All it takes is touch. It takes Wilson with his big rough hands and the solid weight of him keeping Wesley in one place, and Vanessa settling in on his other side, alternately soothing and scratching, kissing and biting. Wesley is a lovely canvas, and she paints him with marks. Wilson is more deliberate, slower. She wonders if he never kissed Wesley when they did this before, if he just slapped him, tied him up, fucked him with his fingers. Wesley seems used to all that but exhales shaky and sweet into her mouth when she kisses him.
“Do you fuck him?” Vanessa asks Wilson, curious. He didn't give her the details of this arrangement, not all of them. He told her only that Wesley needs to be controlled to be settled sometimes. He didn't even need to tell her that he was glad to help. Wilson always takes very good care of his favorite things.
“Sometimes,” he admits. He's so bashful, still, so shy even when he's three fingers deep in Wesley and Wesley's face is wet with tears from pure sensation.
“You could.” She doesn't tell him “should,” doesn't give him anything close to an order. She wants Wesley to follow her orders tonight, but not Wilson. It's enough that he'll take her suggestions. “James, tell him if you'd like him to.”
“You know I do,” says Wesley, to both of them.
Wilson looks at her again, and back at Wesley.
Vanessa hands him a condom. They may not use it, but it's still permission.
*
Vanessa knows how it feels to have Wilson between her thighs, the care and thought of every movement intended to bring pleasure. Where he's gentle and worshipful with Vanessa, though, he's rough and hard with Wesley.
She's sitting back for this part, hand resting on the ropes keeping Wesley tethered to the bed while Wilson fucks Wesley. Wesley is a beautiful arch, only rarely touching down on the bed, his legs thrown around Wilson's waist. Wilson is concentrating, only sometimes looking up at Vanessa instead of down at Wesley, and happy to do either.
They've been going for a long time now, the three of them. The air in the room is hot and close and Wesley is a masterpiece of bruises and scratches and red, wrecked face, not to mention red, leaking cock. Wilson is a masterpiece as well, a musician who knows how to coax the very sweetest notes from his instrument.
Vanessa is, perhaps, the painter. The conductor. She had expected to have difficulties joining them in the rhythm they clearly know so well, but it's opened easily for her.
“How long do you think it will take him to come?” she asks Wilson, as though it's dinner party conversation.
Wilson runs a hand over Wesley's thigh, and he looks down at him with a thoughtful frown and full knowledge of just how to do it, to push Wesley over that edge. “Not long.”
Wesley, during the day, would make some small movement, a little scoff, something understated that would make Wilson pretend he wasn't amused and make Vanessa smile and would communicate that he could outlast either of them. At night, it seems, there's none of that in him. All he does is make a desperate noise and writhe in his bonds.
She catches his face between her hands, holds on until he's looking at her, glassy-eyed but paying attention. “Are you done when you orgasm, James, or would you like to make me come too, once the two of you are finished?”
Wilson makes a sharp noise before Wesley can answer, and she looks up at him. They haven't discussed this, but from the heat in his eyes, he doesn't mind. They're his two very favorite things in the world, she and Wesley, after his all-encompassing love for the city. He'll like to watch them together. “I'd like it,” he says, still so mild, even as he fucks Wesley incoherent. “He'll do it.”
Because of course Wesley will. Even like this, he's still Wesley. He'll make them happy. He'll do the job at hand, for Wilson's sake, and from the way he strains up to kiss her, he'll like it.
“Then come.” She bends to whisper in his ear. “Enjoy it, James.”
[FILL] An Understanding (2/3)
All it takes is touch. It takes Wilson with his big rough hands and the solid weight of him keeping Wesley in one place, and Vanessa settling in on his other side, alternately soothing and scratching, kissing and biting. Wesley is a lovely canvas, and she paints him with marks. Wilson is more deliberate, slower. She wonders if he never kissed Wesley when they did this before, if he just slapped him, tied him up, fucked him with his fingers. Wesley seems used to all that but exhales shaky and sweet into her mouth when she kisses him.
“Do you fuck him?” Vanessa asks Wilson, curious. He didn't give her the details of this arrangement, not all of them. He told her only that Wesley needs to be controlled to be settled sometimes. He didn't even need to tell her that he was glad to help. Wilson always takes very good care of his favorite things.
“Sometimes,” he admits. He's so bashful, still, so shy even when he's three fingers deep in Wesley and Wesley's face is wet with tears from pure sensation.
“You could.” She doesn't tell him “should,” doesn't give him anything close to an order. She wants Wesley to follow her orders tonight, but not Wilson. It's enough that he'll take her suggestions. “James, tell him if you'd like him to.”
“You know I do,” says Wesley, to both of them.
Wilson looks at her again, and back at Wesley.
Vanessa hands him a condom. They may not use it, but it's still permission.
Vanessa knows how it feels to have Wilson between her thighs, the care and thought of every movement intended to bring pleasure. Where he's gentle and worshipful with Vanessa, though, he's rough and hard with Wesley.
She's sitting back for this part, hand resting on the ropes keeping Wesley tethered to the bed while Wilson fucks Wesley. Wesley is a beautiful arch, only rarely touching down on the bed, his legs thrown around Wilson's waist. Wilson is concentrating, only sometimes looking up at Vanessa instead of down at Wesley, and happy to do either.
They've been going for a long time now, the three of them. The air in the room is hot and close and Wesley is a masterpiece of bruises and scratches and red, wrecked face, not to mention red, leaking cock. Wilson is a masterpiece as well, a musician who knows how to coax the very sweetest notes from his instrument.
Vanessa is, perhaps, the painter. The conductor. She had expected to have difficulties joining them in the rhythm they clearly know so well, but it's opened easily for her.
“How long do you think it will take him to come?” she asks Wilson, as though it's dinner party conversation.
Wilson runs a hand over Wesley's thigh, and he looks down at him with a thoughtful frown and full knowledge of just how to do it, to push Wesley over that edge. “Not long.”
Wesley, during the day, would make some small movement, a little scoff, something understated that would make Wilson pretend he wasn't amused and make Vanessa smile and would communicate that he could outlast either of them. At night, it seems, there's none of that in him. All he does is make a desperate noise and writhe in his bonds.
She catches his face between her hands, holds on until he's looking at her, glassy-eyed but paying attention. “Are you done when you orgasm, James, or would you like to make me come too, once the two of you are finished?”
Wilson makes a sharp noise before Wesley can answer, and she looks up at him. They haven't discussed this, but from the heat in his eyes, he doesn't mind. They're his two very favorite things in the world, she and Wesley, after his all-encompassing love for the city. He'll like to watch them together. “I'd like it,” he says, still so mild, even as he fucks Wesley incoherent. “He'll do it.”
Because of course Wesley will. Even like this, he's still Wesley. He'll make them happy. He'll do the job at hand, for Wilson's sake, and from the way he strains up to kiss her, he'll like it.
“Then come.” She bends to whisper in his ear. “Enjoy it, James.”
She kisses away his scream.