The royal stone

by BRK

In a hidden pocket kingdom in a corner of the Alps, Pete discovers a strange pink stone once thought to be of mystical significance to his ancestors, signified by the inscribed numerals, X, X, and V.

Added: Jan 2022 5,462 words 1,438 views 4.8 stars (4 votes)

N

“Numbers have power,” remarked Joseph in a bored voice.

Pete didn’t quite hear him. He was too busy admiring the jewel-hilted Sword of Parga, once wielded with strength and wisdom by the legendary warrior-founder of the ancient Pargan people, Saero the Brawny, with his unbeatable Eternal Guard of Five behind him. Now the once-fabled sword lay forlornly mounted—unsheathed!—on two grimy L-brackets bolted into the rough stone wall of a forgotten hilltop royal castle deep within the sleepy, picturesque semi-autonomous Alpine enclave of Farksschafwiese, there to be randomly viewed a few times a week by a handful disinterested locals milling about in the castle-turned-museum for something to do on their days off from the laptop manufacturing plant upvalley. By them, and the occasional stray American like Pete, sojourning in Farksschafwiese in dogged pursuit of his long-lost, if recently-discovered, Pargan heritage.

With his fair looks, sandy hair, blue eyes, and generally wintery coloring Pete thought he even resembled the few extant images of the handsome young king that were still around—apart from the “brawny” part, of course. He could almost see it: himself, mounted in gleaming armor atop a snorting black war-stallion, the Eternal Guard of Five on identical roans at his back, leading the charge into battle with the sun-bright Sword held high for all to see.

Belatedly aware he’d heard his best friend’s sharp-edged baritone saying… something he hadn’t caught, he turned distractedly to find Joseph standing in his customary wide stance (born of being taller than everyone and needing to reduce his height whenever possible) in front of a fist-size rose-colored cut stone mounted on a gaudy gold sun-ray base and hung from an even gaudier gold chain. The necklace, in turn, was hung from a couple of hooks on the wall opposite the sword—and, like the sword, without the least protection from either weather or thief.

“Hm?” Pete prompted, raising his brows at Joseph. “What’d you say?”

Joseph tossed him a flat look, then turned back to cheap foamcore plaque next to the necklace and read again from the English text printed below the German. “Numbers have power,” he droned, “or so believed the Pargan priests and high nobles.” Pete moved closer across the hall as his friend continued his desultory rendition. “During the Saerine era,” he read, “regalia such as this stone was frequently marked with numbers of mystical import, as it was believed that recitation of the factors of each character of any sacred number by one with royal blood, while in contact with a stone so marked, would impart unrecorded paranormal powers.”

His tone was more and more sarcastic as he recited the text; by the end it was positively catty. He turned to Pete, who now stood next to him, with a smirk. “‘Unrecorded paranormal powers’?” he repeated. “Do you believe this shit?”

“You disrespecting my ancestors?” he teased, holding back a smile.

“Of course,” Joseph answered easily, his eyes glinting with affection and amusement.

Pete turned to examine the necklace. The muddy-rose stone itself was nothing special, probably quartz, but had been expertly cut as one might a diamond or ruby with many facets around a flat, oval-shaped surface. On this was deeply inscribed a Roman numeral, XXV. Not especially mystical, Pete thought, but then he had no idea what might make one particular numeral more supernaturally significant than another. The beveling seemed to shimmer somehow, though, as if the stone were alive inside, its ancient crystals sated with latent sparks of primordial possibility. Interesting. “You could have stayed in the hotel, you know,” Pete said conversationally, eyes still on the ancient talisman.

“I could have stayed in Chicago,” Joseph said meaningfully.

Pete spared him a glance. Both of them knew why Joseph had agreed to go on this quest of self-discovery with Pete, despite having not the slightest interest in European history, ancient, modern, or hypothetical. He took in Joseph’s brown and gold eyes, cynical yet pretty, his lush dark hair, his pleasantly aquiline nose, his smooth, tanned skin, the little splatter of maroon birthmark spots on his neck that looked uncannily like the islands of Hawaii…

He let his gaze linger on his friend’s full, wine-dark lips for a second, long enough to see them twist upwards at the corners at his stare, before he quickly looked back at the stone. There was no doubt Joseph knew how handsome Pete was finding him lately. Joseph was cocky enough to agree, too, but by now Pete was certain Joseph also found his smaller friend extremely attractive, maybe for a lot longer than Pete had been digging him.

We both want this, Pete chided himself, exasperated, as he stared at the stone. We’re not kids anymore either. The 30th birthday party they’d jointly celebrated had been only a month back. (They’d delighted in the discovery early on, as two bright-eyed and, back then, ostensibly straight senior-year college roomies, that their birthdays were only 11 days apart, furnishing the perfect excuse either for epic pub-crawls or for Venn diagram parties of their friends lists, depending on what mood they were in that year.)

We’re grown up and we’re finally both into each other. So… why are we both so fucking chickenshit?

Joseph rested a warm hand on Pete’s shoulder, but only for a moment, sending a shiver of longing through him. “C’mon, let’s go eat,” he said, starting down the wide side-hall toward the big, open oaken doors to the main keep where the food stalls were. “I think I saw someone selling gyros.”

“You can’t come to Farksschafwiese and eat gyros,” Pete groused in his direction, still not looking away from the stone.

Joseph snorted. “I’ll order you a bratwurst or something,” he called back, his voice echoing on the stone as he headed off.

Pete smiled lopsidedly to himself and continued examining the stone. The mounting and chain were clearly of no account; they were window-dressing only. It was the stone that had mattered to the Pargans. Had Saero himself worn this necklace? Had he truly summoned from within its secret numerological powers?

Unable to resist, Pete first looked around to make sure he was alone in the long, empty hall of relics. Then, hesitating only a moment, he placed his first three fingers against the three figures of the engraving. He was surprised by the stone’s warmth—it felt as though it had been sitting under the sun all day, not suspended from a rough-hewn wall in dark corner of a cold and gloomy Alpine castle.

Keeping his fingers firmly pressed to the engraving, he went over what Joseph had just read out from the plaque. It sounded like the only other step of the ritual was for him to “recite the factors” of each character of the sacred number inscribed on the stone.

He licked his lips. “Two… five,” he said aloud, leaning his index finger a little against the first X. He felt suddenly ridiculous, muttering strange numbers to a thousand-year-old piece of murky quartz in drafty old museum, but he kept going. “Two… five,” he said again, for the middle X, leaning this time on his middle finger. Was this a relic or a locker combination?

Unexpected uncertainty hit him as he reached the third number. Had he interpreted this wrong? Was it the factors of 25 he was supposed to utter, rather than the factors of X, X, and V separately? It was too late now. With a flickering stomach he pushed in with his ring finger against the V for emphasis and pronounced the final factor: “Five.”

He waited, holding his breath.

Nothing happened.

“No fondling the crown jewels,” said a passing, dark-uniformed security guard in stentorian voice, his cadence formal, his r’s rolled.

Startled nearly out of his skin, Pete ripped his fingers away from the stone as if he’d been pressing them to a hot stove. He whirled around, heart pounding, but there was no sign of the guard—he was completely alone again in the drafty, eerily abandoned hall of relics.

He gave the stone a last hectic glance. It hung, inert and lifeless, a trinket from the distant days of men and women who were now the very dust under his feet. He gulped, then turned and strode briskly away, heading out of the room toward life and light and civilization. Before he was halfway to the doors he was running.


Pete was caught up in his own thoughts the whole rest of the day. They toured the marketplace and the beautiful, sprawling flower gardens occupying much of what had once been the rolling castle grounds, but he absorbed little of what he saw. His mind was filled with numbers, swirling and burning like filaments of reddish-orange light bent into little incandescent numerals, all turning in his thoughts like leaves on an eddying breeze.

2. 5. 2. 5. 5. Numbers of fire. Numbers of power.

Eventually they made their way back down to the town and found a pleasant-looking, meat-centric (but vegan-friendly) bistro near the hotel. After the stone-faced host had seated them at a nice outdoor table and Pete made no move to pick up his menu, instead just staring off into the middle distance, Joseph finally leaned toward him across the table and said, “Pete, you okay?”

Pete focused on him for a moment and gave him a thumbs up. His attention, however, quickly fixated on the thumb itself. Out of focus in the background beyond it Pete could sense Joseph’s thick brows drawing together, but he couldn’t care about that. As though under a spell he felt a need to release one of the numbers, now, as he focused on his upraised thumb. “Two,” he said.

One of the fiery 2s vanished from his mind, and Pete realized he was staring hard the two thumbs of his right hand.

“Ho—holy—” he heard Joseph gasp, but distantly, as if through a bad connection.

Pete was still staring at his doubled thumb. The remaining numbers were still whirling brightly in his head. He felt something pressing him uncomfortably to get rid of them. Almost unwillingly, eyes still riveted on the two upraised thumbs, he said, “Five.”

The 2 came back into his mind even as the 5 whiffed out, leaving him with—

“Put it back!” Joseph’s voice said urgently. “Put it back! Make it two again!”

Pete was almost unable to make sense of the little grove of five thumbs pushing up from his fist in a tight cluster. How could—? What? He brushed them against each other, and his senses told him they were very real.

The remaining numbers were still turning in independent arcs in his head, their pace slowly accelerating. The thumbs were real. The numbers were real. He was enthralled at what he was doing—power! magic! transformation!—but at the same time his sense of control was spinning chaotically away, making him feel a little afraid as well as physically unwell.

“Pete!” Joseph pressed him, still sounding far away. “Pete! Say two again! Two! Say it!”

Something of Joseph’s imperative tone got through to him. Eyes still on the mess of thumbs, Pete said, “Two.”

The small, glowing 5 returned to his head and one of the 2s winked out, and he was looking at two thumbs on his right hand again, one right next to the other, as though that were the normal human complement. He flexed them, first together, then independently. Two thumbs, hardwired into his body and brain like it was no big deal.

He nuzzled them against each other. It felt really nice, actually.

He tore his eyes away from them at last to give Joseph a weak smile. “Will you look at that,” he said weakly. Needlessly, also, because Joseph was indeed looking at them with round, amazed eyes.

Their gazes met. “Pete,” Joseph said carefully, as if to an easily spooked horse, “can you say ‘one’? Can you make them one again?”

Pete shook his head slowly. “I don’t have any ones,” he said inanely. “I only have twos and fives.” He wanted to laugh. First locker combos, now it was go fish.

Joseph blinked. “The factors,” he said after a second, understanding. He narrowed his pretty eyes. “You fuckhead, you did the thing with the stone. I can’t leave you alone for a second, can I?”

Pete smiled a little wider. He liked the idea of Joseph not leaving him alone.

“Yes,” he said breathlessly. “The factors. Twos and fives. Twos over fives.” As he babbled he felt the pressure to rid himself of the numbers building again, and his smile faded. “I have to say them,” he said to Joseph, trying to hold back panic. “I have to say the twos and fives.”

“Pete—” Joseph started to say.

Pete felt feverish. He looked down at the table, his eyes falling randomly on stainless steel fork to the left of his plate. “Two,” he said impulsively. When the fork doubled he quickly said “Five,” and a 5 left his mind while the 2 came back in. It felt a little better for the 5 to be gone, somehow, like it was a bigger weight on his mind.

He stared at the quintupled forks, relieved to be rid of two of the numbers in his head at least, though he knew he would have to shed the remaining three before the pressure became unbearable.

He looked around the table, just slightly frantic. Maybe the solution was just multiplying all the silverware?

Joseph still seemed stuck on the idea of reverting him to a single thumb. “Pete,” he said again, a little more insistently, “maybe we should try saying ‘one’, just in—”

“Is everything all right here, gentlemen?”

Pete looked up sharply to see the host had returned and was glaring down his long nose at Joseph. Instinctively, Pete bent both his right thumbs and hid them in his fist before moving the whole hand under the table, just has the host’s burning gaze turned his way. Had he seen?

“Um,” he stammered up at the host, quailing under the older man’s glare, “yeah, it’s—”

“My friend is not feeling well,” Joseph jumped in, standing abruptly. “I think we’re going to bag this and head back to the hotel.” He gave Pete a look that said, Let’s hoof it.

The host looked at them coldly. “You are already seated,” he growled. “You should eat our delicious food.” He sounded as though he might be willing to shove each course down their throats personally, if that was what it took. Pete realized just then that the host wasn’t even looking at either of them—his eyes were fixed on the parliament of forks next to Pete’s plate.

Pete sprang instantly to his feet. “Sorry, man, next time for sure!” he blurted. He followed Joseph quickly out of the sidewalk seating area and out onto the street, making sure to keep his replicated thumbs tightly clasped in his fist the whole time as they jogged off.

He looked back once when they were partway down the block and wished he hadn’t. The host was still watching them, a phone to his ear as Pete and Joseph hurried off.


Pete and Joseph scampered around the corner and onto the busy main drag that cut the length of the charming little town of Farksschafwieseberg, on which stood most of the colorful local businesses—including the one and only inexpensive yet surprisingly luxurious hotel. No sooner had they piled through the revolving door, however, than they spotted a cluster of red-jacketed employees crowding near the elevators. Pete recognized the one on his phone as the lean, unflappable silver-haired concierge they’d met on check-in the day before, and the other two looked young, broad-shouldered, and strapping—either bellhops, security, or both. As soon as the concierge spotted them he nudged the others and pointed directly at them.

Pete and Joseph reversed course, backing up into the revolving doors again and spinning their way out of the hotel. Once free they started pelting down the street, passing three greengrocers, a café, and a newsstand with a sandwich-board headline out front screaming QUEST FOR HEIR EXPANDS. At the next opportunity they ducked into a narrow alley and cut through toward the next block over.

“Must be illegal to have two thumbs in this country,” Pete commented as they rounded another corner.

“Who knew?” Joseph said, tossing him a grin over his shoulder. He was having fun, Pete thought wonderingly—though he had to admit the adrenaline rush was pretty exhilarating for him, too.

Joseph spotted a big general-goods store and ducked in, Pete right behind him. Immediately they slowed to a casual walk and made every effort to look inconspicuous as they entered the maze of tall shelves and wide aisles.

Once they were safely hidden in the back of the store, Joseph leaned against a chest freezer full of ice pops and put his hand to his forehead. “What the hell?” he said. “That was fucked up.”

“I bet the host guy was on the phone to the hotel before he came over to us,” Pete said, biting his lip and looking around for any hostiles. “We had to be staying at the hotel. And obviously we’d head back there once we left the restaurant.”

“Yeah, but why do they care? Why isn’t everyone just like, ‘Wow, two thumbs, that’s kinda hot’?”

Pete stopped fretting for a moment and looked up at his friend. “You think it’s hot?”

Joseph shrugged and peered down the nearest aisle, which happened to sport twenty-five-pound canvas bags of salt stacked in tall piles like sandbags. “On you it us,” he said matter-of-factly, not flirting at all, like Pete’s hotness was an objective fact of the universe.

And we wonder why we never get around to fucking, Pete thought dejectedly. We can’t even flirt properly. One of us is going to need to grab the bull by the ‘horn’… probably me.

As he was musing about this, Joseph looked back at him, his expression concerned—clearly he’d just remembered what they’d been talking about before the impromptu manhunt. “You… okay?” he asked. “With the ‘factors’?”

Pete drew in a slow breath and shook his head as he let it out. The brief chase had distracted him, but the unpleasant pressure in his noggin was still building. “I have to get rid of them soon,” he said. How, though? But Joseph’s non-flirtatious flirting had starting him thinking down a new track.

Joseph was nodding. “Okay, well,” he said, “let’s… multiply some strawberry ice pops, then.” He nodded down to the freezer chest he was currently leaning his (very perky) butt on.

Pete peered into the interior of the freezer. “I think they’re mostly mango,” he said with a frown. Who eats mango ice pops? he thought. Gross.

Joseph sighed audibly. “Okay, let’s multiply some mango ice pops.”

Pete pursed his lips. “I don’t think that’s going to work,” he said.

Joseph’s dark brows drew together. “Why not?”

“Because,” Pete said, his mind racing. “Because… if I make five mango pops, and then somebody eats them—”

“—For some reason,” Joseph cut in, clearly as disgusted by the idea as Pete was.

“—Right?” Pete agreed. “But, say I make five mango pops, and someone eats them. That means that that ‘five’ isn’t out there in the world anymore. Which means it’ll come right back to me, and I’ll be stuck with it again.”

Joseph gave him a long look. “You are so guessing about that.”

You bet your perky butt I am. “I don’t even know what’s going to happen with those forks, either,” he went on, warming to his theme. “No, I think what I need to do is put the changes somewhere I can keep an eye on them at all times.”

Joseph was watching him closely. “Such as…” he prompted.

Pete held his gaze. “Such as… on my body.”

There was a long silence while they just looked at each other intently, neither of them moving. That got his attention, Pete thought.

Joseph cleared his throat slightly. “What did you have in mind?” he asked carefully.

For an answer, Pete pulled up the hem of his loose, heavy tee shirt, exposing his defined but very un-brawny torso as far as his firm but flat pecs. He thought he might explain, but at the last minute he decided to just do it and they’d both see the results, one way or the other.

He shifted the shirt so he could see the leftmost of his two smallish brown nipples. As soon as it was in view, he uttered a low, quiet “Two”. Immediately the remaining incandescent 2 wafting in this head-space was gone, and he let out a short breath as his left nipple doubled right before his eyes, so that he now had twin little brown abutting nipples on the left side of his chest, already pebbling from all the attention. Fuck, I need a tongue on those, stat, he thought.

“Whoa,” Joseph breathed. He stood, facing Pete now, so that he could have the clearest possible view.

Relieved and aroused, Pete winked up at him, then shifted the folds of his shirt the other way so he could see the right nipple. As he’d hoped, the moment he said “Two” his right thumb undoubled in his closed fist, reverting to the single thumb it had been before, as the doubling was applied instead to his other nipple instead—yielding a twin set on the right to match the two on the left.

Yes! he thought excitedly. Dropping his shirt, he grinned triumphantly up at Joseph and gave him two thumbs up—this time with just one on each hand.

Joseph was staring at him, and with a little inner thrill Pete noticed his tanned cheeks reddening just enough to be perceptible. Fuck, he’s turned on, Pete thought, feeling a flush of arousal in turn. He’s turned on, and he wants more.

Heart pounding, Pete decided to go for broke. With a trembling hand, he reached for his jeans waistband and slowly pulled it forward, hooking his thumb into the elastic of his briefs to draw them out as well.

“Pe-e-ete,” Joseph whispered, not in warning but in awe at what was about to happen.

Pete allowed himself a little smile and looked down into his pants. He could just get a glimpse of the root of his beefy, medium-large cock. He was pretty sure he didn’t need to actually see what he was about to use his numbers on—visualizing on it with sufficient concentration would be enough—but the thing with the pants was mostly for Joseph anyway.

He focused his attention and spoke the word.

“Five.”

The glowing, wafting 5 left his head, and…

ho-o-oly fuck

“H-how does it feel?” Joseph said, his voice quavering. His strong hand was on Pete’s shoulder, though he wasn’t sure how long it had been there.

They all packed in there, straining at the small confines. Meat, his meat, ready to swell and stiffen. Pete looked up at Joseph with wide eyes. “Weird,” he answered truthfully. Then he grinned and added, also truthfully, “I can’t wait to get hard!”

Joseph stared hard at him, panting slightly. Pete saw that his pupils were dilated—he was really into this. “Pete?” his friend said roughly.

“Yeah?” He was just as turned on, he realized. His dicks were plumping. His dicks. His dicks were plumping!

Joseph’s darkened eyes were boring into his. “You can reuse the numbers, right? Transfer them, like you did from your thumb?”

Pete nodded. Joseph’s hand on his shoulder squeezed unconsciously.

“Can you—can you—?”

Pete stared up at him, communicating silent encouragement. “Where,” he said.

“T-tongue.” The hand squeezed him again.

Inside, Pete did a little dance, but he kept his expression blank and just nodded again. Then he closed his eyes and, very deliberately, he focused his entire attention on his tongue. “Two,” he said quietly.

No sooner was the word out of his mouth than he felt a warm mouth against his lips—the same mouth he’d been waiting to taste for longer than he knew. An eager tongue traced along his lips, begging for admission, and Pete opened—after all, he was just as excited to push his own tongues deep into Joseph’s hot and willing mouth.

They kissed passionately for a long time, immersing themselves in the physical need they’d been stubbornly denying themselves, having let it build up for months until it needed release as badly as the numbers in Pete’s head (now down to a single, floating 5). In fact, it was only the very stern harrumph from somewhere behind him that caused Pete to remember that other people and the world around them even existed.


“King?!” Joseph said incredulously.

They had kept him waiting alone in a lavishly-furnished antechamber after taking Pete off into the closed reaches of the castle that were actually still used for local administration—after first lifting up Pete’s tee shirt and inspecting his doubled nipples, all of them embarrassingly firm, before hauling him away without explanation. Only now, almost two hours later, had they released Pete for the afternoon, and he had immediately gone and found his worried best friend and set about trying to explain everything to him.

Pete nodded in response to Joseph’s exclamation, feeling a little dazed. “Apparently,” he said. “The thing with the stone confirms it. It only works on royal blood. And even then only on those of ‘superior moral fiber’.”

He smirked helplessly at this description of himself, and Joseph joined in. After that long and heated kiss at the back of the store, their three tongues wrestling each other while they ground their groins together in desperate simulation of the lovemaking they both craved, kingships and stately words like “superior moral fiber” felt like a surreal irony.

“I didn’t even know it was a monarchy,” Joseph said, shaking his head. He dropped onto a nearby settee upholstered in crimson satin subtly inlaid with what Pete now recognized as the heraldic shield of Farksschafwiese (two griffins fighting, though it looked more like they were fucking—and one of the griffins, intriguingly, held five swords in one of its talons). Pete sat down next to his friend, their thighs pressing firmly together. The large open window opposite them across the grand antechamber let in distant birdsong and a pleasant, lightly fragrant breeze hinting of the botanic gardens below.

“Constitutional monarchy,” Pete explained. “But there are certain things the monarch has to do by law or things are a real mess. Evidently the last king died without issue in the late 90s and they’ve been getting increasingly frantic ever since.” Probably one reason the secret stone was unguarded, Pete thought abruptly.

“So,” Joseph said, eyeing the four pale, if nicely defined, arms squeezing out of the sleeves of a shirt not exactly built for them, “I’m… guessing they had you test your abilities in front of them?”

Pete nodded, watching Joseph with a crooked smile. “I had to prove I was the one who’d nippled myself,” he said, trying not to giggle.

He watched Joseph looking at them for a moment. Then, heart thumping, he ventured, “You, uh, like?”

Joseph reached out with his left hand and clasped one of Pete’s right hands, threading their fingers together. “I do,” he said, meeting Pete’s gaze with a goofy grin. Pete placed his other right hand over them and grinned back at Joseph.

“Remember those words,” Pete joked. “I might need a consort.”

“Fine by me,” Joseph said equably. “I wasn’t planning on letting go of you anytime soon anyway.”

Pete blinked at him, surprised. Was he joking? Serious? Flirting? He was pretty sure Joseph was serious, and his stomach butterflied a little at the thought. “Yeah?” he managed after a beat.

Joseph arched a heavy eyebrow. “I may have a price,” he taunted, dropping his eyes to Pete’s lips.

Pete laughed. Okay, that was flirting. He felt like flying. Like, he could float right out that open window and soar and whoop over his new kingdom, borne aloft by his own sheer happiness at finally coming together with his best friend and soulmate. “You can have that anytime,” he promised. “And you should know,” he added a little cheekily, holding Joseph’s gaze, “I haven’t changed anything downstairs.” His five cocks were already half-hard in anticipation and were again strenuously protesting the constraints of his briefs. Soon, he told them.

Pete watched in delight as his friend’s eyes seemed to instantly darken at the thought of Pete’s sweet, multiplied manhood. Then Joseph reached up quickly with his free hand and cupped Pete’s cheek. It felt right, having it there against his skin.

“I want to make love to you,” his friend said earnestly, his tone as intense and passionate as his eyes. The dam keeping them apart was now completely burst and forgotten. “I want to make love to you, and you to make love to me. I want to surround you, Pete. I want to hold your chest to me and your back to me and kiss you all over. I never want to let you go, never not be touching you, never not see you, never not be seen by you.”

Pete’s heart stuttered. He could never have asked for a more perfect declaration from the man he loved. “Do you mean it?” he whispered after a long moment, feeling himself flushing hot.

“Every word.”

Pete gulped, and then a sudden giddy hilarity washed over him. He forced down a laugh. “Then there’s one last tradition you can help me fulfill,” he said. “The king’s Eternal Guard.”

All of Joseph’s love, the love he had felt as a best friend, as a lover, and now as a fiancé, was right there in his eyes. He was ready. “Just say the word,” Joseph said, and Pete bit back a laugh. It was just an expression—but it was an apt one.

They stood. Pete let go of Joseph’s hand, though only for a moment, and took a single step back. Looking into Joseph’s eyes, in his own mind he focused on Joseph’s whole being—his tall, lanky, delicious body, his warm, sardonic smile, his pretty brown and gold eyes, his heart, his drive, his cock, his love. When he had all those things firmly in mind, Pete said the word.

Joseph grinned… five times over. He would get to surround his man after all, sooner and more literally than he could ever have imagined. He could not wait—and, he realized, there was no need to.

He closed in quickly on his beaming Pete, undressing him and kissing his neck and stroking his firm, round ass and feeling for those hefty, hot, fast-swelling hard-ons, releasing them from their prison to stand tall between them, jostling wetly against each other, impatient for the taste of Joseph’s mouths and tongues.

“Be forewarned, sire,” one of him murmured hungrily in Pete’s ear as they pressed around him. “I plan to ensure you have a long and very happy reign.”

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