Work Text:
Their campfire let off a warm glow, heavy smoke billowing up into the night. You could see it from far away, like an angel reaching out into the sky, tucked behind the safety of the trees. It was everything you had hoped for.
It all happened so quickly. Usually you were quicker. Not now, not when your body had started giving up on itself a long time ago.
When you stumbled upon them it felt like God’s will—he had finally answered your prayers and given you everything you had asked him for. Just some food, some water, you wouldn’t take any more than you needed. You weren’t that type of man. Just enough to get you through the rest of the night until you found the next town over, that was it. Nothing else, only enough to ease the hunger pains that ached and gnawed away at your bones.
You crept up carefully, quietly, footsteps treading softly against the dirt. Hands trembling as you reached out for their saddlebag. Lying on the ground, tossed over on its side like it was calling out to you. Too exhausted to think properly, eyes too worn out and heavy with fatigue to truly see the sleeping figure in front of you—you’d fall forward on your face if it weren’t for the fear coursing through your body.
Your heart thumped as you rustled through their bag. Then, you finally felt it. Fingers brushing up against the metal ridges of a can. That was all you needed.
A quiet grunt from behind you, a click, and you stopped.
Something cool pressed against the back of your head, you felt it jab hard against you and suddenly you couldn’t move. Then, a heavy swing and you couldn’t breathe, either. Kicked and thrown down to the ground so hard all the air had been knocked out of you.
“The hell’s goin on?” The sleeping one grunted angrily and shot up from his bedroll, hands instinctively reaching for the revolver resting at his waist. He stood over you, next to the one in black, watching you wheeze and roll over in the dirt.
Eyes blurry and your muscles locked, you turned your head the other way and prepared for him to shoot but nothing ever came.
“Stupid, little thing thought we were some easy cash, that’s what.” A dark shadow crouched over you, his voice a low murmur sweeping with the wind in the trees and the smell of smoke rolling off of him. He shoved you down on your stomach, took your hands and tied your wrists together behind your back before you could manage any strength to fight back. He pulled back, looking at you now, curling his lip into a scowl. “A little thief. You know what’s done to boys like you that can’t keep their hands to themselves?”
You couldn’t speak. No, you didn’t, not really. But you’ve encountered enough men like these in your travels to assume what must have been coming next.
He stood up and flipped you over with his boot, pointing his gun down at you and narrowing his eyes. You flinched away, hacked up the rest of the dust from your lungs. He grabbed you by your hair, dragging you up on your knees. Setting you still. And against your better judgement, you decided to beg, or at least try while you still had the chance.
“Wait—wait, please. Please, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cause any trouble—I’m just hungry.” You pleaded quietly with the shake of your head, voice rasping as you trembled, eyes trained on the dirt beneath you. You couldn’t take them off the ground, couldn’t bear to look up any further. Not when you could feel the barrel of a gun directly against your forehead. You shook your head. “Haven’t eaten for three days, sir, ran outta water a long time ago, too. Wasn’t gunna take nothin valuable offa you, I just wanted somethin to eat—that’s it, I swear on it.”
He didn’t budge. Only tightened his grip around the base of his revolver, fancy gold rings shining back at you.
You were as good as dead, even before you stumbled upon them. Still, fear settled deep down in your chest. At least there was more dignity dying in the hands of Mother Nature, letting your body shut down and cave in on itself rather than having your brains blown out the back of your skull by some deranged stranger. This is it, you thought to yourself, if this is what God had meant for you there was no use. You could plead and beg, but there was no point in trying to fight it.
“Please.” You muttered weakly, shoulders giving in. Knees aching against the dirt. For the first time you look up at him, past the gun in your face, at the man in front of you. “M’just hungry, that’s all.”
The cold nipped away at you. You couldn’t move. He inched closer. You must have looked stupid. A starving, cowardly idiot.
“Stop whinin.”
He struck you across the face with the side of his gun, hard, and you’re sent toppling over in the dirt once more. Hands tied and wedged so tight behind your back you’re unable to catch yourself, falling on your side with a heavy thump. Reeling away in pain and only able to muster a hoarse, feeble wheeze in protest.
He brings you back up by your hair, again, and he forces you back on your knees before you could catch your breath. His face is close and he won’t let you look away. Instead, he mutters. “Anythin else you got to say, boy?”
You sniffled. Blinking away the tears from the corners of your eyes. You could taste the blood pooling up and seeping down the back of your throat. You could feel it dripping out past the corners of your mouth, down your chin through ragged breaths.
Your words gurgle past the blood sitting on your lips. “I’m sorry. Really, I am, sir.”
“Come on, Dutch.” Another voice speaks from beside him. “Look at ‘im.”
Your eyes gloss over, and you see him. The one that was sleeping. He’s staring down at you, looking over the state of you with a condescending expression over his face that couldn’t be anything other than pity. The type of look that made you feel like you were about to be put down and out of your misery. Like there’s no point in speaking for yourself. He’s staring at the ribs poking out from your skin beneath your shirt, your hollowed out collarbones, your sunken-in face.
Dutch. That was the other one’s name—the one that’s standing over you, that’s been watching you closely with his gun pointed straight between your eyes. The other one continues, taking a small step towards Dutch, hands on his belt. “Just think he’s tellin the truth. Much as he is a thief, he ain’t even puttin up a fight.”
His voice is gruff, tired. Dutch takes his eyes off you for a moment to look at him.
“Doesn’t mean nothin if he’s tellin the truth or not, Arthur.” Arthur. That’s his name. The one you had crept up on before you found yourself in this mess. It’s no use, you thought, if this is how it ends. There was no need to remember their names, really. You’d be dead soon. God’s will.
“Just think there’s no use in beatin a starvin dog.” Arthur shrugged his shoulders. His voice was blunt, straight to the point. Dutch only hummed quietly, thinking for a moment. Then he lowered his gun, safely putting it back in his holster. You could only look back up at him, knees aching and ready to buckle in and send you falling over in the dirt once more
It was quiet for a moment. Everything went still and eventually you could breathe again.
“That right?” Dutch took your chin in his hand, holding you still, rubbing his thumb hard against your cheek. Pulling your head to the side to get a good look at you. You blinked, eyes tired and bloodshot from crying and begging moments before. Still, you let him, as humiliating as it was. Letting him tug and pull your face in any direction he wanted like you were some ragdoll. “That all you were gunna take? Food?”
You weren’t sure what was going through his mind. He looked as if he was still debating on whether or not he should kill you.
“Yes, sir.” You nodded.
He smiled.
And then, the soft rustle of fabric.
Your eyes leveled with the buckle of his belt. Waiting. He caressed his thumb gently across your lips, nudging them open. Dragging his finger across the edge of your teeth. You did as he wanted, jaw going slack, letting him dig his thumb into your mouth.
From the corner of your eye you could see Arthur watching. Still, like he was waiting for something to happen.
You can taste leather. Dutch pushes your head back and holds a ratty canteen up to your mouth. You part your lips quickly at the rush of water, before your brain could truly process what was happening, opening your mouth wide. Taking down and gulping as much water as he lets you, afraid he’d take it away. You struggle in your restraints—only wishing you could take it in your own hands, at least it’d be less shameful than this.
He was pouring it all too fast. You huffed, breaking away for a moment, brows furrowed. “Please, wait, too—too much—”
Your eyes flickered up at him. He didn’t stop, only smiled back at you with the corner of his mouth. There must have been some type of amusement he found in the whole thing. Some type of pleasure from your desperation as you panted and tried to break for air, on your knees and nudging up between his legs for more. With your teary eyes looking up at him, blinking, trying to take it in, struggling to swallow it all as he titled the canteen up farther. Letting the water rush out so fast it fell from the corners of your lips and dribbled down your chin.
It felt good. After so many days of rationing your own, it’s refreshing as much as it leaves you looking a mess.
“The poor boy can’t breathe, Dutch.” It’s Arthur. He has his arms crossed over his chest, watching you closely. You squirm under his eyes, a strange feeling settling in your stomach. It’s embarrassment, humiliation, something else you don’t want to name that has you pressing your legs together and rutting up against Dutch’s leg. Arthur doesn’t smile, not like Dutch—the expression on his face is rigid and hard to make out.
“He can breathe just fine.” Dutch says simply.
He pulls his hands away before you could truly appreciate it, screwing on the cap and tossing the canteen on the ground. You coughed, swallowed hard, and your shoulders relaxed. Licking up the rest of the water that sat over your lips as relief washed over you, fast, all at once. With your face hot, eyes half-lidded.
“He’s just havin fun, aren’t y’boy?” Dutch hummed, patting your face with enough strength to make you whine out and flinch away. Until his hand finally settled over the back of your neck, thumb rubbing soothing circles against your skin. “You see, I’m not an unreasonable, much as some try n’make me out to be. I’ll admit I may have…jumped to conclusions…but you’re okay now.”
He leaned over, rustled around one of their saddlebags and took out a can of food. Crouching down to your level and waving the can in your face. Your eyes followed and your stomach ached. Dutch laughed, giving it a shake just to watch the desperation cross your face. If your hands were free you would have reached out and taken it from him and ran as far as your legs could take you, then suffered the consequences.
“This what you were after?” A breath hitched in your throat. He scoffed, taking a finger and pulling back the metal lid. You licked your lip, tasting the dried up blood between the corners of your mouth.
“Yes, yes, please.” You nodded your head frantically and leaned in closer between his legs, brushing your cheek against his thigh. He scoffed and took you by the hair, pulling you away. “S’All I wanted.”
“Careful now, I ain’t feedin you outta my hand.”
Dutch poured out the contents of the can on the ground, letting it spill out beneath you. Before he could get out another word you had leaned forward on your stomach, lapping it up off the dirt in desperation. Eating so fast you coughed it back up with the dirt and forced it back down your throat. Knees pressed and rubbing together to rid yourself of the shame shooting down your stomach, between your legs.
Dutch whistled, laughed, and hooked both of his hands on his belt.
“God, Dutch.” Arthur grunted, grimacing, moving his boot away from the splatter of food. Some had gotten on the tip of his boot. “Could’a warned me, at least.”
“Boy was beggin for it, just showin him some sympathy, that’s all. Like you said.” Dutch reasoned. Their voices drowned out above you. Too focused on eating every scrap and trying not to retch it all back up with the taste of dirt and grime and blood still lingering over your lips. Dutch reached down to pat your head again. Softly, like you were some dog. A small noise caught in your throat as you looked back up at him.
You stopped for a moment, going still. With your lips trembling, shoulders going rigid. Blinking, trying to recollect your thoughts. For the past three days only a few thoughts had crossed your mind as you trudged through the wilderness, alone, lost, on the brink of death. Food, water. Warmth. Now you were eating off the ground, like some animal, being treated like a dog, under the watch and steer of the man in front of you.
The embarrassment of it was beginning to catch up to you.
Dutch gave you a short nod. “Well, go on. Clean it up.”
Arching forward again, you licked up the last of it from the ground. You weren’t exactly sure what it was—some type of meat, vegetable. It didn’t have much of a taste. It didn’t matter. You were going to die. You weren’t exactly sure why Dutch had decided to be so gracious towards you, when moments ago he was hitting you across face with his ringed hand until you were spitting up blood. Waving his gun in your face and threatening to shoot you.
Somehow, you managed to let out a feeble, “Thank you, sir.” Your voice didn’t strain like before, not now. Still, there wasn’t much emotion left in any of your words.
“Such a good boy, yes sir, thank you sir. What’s the matter with you?” There’s an edge in Dutch’s voice that sounds like laughter. He’s mocking you, clicking his tongue like he’s sorry for you. You can feel his thumb somewhere against your cheek. Gently rubbing his finger over the tender mark on your jaw—pressing in, making you wince in pain, forcing you to turn your head away from the burning feeling.
“You’ve got a pretty face on you.” Dutch held you still, forcing you to look him in the eyes. “Shouldn’ta hit you—I’ll admit that, Arthur’s right. Don’t worry, now. We can fix you up good. Real good, give you a home, anythin you need.”
“Dutch.” Arthur said testingly, cutting in. You forgot he was there. There was a sharpness laced in his voice that must have taken Dutch by surprise. He quickly let go of your face, letting you fall back on the ground, limp, slack.
“S’Alright boy. You can keep goin.” Dutch looked back at him, eyes narrowed, and Arthur looked away. Back down at you. Dutch nudged you with his boot. “Don’t go wastin food, now. Still some left.”
You shuffled towards Arthur, struggling to crawl, doing the best you could with your hands restrained behind your back. Leaning forward and pressing your mouth against the foot of his boot, licking up and eating the last of the food that Dutch had kindly poured out on the ground. Arthur was still. You heard him let out a quiet breath, watching you lick him clean. Your face felt hot. From all of Dutch’s beatings and the warm tears on your cheeks. You’ve never felt so ashamed in your life. And yet, your body couldn’t refuse. Not when it had been eating itself down to the bone for the past three days.
Dutch lit himself a cigarette, striking up a match, watching you closely.
“There y’go. Good.” He praised, crouching down and running his hand down your neck. You could smell the cigarette smoke coming from him, as he puffed his back in your face, burning your eyes. His hand drifted further. Felt down your back, brushed up under your shirt and rested there against your bare skin, making the hair stick up on your neck. “Now, go on and tell Mister Morgan thank you for bein such a kindhearted man.”
“Thank you, Mister Morgan.” You looked up. Arthur’s eyes were fixed down on you. Dutch smiled. A crooked smile that sent a shred of fear up your chest.
“You can do better than that.” Dutch cooed. “Try an’ sound at least a little bit sincere.”
“Thank you, Mister Morgan.” Your heart jumped. “Thank you very much, sir.”
“So obedient.” He barked out a laugh, puffing some smoke from his cigarette out of the corner of his mouth. “Now, boy, why don’t you make yourself useful and be good for Arthur?”
Your eyebrows knit together, confused. You turned your head to look at Dutch. “I’m, well—I’m not sure what you mean, sir.”
Dutch only took you by the back of your head, his grip tight in your hair, steering you up so your face smothered in the spot between Arthur’s legs. He didn’t move. Dutch nudged you up farther, until you could barely breathe, and Arthur’s hands shoot down to hold you and keep you still. “He saved you, didn’t he? Best you give him something in return for all our kindness. Otherwise, you’d been dead a long time ago. Ain’t that right, Mister Morgan?”
“Mm.”
“Don’t be rude, Arthur.”
For the first time, Arthur touches you. Hesitantly bringing his hands down so they rest against the back of your neck. With his fingers dipping under the collar of your shirt. He was much more gentle in his touch than Dutch. At least with him it didn’t feel as though he’d beat your face in. There was some semblance of safety being beneath him, as you breathed in scantily through your nose—as Dutch held you still, pushed up against the fabric of Arthur’s pants.
“It’s okay.” Arthur whispered quietly, shushing you. Taking his hands away so he can unbuckle his belt and free himself from his jeans. So close to your face, more than anyone else has ever been. Half hard, intimidating. He’s bigger than you, thicker. Stroking himself slowly, letting it fill out in his hand, still soft. You’re not exactly sure how you’re supposed to fit it all in your mouth. Dutch rubs the back of your neck gently, and Arthur nudges your lips open with his thumb. “Just do as he says now. I ain’t gunna hurt you.”
Arthur rests the tip of his cock over your lips, lets you take your time and get used to the feeling of it. You part your lips, let him slowly slide himself into your mouth—and he lets out a low sigh as he does so, lashes fluttering, head leaning off to the side. You can feel the weight of it against your tongue for a moment before you move. Mouth full, unsure what to do next.
“Boy looks real pretty like this.” Dutch puffed a bit of smoke from out the corner of his mouth. You squint, closing your eyes shut, letting out a muffled whimper. “Don’t he, Arthur?”
“I guess so.” Arthur murmurs, and you catch his eyes. His face is red, eyebrows furrowed. Slowly bobbing your head with his hand, mouth filling with spit and slick, lewd noises escaping you as you take him. He groans and seethes, like he’s trying to control himself.
“See, boy, you’re making him feel real good. Ain’t he, son?” Dutch smiled, hand in your hair and moving along with the movement of your head. “Just keep goin.”
Arthur grunts quietly, under his breath. “Stop talkin so much.”
He moves his hips forward, pulling out and rolling back in softly. Careful not to go too rough, rocking his hips gently against your tongue, hand on your head and running his fingers through your hair to brush the stray locks out of your face. Spit drools out from the corner of your lips, and you’re struggling to breathe in through your nose—and when he notices he pulls out just a bit to let you collect yourself.
You’re staring up at him and he looks shy about it. With a small scowl on his face and his teeth biting back the quiet noises threatening to escape his lips. You buck up against his leg, rubbing up against his boot without shame, trying to relieve yourself of the unbearable heat growing between your thighs.
“I’ve got you. Easy, now.” Arthur clicks his tongue, pressing his boot down against you. Rubbing the tip of his boot against your groin, forcing a weak, desperate whimper from your mouth. He hums, a low rumble, taking in the way your throat spasms around the length of his cock. He holds your head still against his hips. “That’s good. Doin well. That’s—that’s good.”
You keep going. Slowly working your head up and down, feeling him with your tongue, enjoying yourself and his praise more than you should.
Arthur’s grip tightens in your hair, squeezing his eyes shut, huffing. “Mhm, Dutch, ‘m close.”
“It’s okay, son.” Dutch spoke softly, pleased. “You’re doin alright. He can take it.”
“Ah—fuck, Dutch.” Arthur groans, voice low. Moaning his name over and over. Dutch, please, Dutch. I’m sorry, Dutch, he says, like he’s close to crying. You feel him swell up in your mouth, twitching, finishing down the back of your throat. He holds himself there for a moment, hips still and pumping you full, until you’ve adjusted and taken it all. Struggling to swallow, mouth stuffed with his softening cock.
He pulls you away and you rest your head against his hip, panting hard and taking in air. Face messy with his spill, dribbling down your chin. Pressing your legs together and letting out quiet whines, cock hard and straining in your pants, feeling the tip of his boot rubbing up against you. You couldn’t help yourself, a soft sound breaking past your lips, a whine, just trying to feel the same release.
You stay there, swaying on your knees, grinding down on his leg—and he lets you. Watching you, desperately mewling beneath him as you roll your hips against his leg. Massaging you through your pants with his boot until you’re gasping and bucking your hips up for more.
Panting hard, you cum, quickly, with a muffled moan. Falling over on your side, slumped against the ground, limp and shaking all over.
“Well, look at that.” Dutch is nudging you over on your back with his boot. Drool falls from the corners of your mouth. Mixed together with blood, spit. Arthur’s cum. He crouches down, resting his hand against your waist. Soothing you, caressing you. Your eyes level with him and it’s patronizing, to be seen like this. With his hips against your ass and your legs around him, you realize, he’s hard. Grinding against you with the bulge in his pants still growing. “Be good for us and I’ll give you all the food and water you need. You can do that for us, can’t you?”
“Yes, sir.” You mumble over your words. Trying to shuffle your legs together to hide the wet spot over your jeans. Dutch smacks a hand against your thigh, hard, and you cry out.
He looks you over.
“Poor boy came on your leg, Arthur.” Dutch runs his hand between your legs, spreading you open. Rubbing a palm over your groin, scoffing, smiling to himself. Your shoulders budge instinctively against your restraints, trying helplessly to cover yourself. He quickly stops any of your feeble attempts to throw him off, holding you still. Working your belt with his free hand, thumb dipping under your shirt, brushing over your tender skin. He exhales like you’re something he’s never seen before. At least not in a long time. “Gettin off in your pants just like that, God, you ever been touched here before, boy?”
It makes your body feel warm, with that look in his eyes of whatever perceived untouched innocence he saw in you. And you try to ignore how good it feels to be sprawled out in front of him. That wants to feel him buried inside you. With your face down in the dirt, his hand in your hair and another clasped over your mouth, grunting in your ear, skin slapping skin. Despite the itching in the back of your mind that’s telling you it’s wrong. To run, or at least pretend to try to. Heart beating fast in your chest, like a rabbit caught in a snare.
“Have you?”
“No.” You breathed, shaking your head softly. You’ve touched yourself, certainly, and it’s never felt anything like this. Dutch presses his hand down against your stomach, feeling up your side and watching you curl away. Only touching you just to make Arthur watch, it seems, and he’s looking down at you from under the brim of his hat. Still panting, staring, red in the face and disgusted with himself. Watching Dutch and the grin over his face as he runs his hands all over you.
You can’t believe how badly you want this. Can’t believe it’s gone this far. It’s embarrassing.
Dutch loosens your belt and pulls your jeans below your thighs, over your ass. He trails his fingers over you, teasing your skin and watching you squirm with a satisfied look on his face. Brushing over your sensitive cock with his hand, giving you a few short strokes, grinning down at you as you choke out a sob and curl away from the touch.
“It’s okay. Just gunna have to break you in, then.” Dutch smiles and leans forward. Thumbing your lips, sticking two fingers in your mouth. He stays there for a moment, over your tongue, pushing further. Prodding the back of your throat until you’ve racked up enough spit they’re slick with it as he pulls away.
He brushes his fingers over your hole. Rubbing them there for a moment, making you twitch and shiver at the touch. Slowly pushing in, feeling you tighten around him and listening to you whine with the short pump of his fingers. It hurts. It’s intrusive, like it’s weighed down inside of you. You writhe underneath him, nostrils flaring, hands clenched into fists behind your back.
He pushes further, picking up his pace. You groan quietly, turning your head to the side. Desperately wishing your hands were free so you could hide and rid yourself of the shame building over your face. Dutch covers your mouth shut with a free hand, pushing your head to the side into the dirt and holding you there, muffling the noise slipping out of you with his palm. It burns, even with the slick on his fingers.
“Boy’s real tight.” Dutch draws out like it’s nothing, muttering under his breath. “Real tight.”
He curls his finger and you moan out, struggling to get anything through besides a stifled whimper with his hand clamped down over your mouth. You spread your legs further, giving him better access. Bucking your hips up, aching for more.
“Oh, there y’go. That’s it.” He takes his hand away so you can speak, cradling the side of your face in his palm as if he’s not splitting you open. Thrusting his fingers in quick, deep. He’s sweating, breathing hard, strands of black hair framing his face. “How’s that feel?”
“Hurts.” You croak out, lying there, breathing hard. You stare at the bulge in his pants, waiting for Dutch to unbuckle his belt. He never does. Instead, standing above you, he looks off to the side towards Arthur. Getting up, flattening out his coat and brushing the dirt off his vest with the nod of his head.
“S’alright, it’ll feel better once you get used to it. Go on, son.” He takes Arthur by the shoulders and shakes him. He flinches away and stumbles toward you. “He’s a needy little thing, Arthur, don’t tease ‘im.”
Arthur takes Dutch’s spot over you, hesitantly. Setting a palm against your thigh and spreading your legs further apart. You shiver, feeling something cool pressing against your ass. Some type of salve worked up on his fingers. He rubs some of it over his cock, letting it fatten up in his hand. And you watch with a breath. He leans forward, hovering over you and pressing down on you with the weight of his frame. He dips his fingers inside, gently, and you shudder at the feeling.
“Get on with it, Arthur.” Dutch goads.
“He said it hurts.” Arthur barks back. He takes a breath, looking back at you but not in the eyes, still working his fingers. “S’at good?”
“Yes…yes.” You nod your head quickly. “Feels—good. Better.”
He lines his hips up with yours, gripping the base of your legs. Pushing in slowly, working up a steady pace. He thrusts in, rolling his hips, grinding deep inside you. It’s all warm, bare skin and sweat. His lashes flutter, and he seems to catch his breath before speaking.
“Easy, it’s okay. You’re alright. I won’t hurt you.” He says, with another snap of his hips.
You groan softly, high in your throat, like some animal. With your hands balled into fists behind your back, eyes screwed shut, nose scrunched.
“So noisy.” Dutch has his cock in his hand, pants loose and slack around his thighs. He’s stroking himself slowly, laying it over your face so you can smell his sweat. Taking you the back of your head, hand in your hair, nudging your lips with the head tip his cock. “Come on, boy. Open up.”
He gives you a hard smack across the face, and you part your mouth quickly. With his hand forcing you to take him all at once, giving you no time to adjust. Tears well up in your eyes, and you know your jaw will be sore for the next few days—that is, if these men really do plan on letting you live after this.
“You’re bein too rough with ‘im, Dutch.” Arthur mutters. Still huffing quietly, fucking you nice and slow.
“He likes it. He’s havin fun, ain’t you, pretty boy?” You nod softly, letting a muffled yes escape from your throat. Dutch groans, head leaning back. “Yeah, that’s it, keep goin.”
You can feel Arthur’s hips stutter, and he stops. He groans, and you feel him finish inside you. You moan out, muffled by the cock in your mouth.
“Fuck, Arthur. That’s it—take it.” Dutch grunts, grinding his hips against your face, wiry hair scuffing your skin. Dutch groans and cums down your throat. Warm spurts of his spill filling you up. He stays there until you’ve swallowed it all. Arthur grunts, and you feel him fill you up. His cock twitching inside you with his release, pumping you full.
Arthur leans forward, lips brushing over yours.
“It’s okay.” Arthur whispers, hesitantly. He stays there, panting and moaning into your mouth. You flinch away and he follows. Your mouth’s full of dirt and spit and Dutch’s spill. It’s dirty—Arthur doesn’t seem to mind, and so you relent. He groans, licking up the remnants of blood from earlier, biting down and drawing some more. You close your eyes and let him, parting your lips so he can have you. Giving up as much of yourself as your body lets you.
He pulls away and his eyes search for Dutch, his chest heavy and breathing hard. Dutch smiles, and looks between the two of you.
“You, my boy, have made yourself very useful. Very useful.” Dutch sighs, satisfied, tucking himself away in his pants and adjusting the belt over his hips. He turns and gives Arthur a pat on the shoulder, ruffles a hand through his hair, not sparing you another glance. “Son, why don’t you take him down over to the river and clean him up?”