by Lucy Leven
She could see the door too, and see when it swung open but a touch at the sound of a hesitant knock
“My lord,” came Willeme’s voice, “you summoned me?”
“Ah, Willeme,” the Beast replied, his tone of easy conversation. “Come.”
In Willeme came. He wore nothing but a crumpled tunic and a pair of leathers, hastily drawn on and unlaced still. He had received his summons, it seemed, and come with all haste.
Which was just as well. Nicolette was tired of waiting. “Good evening, Willeme,” she said, and watched with satisfaction when Willeme’s eyes widened as he took in the scene in front of him, as his breath caught on a stuttering inhale.
Nicolette smiled to hear it.
She tipped open her mouth so that he might hear her gasp too, thready, wracked. A little theatrical perhaps, but true enough.
“My lord. My— my lady,” Willeme stuttered out. “I— You—”
“Oh hush, Willeme.” Nicolette firmed her grip upon her breasts and squeezed them more tightly together around the Beast’s hot, hard prick.
She let the sweetly-fragranced oil ease his course as he thrust again, a gentle, lazy motion. He stilled a breath there, at the height of his thrust, so that she might lift her head to lap, in turn, at the head of him.
Nicolette did so, perhaps more at length than she might have done otherwise, with more show of tongue that she might have otherwise, and not once did she break gaze with Willeme — the cause, indeed, of the searing heat that rushed through her, pulsing at the core of her, at the sight of Willeme’s face flushing just as pink as the rose garden’s lovely blooms.
The Beast drew away from Nicolette then. Turned her with a sharp slap to her bottom, one that sent it jiggling, and pulled her to him, arranged her so that she sat upon the edge of the bed, bracketed by his strong thighs, held up by the breath of his chest.
Watching Willeme all the while, Nicolette reached out to stroke at the Beast’s thighs. Left them streaked with oil too, just as his chest, the muscles of his stomach, all the other places she had touched him before, revelling in the play of smooth, warm skin over such coiled, corded power.
A low chuckle in her ear announced mischief afoot. The Beast had his arms around her then, and he took her oiled breasts in hand, a thrillingly possessive touch. He hefted the weight of them, drew them upwards, inwards, pressed them together and slid them apart. Nicolette felt the sweet oil on his hands, and from the echo of his oiled prick — felt it slide on her skin, on her tight nipples, saw the gleam of it in the firelight. Felt it as she felt Willeme’s eyes upon her.
With one last generous heft, the Beast abandoned her oiled breasts. And in full view of Willeme — indeed, taking care that he was watching most intently — the Beast reached down between Nicolette’s legs to play a time with her hot, wet quim.
Oil glistened in her curls just as her wetness glistened. The same wetness the Beast slipped his fingers through, as with one hand he held her open, and with the other dipped inside of her.
Willeme made a strange, low noise, and his breathing went ragged anew.
The Beast hummed a little, low and deep, amused at the game they all played. “Your lady is quite the sight, is she not, lad?”
Willeme swallowed around a breath that seemed to pain him. He had not yet moved from the doorway. Indeed, he seemed frozen there. Just as his words seemed frozen — until, “Yes, my lord. Quite the — quite the sight indeed.”
Idly, the Beast cast a fingertip across Nicolette’s bud. Her hips arched towards his fleeting touch, unbidden, a frustrated whine breaking free. Just as idly, the Beast said, “You will wonder why I called you here, Willeme.”
“You — you said it was a matter of some urgency, my lord,” Willeme managed. He did not look once at the Beast when he spoke, only at Nicolette.
“Oh yes,” the Beast agreed. “Some urgency, indeed. Your lady needs a tumbling, you see, and her need is most urgent.”
Willeme shook his head, a small, stuttering motion. But still he did not look away. “I could not,” he said. “It is not my place to— I should not wish to presume to—”
But the Beast’s calm tone silenced him. “Your lady wishes it,” the Beast said. “I wish it, and you know you wish it more that anything, lad. Now come — cease your flimsy protests and give your lady the sweet pleasure she craves. The pleasure she craves from you.”
Those words broke Willeme’s hesitant resolve. On a faltering, unsteady motion, finally he moved. He stumbled forward but a step, and the door swung shut behind him of its own accord.
Willeme looked once to it, startled, but that was all. Then his attention was for Nicolette alone.
To his knees at the side of the bed he went. He kneeled there, his face level with her aching, glistening quim — made all the more glistening as the Beast withdrew his touch, a clever little twist of hot sensation. But Willeme did not touch her in turn. He simply stilled there, as if taking the sight of her, the scent of her. As if he could hardly believe the unfolding of the night before him.
Nicolette shifted her hips, a restless movement, unable to bear such endless teasing. She whined another restless, wanting whine. “Please, Willeme,” she said. “Oh, touch me. Please”
Just as the Beast’s words had done, her voice broke through Willeme’s shocked daze. With no warning and no teasing, he put his mouth to her, and Nicolette lost her breath at the sudden sensation of that hot, wet touch. Her head rolled back, lolled back against the Beast’s chest as she arched her hips, pressed herself more firmly to the touch of Willeme’s lapping attentions, to his face, to his thin lips, to his clever tongue.
With a low, pleased growl, the Beast slipped a hand around the pale column of Nicolette’s throat, to tip her head back all the more, to claim her mouth as Willeme’s mouth claimed her quim. Indeed, it seemed that both those clever tongues worked as one, a pleasure that began in her very core and spread like a ripple across her being and along her tingling nerves.
Nicolette reached down and tangled her hands in Willeme’s hair. The long strands of it, loose for the night from their queue, had gone dark with the oil from her skin, and went darker still from the frantic clutch of her hands.
Nicolette felt so frantic that she hardly knew what to do, until the Beast settled his hands over hers, gentled her grip, helped her, instead, card her fingers through Willeme’s fine, straight hair. Helped her show her appreciation.
Helped her see.
For now that his hair was pulled back again, Nicolette could look down upon Willeme. Look down and watch him at his work, so careful and precise, so clever, so ruthless.
So wonderful.
Nicolette came to completion with a hoarse cry, feeling her wetness bloom anew upon that release. But Willeme would not leave her be. He knew he could rend more pleasure from her, and he was intent on that. He pressed his face more firmly to her shivering quim. She felt the delightful touch of the tip of his nose against her bud. Felt his lips brush her. Felt his tongue so deep within her, then withdrawing to lick a trail of pleasure upwards, then down again, to torment her mercilessly.
And Willeme, it seemed, was caught in a torment of his own. He gripped tight, first at Nicolette’s soft thighs, then at the Beast’s. He gripped harder there, where the muscle was long and taught, and the Beast’s skin paled a little from the harshness of his grip, from the bite of his short nails, but the Beast hardly seemed to notice.
Instead, he shifted his hands from Nicolette’s, reached down so that he might tease at her bud too. And the play of that touch caught around the warm, wet lap of Willeme’s tongue, the sight of that tongue, flicking and pressing and maddeningly circling, torturously spinning, so hot and wonderful and clever and—
“Oh!”
Nicolette came to such a shaking, shuddering release that only the Beast’s strength kept her upright on the furs and the slipping silks. And it was the Beast that held Willeme’s face to her quim as she bucked and shook through the aftershocks
of her pleasure, and his pleased laugh was a hot whisper across her ear.
When finally she calmed, when the shocking ripples of sensation had quietened enough to let her think again, Nicolette looked down to Willeme — only to find him looking up at her, his chin wet, his lips glistening, his eyes dark and so very fond, so full of wonder.
And that caused a ripple of sensation anew.
“A tumbling enough, lass?” the Beast asked. A futile question. A sly jape.
“There is never a tumbling enough,” Nicolette replied, for how true it felt then. How true it felt when either of those men were near. “And besides that, Beast, we are bare and he is not.”
“A salient point,” the Beast allowed. To Willeme, he said. “Undress then, lad.”
The hesitancy was gone from Willeme. He stood eagerly, drew his tunic over his head. His prick sprung free from his discarded leathers, and so hard was he that Nicolette wondered that it might be painful, so hard was he that she longed to lick and suck at the tip of him, to make him ache all the more.
But she did not, for the Beast held her tight in his arms still and seemed disinclined to move. And so she looked instead. She had seen Willeme bare before — in a fashion. But the real Willeme had imperfections that his smoke-shadow twin did not: a starburst of freckles here, a silvered scar there. And how she liked to see those little blemishes. They made him real. They made him hers.
“If you stare long enough,” the Beast whispered in her ear, “your face may turn to stone, lass.”
Nicolette snorted out a laugh, inelegant and crude. Enough to break her silly, sentimental reverie. “Behave,” she told him, a sharp slap to his thigh as she rose and urged him to his feet.
Idly, when she had him there, she took the Beast in hand and stroked him a time or two, wondering which pleasure to allow herself next. Her eyes were drawn to where Willeme stood, his pretty prick standing just as high.
And there was a pretty pleasure to be had, and to be given.
So she drew him to her, reached for his prick, pulled him closer with it, then closer still, until she could take both he and the Beast in hand, in both hands, to stroke them as one, together.
That drew from the Beast a rumble of approval. From Willeme, a startled groan of pleasure. She looked to him, then followed his gaze, found his attention was not just to her hands around his prick, but to her hands around the Beast’s prick also, and to where both their lengths pressed together in the slick, oiled clasp of her hands.
Nicolette went to her toes, kissed Willeme’s jaw, put her teeth to it, kissed the sting away, then whispered, “Why not touch him too?”
Willeme startled back from her, would have stepped back from her if she had not tightened her grip enough to draw a hiss from his sweet mouth. “Hmm?” she said, not letting go, nor letting him loose.
Willeme’s eyes flickered from her to the Beast, then down to the Beast’s prick, to his own prick, to the plump, oiled press of them. “I— I could not,” he stuttered out. “That— that would not be— be seemly.”
“It is a rare pleasure, I have found,” the Beast said, idly, amusement in his golden gaze, “that is truly seemly.”
Willeme had no reply, but Nicolette could see the want burning hot in his face. So with a hand to his shoulder, she pulled him closer, to her and to the Beast. So close his chest brushed her breasts, so close his side pressed tight against the Beast’s.
Then she slid her grip down Willeme’s arm until her hand cupped his, and with that touch, she guided him — guided Willeme’s hand to wrap around the Beast’s glorious prick, her hand tight atop.
“See how well he feels?” she whispered into the little angle of warmth between them. “How thick and how strong?”
She pressed her fingers more tightly to Willeme’s, stealing away the hesitancy of his touch, so that he might feel that thickness better, so that he might understand that strength all the more.
The grip Willeme made was a little better than her own small hand, but the span of the Beast’s girth seemed undiminished.
“Touch him,” she whispered. “Touch him as you would touch yourself. Oh, Willeme, how you shall like it. And how shall he.”
Nicolette let her fingertips drift away, a ghosting touch that sent a shiver of gooseflesh across Willeme’s fever-hot skin. He took the Beast fully in hand himself and gave a tentative squeeze, a tentative slide of a grip.
“See,” the Beast said on a pleasured, rumbling growl, “the heavens have not cleaved apart with the anger of the gods.”
Nicolette caught her hands in his hair and pulled the Beast down to kiss her. “Would such pleasure bring the gods to anger?” she asked.
The Beast smiled at her, a sharp glint of sharper teeth. “No gods that would trouble me, lass.”
And that Nicolette believed. The power that thrummed through the Beast thrilled her, and thrilled her all the more when that power came to bear on her. She pressed herself against his side, closer still when his hand came to rest on the curve of her bottom, and watching Willeme at his practicing, she trailed her fingers idly through the coarse little trail of hair that led down the Beast’s stomach, guiding her touch to the delightful wonder beyond.
No sound in the chamber then but the crackle of the high fire, the oiled slick of Willeme’s hand along the Beast’s prick, and ragged breathing. Though just who that breathing belonged to, Nicolette was unable to reckon — nor to care.
She let Willeme handle the Beast until the tip of him was reddened and glistening. Well ready.
Then gently, she urged his hand away. “You learn well, Willeme.”
Willeme sighed a touch, put upon, a belligerent turn to his thin mouth, a sight of the Willeme she knew best. “What kind of tutor would I be if I was unwilling to learn?” he said.
Nicolette felt her own lips curl with pleasure. “Then shall I teach you another lesson?”
Willeme pressed his lips together thinner still, and wet them with the hesitant touch of his tongue. “I think… I think you should.”
“Then up,” she commanded the Beast. “Up there.”
To his feet he went atop the furs and held himself steady on the high poster of the bed. Nicolette liked to look at him so, all his muscles pulled taut and stretched, all his power held still and contained. She wondered how it would look, how it should feel, if she were to lash him to that very same beam and tease him, to taunt him, hold him at the edge of his pleasure for an age.
She thought that she should like that well. She thought the Beast might too. But that was for another night.
For tonight?
“Watch,” Nicolette told Willeme.
She took the Beast’s girth in hand, and her hand covered but a small part of his span, so she took him in both, and that was a little better. She held him steady as she licked a stripe up the length of him, where upon she came to the tip. There, she took him into her mouth as much as she was able — which was hardly at all, all told — and gave him the sweet, sucking pleasure she knew he must crave.
The Beast growled another of his low rumbles and his hand settled in her hair, tumbling the golden fall of it.
Nicolette hummed around him, pleased, and kept at her work, sucking and sliding, all heat, lush and wet. Drawing back to tease his slit, to taste salt and skin, as she stroked a slow and building rhythm along his unimaginable length.
With wide-open eyes, she looked to Willeme, watching him as he watched her — watching her suck at the Beast like he was the sweetest of treats. So with one last curl of her tongue — one that made the Beast growl low in the back of his throat — Nicolette pulled her mouth away, a wet, popping sound.
“Should you wish to try, Willeme?” she asked, her voice of pure, fluting innocence, her smile nothing but mischief. “Should you wish to taste your master as you have tasted me?”
Willeme’s words had gone from him again, as was his put-upon bluster. A stuttering nod was her only answer.
“Then, here,” she said, urging hi
m to take her place. “Get him ready for you. Stroke him well.”
Again, his hands spanned the Beast’s girth more readily than hers ever had, and the rhythm he set seemed a more natural one — a rhythm he knew, a rhythm, perhaps, that he had practiced upon himself, while thinking of a night just like this.
Nicolette stepped up behind him, pressed herself close, an oiled touch of soft skin and plumpness, ran her hands down the firm globes of Willeme’s buttocks, slid her grip across and around the cut of his hips until she came to his hard, leaking prick. Willeme whined a touch as she took him in hand and stroked his length.
Stroked him until he was soundly distracted from his task, then gently, she tugged Willeme’s prick down and let it free, so that it slapped wetly against his stomach as she stepped away.
“Before you taste him,” Nicolette said, going up on her toes to whisper in his ear, “before you take him as you would, you must lick your master first. All men like to be licked, Willeme. And all Beasts too. They like to be teased so. Come, I will show you again.”
Nicolette put her knees to the edge of the bed so that she was of a height with the Beast’s gleaming, glistening prick. She wrapped her hands — and oh, how little they still looked! — around that wonderful, mouth-watering length. And then she teased at him again with her lips and her tongue, with the wet, tight heat of her mouth.
She teased and teased, and all the while she watched Willeme watch her. Watched his pale eyes track her every move as, with the very tip of her tongue, she traced a vein up the length of the Beast’s prick, all the way to the head, all pinked and leaking with pleasure. There she lapped and suckled, her touch maddeningly, purposely gentle, her only intent to tease the Beast as she teased Willeme, not to bring him to the sweet pleasure of his aching release.
A raw growl from above her head, the quickening pulse beating hot against her tongue, the searing flare of golden magic barely contained — they all told her she did just that, teased and tormented.
Now, to tease him even more. “It is your turn, Willeme.”