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D’artagnan followed his friends from the Garrison through the Paris streets as they headed to the Bonacieux house in Paris’ garment district around the Place de Greve. He could feel a grim satisfaction run through his veins as the four men passed by the darkened houses, the occupants sound asleep, oblivious to the mission of the brothers in arms, going after their prey. Being the most jovial of the group, Porthos started whistling a jaunty tune, hiking the rope he carried back up onto his shoulder. Aramis joined in singing the words to the ditty in a rich tenor voice. D’artagnan smiled, enjoying the camaraderie as the crossed the square. He thought about how they ended up here, carrying a rope over to Bonacieux’s. They had been sitting around the dining table drinking some wine that Athos had picked up, and D’artagnan started to tell them about what had happened when he took Constance home after they rescued her from Sarazin. He explained why Constance had told him she didn’t love him, that her husband had threatened to tell the Cardinal that D’artagnan was plotting to kill him so Constance pushed him away to save his life. He also told them about Bonacieux’s suicide attempt, and how he guilted Constance into staying with him, even though she wanted to go with the man she really loved. As he related the tale, he could see Porthos’ face form into the blackest scowl he’d ever seen and he was surprised steam wasn’t coming out the man’s ears. Aramis looked just as angry as Porthos. The only who didn’t look angry was Athos, who took a sip of wine and stroked his beard.
“I think,” Athos said in that deep, deliberative voice of his,” we should teach Monsieur Bonacieux a lesson.”
So here they were, heading right for Bonacieux’s door, armed with a rope and a plan to get their revenge. When they got to the front door, Porthos handed the rope over to Aramis, then reached into his doublet to take out a set of picks for the lock. He knelt to examine the lock, then selected the pick best suited to opening it. With the skill of a great artist, Porthos got the lock to turn easily under his hand, silently pushing the door open. With great stealth, the four of them entered the house, moving swiftly up to the living quarters, going to the dining room where meals were eaten. Standing in front of the fireplace, Athos stopped everyone.
“You two stay here,” he said to Aramis and D’artagnan, “Porthos and I will go upstairs to handle Bonacieux.”
When Athos and Porthos left the room, Aramis went to the fireplace. “We might as well get some light in here,” he said, setting up fresh logs in the fireplace. D’artagnan sat down in what had been his favorite chair when he had been a lodger in this house and watched as Aramis built a roaring fire to light the room and provide warmth. When Porthos came back alone, D’artagnan stood up.
“Well?” he asked. “Do you need the rope for Bonacieux?” Porthos shook his head.
“No,” he replied, guiding D’artagnan back down into the chair, “Athos knows how to apply a pistol butt to a man’s head with just the right amount of force to render him unconscious. The rope is for you.” Before D’artagnan could react, Porthos pinned his forearms to the arms of the chair, holding him immobile as Aramis wound the rope around his upper arms and chest, tying him to the chair.
“Hey, what are you doing?” he demanded, struggling to break free from Porthos’ grip while Aramis moved the rope to bind his wrists to the chair arms, tying the ends in an unbreakable knot. “This isn’t funny, you two.”
“Bonacieux isn’t the only one who needs to learn a lesson,” Athos said as he came through the door, followed by Constance, who was dressed in her nightshift, her mahogany curls flowing loose around her shoulders and rubbing sleep from her eyes. In the firelight D’artagnan could see the sheerness of the material over her body, could see the outline of dusky nipples and the small thatch of dark curls at the apex of her legs. He let his eyes roam over her, drinking in every detail as he moved in the chair, which caused the bonds to tighten.
“You still let your heart rule your head,” Athos said with an amused look as he watched the younger man struggle. “Your emotions will get you killed if you can’t control them in the face of extreme provocation.” He looked at Porthos. “If you’ll do the honors?” he asked, gesturing toward Constance.
“With pleasure,” Porthos replied, going up to Constance. Taking the neck of her nightshift in his hands, he yanked hard, the material ripping easily under his strength, and let it drop to the floor, leaving Constance standing completely naked in front of them. Porthos nodded to Athos, who inclined his head in thanks, then went over to drag D’artagnan’s chair in front of the dining table.
“Why are you doing this, Athos?” D’artagnan asked, watching in shock as Athos cupped Constance’s breast, squeezing it and rubbing his thumb over her nipple. He struggled against the rope, but the more he fought, the tighter the bonds became.
“Your opponent will use whatever they can to make you lose control and do something stupid,” Athos told him as Aramis came forward, having removed his sash, and tied one end of the blue cloth securely around Constance’s wrists. “Even taking something, or someone, you love from you,” he said softly, watching as Aramis helped Constance up onto the table, securing the other end of the sash to the table leg in front of D’artagnan so Constance knelt facing him, leaning forward to give the sash some slack. “How is she?” Athos asked as Porthos wedged his hand between Constance’s thighs, easing them apart and inserting two fingers into her slit.
“Wet,” he replied, licking her juices off his fingers, “very wet.” Porthos removed his doublet and set it aside as Athos inserted his own fingers in Constance’s pussy and brought them to his lips, nodding in agreement that she was indeed at the right stage of readiness.
“Whose first?” Athos said, lightly patting her bottom.
“Me,” Porthos said, taking off his shirt and tossing it on the pile of doublet and weapons. He got on the table, kneeling behind Constance, and D’artagnan watched as his hands came around to the front of her thighs, guiding her to spread them farther apart so they were wider than his. Porthos open the front of his breeches and slid them down his thighs. D’artagnan knew his friend was a large man, but didn’t realize just how big his cock was until he saw it fully engorged and brushing against Constance’s hip. Ruddy dark skin covered a hard shaft that stood out from Porthos’ body, almost as large as that of a horse, and even though D’artagnan was a well-endowed man himself, he still felt outclassed by Porthos’ proportions. He watched as Porthos pulled Constance’s hips back and thrust his rotund cockhead into her pussy.
“Is something wrong?” Athos asked from where he stood near the fireplace, seeing Porthos frown slightly and Constance bite her lip as he penetrated her.
“She’s a lot tighter than she usually is,” Porthos told them, thrusting harder to fill the void between those creamy thighs. “When was the last time you had a fuck, love?” The question was posed to Constance, but Porthos was giving D’artagnan a look that said the deficiency was the younger man’s fault.
“D’artagnan,” Aramis tut-tutted, shaking his in mock disappointment as he stood next to Athos, the two men discarding their own doublets, “I thought we’d taught you the importance of keeping a woman satisfied.” D’artagnan flushed, embarrassed that his friends would think he couldn’t satisfy Constance in bed.
“Don’t worry, she’ll get what she needs,” Porthos said as he began to move inside Constance, “won’t you, love?” And indeed, Constance was already flexing her hips back and forth to take Porthos deeper until he was buried to the hilt. The purring moans she made when his fingers found her pearl and the way her hips moved together with Porthos’ brought D’artagnan’s mind back to what Porthos had said moments before. She’s a lot tighter than she usually is. The realization that they had fucked each other, and obviously more than once, hit him like a punch in the face. He could feel anger rising in his gut at the thought of Porthos sharing what he thought was his alone, of him giving Constance something D’artagnan had believed only he could provide and, worst of all, that Constance could prefer fucking Porthos over him.
“You’re becoming angry right now,” Athos said, looking at D’artagnan as he poured himself and Aramis a glass of wine, “and you’ve no reason to be.” Porthos nodded in agreement.
“You only have to see her face when she looks at you to know that she loves you,” he told D’artagnan, not breaking the rhythm of his thrusts. “But that doesn’t mean she won’t still slide our cocks into her pussy when she feels the need.” His hands moved from her hips up to her breasts, plucking the sensitive nipples. As much as D’artagnan hated to admit it, the contrast between Porthos’ dark hands and Constance’s creamy breasts was very erotic, and he could feel his body start to stir as he watched the couple fucking on the table. His eyes flicked over to where Athos and Aramis stood, watching the same scene with an air of detached amusement. But while their faces were relatively impassive, the fronts of their breeches were distended, pushed out by their own swelling cocks. Constance cried out as Porthos increased the speed of his thrusts, his fat cockhead pressing her sweet spot. D’artagnan kept his eyes on her face as she reached orgasm, memorizing every detail of her passion as she tipped her head back to scream. He enjoyed watching her come when they were in bed together, but his attention was usually divided by more urgent concerns. Seeing her climax with someone else was an unsettling experience. Porthos’ arm snaked around her waist to pull her tight against him as his thrusts became harder, and he buried his lips in her throat. They shouted in unison when Porthos came, his cock releasing a gush of seed into Constance’s pussy. Slowly Porthos lifted her up, easing his spent cock out of her clinging warmth, and giving her a smacking kiss before getting off the table. Pulling up his breeches but making no move to cover his now flaccid cock, he went over to the fireplace.
“Next?” he asked, looking from Athos to Aramis. Athos gestured for Aramis to go before him. Aramis placed his hand over his heart, then lowered his suspenders and removed his shirt, his skin glowing even more golden in the firelight. Taking a light stick to get a light from the fire, he lit one of the candles on the mantelpiece, then picked up a decorative silver Poteau statue.
“On your belly,” he ordered, walking to over to the table. When Constance did not immediately comply, Aramis smacked her hard on her buttocks with the bottom of the statue. Constance yelped in pain, then moved to lay down on the table, not easy to do with her hands still tied to the table in front of her.
“There’s no need to hurt her,” D’artagnan said, trying to move forward but pulled back by the tightening rope.
“Oh, she’s not being hurt,” Aramis said, patting Constance’s backside. “In fact, she’s had much stronger discipline than that. What do you think all those slaps were for? She always gives as good as she gets and I do love violence in a woman.” Another hard smack across the buttocks got Constance to spread her legs far apart. Turning the sculpture in his hand, he shoved the smooth cylinder hard into her pussy, causing her to raise her hips off the table. Aramis pressed her buttocks back down with one hand as his other pushed the sculpture further inside her. D’artagnan couldn’t tell if the whimpers coming from Constance’s mouth were pleasure or pain as Aramis made her fuck the object between her legs.
“I may have to take this thing with us,” Aramis said, giving a few more strokes of the statue before removing it from Constance’s body,” to use in our rendezvous.” He set the sculpture aside and sat down on the table by Constance’s feet.
“You mean you’ve done this before?” D’artagnan asked incredulously. “Oh yes,” Aramis told him cheerfully, swinging his legs up on the table so he faced D’artagnan and sliding them under Constance’s. “Constance and I have spent many hours playing slap and tickle with each other,” he explained as he untied his breeches and took out his hard cock, “Didn’t you notice the marks on her body when you took her to bed?” Aramis cocked his eyebrow as his hand ran up and down the length of his throbbing erection, his thumb rubbing the swollen head.
“She said they were from her corset and stays,” D’artagnan said slowly, his eyes narrowing at his friend. Aramis smiled at young man’s innocence and shook his head.
“No,” he said as he pulled Constance’s hips back so she was completely stretched out with the sash taut, “they were from the different implements we used when we fucked each other.” He pulled Constance back onto his rigid shaft, eliciting a moan from her, then used his hold on her hips to guide her back and forth along the length of his cock. When they were in a comfortable rhythm, Aramis looked over to the fireplace where Athos and Porthos were drinking their wine and watching the act on the table.
“Do you mind?” he asked, nodding toward the mantelpiece.
“Not at all,” Porthos replied, picking up the lit candle and handing it to Aramis.
Keeping one hand on Constance to keep her moving, Aramis slowly dripped the melted wax across her buttocks, enjoying the way it crept lewdly toward the crevice of her quivering ass. Again, D’artagnan didn’t know whether Constance’s cries were pleasure or pain, but he could feel his cock rubbing against his breeches as he watched Aramis fuck her. Constance tried to grind her hips on Aramis, sensing she was getting close to release but Aramis, sensing the same thing, pulled out from under her, blowing out the candle as he got up from the table.
“Now,” he said as he placed the candle back on the mantelpiece, “let’s get you on your back.” Aramis returned to the table and flipped Constance’s body over so she was lying face up with her hands above her head. She whimpered softly at the pressure put on her inflamed sex as he moved her body. Aramis went back to the fireplace, accepting his refilled glass from Athos. Taking a sip as he admired his handiwork, his battle-hardened body with his wide, tumescent cock curving upward and shining with Constance’s juices made him look like the god Priapus reborn.
“Aramis,” Athos chided when he made no move to go back to the table, “surely you’re not going leave her that way.” He gestured to Constance, who had parted her thighs and was straining against her bonds.
“Nah,” Porthos said, “he just likes making her beg him to let her come.” Aramis smiled at his friends and went back to the table.
“Is that what you want?” he asked in his smooth, seductive voice as he looked down at Constance, “Do you want me to make you come, Constance?” Dipping his fingers into his wine, he rubbed the red liquid over her nipples, pinching them into harder buds. D’artagnan was shocked by how explicitly Constance told Aramis what she wanted him to do to her as he teased her breasts. She had never spoken to him like that in bed, preferring instead to follow his lead. But he was now understanding that there were things he did not know about the woman he loved.
“Well then,” Aramis said setting his glass aside, “far be it from me to keep a lady waiting.” Getting back up on the table, he hooked her legs over his forearms, spreading them far apart and lifting her lower body off the table, plunging his iron hard shaft into her aching pussy. It took only one stroke for Constance to scream as she came, the sound ringing through the house as Aramis pounded away between her thighs. With a triumphant shout, Aramis climaxed, his cock flooding her pussy with his seed. When his body had emptied, he eased her from his shaft, gently lowering her body back down and getting off the table.
“She’s all yours,” he told Athos, picking up his glass and returning to the fireplace as the other man removed his shirt and went over to the table. Constance parted her thighs and lifted her hips in libidinous invitation.
“Look at you,” Athos said to Constance, running his hand from her breast down to her thigh, “Fucked hard twice already, and you still want more. Such a greedy little thing.” He looked at D’artagnan, a mocking look in his eyes. “You didn’t really think you could satisfy her, did you?” he asked in his deep, cultured voice as his hand moved back up her body to squeeze her breast. Keeping his eyes on his captive’s, Athos knelt between Constance’s thighs and slowly undid his breeches to reveal the thick turgid cock that was eager to get inside her wet heat. Bracing himself above her, he thrust into her sodden pussy, sliding in to the hilt.
“Did you know I fucked her the night I became a Musketeer?” He asked D’artagnan as he moved inside her in a slow, surging rhythm, making her moan as she lifted her hips to take him deeper. “At an inn near San Sulpice where she would go to look for patrons.” He smiled when D’artagnan’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “You didn’t know?” he said, lifting himself up so D’artagnan could see down the length of their bodies to where they joined. “Her father went mad, all those years of working with those stuffs that cause milliners to lose their minds. She had to whore herself out for her family to make ends meet. How do think she met Porthos and Aramis?” The two Musketeers nodded in confirmation when D’artagnan looked to them. Athos watched D’artagnan’s face as he slowly and thoroughly fucked Constance.
“I also fucked her the night I got released from the Chatelet,” he said with another deep stroke between her thighs. “She was eager to show me how happy she was that I’d escaped the firing squad.” D’artagnan remembered what Constance had said the night they went after Gordet. I’m doing this for Athos. At the time, he’d thought she was just being a loyal friend, but now, watching the way their bodies moved together, Athos’ cock glistening with Constance’s juices as it slid back and forth, he realized that their bond went deeper than simple friendship, and it felt like a betrayal that the two people he cared most for would have a relationship like this behind his back. Not wanting to accept that, he told himself that Athos was trying to provoke him.
“You were drunk that night,” he said confidently.
“I wasn’t that drunk when Porthos carried me home,” Athos told him, a sly smile on his face, “that was for your benefit. And when I got back to the barracks, she practically tore my clothes off. She couldn’t wait to suck my cock, and that was just to start.” He looked down at panting, satisfied woman lying beneath him, working her hips to get more of that cock she enjoyed so much. “She’s always been such a good little couturiere to us.”
D’artagnan inhaled as if slapped. Couturiere was the term for the women who came to the Garrison at night. Even though technically women were forbidden in the barracks, Treville allowed certain women, almost all seamstresses and laundresses, to spend the night, assigning them groups of men in the regiment to service intimately on a regular basis. The women were grateful to supplement their meager incomes, and being in the Garrison was safer than walking the streets. D’artagnan had never used their services, wanting only Constance, and he had never seen his friends use them either. He had thought it was due to nobility of character, but it was really because they were all fucking Constance, so they didn’t need the other women. And since Constance was always home to prepare the evening meal, that meant their meetings had to happen during the day, possibly even while he was at the Garrison. As if reading his thoughts, Athos grinned even more broadly.
“That’s right,” his deep voice said darkly, “when you were training out in the yard, she was in our rooms, taking our cocks. Mouth, pussy, ass, we’ve had her in every possible way many, many times.” He used his hard strokes as emphasis for his words, and Constance cried out in ecstasy as her sweet spot took the new onslaught. “You were only allowed to fuck her because the three of us agreed to it,” Athos told him bluntly, an obscenely triumphant look in his eyes. “She belongs to us, and we decide who we share her with. One for all and all for one.” He continued thrusting between Constance’s thighs, the slap of his testes against her outer sex like the tick of the clock in the corner. D’artagnan struggled violently against the rope, careless of the fact that he was rendering himself more immobile. Athos laughed as he watched the younger man’s futile attempts to get free.
“Try all you want,” he taunted his protégé, “but Aramis is a master knot maker. You won’t get free until he decides to let you go. But you’re not the only one tied up.” His eyes went down to Constance, who was telling him exactly what his ministrations were doing to her and encouraging him to give her more. “Shall we let her go? Shall we let her climb onto your lap so she can ride you and come on your cock?” His eyes narrowed slightly as he considered this.
“No,” he said finally, shaking his head, “I think not. We won’t be finished with her for a while yet,” he jerked his head toward the fireplace, where Aramis and Porthos stood smiling with their oversized erections dripping in anticipation of their next fucks, “and besides, you can’t make her scream.” The taunting light came back into his eyes. “It was written on your face that you never heard that particular song from her,” he laughed. “Perhaps you should watch and learn how to properly fuck a woman,” he said as his eyes dropped to the front of D’artagnan’s breeches, which were stretched to the limit by his fully erect shaft, “assuming you can control yourself.”
Athos increased the speed of his thrusts, all the while telling D’artagnan in detail how Constance’s pussy was reacting to his cock. D’artagnan could feel his body readying itself for release as he watched them fuck and tried as hard as he could to fight it, but when Constance opened her mouth to let out the loudest scream he had ever heard he lost the battle with himself. He felt warmth and dampness spread across the front of his breeches as his cock spurted out his seed. From the table, Athos gave him a triumphant smile as his own cock ejected seed into the woman still climaxing beneath him.
D’artagnan awoke with a jerk, his heart pounding in his chest and his breathing ragged. It took a few minutes for his eyes to adjust to the darkness and recognize his room in the barracks. He exhaled a breath of relief, it had all been a dream. Lifting the blanket that covered him, he looked down at himself and saw the wet stain confirming that he had come in his drawers. Throwing aside the blanket, he got up from the bed, going over to where he kept his linen. Stripping off the dirty linen, he put on a pair of clean drawers, but instead of going back to bed, he went to the window, opening it to let in the air of the warm summer night, leaning against the windowsill as he looked out at the empty practice yard. He had been assigned one of the later duty shifts at the palace, so he’d been unable to join Athos, Porthos, and Aramis on their outing to the Luxembourg Quarter. It had been a shame he couldn’t go, he could’ve used something to distract him from losing Constance again after Bonacieux’s suicide attempt. D’artagnan privately believed that the attempt had been a fake, Bonacieux not being the kind of man to have the courage to kill himself, but he knew Constance didn’t want to have her husband’s death on her conscience. So, when he returned to the Garrison later that night, he had the cassoulet from the kitchen, washed down with a bottle of wine, then fell into bed exhausted, only to have the most vivid and lurid dream he’d ever experienced. It had been very unsettling to think of the woman he loved going to bed with his friends, even though he knew they would never do anything so dishonorable. He made a mental note not to eat the cassoulet again. Looking around at the shuttered windows of the other men’s rooms, D’artagnan wondered if the three of them had returned. He would ask them how their outing was in the morning. Yawning, he decided to go back to bed. Closing the window, he went back to the narrow cot, pulling the blanket over himself and closing his eyes for an undisturbed sleep.