Work Text:
The first time it happens, it's the summer Joe is fourteen. He wakes up one morning with an ache inside him, a deep, burning ache that gets into his bones and heats his skin flushed-red and sweaty, the same ache in his balls where his cock is tenting his briefs.
See, at first he doesn't think much of it. It's morning wood as usual, most likely, and he's been sleeping with a thick duvet even in the dry summer weather, so that explains the heat, too.
The alarm clock on the bedside blinks 4.37 AM, too early for anyone else to be up – ha – so Joe throws the duvet back and reaches down. He's already so hard he's leaking, the slick skin ridiculously hot under his sweaty palm. Every stroke runs burning-red and freezing-cold up his spine, pulling his muscles tighter and tighter as he gets closer, but at the same time, incredibly relieving. It takes a minute, maybe two, and then he's coming, hard, the lukewarm liquid almost soothing to his blazing-hot skin.
The problem is, though, it doesn't make the ache go away in the slightest. Joe feels scalded and frostbitten at the same time, sore, like stepping into a too-hot shower but at the same time like the wind cutting into his face on a cold day. His cock is a bit sore, but when he runs one hand down to stroke at the shaft and cup his balls, it's still standing erect. He figures, why not, maybe that will help. He's got the feeling that that's the reason behind the ache, that it all starts in his balls, still all tightly wound and ready to come.
Turns out, he's probably right, because after he gets himself off a second time and then again a third time, the ache has settled long enough that he can get out of bed and take a shower to rinse the sticky come from his skin. He has another wank under the spray of ice-cool water, too desperate to care about the goosebumps that run up his skin, and when he gets back to his room, he doesn't bother with putting any clothes on.
He sits cross-legged in his desk chair, a box of tissues positioned on the computer monitor, and the better part of that morning, he spends going through his porn folder. By the end of the day, he's managed to watch every single video, telling his mum when she knocks at the door that he doesn't want to be disturbed, and the ache is still there. He's seen everything, guy-on-girl, girl-on-girl, guy-on-guy, spit roasts and sandwiches, and none of it had managed to relieve that burn inside, that near-constant need to come. It all seems too far away, too unreal. No matter how hard he thinks about having someone's mouth or cunt or arsehole around his cock, the ache makes it all too apparent it's his own hand he's thrusting into, or his own Vaseline-slick fingers inside of him.
The short periods between wanks, when the ache has subsided enough, he's spent downloading more porn, weird porn. At one point, googling “heightened sex drive” and “death by being too horny”, just in case, which both only yield even more weird porn. That night, after one final wank with three fingers twisted up his own arse and the other hand working his cock so hard it aches in his wrist, he sleeps restlessly, only a few hours before the ache wakes him back up.
That day and the next two days after, Joe spends watching all those videos he's downloaded, videos of butt plugs and anal cream pies, lesbian double penetration and men being fucked up the arse by women with dildos and riding crops. All those things that he's never thought about before that are marginally more satisfying than the normal stuff. He manages to get in 30 minutes of rest between each wank without feeling like he's going to die of the ache, an hour if the video is particularly good. An hour and a half, maybe two, if he puts fingers up himself, and on the third day, putting clothes on no longer seems completely like a bad idea.
It takes four days total until the ache disappears. He's in the middle of a video of a fat European woman with two cocks inside her when he comes, long and hard all over his hand. When he's coming down, that boneless feeling of post-orgasm settles in, the one he'd been missing for so long. He slumps down in his chair, skin beginning to cool under its sheen of sweat. His skeleton no longer feels rubbed raw, but his cock does, now. Joe is almost positive that he won't be able to get hard again for the next week or so.
The next summer, and then the summer after, it happens again. For a couple of long, long days he can't do much other than get off, over and over again like an animal during mating season. He's pretty sure he begins to develop carpal tunnel the year he's fifteen. It starts to be slightly less terrible the next year, when he's got a girlfriend and she takes her time to come over and fuck him once every day. That, sex, having another body pressed up against the sweaty heated muscles of himself, that's good enough to make the ache bearable for three or four hours, but on the other hand, it also makes regular wanking that much less exciting.
Some evenings, when Joe is on his twenty-fifth or twenty-sixth wank of the day – he started counting them the first time it happened, in disbelief of the fact that it even was possible, and never really stopped since then – he has half a mind to go out and sneak into a club or some party he's not actually invited to, pick up a girl or a bloke to help him out with the ache, but he never does.
The summer that he's seventeen, he's got Rhys, who's surprisingly cool about the whole thing.
That year, the ache starts on a Saturday. Joe gets the idea of calling Rhys somewhere into his fifth or sixth wank for the day, but he waits until after the ninth, when it's 1 PM and he can be sure that Rhys is no longer asleep.
“Hello?”
“Rhys? This is Joe.”
“Hey. What're you doing?”
There's no gentle way to do this. “...I need some help.”
“Help with what?”
“We need to have sex.”
“What?”
“I'm serious.” Fuck that, the ache is back to full force again. Joe spits in his free hand and tugs at his cock and doesn't even try to suppress the sigh that slips out. “I have a condition. Where I really need to get off.”
Rhys laughs. It's annoying, but also, just what Joe expected from this. Also, kind of sexy. “Joe, if you want to have sex with me all you have to do is ask nicely.”
“Well, I'm asking nicely. I need a shag. Please?”
“...are you touching yourself right now?”
Joe grins. “Maybe?”
“Well, stop doing that. Would rather you come over mine and let me help you out.”
And Rhys hangs up. Joe doesn't listen, though, he finishes himself off quickly and then slips on some clothes. The bus ride to Rhys' takes too long, and Joe is almost certain that this awful permanent hard-on is showing through his trousers. He's only in a t-shirt and sweating his arse off with the heat trapped inside him, but then, when he's finally there, Rhys doesn't bother with any small talk or courtesies before it gets good.
This is probably the main reason why Joe thought this would be a good idea to begin with. Rhys will have quick no-strings-attached sex with virtually anyone, never leaves a party without a bird on his arm, or without being on the arm of a bloke, for that matter. He greets Joe by kissing him full on the lips, hungry and ready, squeezing his cock through his trousers, and Joe just groans in response and slides his fingers under Rhys' shirt. This is what he needs, soft skin under his fingers and someone's body pressed against him, and Rhys laughs and says something under his breath that Joe doesn't understand.
“Told you I needed it,” he replies into Rhys' open mouth, which would probably feel lovely wrapped around his cock. Later maybe.
“Yeah, yeah, all right.”
Joe ends up spreading Rhys' legs open and fucking him on the nearest flat surface, which also happens to be a table. The entire time, Rhys whines and keens and strokes himself, until he comes and Joe has to pull away. His insides are tight, so much tighter than a girl's cunt could ever be, even after Rhys had hurriedly shoved two lube-slick fingers inside himself. Joe ends up coming into him twice. When Rhys tells him to stop and pull out, he feels like he can still go, even when the ache isn't too bad any more, so he jerks himself over Rhys' abdomen and adds to the sticky puddle of fluid already there. Then, because he feels bad about the mess he's made of Rhys and of the table, he licks it all off. From Rhys comes nothing but heavy breathing for a couple of seconds, and okay, if Rhys is in any way grossed out, that's certainly unexpected, but Joe supposes he can understand.
“Jesus fucking Christ.”
“Jesus fucking Christ what?”
“Did you really just come three times in under fifteen minutes?”
“Guess I did.” Joe pulls Rhys up from where he's slack and post-sex relaxed on the table, a thing which Joe wishes he could be, but not for another couple of days. Rhys tastes like sweat and spit and chapped lips when Joe kisses him, carefully, and keeps him close.
“And you're still hard.”
“I told you, it's a condition.” He pauses for a second and strokes Rhys' hip, which has a dark mark forming over the bone. Fucking hell, he gripped hard enough to give Rhys a bruise. “But it can wait for now.”
“Can we lie down or?”
“Yeah, sure.” Joe wipes at the sweat collecting at his clavicles, not sure what to do. He's just had sex with one of his mates, what are you supposed to do in that situation. “Sorry about your table, by the way.”
They spend the next half hour or so watching some talk show programme in Rhys' bed, Joe all too aware of the fact that he's still hard and Rhys only half conscious, but when the ache becomes too apparent once more, he says yes to a second round either way. This time, Joe lets Rhys fuck him, and, wow. It's not like he doesn't know how good it feels, but like this, it's different.
Rhys has long, thin fingers that seem to know just how to prod and twist and find that one spot with ease. When he replaces those fingers with his cock, Joe is pretty much gone, from the burn of the stretch alone. Then Rhys nudges his prostate once and he comes, with an embarrassing cry and his fingernails digging into the flesh of Rhys' back. Rhys fucks him through it, of course, keeps fucking him and makes him come a second time. And a third time with his mouth, for good measure.
“Do you reckon I can stay until it's over?” Joe asks when he's done wiping himself clean on the sheets.
“How long does that take?”
“Four, five days?”
Rhys grins. “Why not.”
A small pause, and then he says, “fuck, I'm hungry.”
Joe shrugs, since during that time of the year, he's usually too preoccupied with wanking to eat, or even notice his stomach growling. They end up ordering a large pizza and eating in bed.
Then the ache is built up yet again and Rhys is beginning to feel disgusting, so they fuck again in the shower. This time, Joe comes only twice, the first time inside Rhys and the second time all over his face and his hair. He just came in someone's hair, shit's sake, and Rhys doesn't even mind, which is probably the greatest part of this.
After the weekend is over, after they've fucked on the living room carpet and on the sofa and the wooden floorboards in the bedroom, with Joe bent over the bathroom sink, Rhys calls in sick to work. They spend the next two days all over each other, over the kitchen counter, in the shower, on one occasion, on the scratchy carpet in the hallway. Joe counts thirty-one orgasms on Monday, a personal best for him, and twenty-six on Tuesday.
When the ache wears off, he's riding Rhys on the creaky mattress, fucking himself down faster and faster on his cock and working on number twenty-seven. He comes so hard that the whole world goes off kilter for a second, shaking-jittering and teeth in his lip and vision going blurry and all that, and then, like that, he's boneless and empty and relieved. Joe thinks he can feel Rhys finish inside of him, warm and sticky against his hypersensitive nerve endings, but in the haze of pleasure that rolls down his back, it kind of gets lost.
“Fucking hell,” Rhys whispers, and the look on his face is exactly how Joe feels, satisfied and caught up in post-sex bliss, except it must be a million times less intense for Rhys.
“Yeah, fucking hell,” Joe repeats and rolls off of him. He's not sure if it's appropriate to curl up into Rhys' side, but honestly, even if it makes him sound like a sap, he'd appreciate some cuddling right now, so he goes for it.
“Your thing. Is it gone now?”
“It's over, yeah. You reckon I can stay here tonight?”
“Do you expect morning sex?”
“I don't think I want to even think about sex again for the next three weeks.”
“Mm, me neither. Stay, then.”
Joe pushes his face into the crook of Rhys' neck, inhales the heavy smell of sweat there. Then he has a thought. “Is this going to be weird?”
“Nothing weird about it. Just doing a favour to a friend.”
“Good. Think we can do it again next year?”
The next year, when Joe is eighteen, they do it again. They both take time off work the morning that Joe wakes up with heat and ache all over him, and five days later, when it ends, neither of them can still walk properly.
The year after, Joe has Harry, who's almost just as good with dealing with this thing, condition, what it is as Rhys. At one point between orgasms, he wonders if that's a thing that runs in the family, but then he realises how gross that thought is, so he stops.
The year after that, when Joe is twenty, there's the band, he's in an actual touring band and they're recording an EP and they've made a video, and it's so, so surreal. The ache sets in on the last day of tour, while they're on the road. As soon as Rhys catches on, he gets the van to pull over at a service station. He fucks Joe in a bathroom stall until he's come twice, gets him off with his fingers a third time to be sure he'll make the rest of the ride okay, and then sucks him off in the backstage toilets before they go on stage that night. With all that, Joe can ignore the ache for long enough to not fuck up during their short set and make it back to his flat safely.
This year, though. They're in the middle of tour, and Joe wakes up aching-hard and generally-aching in his bunk.
Seriously, fuck this time of the year, fuck it sideways with a long, splintering stick. It's early morning, too early for anyone else to be up – ha fucking ha – so Joe pulls his briefs down just far enough to get his cock out.
He's never been subtle about wanking on the bus, and he's not going to start now. It's a thing that's bound to happen, when you're stuck on the road for weeks on end. Yeah, it's probably a thing you're supposed to politely ignore, but, honestly, when he's lying in his bunk late at night trying to get to sleep, Joe can't not pay attention to the sounds coming from outside. So, he's got a pretty good idea of what all his band mates sound like when they come. Right then, caught between the daze of just waking up and the itch of that-time-of-the-year burning under his skin, that's a pretty good masturbation fantasy.
Joe squeezes his eyes shut. He knows very well what Rhys sounds like when he comes, and what he looks like, too, maybe too well. Rhys always has trouble keeping quiet, even in the dead of night when he should be. He's all heavy breathing and shapeless moans when he's getting off, unless he has fingers inside of himself, then he sort of... squeaks, high-pitched and girlish, which should probably be unappealing. When he's getting fucked, he's talkative, always asking for it harder, faster, yes, just like that, and throws his head back and gets a look on his face like he's tripping out.
Yes.
Joe squeezes his fingers around the base of his cock as tight as they will go, slowly fucks the ring of them and it's good, so good, eases the tension out from under his skin and out of his muscles. Still, though, it would be better if someone else was touching him, or sucking him, fucking him. He's almost tempted to wake Rhys up for a quick shag. But then, it's what, half six, and Rhys gets ridiculously cranky when he's woken up at that time of morning, and besides, there's a fucking massive line between jerking off with the rest of the guys a few feet away and flat-out sex.
No Rhys, then, and maybe that means it's time to move on to the next. So Josh is it, then.
Joe knows what Josh is like during sex as well, from a couple of drunken late nights that neither of them ever talk about. He's always eager for it, always pressing his hips back and scratching, biting at Joe's flesh until it makes deep dark bruises and burning red lines bloom at his neck and back. Joe lets his free hand trail all over his chest, pinching and clawing at his hips, his stomach and ribs, nails leaving little half-moon incisions. The sharp-white sting of pain burns his skin and flashes in his brain. It melts into the big ache, makes him buck his hips faster into his hand. Joe thinks of Josh's face framed by that tangled mess of black-and-white hair. His so, so fuckable swollen lips hanging open in a perfect reddened 'O', or maybe he's got the bottom one caught between the pointiest of his teeth. Those teeth that run shivers down Joe's spine when they're scraping over his neck, or sinking into his collarbone, that's good, and, change of position.
As much as he likes Josh when he's tight underneath him and begging for it harder, just with low, deep moans, Joe loves it much more when he's got Josh on top of him, thrusting in relentlessly hard. Josh likes to talk when he's fucking Joe, to call him a little slut and make him beg for it harder, and, yeah, yeah, fuck.
“Slut for you.” The words slip past Joe's lips when he doesn't mean for them to, but he's fairly sure no one could have possibly heard.
In his fantasy, Josh is fucking into him that bit harder, pressing his mouth to the sweaty skin of Joe's neck. His breath is heavy, almost hotter than Joe's insides feel, and he whispers, “tell me how much you love it.”
Joe feels all too empty, suddenly, without a larger body on top of his and without someone filling him up. The Josh in his mind wants to hear more, everything, loving every single word that spills from Joe's lips.
Tom, though, Joe is pretty sure Tom wouldn't be like that. Tom would be going about sex the same way he does everything else, cool, calm and collected, and in control. Tom's the only one of them who doesn't make any soft noises late at night, doesn't keen or gasp or grunt like the other guys. If it weren't for the small creaks of the mattress in his bunk, the skin-slapping-skin sound of wanking, Joe would guess that he doesn't get off at all. Yeah, Tom likes to make sure he doesn't make any noise, wants to keep it a secret, and Joe likes to think that he'd be the same way when he's fucking someone else rather than his own hand.
He pops three fingers into his mouth, presses down on his tongue and sucks them in as deeply as possible to get them slick. Something Tom would do, keep him from making any noise. It's Tom's fingers in his mouth, and a few seconds later, pressing wet against his opening. The angle is awkward, the way it always is, and his bunk too narrow to spread his legs properly, but Joe gets the first two in easily enough. He fans them out a bit, pants at the feeling of being stretched, and then crooks them inward to stroke that spot. There's a jolt, sharp and ice-cold over his skin, stark contrast to the burn of the ache, and such, such a relief.
His fingers press in all the way to the knuckles, and he's full, but not as full as he could be, or should be, rather. When he adds the third one, it's a snug fit, a burning pain in the muscles of his hole. Joe wants, needs more to alleviate that ache. He tries to thrust in deeper, as deeply as the angle will allow, anyway, prods his prostate so hard it should be painful and keeps tugging at his own cock. It's not enough, though, couldn't possibly be enough.
What he needs is to be fucked, but not by fingers, by Tom, if it's possible, or maybe, fuck, Faris.
Faris, he's the one who seems like he'd be above it, whatever “it” is, but he's definitely not above letting out deep grunting noises when he's getting himself off at night, sounding more like an animal than a human. Besides, fuck, Joe has seen him naked, during fleeting moments in dressing rooms, and he's not sure whether he'd be able to take that monster Faris calls a cock, not that he wouldn't like to try either way. Faris would be the type who just doesn't care during sex, who's all rutting hips and about getting himself off without caring about who he's got under him. Joe thrusts his fingers in so quickly it stings.
All it takes is a fourth finger pressing against the rim of his hole, that and the mental image of having Faris press him down into the mattress, Faris' massive dick grinding into his insides, and Joe comes so hard that for a few seconds, he physically can't breathe.
“Fucking hell.” He sinks back into the sheets when it's over, sticky with sweat and come. The bus is still silent. For a few seconds, Joe is overly aware of the sound of his own heavy breathing and his booming heartbeat. There's more silence, and then, a soft voice from the bunk above his.
“Joe?” Fuck. “Are you awake?”
It's Rhys, rather than one of the other three, thankfully. Joe exhales. “Yeah.” Then, “can you come down?”
“Give me a second.”
When Rhys pulls back the curtain of his bunk and climbs in, carefully, because space is limited, Joe is only pulling his briefs back up. He figures he should have at least some decency.
“So, you're up early,” Rhys quips when he settles down in the bit of space at the foot of the mattress.
It's a dick joke, a bad one at that. Joe gives him the side-eye. “It's started again.”
“Fuck.”
“Yeah, fuck.”
It's a day off today, they've got a hotel booked in the next town, and Joe guesses it could be worse. Hotels mean showering, and an actual bed. Also, sharing a room with Rhys, if he can arrange it. Maybe day one isn't going to be that terrible.
There's a short moment where neither of them say anything, and then Rhys says what Joe has been thinking. “You want me to help you out?”
“If you don't mind?”
“Be quiet, yeah?”
He gets Joe off with his mouth, just once, and Joe has to muffle his groans in the crook of his arm in order to not risk waking up anyone else. When Rhys pulls away, wiping his lips on the back of his hand, Joe runs one hand through his sleep-messy fringe and asks, “mm, do that again?”
All he gets is a shake of the head. “Sorry, can't. I've got an idea.” Rhys pulls back and gives him a smile, that smile, and even when the ache isn't that bad at the moment, Joe still has the desire to get off again.
It's the same smile that Rhys had on his face the first summer they'd spent together, before he'd pressed two of his fingers into Joe next to his cock, making him feel fuller than he'd ever been before. The same smile as the summer when Joe was eighteen, when Rhys had tied him to the headboard and not let him go until he'd squeezed out fifteen orgasms in the space of two hours. Yeah, fuck, that smile is most definitely a good sign.
“I'm going to go get dressed. Don't be a twat, yeah?”
Rhys gives Joe another smile and pecks him on the lips, and then, like that, he's gone.
Some hours later, after three more orgasms, all from his own hand and highly unsatisfactory, they're having breakfast at a service station. Joe somehow manages to actually not be a twat, even if he's got a painful erection straining against his trousers.
It's another hour, another wank in the cramped little toilet of the bus, until they finally get around to checking into the hotel. Even then, Rhys still won't give him any sort of gratification. He takes a shower after throwing his bag onto one side of the bed and makes a point of locking the bathroom door, and then, he leaves, so Joe has another wank while he takes his own shower. After that, he's managed to make the ache subside just enough to be able to take a nap.
When he's woken up, after what couldn't have been more than an hour, it's by, of course, the ache burning all the way through his muscles and his bones again, and also, a knock at the door. He's tempted to just not say anything and rub one out quickly, but then, Rhys' voice comes softly, “Joe? Can I come in?”
Joe covers himself with the sheet, not really out of modesty, because he knows where this is going, but he figures he should at least be subtle about it. “Yeah, go ahead.”
Rhys walks in, the other three trailing after him, and Joe feels really, really indecently exposed.
“Fuck, sorry. Would've put clothes on if I'd known it was all of you.”
They're all taking seats on the bed, Josh and Faris at the foot, Tom and Rhys side by side on Rhys' side of it, and, okay, now Joe is really wondering what this is all about. The bed is big, more than big enough for two people to sleep in, but now, with three extra people, three rather attractive people at that, it feels cramped, and Joe feels far too desperate.
“Relax,” Tom says, petting the sheets too close to Joe's knee idly. “You're not going to need any clothes.”
“What's this all about?” Joe asks, because, really, there's no way this is actually going where he wants it to go.
Josh gives him the most irritating smirk. Faris says, “we're going to fuck you. One after the other.”
“If you want to,” Rhys adds. His hand slides to where the sheets are bunched up by Joe's hip and pulls, exposing Joe even more and making the fabric slide over his aching dick. Joe gasps.
“Of course I want to.” He reaches down and gives his cock a tug, feels the relief run down his back in a cold shiver and asks, “why are you doing this?”
Instead of a proper answer, Tom pulls Joe's hand away by the wrist and kisses him, soft but deep, tongue probing past the line of his teeth. He brings one hand up to cup Joe's cheek and the other to rub circles on his chest, nibbles softly at his bottom lip. There's so much contact, the most he's had since that-time started this year, and it's such a relief. Joe is vaguely aware of Rhys' hands tugging the sheets down all the way, leaving him exposed to the air-conditioned hotel room and everyone's eyes. A hand, so calloused it must be Josh's, slides up the inside of his thigh, so close but so far from his cock.
“We want to help you,” Tom says, after he's pulled away for a second, “with your little...” A pause, for effect. “Condition.”
The only reply Joe can muster up is a soft “mm,” because at that moment, a second hand runs up his other thigh to pet his hip and slide around to pinch his arse, all while carefully avoiding his cock.
“Going to make you come so hard it will fuck the horny right out of you,” Josh adds. Joe contemplates telling him that sadly, it doesn't work like that, but on the other hand, he'd still like to see them try. “Over and over again.”
“Fuck,” Joe whispers. He doesn't miss the smirk on Rhys' face.
“That a yes?”
“Of course it is.”
At the foot of the bed, Faris has unbuttoned his shirt halfway and is now in the process of getting it over his head, and Tom seems preoccupied with taking his off as well.
Josh undoes his belt buckle and tosses a small bottle of lube against the headboard. “You want to get yourself ready for it?”
“Yeah, fuck. Of course, of course.”
The first two fingers slide in easily enough. Like this, it's easier than on the bus, there's plenty of room for Joe to spread out his legs, and Rhys' hand on the back of his thigh to help with the angle. Joe twists his fingers experimentally, moves them to prod at his prostate once or twice, “fuck,” before he adds a third so he can stretch himself open properly.
Another “fuck,” and this time it's not his own voice, but rather Josh's, Josh, who's lost his shirt as well and is now in the middle of helping Faris get his trousers off. “I kind of want to eat him out.”
“You can eat him out later,” Faris says, and Joe nods in agreement. As much as he enjoys the thought of having a wet tongue buried inside of him, lapping at the sensitive skin around his entrance, right now, he needs something more solid, a cock to fill him all the way up. He'd be able to have Josh's mouth later, between orgasms, sucking everyone's fluids out of his hole and soothing the sore flesh, and, fuck. Good thought, and Joe begins to stroke his cock with his other hand.
“No, don't touch yourself,” Rhys says, tugging his hand away once more. Joe almost wants to complain. “Not yet. Just stretch yourself out, that's all.”
“I reckon I'm good to go for now.”
Rhys grins once again, positively malicious. “Still.” His hand stays where it is, pinning Joe's wrist to the mattress as if to prove a point, and he leans down to peck Joe's lips briefly. “Don't.”
“You're such a tease,” Joe points out. He pulls his fingers out of himself and wipes them clean on the sheets. Before he can even try to touch himself with that hand, Rhys is already leaning over him and holding it down as well.
“I told you. Don't touch yourself.”
“Okay,” Joe breathes, even when he's tempted to protest. Right now, all he needs is to be fucked, and he figures if he's obedient, they're more likely to comply.
“Good boy.” Another feather-light kiss from Rhys, so soft and quick it feels like being mocked. “Who do you want to go first?”
“Mm. You?”
“Not me. I've got plans,” Rhys says. There's that smile again, fuck. “Someone else.”
“Rude.”
Rhys laughs at his face, and Joe laughs back. He lets his eyes trail to Tom at his side, then Josh and Faris at the foot of the bed, all of them left in only their pants now. They're all leering at him, almost predatory, and it makes Joe's skin crawl, the feeling of being desired, of being watched, running through his aching-hot muscles like a shiver.
“Josh, then?”
“Yeah,” Josh replies, “yeah, why not.” His face changes into a feral grin when he moves all the way onto the bed, pausing only to pull his briefs so low he can get his cock out.
Joe can't help but lick his lips at the sight of it, thick and reddened with blood, the sight and the thought of having it fill him up. He needs it. Maybe he's a bit desperate, but he can't help it. Also, if the way Josh's eyes trail down his body and the way he gives himself a quick squeeze are any indication, that feeling of need is definitely mutual.
“Fucking hell,” Josh says, low under his breath. His calloused hands slip up Joe's thighs, spread his legs out a little further and expose his stretched opening even more. “You're bloody hot.”
He licks his lips slowly, hungrily, and his hands move down further, to Joe's arse, pulling his cheeks apart.
Somewhere, there's the sound of skin-on-skin, sounds like one of the other guys has pulled his cock out. The thought of that is thrilling, more so than just being watched. Joe feels like he's being preyed on, an object to wank over, but he doesn't dare to move his eyes from Josh's dick, heavy and already a bit slick with precome. He considers tasting it, letting Josh fuck his mouth while he's got one of the others filling him up.
Josh licks his lips once more and whispers, “sorry, but I've got to.”
Before Joe can really process what's going on, his knees are pushed down against his chest, tightening his gut and forcing the air from his lungs. The wet heat of Josh's tongue drags over his taint, presses softly against that spot from the outside, and Joe keens. His fingers bite into the sheets tightly when Josh sucks at one of his balls, trying so hard to be obedient and not go straight to his cock. Rhys fidgets around him, takes a hold of his wrists and keeps them useless and bound together with something that might be a tie above his head. Now Joe is truly fucked, not literally, unfortunately, but helpless and exposed to all of them around him, completely at their disposal.
“Just making sure you don't touch yourself,” Rhys says, soft and almost caring, if it weren't for that distinct malice in it, and presses Joe's wrists into the mattress for emphasis, “yeah?”
It takes Joe a moment to really register it, but then he nods. Josh's mouth has pulled off of him, pretty much as soon as Rhys had grabbed for his wrist, but he's still hovering close by. His hands are on Joe's arse, warm breath fanning teasingly over his opening, so close but so far.
“What a good boy,” Josh comments, fingers pinching at the inside of Joe's thigh. His mouth presses hot and wet over Joe's hole, tongue pushing inside.
Joe squeaks, actually squeaks when he feels the slick muscle jabbing into him, slowly fucking him even more open than he was before. He pushes back automatically against the motion, as good as he can in this position, but Josh's hands move from his arse to his hipbones and hold him still. His tongue keeps working, though, fucking into Joe deeply before pulling back and trailing soft licks over the sensitive skin around his hole, setting up a stuttering rhythm. Somehow, it's both too much, the sensation lighting up all the nerve endings there and running white-hot shivers up Joe's spine, and not nearly enough. He needs it hard, now, harder and deeper than Josh's tongue wedging itself halfway inside of him, needs to be fucked already.
“Josh, come on,” Joe whines, during a short moment when Josh has pulled away a bit, only probing his hole with the very tip of his tongue.
Somewhere next to him, Tom is swearing under his breath, and when Joe looks, he's got his cock out, too, that and Rhys sucking on the skin of his neck. Their eyes meet and Tom fucking smirks, for whatever reason. Josh's mouth moves to the flesh of Joe's thigh and bites, fucking sinks its teeth in so hard it stings.
Joe squeezes his eyes shut, and he must have made a pained noise, because Josh lets out that fucking giggle and licks over the mark he'd just left, soothing it.
“Come on,” Joe repeats, “fuck me already,” too needy and desperate, but to be fair, his cock is aching with the need to come.
“No need to be so demanding,” Rhys replies, almost condescending, and leans forward to grasp Joe's jaw between two fingers and bring their lips together. He tastes different than normally, or maybe Joe's just imagining that, tastes like Tom. “Or do you want me to stuff your mouth, too?”
Really, Joe wouldn't mind that much, to be completely at their disposal with no means of asking for more or for them to stop, without his hands, too. Maybe to have his mouth stuffed with a cock, let one of them fuck his throat. At that thought, he groans.
“Hm?”
“I'll let him have it, Rhys. Can you move?”
Surprisingly, Rhys actually listens to Josh, moves back to his previous position of having one hand on Tom's dick and the other one pinching at his own nipple. Maybe that sight shouldn't make Joe as jealous as it does. There's this small thought in the back of his mind that Rhys is his, always has been and will be, because Joe had him first. Besides, it's really not fair that he's lying here aching and eager when Tom has Rhys' mouth all over him.
“Joe. Joe, look at me.”
“What?” And Joe does, meets the predatory gaze that Josh is watching him with from between his legs.
Josh's fingers are gripping the flesh of his arse tightly, pulling his cheeks apart, and Joe can feel the head of his cock, slick and cold with lube, rubbing against his hole. He groans.
“Be quiet or I'll stop,” Josh instructs, voice curled maliciously, sending chills down his spine. Joe bites his lip and nods, curls his fingers into themselves for a lack of anything else to hold on to. Then, then Josh is pushing into him finally.
Even when he's already loosened and stretched out, it still burns, a sweet, sweet burn that runs hot-and-cold up his back. Joe worries his lip raw between his teeth to muffle the drawn-out keen that threatens to slip out from his mouth. When Josh is all the way inside him, so close that Joe's cock drags against his stomach, finally getting some friction, he feels full, so, so full at last, stretched and open and just waiting to be fucked properly.
Joe brings his legs up to around Josh's waist, in an attempt to pull him in deeper, and he can already tell he's not going to last.
“Fuck,” Josh whispers, leaning down to take Joe's face into one large hand and press a wet kiss to his lips. Joe accepts, too far gone to care where Josh's mouth had been before. He parts his lips and lets Josh fuck his tongue in slowly, the same rhythm he's now beginning to thrust his hips. “So hot.”
Josh's other hand comes down to pull the flesh of Joe's arse once more, to spread him that further open around his cock. That, Josh's wet mouth lapping at his lips and the slow burn of being fucked is enough to pull the bottom of Joe's stomach tighter, to make his balls feel taut with the need to come.
“Mm, harder, please?” and Josh obliges, forcing Joe's knees back with his weight once again and thrusting in roughly.
It only takes a few nudges of Josh's cock against his prostate before Joe's coming, finally, orgasm already built up painfully in the pit of his gut, so hard he can't help but cry out softly.
Josh fucks him through it, until it's over and he begins to slow down, “no, no, don't stop, keep going. Faster?”
“God. You really weren't kidding,” someone says, not Josh, but Joe is too far gone to pick out whether it's Tom or Faris speaking. The ache is already building under his skin again, twitching and twisting, and he rolls his hips back up against Josh in the hopes of getting more friction on his cock.
“Come on, fuck me, harder, harder,” Joe gasps out, too wanton and too needy, skin burning with ache and insides twitching with nerve endings lighting up. “Josh, touch me?”
“You talk way too much,” Josh hisses out, hot breath rasping against his neck, and then he's sinking his teeth in, so deep Joe can feel the skin break.
He's about to protest, starts, “don't fucking bite,” when he's cut off by one of Josh's hands forcing itself over his mouth and plugging three fingers in.
Joe sucks them in deep and gets sticky, skinny fingers rubbing over his cheekbone and Rhys purring “good boy,” for it, and, fuck. His stomach tightens again, already getting closer to the next orgasm, and Josh fucks those fingers further into his mouth, making him splutter around them with the wordless moans he can't keep from spilling out.
“You've a beautiful mouth, fuck,” Josh chokes out between two deep thrusts, moves in a bit closer to bite at the corner of Joe's gaping-open lips, teeth clipping into the soft skin for a moment. His other hand finally moves down to where Joe's cock is neglected and precome-dripping hard against his stomach and gives it a few rough tugs.
Joe keens, makes a high-pitched, animalistic noise through the fingers stuffed into his mouth, and Josh just grins down at him.
“Quiet,” he insists, and Joe obliges, or at least, tries his hardest to keep it down.
That hand keeps on stroking, thumb rubbing under the head of Joe's cock, and it only takes a few more minutes of deep thrusting and low moans slipping out from both their mouths until he comes for a second time.
This time, when Josh begins to slow down, Joe just keeps on groaning even with those fingers keeping him from making any comprehensible words, the slow burn of Josh's cock dragging over his prostate ever so slightly getting him all riled up again. By the time that Josh pulls his hand away, finally, he's slowed down so much that Joe can barely feel the movement, only the first few inches filling him up. No, please, he needs it, needs to keep being fucked that hard.
“Keep going, come on,” Joe gasps out, a split second after he registers that he can finally speak properly again, and Josh just shakes his head and pulls all the way out.
“Too close,” he whispers, and then he's pushing the head of his cock into the puddle of white-clear liquid on Joe's abdomen, “can't,” and it only takes a couple more strokes of his long fingers until he's gone as well, adding to the mess there with a harsh gasp. Joe watches his face, the way his lips part into a slack little 'O' before he twists one between his teeth, all red and puffy, and then this look of ecstasy and relief settles in. It's envy, almost, watching Josh come down and knowing he won't be able to for the next few days. Then, though, Joe supposes this has its advantages, too, when he feels the deep need to come still built up in his balls, feels himself all open and stretched out and feels the fluid pooling in the dip of his stomach soothe his burning skin.
He's tempted to push a finger into it, have a taste like the slag he is for this, used and needy for more. He doesn't, what's with his wrists still tied together.
Faris darts out one hand, swipes his two fingers through the sticky come and pops them into his mouth, just because he can, seemingly. He sucks them deeper in, hollows out his cheeks obscenely, fuck. Faris has a lovely mouth. All full bow lips perfect to bite at and perfect to slide his cock between, maybe sometime late, Joe reckons. He's always figured, on the odd occasion that he's thought about it, that Faris would be above sucking cock, too selfish and obsessed with getting off himself, but fuck, his mouth. The noise that slips out when he removes those fingers is completely pornographic, runs a shiver all the way down Joe's spine and through his dick. Fuck, he needs Faris to fill him up as deeply as he can.
“You want me to go next?” Faris asks, his voice all low dirty gravel and sexy, almost matter-of-fact. He leers down at Joe from where he's kneeling on the bed mostly nude, predatory eyes fixed on his mouth, travelling over his neck and chest down to his cock, to where he's got his legs spread all too wide.
“Need you to,” Joe replies, voice coming out heavier than he would have expected it to.
He feels even more exposed than he did before, come-stained and tied up, and he can fucking hear Tom's hand moving faster on himself. He doesn't fucking dare to move his eyes from Faris, though, keeps trailing him with his gaze when he moves off the bed and pulls his briefs off, and.
“Mother of fuck.” The legends are true.
Yeah, Joe's seen Faris naked before, but not like this. What the fuck, he's got to be packing about nine inches. Maybe ten, but either way, it's the biggest dick Joe has ever seen outside of porn. Bigger than a lot of dicks he's seen in porn, come to think of it. “You're a bloody freak of nature.” He's got an urge to reach out and touch, just to ensure he's really not making it up, and Faris looks at him and grins.
Somewhere behind him, he can hear Rhys trying not to laugh, that soft sound that slips out when he's trying to suppress it. Still, when he says, “you should turn over,” his voice comes out low, filthy, and at this point, Joe doesn't even question why. Anything to get that monster cock as deeply as possible inside him.
Still, it's hard, to try and flip himself over when his hands are still bound, and he doesn't really succeed. He'd be ashamed if he wasn't that far gone, desperate with the ache wound tightly inside of him.
“Wait, let me help you,” Rhys' voice comes again, softly this time, caring, and once more, his fingers work at the tie keeping Joe's wrists together. “There you go.”
“Thanks.” Joe doesn't make any effort to hold himself up on all fours after he's turned over, legs aching with the strain of keeping them up. He's beginning to feel fucked out already, limp and weak, but the ache is still there, settled deep in his gut and keeping him going.
“You're okay?” Rhys asks, hair already a bit tousled with sweat and lips swollen. His eyes are all blown-up big, like he's the one under the influence of this ache. Condition. Whichever. He runs his thumb along the part of Joe's wrist where the tie was, tender, and that little touch to hypersensitive skin alone flares up his nerve endings and goes straight to his cock.
“Bloody brilliant.”
“Yeah.” Rhys smiles down at Joe and grasps his jaw between thin fingers and kisses him, brief and surprisingly tender. When he pulls back, Rhys holds out one hand, the scarf he'd used to tie Joe's hands grasped within, and asks, obviously to Faris, “you want to tie him up again?”
“Yeah, just give me,” Faris starts. Rhys hands him the tie, and then Joe's wrists are gripped once again and pulled backwards.
Joe can feel the bed dip behind him, feel Faris secure the knot, tight enough that the flimsy fabric digs into Joe's flesh. Faris is almost straddling him, legs pressed against the outside of Joe's thighs, warm and heavy over him, and then he's pulling Joe up to his knees with strong hands on his hips.
Joe can feel Faris, almost all of him, hipbones against the flesh of his arse, calloused fingertips in his skin and Faris' dick, that dick resting hot and thick in the crease of his arse.
“Don't fuck around,” Joe breathes, almost pleads. To his own ears, it sounds both too desperate and not near desperate enough to match how needy for it he feels.
“Not gonna,” Faris replies, and then he's gone, just a split second, before the head of his cock presses back against Joe's hole, slick with lube and almost chilling to the raw-heated skin. “Not gonna make you wait.”
Joe pushes his hips back, just a little, and Faris pushes forward, and then. Then he's got the head in, the head of that massive, massive cock breaching the tight muscle of Joe's hole, already stretched but still aching and burning around the girth of it. Faris slides in deeper, nudges his cock against Joe's prostate while he's at it, which results in an almost embarrassing squeal coming from Joe at the sudden sensation. Then that thing has got to be most of the way in and Joe feels full, all stretched out and so, so satisfied.
From Faris' mouth slips a soft hiss. His thumb strokes the rim of Joe's hole, the skin there all strained and hypersensitive, and it just makes Joe ache for more, for Faris' dick to be buried all the way inside of him and pounding him relentlessly.
“Thought you weren't going to fuck around...?”
“Give me a second,” Faris presses out. His voice is smaller, softer than Joe would have expected it to, and in a way, it's bloody hot. “Just, you're so fucking tight.”
“Only 'cause you're so big,” Joe replies, and immediately feels like a porno cliché for it, but really, it is that big.
Faris makes a self-satisfied little noise and rolls his hips, once, twice, and then he's got to be in balls-deep, filling Joe up all the way. And Joe feels stretched, completely full. He can feel Faris' cock all the way in his stomach, he swears. It's an ache, really, but the type of ache that runs deep shivers up his spine and makes him ask for more. Instead of anything that remotely sounds like “more,” though, the only noise that comes from his mouth is a pained sound deep from his throat. Faris seems to get it either way, starts to thrust in a steady rhythm, and when his cock rubs over that spot once more, Joe bites his lip to keep the yelp in his throat from slipping out.
“Just like that,” he whispers, after a few seconds when he's managed to catch his breath, and Faris obliges, fucks in again at the same angle, but deeper, so, so deep that Joe feels like he's being ripped apart in the best way. “So fucking big,” he repeats, right as that huge, huge dick nudges his prostate.
In response, Faris lets out a grunt, deep and animalistic, and that's how Joe feels, too, like he's being fucked by an animal.
“I love your cock,” he gasps out, and isn't sure why, what the point of it or anything is, other than getting that thing in as deep as possible. Joe presses his hips back, in an attempt to impale himself further on Faris' cock, and gets thin fingers pushing themselves into his hair, pulling them forward.
“You talk way too much,” Rhys says, disdain in his voice and malice on his face, and the next second, he's moving over to make room for Tom, who's already stark naked and so hard it looks painful. Joe would take pity on him, if it weren't for. Well.
Tom's one hand comes to join Rhys' in Joe's hair, the other gripping the nape of his neck, and Joe doesn't have to be instructed any further to open his mouth and accept. He looks up at Tom with eyes wide, vision hazy, and Tom shoves in, almost hesitantly. The heavy weight of him, that's the first thing Joe registers, that and the salty taste of precome on his tongue, and then Faris thrusts in from behind once more and forces him down deeper onto Tom's cock.
Joe lets out a noise when it hits the back of his throat, not sure himself whether it's in pleasure or in pain. He gags a bit, but still, this feels just like what he needs, to be fucked in both ends and have that bloody ache alleviated by the stretch in his hole and the burn in his jaw. When Tom pulls back, Joe lets out a mournful sound, not sure whether he should buck back against Faris' hips or lean further forward to take Tom's cock into his mouth once more.
“It's all right, go ahead. He likes it.”
Joe makes a soft little noise to confirm that he does indeed like it, need it, even, and Tom guides his cock deeper into his open mouth once more. He doesn't make a noise when Joe gives it a lick, pressing his tongue into the slit, but his fingers slide down onto Joe's shoulders and stroke, almost cool against the overheated skin, and that's almost just as rewarding, really. Faris thrusts deeper into him again, and like this, both of them fucking into him with the same rhythm, he can't help but moan for it harder, wordless sounds around the flesh in his mouth.
“Fucking hell,” Faris mumbles under his breath, so low Joe barely picks up on it. One of his giant hands trails from Joe's arse to his hip, up to the sweaty skin of his side and to his arse again, like it just wants to touch for the sake of it. “Bet I could make him come just with my cock.”
Then he does. Twice, in fact, with deep, dirty thrusts that drag over Joe's prostate just right, almost painfully, but it runs ice cold down his spine and makes the ache fade out. Above him, Faris grunts and sinks his fingers in deep into Joe's flesh, stubby nails scraping patterns into his hips, animalistic and painful and so, so good. The rhythm is too fast, too violent for Joe to really suck Tom's dick, but Tom doesn't seem to mind. His breath coming out in harsh little gasps, he strokes Joe's working throat and his face, praisingly, while Joe lets Faris fuck him deeper onto both their cocks.
After the second orgasm, when Joe's legs are beginning to shake and his arms are aching in their bindings, delicious ache, best ache, Faris begins to speed up. Joe wouldn't have found it possible for him to go even faster, but he does, hips snapping back and forth, and he's got to be close, his thrusts growing erratic.
“Should make you come again,” he breathes out, voice heavy and filthy, “want to have you clenching down when I come.”
Joe makes a low sound of desperation, feels like even if he didn't have Tom's cock halfway stuffed in his mouth, he wouldn't be able to form proper words to beg for it. Faris' massive hand comes down and grasps his cock, leaking-hard and neglected against his stomach, and when he starts jerking it, carelessly and quickly in time with his thrusts, that's when Joe lets out probably the most embarrassing noise he's made yet and when Tom pulls back for good.
“You look lovely, like this,” a voice comes, so deep it has to be Faris', when Joe's face slumps back into the mattress and his mouth falls open on a ragged groan. “All fucked out and ruined and still want more.”
“Should see how much more he can take,” another voice, obviously Rhys', suggests.
Joe briefly wonders what he could mean with that, but then it seems obvious, one of Faris' fingers pressing heavy and spit-slick against the rim of his hole where he's already stretched out so far. A brief second of hesitation, anticipation, and then it's inside, burrowing in past the second knuckle, and a second later, another one squeezes in beside. Then he's open, so, so stretched it feels like being ripped apart in the most wonderful way, the widest that he's ever been spread.
All it takes is two more sweaty strokes of Faris' hand, another rough thrust battering over his prostate, and then Joe is coming again, so hard that even biting down on the flesh of his cheek can't stop the series of pained noises from slipping out of his mouth. His insides are burning, not just where he's stretched out around Faris, but his heart is hammering, his lungs, for a second, he forgets to breathe. He shivers, shakes and goes almost completely limp under Faris' weight, and Faris grunts and pulls out, coming sticky over Joe's stretched opening.
For a second or two, Joe doesn't move. His brain is too hazy and his body too fucked out, all limp and overstimulated except for his still aching-hard cock. One hand moves to his wrists once again, and when it unties the tie, they fall freely to his sides.
“Are you okay?” Rhys' voice comes, and then, when he doesn't reply, he's being manhandled to turn over onto his back once more.
“Fuck,” a voice comes, most likely Faris', and all that Joe can say to that is “fuck,” as well.
Another voice, “is he crying?” and yeah, he is, moisture hazy and mingling stingy with sweat in his eyes, staining his heated skin, and instead of a proper reply, Joe just sobs. He's not sure when he started doing this. Or why.
“Joe?” Rhys again, and one of his thin hands strokes over Joe's jaw, up to his cheek and wipes at the tears there.
It takes a second, but then he can muster up the strength to nod, his brain finally beginning to clear enough for him to notice them all sitting around him. Faris looks a bit fucked out, sweat shining on his collarbone and his arms, Josh more so, his hair limp and his mouth swollen. All four of them have similar expressions of concern on their faces, and Joe just nods again.
“Joe, do you want us to stop?”
Rhys leans in and presses a soft kiss to his neck, the same spot where Josh had had his teeth earlier, and Joe twitches. “No.” His arm feels a bit numb when he moves one hand into Rhys' perfect-shiny hair and presses their mouths together, just quickly, his fingers weak and unsure, like he's forgotten how to use them in the small time that his hands were tied. “Don't stop, you don't have to.”
“Do you want to keep going?”
“Keep going,” Joe repeats. “Please.”
“Good, good.” Rhys' breath is already coming out a bit faster when he moves down the bed to properly lay his weight on top of Joe, his cock bumping against Joe's through the thin layer of his briefs. “Let's get you cleaned up.”
His skinny fingers move down to the slippery mess on Joe's stomach, then back up to his face. He pulls a face when he starts to lick the milky fluid from them, and Joe laughs, but it still comes out sounding fucked out. Rhys pushes his hand into his face, still half coated in come, and Joe accepts, sucks the bitter-salty taste of himself and Josh from Rhys' fingers. and then Rhys leans in and kisses him once again.
“You look like a slag, right now,” Josh's voice comes from where he's sitting at the foot of the bed, cock once again half-hard and flush against his stomach. “The both of you.”
Like a slag is how Joe feels, too, already so fucked and used and also, absolutely amazing. “You like it when I'm a slag,” he points out, and then Rhys' fingers are pushing themselves into his mouth once more, so he shuts up and lets Rhys lick at his lips when they're already stretched open.
“Does this mean I get to have you now?” Joe asks when his mouth is empty again, and Rhys gives him a little smile, not quite that one, but close, and pecks his lips once more.
“If you like.” His arms wrap around Joe's torso and turn demanding once more, and Joe goes along with it and helps Rhys with flipping them both over, because honestly, Rhys doesn't exactly have the physical strength to manhandle anyone. “You should ride me.” Rhys' hands stroke down to Joe's thighs, which still feel a bit weak, strained, and he asks, “can you do that?”
“Think I can.” Joe grins, and when he feels Rhys' dick press hard into the dip of his arse, he doesn't waste any time with pulling it out from his briefs. “Slowly.”
“Yeah.”
They've done this so often, and Joe is already so stretched out and slick with lube and come that there's no adjusting and no further discussion necessary before Joe sinks down on Rhys' cock. Almost, it feels too easy, too much like not enough, but still, when Joe rocks his hips down, he can feel it rubbing over his prostate, and that's good enough, enough to keep the dull ache inside him away. Also,, there's something about watching Rhys' face, about the way it twists up and how he bites his lip, the sweat on his cheekbones and in his hair, all pretty and already looking a little wrecked. Not near as wrecked as Joe feels, though, and not near as wrecked as he wants to be.
“You think we should do this to you again tomorrow morning?” Rhys asks after a few minutes of wordless hips rutting into each other, Joe fucking himself down slowly on his cock.
“Yeah,” he replies, and reaches down to take hold of his cock once again, already sore but still so, so hard.
Rhys pushes it away, which, honestly, is about what Joe expected. “We'll do it to you again next year.”
“You can do this to me every day,” Joe says, and maybe he should feel like a slag for that, and he kind of does.
Instead of replying, Rhys grins, filthy and sexed up, and is kind enough to close his own sweaty fingers around Joe's dick, thumb rubbing over the head. His free hand closes around Joe's wrist once more, the red mark left by the bindings there, and for a second, Joe wonders if he's going to be tied up once again.
“You remember what I said about having a plan?”
“Yeah,” Joe replies, after a second or so of thinking. His brain's all too hazy, glossed over with orgasms and need and ache, but he definitely does remember that, the glint in Rhys' eye and his smirk, and he's still wondering what that plan could possibly be.
Rhys pulls his hand from Joe's cock to reach for the lube and slick up his fingers, but seconds later, that hand is back, down where the base of his dick is nestled between Joe's arse cheeks, presses a cold finger against his rim, and, oh. “Yeah,” Joe hisses out once again.
The first two fingers slide in with little resistance, only a slight stretch and burn. “This okay?” Rhys asks, and he doesn't bother with waiting for a reply before he starts fucking them in and out with the same rhythm as his cock, slowly fanning them out to stretch Joe wider again. That's, yeah, more than okay. Rhys bucks his hips harder, and at the same time, shoves in a third finger, and Joe bites his lip so hard it stings at the sudden flash of burning ache in his hole, that and the jolt of icy-hot pleasure running up his spine when Rhys hits his prostate.
“Fuck,” he spits, louder than he'd really intended it to be, and Rhys' face curls into a laugh.
“Too much?”
“It's okay,” Joe breathes, shivers when Rhys' free hand goes to his hip and motions for him to raise his hips higher for more leverage, and then, when Rhys slams his hips up violently, he can feel the moisture in his eyes welling up again. He wipes it away. “I can take it.”
“Good,” Rhys replies and twists his fingers as good as the snug fit will allow. “Tom? Can you come here?”
Tom does, shuffle along the bed a bit until he's sitting next to Joe. The look on his face is definitely a bit shocked, and briefly, Joe wonders whether he's ever done something like this before, but his cock betrays Tom, red with blood rushing under the surface and shining with precome.
“Behind him.” Then the head of Tom's cock is pressing into Joe's back, just a bit, brushes wetly over the skin every time he rocks his hips.
“Oh,” Tom's voice says, low like it's caught in his throat.
“Oh” is roughly how Joe feels, mainly perplexed at the thought of it, that Rhys came up with this in the first place, and that he's not sure whether he'd even be able to fit both of them, but it's definitely not a bad “oh”.
“Does this even...” Tom starts, and Rhys asks, “do you think you can take us both?”
Before Joe can reply, he somehow manages to cram in his fourth finger, and at that, Joe bites his lip until it stings and the sharp metallic taste of blood enters his mouth, distracting him at least somewhat from the burn of the stretch in his hole. Still, he wants it, wants to see how much he can take that stretch, wants the pain and the pleasure and wants to be fucked so hard that the ache will fade out like that. Not that he's sure it even works like that, but.
“Yeah.”
“Okay.” Rhys' fingers strain against the tight muscle, struggle to stretch him out more, and he bites his lip when Joe hisses. “Want to make you come first, though. Just because.”
His free hand reaches out and makes a tight fist around Joe's dick, thumbing over the head of it. Joe's close, he's basically been on edge since Rhys brought up Tom, the possibility of being fucked by the both of them, and now with Rhys' hand stroking him quick and carelessly and distracting him from the burn and stretch, he's got itchy prickling waves of pleasure running through his nerves and up his spine, down his cock. He fucks himself down faster, tries his hardest to rake the head of Rhys' dick over his prostate every roll of his hips. Behind him, Tom hisses out “fuck,” and that only makes Joe more desperate to get off, being watched, desired, and finally getting to have them both inside of him.
Joe slots his fingers into the space below Rhys' ribs, digs his nails into the soft flesh there, unsure where else he could possibly put his hands when Rhys is jerking him so roughly, stretching him out so far that it's almost too much, nerve endings flaring up too bright, too overstimulated to come.
“Come on, come,” Rhys says, low and filthy, fingers twisting in an attempt to open him up more. “Want to watch you. Feel it.” He rolls his hips up at an odd angle and his cock drags deep and heavy over Joe's insides. “I'll lick you clean after,” he adds, flicks his tongue out over his thin lips, and then, then.
Joe's body obeys and comes, hard, not wrecking-hard like he did after Faris, not the part where everything goes off kilter and the ache fades, but still. He bites down on his tongue, hard enough to feel it buzz with pain, and has to make an effort to try and keep his eyes open. Rhys is watching him with his eyes wide and glossy with sex, one hand still working at his cock, spurting out splatters of white onto his fingers and his pale skin. Joe can feel his own muscles going tense, his limbs and his torso going tight all over, and his hole trying to clench down where Rhys is holding it open, fingers unrelenting. He keeps his hips working, too, keeps prodding at Joe's prostate when his insides are already beginning to feel raw, but not too raw to stop.
It makes an audible sound when Rhys pulls his fingers out of Joe, a filthy, slick noise which is also possibly one of the sexiest things Joe ever heard, in an odd sense. Then he feels empty, limp and shaking and so desperate to get filled up again, and when Rhys asks him how he's feeling, two of his bony fingers halfway in his mouth, that's what he says, too, “empty.”
“Yeah.” One last lap of white-clear fluid from his finger, and Rhys asks, “other than that?”
“Bloody fantastic.”
“Good.” Rhys fastens his hands over Joe's hipbones, stops his already slow movements, and asks, “Tom?”
“Yeah.”
“You ready?”
Joe isn't sure which one of them the question's aimed at, but he nods either way. Tom winds one arm around his waist, so he's kept steady and upright between the both of them, and.
Then he's pushing in, slow and careful, and Joe can tell that Tom's got to make an effort, even with the lube slick on his cock. He's being stretched out just a bit wider when Tom manages to slide the head in, and at that, Joe's thighs start to shake again, but the hands on his hips grip a bit tighter and hold him upright.
Tom makes a soft noise that sounds almost pained and presses his face into the sweaty curve of Joe's neck. “Tight,” he presses out after a split second, so low Joe barely registers it. When he's got to be most of the way in, his other arm wraps around Joe as well, holds him tightly, and then he's all the way in and Joe has to try his hardest to keep from groaning and panting just from the stretch. This is different from Rhys' fingers, deeper, Tom's body heavy against Joe's back and his cock hot and pulsing a bit with blood deep inside him. Tom presses a kiss to the space between Joe's shoulders, then the nape of his neck, and his hands stroke at the flesh of Joe's chest, that same stroke that seems like praise he had earlier. Joe feels like he's going to explode, his cock straining hard against his stomach, loaded with the anticipation of how good this is going to be. The ache shouldn't be there, not after how hard he's been fucked already, but it is, burning hot-and-cold under Joe's skin and in his guts.
“Move, come on,” he hisses. fingers digging tighter into Rhys' flesh, and then Tom does, slowly pulls back while Rhys pushes in.
The both of them set up a slow, stuttering rhythm, thrusting in alternately, and Joe bites his lip until he tastes blood. He can feel his eyes flooding with tears once more and blinks them away to clear his vision. When he looks, there's bruises and red marks of fingernails forming on Rhys' stomach where he'd gripped the skin, showing off how far gone he is already, and Joe digs in deeper, feels the soft flesh tender and watches Rhys' face contort in the most pleasurable painful way. Then Rhys hits his prostate again and Joe stops thinking at all.
His mouth bursts open on a ragged sob, and yeah, this time he notices when he starts crying, messy streams of tears that flow hot and sticky over his already heated skin, tears of pain or pleasure or both, but what it is, it's definitely too much of it.
Somewhere at the foot of the bed, Josh goes, “fucking hell,” and at the same time, Rhys' hands stroke over Joe's hips, in an attempt to soothe, maybe.
Tom keeps on pressing kisses over Joe's neck, soft and barely there, whispering soft words of “no, it's okay,” and “don't cry,” but the thing is, Joe can't. He can't stop, feels the tears falling from his eyes with every thrust inside of him. He's too far gone to wipe his face, too scared that if he moves his hands, he'll collapse into himself, so he just lets it be. Tom's hand moves lower to stroke his cock, once again aching with the need to come, at the same time that Rhys pushes a particularly hard thrust into his prostate. Joe isn't sure if the sound he makes can be considered a moan or a sob or both.
“Do you want us to stop?” Tom's voice comes, too close to his ear, filthier and huskier than Joe had thought Tom even could sound.
“Don't.” There's a stutter in the rhythm he's being fucked into, and then Tom and Rhys are both entering Joe at the same time, and he's torn between whether he should buck up into Rhys' hand or rock his hips down in an attempt to have them both fill him up more. “Don't stop, just.”
Tom presses a kiss and a soft bite onto the skin behind Joe's ear, the sensitive spot there, and squeezes his arm even tighter around Joe's waist. His thrusts are coming faster and faster, and he's getting close, hell, Joe can tell. Rhys speeds his own thrusts up to match, and Joe can feel it burning in his lungs, in his guts and in his balls, he can't last.
And he doesn't, it's only a minute or so until it happens, his whole body going so taut it's almost painful, wound up with the need to come. Under him, Rhys has lost any rhythm whatsoever, bucking his hips erratically and prodding that spot inside Joe every few odd seconds, just as too far gone as Joe feels. He's making little sounds between his bitten lips and gritted teeth, somewhere between groaning and mewling, and somehow, it goes straight to Joe's cock. Tom seems to be just as close, fucking in fast and hard and panting softly into Joe's ear.
Joe wants to, needs to get off, and so he rocks his hips down sharply, arms and hands growing shaky, and the tears start to flow again, slower this time, quieter. Tom's hand is barely stroking at his point, only loosely holding onto Joe's cock, and if he trusted his limbs more, Joe would help himself out, but instead, all he can do is fuck his hips up into Tom's fingers and pretend that that's enough.
“You're so,” Tom's voice starts, and then stops, too far gone, “so fucking...”
Maybe that's what does it for Joe, hearing Tom so fucked out and unlike himself, all composure gone, or maybe it's that one of Rhys' hands has finally wandered down to his cock to give it a squeeze or two. The point is, Joe comes, shaking and sobbing and clenching, spurting out over Rhys' thin fingers once again. He rocks his hips down harder, to try and get them both in as deeply as possible at the last second, and then, when he's limp and fucked and still hard, he doesn't bother with stopping, too eager for that feeling of being stretched and overstimulated.
Tom's the first to come, pulling his cock out of Joe all too suddenly and finishing over the skin on the small of Joe's back, with no more noises than a harsh gasp, and when Rhys comes as well, inside him with a low, low whine and fingernails that rake down Joe's hip, only then does he stop rolling his hips and let himself sink down limply.
For a second, they stay like that, Rhys' cock slowly softening inside Joe, before Joe rolls off slowly and spreads himself out on the mattress. The ache is faded out, not for good, but for long enough that he'll be able to catch a good few hours of sleep. Sleep sounds excellent right about now.
Rhys dips his fingers into the mess of fluid on Joe's stomach, slowly drying in the hotel's air conditioning, and brings them up to smear over Joe's lips before he pops them into his own mouth. Joe barely has the energy to stick out his tongue and lap up the salty-bitter taste of himself.
“How're you feeling?”
“Tired.” Joe's eyes flutter shut for a second, as if to prove his point, and he adds, “excellent.”
“Sleep sounds great about now,” Rhys agrees.
“Sleep and a shower,” another voice comes, and Joe is too tired to figure out who it belongs too.
Another two fingers dip into the puddle of come on his stomach. “You reckon we should go for a second round after?”