Chapter 6: DVP time
The sensation was geological, a tectonic shift inside her. Her mind blanked, short-circuited by the sheer, impossible bulk stretching her. A high, thin whine escaped her throat, coalescing into a shaky, breathless chant.
“Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god.”
Jule’s head was right beside hers, his chest a solid wall against her back. He let out a low, dark chuckle, the sound vibrating through both of them. “Not god, sweetheart,” he murmured, his voice rough with strain and satisfaction. “Just two cocks. My cock. His cock. Sliding in that tight little virgin pussy. Filling it up.”
As if to demonstrate, Rhys shifted his hips behind her, a minute adjustment that made her gasp. The movement forced Jule’s length to rub against a new, oversensitized ridge within her. A bolt of shocking, white-hot sensation, not pain, lanced through her core. Her chant broke, transforming into a ragged moan that seemed to surprise even her.
“Listen to that,” Rhys said, his artist’s voice detached, analytical. His breath was cool on her sweat-damp shoulder. “She’s a natural. Just listen.”
He paused his movements, and for a second, the only sounds were their labored breathing and the crackle of the fireplace. Then Jule pulled back an inch and slid home again. The sound was obscenely wet, a thick, lewd slap-shlick of soaked skin and forced entry.
“Hear it?” Rhys pressed. “That’s not a pussy fighting. That’s a pussy stretching. Welcoming. That’s the sound of you being rewritten, Eve. Your body’s learning its new purpose.”
Dun watched from the foot of the bed, his hand working steadily over himself. His eyes were glued to the juncture where their bodies merged, watching the strained, glistening flesh struggle to accommodate the dual invasion. “Fuck, look at that,” he breathed. “You see that grip? Once you get used to that, girl, you’ll never go back. One cock’ll feel like a fucking finger. You’ll be empty. Begging for us to fill you up like this again.”
His words, combined with the relentless, filling grind inside her, did something. The coil of heat in her belly, the traitorous pleasure she’d discovered while riding them, snapped tight. It wasn’t a choice. It was a seismic release. A sharp, convulsive clenching that had nothing to do with her will.
A gush of warm fluid rushed out of her, past the obstruction of their cocks, soaking Jule’s balls and the tangled sheets beneath them. It wasn’t urine. It was clear, copious, and it pulsed out of her with a force that made her whole body shudder.
“There it is,” Jule grunted, triumph in his voice. He drove into her harder, spurred on by the slick flood. “Squirting all over us. That’s it. Let it go.”
The violence of her own orgasm seemed to trigger theirs. Jule came first, a deep, groaning release, his hips stuttering as he pumped another load into the already-claimed space. The feel of his pulsing, followed immediately by Rhys’s own climax—a quieter, tenser series of jerks—sent her into another, smaller spasm. She felt impossibly full of them, stuffed with their spend, a leaking vessel.
They didn’t let her rest. They withdrew together, a slow, devastating drag that left her gaping, dripping onto the ruined silk. She collapsed forward, her arms giving out. The room spun.
“Switch,” Jule said, the word a command devoid of fatigue.
Hands were on her again, turning her, manipulating her limp body. Dun was on his back now, pulling her atop him. She sank onto his hardness with a choked sob, her oversensitive flesh screaming at the renewed penetration. But before she could even adjust, Rhys was behind her, pushing her shoulders down so her back arched, presenting her dripping cleft. He spat into his palm, slicked himself, and without ceremony, pressed the head of his cock against the same stretched entrance Dun occupied.
“Breathe out,” Rhys instructed calmly, as if guiding a yoga pose.
She whimpered, but the path had been carved. He pushed, a steady, inexorable pressure, and he was in, sliding alongside Dun with a wet, congested sound. The fullness returned, doubly shocking the second time. Dun’s hands gripped her hips, his face a mask of rapturous agony beneath her.
“Fuck, yes! So fucking tight!” Dun snarled, bucking up into the congested space.
They set a rhythm, a brutal, pistoning counterpoint that used her body as a conduit. Jule watched from an armchair, a crystal glass of amber liquor in his hand, his eyes dark and approving. He took a slow sip.
“Good,” he said, a final pronouncement.
The night blurred into a carousel of flesh and pressure. They switched, and switched again. Jule and Dun. Rhys and Jule. Dun and Rhys. Over and over. They took her on the heated marble floor by the windows, her cheek pressed to the stone, watching snow fall silently on the pitch-black pines as two men moved inside her. They bent her over the wet bar, her hands scattering crystal stoppers, her moans echoing against the bottles.
Her world shrank to the cycle of unbearable fullness, the slap of skin, the crude, praising curses from their mouths, and the dizzying, catastrophic releases they wrung from her body. Each time she thought she was empty, dried up, broken, they found a new angle, a new combination, and the dam would burst again, her fluid marking their possession.
Her mind finally, mercifully, began to float away. The chanted “oh my gods” had long since dissolved into a continuous, broken stream of vowels and pleas. She didn’t know what she was pleading for. More. Less. An end. It was all the same.
As the first grey light of dawn began to bleed into the edges of the sky, Jule and Rhys were inside her again, on the bed. Their movements were slower now, fatigued but no less determined. Dun slept sprawled in the chair, spent.
Jule looked down at her glazed, pleasure-filled face. He brushed a strand of hair from her forehead, a gesture almost tender.
“You did well,” he said, his voice low.