Rising and falling, the water of the fountain splashes in upon itself, sounds against the marble, fills the large chamber with haphazard sounds approaching music. Upbeat and downbeat, there are other sounds that join the measure: the timbre of a sigh, the intersecting harmonies of three bodies in a state of combined motion, the percussion of the bed and of the blood dripping upon the tongue.
     The sounds unfold from the columned alcove, where a large bed is largely occupied. It is hedonistic song. Such a choir of voices you make, it is fitting for such a room as this, as grand as most cathedrals of the same Age.
     And it is a kind of praying. Devotional. Theirs to You. Yours, to them.
     At one end, there is Marco. Marco Ballori, native sun of Tuscany, skin rich with olive, dark hair, dark eyes. His build is strong, tall and broad, built by labor, darkened by sun -- you can taste it on his skin, the sun worshipper -- crafted and refined by the horses he has commanded. Had his fate not brought him here, he might have been an Olympian equestrian. His riding skill -- well, you are quite familiar with that by now...
     Amadeo. Of Amadeus -- God Loves. His eyes are the color of the Aegean sea, his hair the color of the Tuscan soil. His family originated in Greece, but he was born upon the Island of Murano, one of the surrounding islands of the Venetian Republic. But his complexion is that of cream-olive, a fleck of golden northerner. Where Marco is strength and fire, Amadeo is confident tenderness, seduction and heady joy. He is at your mouth, bleeding into the kiss, the kiss that has lost itself within itself, entangled. Glorious. Bloody. The wine of it slides along your tongue...
     The water rises and the water falls. Marco lifts and he lowers and he slides. Amadeo clasps and he grasps and he soothes. And you are loved.
     Love...

     There is an omnipresence of love. Not cloying and overly romantic. Persistent. Ceaseless. Boundless. It surrounds this chamber, it fills it. The air is thick with it. And with Him. The One who is not here, but who is never far.
     You feel his hands on you, doubled in the hands that hold you now. You feel his mouth, even as Amadeo is the one kissing you. You feel the strength of his form, the fullness of it upon you, acted out in Marco's able body.
     Has he learned Possession at last? Is he within them both?
     In the old quarter of the ville, a tall and impressive figure moves upon the narrow cobbled streets, past the light that barely indicates the presence of one of the finest restaurants in the area. In one hand a paper. In the other a cup of coffee. And the light of the Thirty Years Restaurant reflects upon the golden band on his left hand.

     "Everything alright?" the young woman asks as she steps outside to tend to you. A quick check before she returns inside to see on her dining patrons. "You are alone this evening," she asks and observes at the same time. She has seen you before, several times. With another.

     The beloved's right hand rests upon Marco's back, grasping in futility. They have been here a while, these three, and Ian's hand slips along Marco's skin. He whispers in Italian, as he does when it is just them, the words tumbling without sense.
     His left hand keeps Amadeo close. Ian's arm wraps around Amadeo's shoulder, hand folding around to cup Amadeo's cheek and chin. It is tonight's dinner, certainly, but wrapped in splendid pleasure. Ian groans between the two men as he allows one to please and be pleasured by his body, the second orgasmic through a vampire's embrace.
     Which is preferable? You'd have to ask Amadeo and Marco.
     He needs both now, Ian does. Well, he always has, this is true, but never so inextricably linked. His knees are open and up for Marco's delight -- he has well earned it -- but Ian barely notices the growing ache at his hips. It is far secondary to the enjoyment at his mouth and hands, the friction and dampness between his legs.
     Grey eyes open, if half-lidded. A stare at the ceiling below. The Two will not notice Ian's momentary blurred focus, the accidental fan out of his senses to the wider world.
     William...
      The mind gasps the name, as if suddenly remembering that there is another, back there, somewhere. Ian sighs audibly, his head...and the bed...moving side to side.

     While it is widely known that the castle upon the nearby plateau, above the Thirty Years and its neighbors in the old, Medieval quarter of the city, is privately owned, it is not widely known who owns it. The faces of the staff of Chinon are regulars in the market, but not so the lords who live there.
     "Je suis merveilleux, merci," William murmurs. He turns, he smiles. Wonderful. And you... The cup is a small thing, dwarfed by his large, Plantagenet hand. Espress au lait. Espresso with a drop of milk. "Et vous?" he wonders, dark eyebrows sweep upward and in the lamplight of the evening he smiles. Beautiful and beauteous. It is summer, and he is clothed for it. The creamed colored trousers, the easy, and very fine, silk in ivory. It darkens him, it deepens him.
     In the summer, there are patios set outside upon the street that never sees modern traffic, blocked out for walking only. The cup is set upon the nearest table. "Merci," he says. And it seems that coffee is all that he will be having. Euros are tucked beneath the small cup, blue and pink. He always tips well, this one. "Bonsoir..." He turns with a trailing smile.
     Chinon stands overhead, awash in a golden glow, the benefit of well-placed amber spot lights. Its spire rooves of blue slate are purpled by such lighting.
     In his turning, he faces it and he feels you. The smile slants and it deepens, and indigo eyes fasten upon the stone of the wall nearest the Logis Royeaux, as if he could see past the stone and into his chamber, where you and the Italians are intertwining.
     Ian...
     You feel the sudden, and powerful response along your blood, within your mind and soul, in time to the quickening of the large Italian between your legs. Your hips are grasped, your thighs. Full Italianate mouth -- not so unlike your William's, a gift of shared heritage perhaps -- claims yours as Amadeo kisses you for himself, and for Marco.
     There is another presence in the room, strongly, forcibly. A sting upon the air, a hiss like the eruption of flame, and then it is gone.

     William waves to the waitress and with his paper heads up the narrow street that leads to his home.

     The waitress nods, a silent note that she's fine. But you are leaving and she doesn't hold you. She smiles and turns back to head inside the restaurant.

     Fill me, Marco...
     ...Will...
     The eyes that were half-lidded close, focus returning to the bed and the two in it. A whimper escapes Ian's lips for the rush of blood and quickening upon him. He follows in kind, feet curled at Marco's thighs, hands struggling to clasp each man. Ian's fingers open and close, and his whine fills Amadeo's mouth. If it were not for Italian lips, Ian could be heard, crying out in ecstatic agony. Every muscle tenses as he spasms, his body fully extended and exposed for both men to see.
     Suddenly, after several contractions, Ian slackens beneath the two men, sighing into Amadeo's kiss as his groin thrusts helplessly upwards the last few times. Blood stains Ian's mouth and face, but no droplets are seen or wasted.

     You reach out, your arms, your body, your soul is nourished by the two men that have come to share your life as much as your bed. Companions, in every sense of the word. They fill you, and are filled by you. They love you, and are loved by you. Your name is whispered by two voices, male, deep. Moan and whisper, your name the call at the devotional's ending. One orgasms with you. The other holds you through your own, his mouth slipping from your mouth to your groin...

     Marco...
     Amadeo...
     As he moved along the street, William opened his senses to you. To try to hear you. He felt the orgasmic moment. He could see in his mind the movement of it, for he has it memorized. The motion you make, the sounds you make, the twitch of your thighs. The spasm. The smell of it and the taste of it. And he relishes it even now, even at this distance, though it was not he who filled you, kissed you, brought you to it.
     But isn't he. Did not you say once... more of them is merely more of Him? Is not every man in some way a reflection of William? The night in the lighthouse is suddenly recalled, and with the spreading of that essential mouth, devastating in its slow curve, he passes by his own gate and into the courtyard of his castle.
     Do you hear them, Ian? The opening of the great doors downstairs, the entrance to the Logis Royeaux. The sudden lift of life in Chinon as staff respond. It is a concert of mundane motions, thrilling not in their individual minuteness but in the symmetry and the purity of how they come together.
     I am there...

     Marco lowers, his body sliding against your own, his mouth finding yours and touching you he cannot stop. No man can who moves against you. William cannot either. He cannot resist it, you. It is the love you make...
     Amadeo lifts and settles, his mouth upon your shoulder and neck. He smiles. He whispers your name. He nestles at your ear. His fingers slip around your length, stroking idly.

     Blissful contentment it is, to love two and love another even greater. He could not have forseen this a mere, what, ten years ago. To take pleasure without guilt or emotional exercises. To affirm one love through another. When he said it, he wasn't sure then. But now, Ian realizes that his own words and wishes could be true...
     "Ragazzi bei, entrambi voi...li avro bisogno ancora, presto. E quello che cosa desiderate?" Ian stirs at the lingering touches across his skin, smiling in comfort.
     But you will arrive soon. He knows that. Ian does not worry Amadeo and Marco with it; you'll be here soon enough. And then? What will happen? Even he cannot say. Ian's hand caress both men near him as opens his eyes upward in attention to the growing presence that has arrived within the castle walls.

     The castle feels him even as you do. It shifts at his entrance, just as the servants do. Recognition to the entrance of the king granted. The fires burn differently, the arches lift more precisely, more grandly, and even the summer breeze from the gardens, carried through the opened windows and bringing with it the scents of the orchards and flowers, seems to still for a moment, a reverent moment, before moving once more.
     But the mortals in your arms do not feel him, are not aware. They are not aware of anything but you at the moment, you occupy so much of them that there is not room for anything else. As you speak to them, there is laughter. Throaty from Marco, sweet and resonant from Amadeo. One honey, the other wine.
     "Ora li desidero," Amadeo says through his laughter, quiet caress of sound at your ear, and he begins to move, to trade places with Marco. Perhaps the three of you will move at once, one action, one pleasure, three-fold.
     Marco lifts from you. There is the feeling of one man slipping free, another covering. The bed shifts heavily with the sudden Italianate weight as Marco settles beside you, dark eyes peering from beneath dark hair. He smiles. "Amore bello, e che cosa desideriamo," he whispers.
     They want you now. Beautiful lover, he said, it is what we wish. I can hear them...
     I am there...

     There is the energy, the slow, powerful burn upon the air that is Plantagenet. His quiet command, the power that lies behind it, the confidence that underlies the power, the beautiful facade of now ancient strength. The door to the antechamber opens. Those are his steps. The omnipresence lifts. Marco's hand moves through the white-gold of your hair. Amadeo slips between your thighs, sighing.
     He is there again, in both sensations. The twitch and the throb of your greater love in the motions and clasping of your other two.
     Ten years ago, three years ago this would have been inconceivable. But there is no threat. There is no rise of jealousy or anger. There is only the two that share your love and affection and the One who is beyond them all... any of them that may share your time, be it Marco and Amadeo or someone else, some other time... they cannot even approach the Other.
     And he appears in the doorway, the silk moving from his skin to the floor in a trail behind him. Golden liquid is lifted to his lips. He pauses. He watches. William smiles.

     He'd arched for Amadeo no less than he had for Marco. Ian's lips remain parted as you enter, and the sound from his throat fills the room. The waves stretch further, even to you, William, as you move towards them.
     Is there wonder how Amadeo elicits such from your husband? His band gleams as yours does, William, Ian's hand outstretched in the crumpled bedding. Fingers curl into the spreads, clenching them as he tightens around Amadeo.
     ...but there is William...
     Ian's hand splays out, as if you should touch his fingertips. He feels how much Amadeo wants him, how delicious Marco will taste in his already parching throat. Another drink, yes, that is what he asks for. Descending canines appear sharp behind Ian's lips that part to receive the wine to cut the honey from before.

     There is no stopping you. There is no flinch as you arch beneath Amadeo. There is pleasure. There is understanding. There is enjoyment. But there is no curling of fists or raising of voices. It is aesthetically pleasing, how you move. It moves him. To watch you, to know that is how you move beneath him, to see it displayed so blatantly, so perfectly...
     There is the sudden strike of want. It changes the air around you. It thickens it, even as the men at your side and within you thicken. Amadeo, aroused by all that has come before, slides against you, within you, rolling you in his arms -- he is as strong as Marco in some respects, if not as chiseled. The bed sounds suddenly, rhythmically. Amadeo's body, your body, Marco's body are visible through the rise and fall of clear water.
     How perfect you are, how beautiful...
     How they love you, look how they love you...
     I love you...
     As no one else does... or could...
     Singular in your heart, though your bed now knows two others, chosen companions. Worthy of this and more, receiving of this and more. But I, the most of them all...
     Marco's throat opens, his voice sounds, a low, slow pull of male ecstatic joy. He sighs, a gasp cutting short the cry, and rich blood, a treasured vintage now, spills in your mouth, down your throat with heated ease.

     And the bed is full. You feel Amadeo flinch, did you feel that? Do you see it? Are your eyes open to witness it? William's mouth at Amadeo's left shoulder, beautiful death, devastating life. Indigo is fastened on your face. Dark. Bright. Of unfathomable depth.
     Did you miss me, amours? With such fit company...

     You should know him, Amadeo. Know William as I do. But you do, yes?
     The grey eyes do not seem to take in your presence, but Ian's faint smile says otherwise. A great heaving mass moves the bed and linens, finding a rhythm and life of its own. It groans, rises, and falls, whispers, chants, and passionate curses creating a sound that should peel the paint from the walls. Beneath you all, Ian is the first source, relishing the taste of Marco trailing down his throat.
     How ready you were, Amadeo. I had noticed, but...not realized the truth of it. Already you ravish me, skipping past any need for a gentle crescendo. Is that what has brought William behind you? Is that only blood he takes?
     At the nape of your neck, William, are Ian's fingertips. They have left Amadeo who is flat and curled around Ian, to reach past him for you. Just a touch.

     Amadeo knows. The flinch turns to a shudder. The sigh becomes a groan, and then a cry. You know that sound. You know the refrain of that song, the one titled William's weight to bear. Now Amadeo moves within you, only as William himself allows. Amadeo slides gently, pressing hard within you, an extension of William literally now, his motions slowed beneath William's greater command.
     William turns his head, his mouth finding your hand, your arm, his mouth parts, and there is the edge of a canine distending. "I missed you," he whispers there, Occitan flicking as he and Amadeo roll against you. Poor Amadeo. You know that expression. You can translate the sigh and the whimper, the groan and the gasp. Marco is one thing. William is quite another.
     Three beautiful men, Ian. Have you wondered upon your fortune? One at your mouth, his blood spilling, giving himself to you. Another sandwiched between you and your husband. And last, but not least, your mate, your husband, your partner.
     The bed moves heavily, loudly. The sound of the rise and fall of water is masked now, drowned out by the sound of bodies meeting and voices raised. William's hands rest upon the surface of the bed. The slap of him against Amadeo is echoed by Amadeo's own cries and the sound of his body meeting yours at the insistence of a ...much greater force...
     ... And long gone are the nights when William asks for permission...

Posted by rowan at August 03, 2003 02:14 PM