’s not, Athos knows. But it’s a start, and that’s more than they’ve had in a long time.
Athos’ attention is focused on d’Artagnan, boneless in his arms, trapped cock still hard and throbbing. Athos settles himself more firmly and allows d’Artagnan to loll back against his chest. As gently as he can, he undoes the hair tie.
D’Artagnan’s shocked from his state of serenity by the painful sensation of blood rushing fully back into his cock. Athos regrets the need for the cock ring. It’s farther than he’d expected tonight to go. It’s farther than any of them had thought they’d need to go. But the night has taken them all to places they hadn’t foreseen. And d’Artagnan had done so very well.
“Almost over now,” Athos whispers in d’Artagnan’s ear, taking him in hand. “I’ll take care of you.”
D’Artagnan shudders again and moans at the feel of Athos’ hand on him, shrinking away as if Athos’ touch burns. Perhaps it does. As aroused as d’Artagnan is, it may be painful.
“Here,” Aramis says. He comes to kneel by Athos, Porthos at his side. The three of them form a triangle with d’Artagnan in the center. Aramis holds the open bottle of lubricant. He dips his own fingers inside, then passes it to Porthos, who does the same, and then hands it to Athos.
Athos slicks his palm. Carefully he wraps it around d’Artagnan again. This time his boy doesn’t shudder from his touch. Athos glides his hand gently up and down, and d’Artagnan lets his head fall back against Athos’ shoulder, moaning gently with pleasure.
Porthos reaches down below Athos’ hand and cups d’Artagnan’s balls in one huge palm. He rolls them together expertly. Athos can feel d’Artagnan’s pleasure twist up another notch at this unfamiliar caress. He makes a note: if d’Artagnan likes this, further training can be arranged. That flesh is so magically sensitive, the barest touch can bring it pleasure or pain.
Aramis, meanwhile, slicks one long, delicate finger and nudges it below d’Artagnan’s balls. He circles it around d’Artagnan’s swollen and puffy hole. D’Artagnan jerks away at first, but Aramis is persistent, and Athos is holding d’Artagnan in place. The finger breaches d’Artagnan and slides in. D’Artagnan jerks again when Aramis finds his pleasure center.
Aramis sets up a relentless pressure. Athos approves. D’Artagnan’s been on the edge long enough; he’s more than earned his release, and delaying it any further would just be cruel. D’Artagnan’s body doesn’t understand that. It fights their ministrations, demanding patience and gentleness. Athos has to exert most of his strength to make d’Artagnan accept what he needs. Aramis strokes his pleasure button, Porthos kneads his balls, and Athos strokes his cock. It takes only moments before d’Artagnan comes, spurting over all their hands, and passes out entirely in Athos’ arms.
“He did well tonight,” Porthos says, watching Athos lay d’Artagnan gently down on the disarranged bedrolls. “You should be proud of him.”
“I am,” Athos says fervently. “There aren’t words to describe how much.”
“Give yourself credit, too,” Aramis says. He’s embracing Porthos again as if, having been apart for so long, he can’t bear to be apart a moment more. “You’ve done wonders with him. I wasn’t sure what you saw in him at first. I see it now.”
“He’s a natural,” Athos says. “He’s made for this life.”
“I can tell,” Aramis agrees. “But even a natural can be spoilt by a bad master. Under you he’s blossomed. And I am the beneficiary. Thank you.”
“We are all the beneficiaries,” Athos says. He reaches out and lays his hand atop Aramis and Porthos’ joined hands. “You are special to me, too. I am so very glad we were able to help. And if you need anything further – ”
“We won’t hesitate to ask,” Porthos says. “And thank you, from me, as well.”
“You are welcome,” Athos repeats.
Aramis yawns.
“You need sleep,” Porthos says to him. “Come on. Let’s go back to our tent.”
“Don’t worry about the second bedroll,” Athos says. “You can get it in the morning.”
“Thank you,” Porthos says again.
“Bring the lantern?” Aramis says around another yawn. “It’s important.”
“Of course,” Porthos says, carefully taking it down from its peg. The strange light patterns dance on the wall as it’s moved.
Athos and Porthos both help Aramis stand. When he’s upright, though still supported by Porthos, Athos hugs them both.
“Welcome back, little brother,” Athos says.
Aramis smiles. “It’s good to be back.”
“Good night,” Porthos says. “And be sure to take care of that boy of yours. We owe him, too.”
“I will,” Athos promises.
Porthos nods. He’s careful as he leads Aramis out into the night. Athos watches until they reach their tent, only a few steps away, and disappear inside. Then he fastens the flap down and turns back to d’Artagnan.
Athos’ boy barely stirs when Athos kneels down next to him with a damp cloth. “Shush,” Athos says anyway. “You did well, d’Artagnan. Go back to sleep. You’ve earned it.”
“Ar’m’s?” d’Artagnan murmurs.
“Going to sleep as well. He’s well. Better than well. You were perfect, d’Artagnan. Now I’m going to take care of you.”
“S’p’s’d to take care’ve you,” d’Artagnan protests.
“You’ve already taken very good care of us all,” Athos soothes. “As I said. You’ve earned this. Accept your reward.”
“Chores,” d’Artagnan says faintly.
“Brasseur will do them this evening. And in the morning, too. Sleep. Just sleep.”
D’Artagnan mutters something incomprehensible, but sinks down into slumber.
Athos finishes cleaning d’Artagnan up, then sets aside the dirty cloths to be cleaned later. He rolls up Aramis’ soiled bedroll likewise. The one d’Artagnan is laying on is clean; the position they’d eventually adopted had spared it from much activity. Athos performs his own nightly rituals with quiet efficiency and blows out the lantern, sliding down next to d’Artagnan.
He revels in the feel of his boy in his arms, feeling again an impossible swell of pride at how well d’Artagnan had performed today. Some of it is Athos’ training, as Aramis says, but as much of it had been the boy himself. It’s as Athos had said. The boy is a natural. Special. Meant to serve. He’s got a bright future ahead of him. He’ll speak to Treville as soon as the Cardinal gets back from La Pierre. The Captain has an eye on d’Artagnan already, but there are other promising youths in the Musketeers. Athos needs to make sure Treville understands what a jewel they have in d’Artagnan. Trained up properly, d’Artagnan will lead the regiment itself in time, and serve the future King and his eventual First Minister as well as Treville himself does the current ones.
All of that is for the distant future, though. For tomorrow, d’Artagnan will show off his skill at service on Havet and Brasseur. Havet likes novelty. Brasseur likes groups. And the chores for tonight and tomorrow morning weren’t done for nothing.
For tonight, there is triumph. Aramis and Porthos are safe and well and together again at last. D’Artagnan has taken the next step on his journey, and Athos sees the way before them, clear and stretching out into a brilliant future. As the fires die down in la Rochelle and the camp sinks into another night’s slumber, Athos holds his beautiful boy close to him, and dreams pleasant dreams.