Tary has half an hour before his tutor arrives and so he closes the door between his study and his bedroom, ordering Doty onto the bed with a certain degree of guilt. Doty is his friend, his confidante, built from an outlandish idea and long hours of labor. He’s not meant for this sordid purpose, this... this reason that Tary had to reinforce the base of his bed.
He sheds his clothes in a hurry, retaining his blue silk shirt for a modicum of modesty, although his cock jutting out from beneath the hem makes a mockery of the notion. He knows the special places to touch on Doty so that the featureless plate between Doty’s legs slides open to reveal the smooth slender cylinder that Tary has taken great care in installing. A second touch and a circle irises open in Doty’s thick palm.
Quickly, aware of the time but more so of his own growing need, Tary kneels on the bed beside Doty, positioning him just so before stroking a fine layer of clear oil over Doty’s hand and phallus. His hand shakes as he pushes two fingers inside of himself, coated in the same slick oil, applying it generously to ease the way.
He doesn’t need to open himself up; Doty can do that for him.
Tary straddles Doty and sinks down onto the slim column, biting his lip against a cry as it slips into him. He pulls Doty’s hand to himself, sliding his cock through the hole. His movements become more eager as he settles everything the way that he likes it.
At last, the commands.
“Doty, stroke me, ten percent vibration... and another fifty percent thickness.”
Doty’s movements are jerky, but the thrill of sensation through Tary’s body from the thickening of the phallus inside him as it ratchets wider, and the low vibration around his cock make it mostly possible to ignore the fact that this isn’t with a living, breathing person.
Tary begins riding Doty, having learned the hard way that a thrusting mechanism is too unpredictable. He watches the length of his cock as it slips through the hole in Doty’s hand and calls for the hand to move faster, for the cylinder within him to expand again. He renews the slick oil, tilting the vial and letting it drizzle freely over his cock before reaching down to smear more over Doty’s phallus.
He longs for a human touch. He and his tutor have shared kisses and caresses, but nothing to this extent. Lawrence says it would be a breach of the trust that Howaardt Darrington has placed in him as a teacher of his child, and disrespectful to Howaardt’s insistence that both Taryon and Maryanne remain unspoiled until marriage.
Mind you, as Lawrence usually says this while groping Tary’s ass to pull them closer together as he whispers his guilt against Tary’s parted lips, Tary’s never been convinced.
The thought of Lawrence touching him makes Tary’s cock twitch and shudder in the familiar cool palm of Doty’s hand. How he longs to be thirty, only a scant few years away, when his father will trust him to be wed and Lawrence can openly love him. Yes, love—they have spoken the word in the heat of desire and, though Tary loves Doty, that’s one thing that Doty cannot do for him.
If he can’t have loving warmth and true emotions from Doty, though, he can at least have this.
“Doty—thicker by fifty percent—oh, fuck—and—tighten your hand ten percent—increase vibration to twenty-five percent—”
This would be so fascinating with Lawrence. Lawrence under him like this, hips rising to meet Tary grinding down against him. Lawrence taking him over the solid mahogany desk in the study, Tary’s cock smearing fluid lewdly over the leather surface as Lawrence rocks into him and back, in and back. Bared to each other at least, instead of their mostly clothed fumblings. Tary’s always feared that Lawrence considers him to be too immature for more, despite his age.
A mixture of fluids is dripping from his cock down Doty’s hand and forearm now, and Tary throws his head back, breathing reduced to erratic gasps, feeling his orgasm about to hit him—
—and then Doty stops.
“Doty?”
The regular hum of the vibration around Tary’s cock has halted. Doty’s hand no longer moves along Tary’s length. The solid and now quite thick column buried within him remains at its existing state instead of shrinking and retracting as it is supposed to do if something goes awry.
Furthermore, Tary’s cock is stuck.
“Oh, no, no, no...”
If he can come he can slip his softened cock out of Doty’s grasp, lift himself off Doty’s phallus, and be free if a little red-faced when Lawrence arrives for his lesson.
Tary reaches down to stroke himself to completion, groaning softly at the sudden deep awareness of being filled and surrounded by metal. It at once seems ridiculous and further arousing; how many people can say they’ve built a companion so perfectly made to fit them? His cock throbs in Doty’s hand, the formerly pleasantly tight circle now an enclosing cage.
Doty’s hand is positioned just wrong for Tary to work his own hand in there.
Still, all is not lost. Surely he can move Doty’s arm back, if he tries—
“Ow!”
Doty’s elbow is locked in place. His arms won’t move, and Tary still can’t get his fingers anywhere useful.
The only other thing he can come up with is to decrease his feeling of arousal. He tries to hold still, to avoid any further friction either around or within himself that might keep him hard. Then he reaches for the actively repulsive memory of Maryanne barging into his study soaked in sweat from some revolting sporting activity and putting him in a headlock, scrubbing her knuckles roughly into his hair.
An easy enough recollection—it only happened last week.
Tary’s cock is beginning to soften, even with the pressure of Doty in and around him, and he’s starting to think he might get out in once piece—
“Tary?”
Blood rushes to Tary’s cock and cheeks simultaneously.
It’s Lawrence.
Lawrence in the study, a few minutes early for their lesson; Lawrence terrifyingly close to the bedroom door. Tary holds his breath, tries to pretend he isn’t there, but his left calf chooses that moment to knot up and he lets out a helpless yelp of pain.
“Tary?”
“Don’t come in,” Tary says, but Lawrence has already cracked the door open (why didn’t he lock it? Why?) and is peering into the room.
To his credit, he doesn’t laugh. Not immediately, anyway. Instead he enters the room, closing the door behind himself, and moves to stand by the bed. In the lamplight he is tall and handsome, tunic and trousers fitted just right to his muscular frame. Maryanne has often complained that he would make a better sportsmaster than wasting his body on boring old philosophy.
Tary has refrained for telling her exactly why Lawrence would have no interest in her and her sports.
“Taryon, what on Exandria are you doing?”
“I’m not sure I can explain.”
“I’m reasonably certain you can, but I won’t ask again.” Lawrence examines his predicament more closely. “Can’t you back off of him?”
“I—no.”
Lawrence doesn’t ask why not. He just takes up the vial of oil, sniffing it briefly with a smile of recognition before dripping more over Tary’s cock. Then he grips Doty’s wrist and pulls, careful and steady. Doty’s elbow grinds in complaint, but his arm moves enough that Tary’s cock—still hard, now sore—slides free from Doty’s hold at last.
Tary lifts up off the solid column of Doty’s phallus, tries to give Lawrence a winning smile, and keels over sideways onto the bed as his left calf resigns in disgust.
“Oh, Tary.” Lawrence is around the bed in a second, despite how vast it is (Tary has occasionally wondered just how many wives his father expects him to have). “Look at you. You poor thing.” He scoops Tary up and moves him so his head rests on a soft pillow before sitting beside him and digging his thumbs into the now quite badly cramping muscle of his calf. “Hush, darling,” he murmurs as Tary whimpers. “There you go... just relax...”
Tary’s trying not to sob with pain or with anything else, but having Lawrence’s hands on him are bringing his abused cock back to full attention, which hurts.
“Better?” Lawrence rubs his palm over Tary’s calf.
“That is, yes,” Tary says, flustered and not quite sure where to go from here.
Lawrence’s gaze dances the length of Tary’s mostly bare body, lingering on his chest bared between the wings of dark blue silk and—of course—on his cock. But then he turns his attention to Doty.
“Have you done this before?”
“Yes,” Tary says. “Only without the—difficulty.”
“I should think someone would have noticed by now if you’d been having this kind of mishap on a regular basis.” Lawrence touches Doty’s hand, wrist, and elbow. “Poor Doty seems to have suffered some kind of fluid damage.”
“I didn’t use any more than usual,” Tary protests.
“Are you sure?” Lawrence runs a finger through one long streak and holds it up, gleaming. “There’s an awful lot of oil here... and more besides that. Were you thinking about something more intense than usual.”
Tary closes his eyes and shivers. “Maybe.”
He feels the bed shift under Lawrence’s weight. “Look at me, Tary.”
Tary opens his eyes again, looking up into Lawrence’s steady gaze. There he sees only compassion, tempered perhaps by amusement and something else he’s only seen in their most intense sessions together. Lawrence is kneeling between Tary’s thighs, upper body held over Tary’s by those strong arms that Maryanne is so jealous of. His breath touches Tary’s lips like the softest kiss.
“What were you thinking about, to be so dripping wet that Doty froze up like that?” he asks again, and this time Tary answers with the truth.
“You. I was thinking about—about being with you like that, instead of using poor Doty. I can’t lie, he makes me feel amazing... but nothing like I imagine it would feel with you.” He feels his cheeks and neck turning red with the force of his blush.
“We’ve talked about this before.” Lawrence’s tone is forbidding, but there’s still that warm light in his eyes.
“I know.” Tary would hang his head if he could, but all he can do is duck his chin a little. “I’m not of age yet.” He means to spit the words with anger, but they just come out miserable. “I can’t imagine any other family makes its scions wait until age thirty before judging them mature enough to—to do anything responsible!”
“I can’t imagine your father actually thinks the only thing Maryanne rides in the stables is the horses,” Lawrence says.
“What do you—”
“I mean,” Lawrence says, “that if she can get away with it, and she’s younger than you, then I’m quite certain your father will understand that you know your own mind.”
And then Lawrence’s lips are on his, not soft and hesitant as they would usually be before desire casts caution to the wind, but hot and hungry, as though they have begun in the middle. Which they have, in a way. Beyond the middle, even.
Inclinations, Leverage, Pullulation (Tary/Doty, Tary/Lawrence, NC-17) 1/3
He sheds his clothes in a hurry, retaining his blue silk shirt for a modicum of modesty, although his cock jutting out from beneath the hem makes a mockery of the notion. He knows the special places to touch on Doty so that the featureless plate between Doty’s legs slides open to reveal the smooth slender cylinder that Tary has taken great care in installing. A second touch and a circle irises open in Doty’s thick palm.
Quickly, aware of the time but more so of his own growing need, Tary kneels on the bed beside Doty, positioning him just so before stroking a fine layer of clear oil over Doty’s hand and phallus. His hand shakes as he pushes two fingers inside of himself, coated in the same slick oil, applying it generously to ease the way.
He doesn’t need to open himself up; Doty can do that for him.
Tary straddles Doty and sinks down onto the slim column, biting his lip against a cry as it slips into him. He pulls Doty’s hand to himself, sliding his cock through the hole. His movements become more eager as he settles everything the way that he likes it.
At last, the commands.
“Doty, stroke me, ten percent vibration... and another fifty percent thickness.”
Doty’s movements are jerky, but the thrill of sensation through Tary’s body from the thickening of the phallus inside him as it ratchets wider, and the low vibration around his cock make it mostly possible to ignore the fact that this isn’t with a living, breathing person.
Tary begins riding Doty, having learned the hard way that a thrusting mechanism is too unpredictable. He watches the length of his cock as it slips through the hole in Doty’s hand and calls for the hand to move faster, for the cylinder within him to expand again. He renews the slick oil, tilting the vial and letting it drizzle freely over his cock before reaching down to smear more over Doty’s phallus.
He longs for a human touch. He and his tutor have shared kisses and caresses, but nothing to this extent. Lawrence says it would be a breach of the trust that Howaardt Darrington has placed in him as a teacher of his child, and disrespectful to Howaardt’s insistence that both Taryon and Maryanne remain unspoiled until marriage.
Mind you, as Lawrence usually says this while groping Tary’s ass to pull them closer together as he whispers his guilt against Tary’s parted lips, Tary’s never been convinced.
The thought of Lawrence touching him makes Tary’s cock twitch and shudder in the familiar cool palm of Doty’s hand. How he longs to be thirty, only a scant few years away, when his father will trust him to be wed and Lawrence can openly love him. Yes, love—they have spoken the word in the heat of desire and, though Tary loves Doty, that’s one thing that Doty cannot do for him.
If he can’t have loving warmth and true emotions from Doty, though, he can at least have this.
“Doty—thicker by fifty percent—oh, fuck—and—tighten your hand ten percent—increase vibration to twenty-five percent—”
This would be so fascinating with Lawrence. Lawrence under him like this, hips rising to meet Tary grinding down against him. Lawrence taking him over the solid mahogany desk in the study, Tary’s cock smearing fluid lewdly over the leather surface as Lawrence rocks into him and back, in and back. Bared to each other at least, instead of their mostly clothed fumblings. Tary’s always feared that Lawrence considers him to be too immature for more, despite his age.
A mixture of fluids is dripping from his cock down Doty’s hand and forearm now, and Tary throws his head back, breathing reduced to erratic gasps, feeling his orgasm about to hit him—
—and then Doty stops.
“Doty?”
The regular hum of the vibration around Tary’s cock has halted. Doty’s hand no longer moves along Tary’s length. The solid and now quite thick column buried within him remains at its existing state instead of shrinking and retracting as it is supposed to do if something goes awry.
Furthermore, Tary’s cock is stuck.
“Oh, no, no, no...”
If he can come he can slip his softened cock out of Doty’s grasp, lift himself off Doty’s phallus, and be free if a little red-faced when Lawrence arrives for his lesson.
Tary reaches down to stroke himself to completion, groaning softly at the sudden deep awareness of being filled and surrounded by metal. It at once seems ridiculous and further arousing; how many people can say they’ve built a companion so perfectly made to fit them? His cock throbs in Doty’s hand, the formerly pleasantly tight circle now an enclosing cage.
Doty’s hand is positioned just wrong for Tary to work his own hand in there.
Still, all is not lost. Surely he can move Doty’s arm back, if he tries—
“Ow!”
Doty’s elbow is locked in place. His arms won’t move, and Tary still can’t get his fingers anywhere useful.
The only other thing he can come up with is to decrease his feeling of arousal. He tries to hold still, to avoid any further friction either around or within himself that might keep him hard. Then he reaches for the actively repulsive memory of Maryanne barging into his study soaked in sweat from some revolting sporting activity and putting him in a headlock, scrubbing her knuckles roughly into his hair.
An easy enough recollection—it only happened last week.
Tary’s cock is beginning to soften, even with the pressure of Doty in and around him, and he’s starting to think he might get out in once piece—
“Tary?”
Blood rushes to Tary’s cock and cheeks simultaneously.
It’s Lawrence.
Lawrence in the study, a few minutes early for their lesson; Lawrence terrifyingly close to the bedroom door. Tary holds his breath, tries to pretend he isn’t there, but his left calf chooses that moment to knot up and he lets out a helpless yelp of pain.
“Tary?”
“Don’t come in,” Tary says, but Lawrence has already cracked the door open (why didn’t he lock it? Why?) and is peering into the room.
To his credit, he doesn’t laugh. Not immediately, anyway. Instead he enters the room, closing the door behind himself, and moves to stand by the bed. In the lamplight he is tall and handsome, tunic and trousers fitted just right to his muscular frame. Maryanne has often complained that he would make a better sportsmaster than wasting his body on boring old philosophy.
Tary has refrained for telling her exactly why Lawrence would have no interest in her and her sports.
“Taryon, what on Exandria are you doing?”
“I’m not sure I can explain.”
“I’m reasonably certain you can, but I won’t ask again.” Lawrence examines his predicament more closely. “Can’t you back off of him?”
“I—no.”
Lawrence doesn’t ask why not. He just takes up the vial of oil, sniffing it briefly with a smile of recognition before dripping more over Tary’s cock. Then he grips Doty’s wrist and pulls, careful and steady. Doty’s elbow grinds in complaint, but his arm moves enough that Tary’s cock—still hard, now sore—slides free from Doty’s hold at last.
Tary lifts up off the solid column of Doty’s phallus, tries to give Lawrence a winning smile, and keels over sideways onto the bed as his left calf resigns in disgust.
“Oh, Tary.” Lawrence is around the bed in a second, despite how vast it is (Tary has occasionally wondered just how many wives his father expects him to have). “Look at you. You poor thing.” He scoops Tary up and moves him so his head rests on a soft pillow before sitting beside him and digging his thumbs into the now quite badly cramping muscle of his calf. “Hush, darling,” he murmurs as Tary whimpers. “There you go... just relax...”
Tary’s trying not to sob with pain or with anything else, but having Lawrence’s hands on him are bringing his abused cock back to full attention, which hurts.
“Better?” Lawrence rubs his palm over Tary’s calf.
“That is, yes,” Tary says, flustered and not quite sure where to go from here.
Lawrence’s gaze dances the length of Tary’s mostly bare body, lingering on his chest bared between the wings of dark blue silk and—of course—on his cock. But then he turns his attention to Doty.
“Have you done this before?”
“Yes,” Tary says. “Only without the—difficulty.”
“I should think someone would have noticed by now if you’d been having this kind of mishap on a regular basis.” Lawrence touches Doty’s hand, wrist, and elbow. “Poor Doty seems to have suffered some kind of fluid damage.”
“I didn’t use any more than usual,” Tary protests.
“Are you sure?” Lawrence runs a finger through one long streak and holds it up, gleaming. “There’s an awful lot of oil here... and more besides that. Were you thinking about something more intense than usual.”
Tary closes his eyes and shivers. “Maybe.”
He feels the bed shift under Lawrence’s weight. “Look at me, Tary.”
Tary opens his eyes again, looking up into Lawrence’s steady gaze. There he sees only compassion, tempered perhaps by amusement and something else he’s only seen in their most intense sessions together. Lawrence is kneeling between Tary’s thighs, upper body held over Tary’s by those strong arms that Maryanne is so jealous of. His breath touches Tary’s lips like the softest kiss.
“What were you thinking about, to be so dripping wet that Doty froze up like that?” he asks again, and this time Tary answers with the truth.
“You. I was thinking about—about being with you like that, instead of using poor Doty. I can’t lie, he makes me feel amazing... but nothing like I imagine it would feel with you.” He feels his cheeks and neck turning red with the force of his blush.
“We’ve talked about this before.” Lawrence’s tone is forbidding, but there’s still that warm light in his eyes.
“I know.” Tary would hang his head if he could, but all he can do is duck his chin a little. “I’m not of age yet.” He means to spit the words with anger, but they just come out miserable. “I can’t imagine any other family makes its scions wait until age thirty before judging them mature enough to—to do anything responsible!”
“I can’t imagine your father actually thinks the only thing Maryanne rides in the stables is the horses,” Lawrence says.
“What do you—”
“I mean,” Lawrence says, “that if she can get away with it, and she’s younger than you, then I’m quite certain your father will understand that you know your own mind.”
And then Lawrence’s lips are on his, not soft and hesitant as they would usually be before desire casts caution to the wind, but hot and hungry, as though they have begun in the middle. Which they have, in a way. Beyond the middle, even.