Chapter 7
D'Artagnan arrived at Porthos' on the stroke of eleven. His man servant, Mousqueton, dressed in full livery, answered the door. Recognizing the frequent visitor, he immediately ushered him into the antechamber where D'Artagnan found Porthos in the arms of two exotic females.
"My friend!" the barrel chested man loudly welcomed.
The youth grinned broadly, seeing Porthos indulging his appetite with his customary gluttony. "Where have you been? Picard sought you earlier."
"I don't quite know," the visibly spirited Musketeer admitted. "No matter. You are here now and there is much meat for a late supper."
"I am more in the mood for wine than food," the Gascon announced, dropping into the chair and draping his legs over the arm.
"Mousqueton!" Porthos bellowed. "Some more wine and another glass."
"Athos has been arrested," D'Artagnan announced, casually.
"My heaven," his comrade blurted, obviously sobered by this announcement.
"Don't be alarmed. As soon as they discover he is not me he shall be set free."
"Oh...." Porthos grunted, falling back into the soft cushy breasts that supported his weight. "Lovely, aren't they?"
"Where on earth did you get them from?"
"You know Pastare? Well, he is keeping them until his master returns and then they shall be sent to England."
D'Artagnan viewed the olive skinned women that cloaked Porthos in flesh. Their skin had the luster of highly polished wood and their luxuriously thick hair the darkness of the raven. Almond shaped eyes that blinked frequently stared back at him.
"Are they any good?" he asked, following the smooth unbroken curves of their bodies.
"The best," Porthos stated. "Pick your prize."
"No, I shall refrain for I am under too great a strain to tax my body."
"Have you been about Aramis too long?" Porthos joked.
"I do not think our friend is so biblical," D'Artagnan announced, suddenly feeling the wine touch his head.
"Perhaps. But that is his concern and not ours," the Musketeer replied, nuzzling the neck of one woman while his thumb rubbed the other's nipple.
"I shall leave," the youth suddenly announced, standing and then falling back into the chair.
"Are you ill?" Porthos asked, concerned.
"Slightly dizzy suddenly."
"Then it is settled. You will stay. Pepit, help Monsieur to his bedroom," his friend instructed.
The girl lifted and walked barefoot to the wavering youth.
"Handle him with care for he is a gallant fellow," Porthos said.
D'Artagnan dropped his arm about her bare shoulder and allowed his weight to drift upon her small frame. She led him down the long corridor and into Porthos' guest room. Then, guiding him to the bed, she gently seated him and lifted his feet so he might relax.
"Do you speak French?" he asked.
The girl shook her head no.
"But, obviously you understand it."
Slipping the goblet from his hand she placed it upon the table, then went about the business of removing his doublet. Lifting his arms above his head she tugged it free. D'Artagnan breathed deeply as the girl Pepit's palms molded his chest and massaged his muscles. A subtle spray of excitement drifted lazily about his cock and he raised his arms and flung them over the girl's shoulders. Scanning her breasts he found them exquisitely shaped, full, uptilted and peaked with caramel circles.
As she tugged his boots free he traced the outline of her long back and expansive hips. Her skin had a warm sparkle to it and the Gascon enjoyed the silky smoothness beneath his fingers.
Lifting his hips, she pulled his trousers to below his knees. D'Artagnan smiled, noticing the expression of lust that glazed her eyes as she spied the semi-erect state of his cock.
"You enjoy men don't you?" he said, taking a large gulp of wine as the girl tip toed to the wash basin and tested the water in the pitcher. "Of course you do," he grinned, draining his glass. "Get me some more spirits," he commanded, holding his empty glass out to the girl as she passed.
"Damned woman," he muttered aloud. "She didn't hear a word I was saying. None of them do."
When Pepit returned she found D'Artagnan dozing. Placing the basin on the table she wet a cloth and applied it to his cock. The youth sat up with a start. "What the hell is going on?"
The woman's lips turned to a soft smile.
"Oh...." he lazily yawned, falling back to the over stuffed pillow.
The girl clasped her fingers about his shaft and squeezed, lightly releasing a small amount of water that trickled his balls and slipped between his crack. Gently, and with utmost care, she lifted his pouch and wiped the drops from beneath. The youth moaned softly, feeling another wave of heat traverse his groin and coil his spine.
Rinsing the cloth, Pepit soaped it to a frothy lather and returned to the young man's nut. She began rubbing the head in a delicate, almost feather light motion that set a barrage of sensations riveting his shaft. The young Gascon could feel the veins expand and bulge the thin membranes of his flesh. He separated his thighs and pushed his bottom up, thus giving more access to his crack. Immediately the slick soapy fabric found its way within his ridge and burrowed itself into the tiny opening of his rectum.
Pepit paused and looked down at the Gascony youth. Her eyes were veiled with excitement and D'Artagnan could tell by the blush of her cheeks she was preparing him to meet her needs.
She returned the cloth to the basin, rinsed and again applied it to his formidable rod. Removing the fluff of soap, she stepped back and examined her work like a sculptor his statuary. With skilled artistry she approached his stiff pole and encased it within her mouth. That first sensation of warmth sent a shudder through D'Artagnan's body and he involuntarily lurched upward, sending the nut hard against her palate. The jolt didn't seem to bother the girl. On the contrary, she set about licking the freshly cleansed cob like an ear of corn, first licking, then nibbling. The youth felt his corpuscles expand and his arteries balloon. She pulled the swelling shaft clear down her throat and contracted, thus squeezing the palpatating pole to the limit.
D'Artagnan bucked and thrust in a sudden and urgent burst of accumulated tension and issued forth a load of sauce. The girl consumed the clear gravy with the thirst of a desert flower. And when finished, stood before D'Artagnan licking her chops like a pussy cat. The youth searched the folds of flesh between her thighs, the dense growth of curly locks and the succulent nipples that stared out at him.
"Come here," he spit, catching a handful of hair and pulling her over him.
The girl's lips went wild. She snaked her tongue into his mouth, around his neck and behind his ear. She ground her breasts into his chest and churned her bottom, catching his cock between her thighs, working it up and down her slit.
The youth enjoyed the heated sheath of her lips and slammed her thighs together so he might absorb the opulent flesh surrounding his shaft. Her bottom insinuated itself in a most excited flurry and instantly fired his passions. Rapidly the two moved in a hasty and absorbed fashion. Their flesh sizzled with electricity as they pumped and spilled profusely.
Lecherously bent, the girl wrapped her limbs about his waist and connected with internal pressures. The youth was once again stroking the moist cellar and drinking at the opulent fountains. Her tongue wiggled about his throat as her hands manipulated his satchel. She was everywhere at once and at once everything was somewhere for her bottom spun into grinding and her lips into biting. He raised up and jabbed her hard, sending a torrent of sperm up her shoot.
"Come on ... come on...." Porthos urged, guiding the other girl into the bedroom where D'Artagnan and Pepit rested. "I've brought your friend, Pepit," Porthos continued, slapping Pepit on the rump. "Get up. I want to lie down."
The girl left D'Artagnan's arms and seated herself on the floor beside her friend.
"It's in the drawer. Strap it on," Porthos laughed, hitting D'Artagnan in the shoulder with his elbow as he opened the drawer, pulled out an object and threw it to Pepit.
"What the devil, Porthos?" his friend exclaimed.
"You must learn all there is to learn," the Musketeer stated in a professorial tone.
Pepit stood tall and D'Artagnan observed the handsomely carved phallus that was identical to Porthos'.
"Magnificent, isn't it?" Porthos smiled, slipping from the bed and staggering toward the girl. "Look, they're alike," he exclaimed, holding his in his left hand the copy in his right. "Observe the foreskin, nut and shaft. The ridges, veins and little tiny veins. The pouch ... I regret I could not match the locks of my head to perfect an absolute replica so instead of a gross forgery I left it hairless. I must admit I prefer the abundance of hair about the satchel. What do you think, D'Artagnan?"
"I think you are mad," the youth announced, in disbelief, for in carving, the two were exact.
"It took an artisan four days and five nights of continuous labor to produce such a fine trapping," Porthos boasted, letting the copy drop and swing heavily between the girl's legs. "I selected the wood and leather that should combine to produce such a perfect specimen."
"Will you kindly shut your peacock beak so I might see this glorious tribute to you in action, my friend?" D'Artagnan lightly jested.
"Of course. Girls ... amuse yourselves."
Pepit turned to her companion whose marked darkness resembled hers in looks and face and commanded her to stand. The girl quickly did as she was told and more, for upon rising, she slipped her fingers between her thighs and played with her clitoris while awaiting Pepit's next move.
"Wait ... here," D'Artagnan interrupted, throwing the two enormous pillows to the floor.
Pepit piled them one on top the other and commanded the girl to seat her bottom down. She did so and bent her back so that her pussy was in full view. The men sighed deeply, observing the slick and swollen gash.
"You have worked her heavily," D'Artagnan commented, noticing how rubbery and stretched her channel appeared.
"Just outside ... for indoors she is still quite tight."
"Nevertheless, she is rushing with juice."
"It is a habit of hers. She is a well that never runs dry."
"That, my friend, is the only kind to drink from," D'Artagnan laughed, slapping the back of his comrade.
"Lorette, finger yourself," Porthos suggested, "I should like my friend to see what a wonderful machine you possess."
"I think you perverse," the youth observed.
"Not at all. Part of the joy of dining is seeing what you are about to feast."
The girl's fingers, like scissors, snipped the strands of black hair and pulled the shield open. Her clit stood out like a nose, bright red from the cold. The delicate pink between lips and slit shone a high gloss and the deep gash sparkled a ruby red.
"She is lovely," D'Artagnan complimented. "Why is it, my friend, that men like we should fight to die between those folds?"
"Excuse me ... for thee. For my part, one gash is like another ... some a little snugger ... some less a hugger. But all produce the same juice for this here bugger."
D'Artagnan broke into peels of laughter, sincerely amused by his friend's lack of rhyme and honest admission of crime.
"Look at the way she fondles it," Porthos exclaimed, overjoyed by the manipulations going on before his eyes. "Look ... did you see that lustrous drop slip into her hair and splatter the pillow? I tell you, D'Artagnan, she is the ripest fruit I've ever picked."
Truly the woman's gash was flooding. Pepit stepped in front and moved between, guiding the solid object directly to the hole. The men craned to see the hard nut poke the entrance, tease the lips and slip inside. The girl's body contracted as she sucked in and took it to the strap.
"Dear boy, I tell you she pinches like nobody has ever," Porthos sighed, obviously aroused by this display.
"Ohhhh yessss...." the girl oozed as the wooden dildo slipped out and hung about her lips. The glass smooth wood glistened with spunk.
"My God, can I be so splendid?" Porthos gasped, first looking intensely upon the object, then examining his own lethal weapon.
Pepit stroked and brought about another breathy noise from the girl. Staying lodged, she humped forcefully, setting her bottom to wiggling. The men groaned, watching the juice spray from her crevice and run her inner thigh.
"I can stand it no longer," Porthos confessed, leaping from the bed and assaulting the girl's buttocks. "I shall lodge myself in two at once," he flipped, spreading her cheeks and slamming within. "Oh ... D'Artagnan, she is exquisite," he huffed, grinding her bottom hole.
D'Artagnan sprang from his bed, aimed his spear and lunged forward, accurately lancing his prey. The Musketeer groaned joyously as he felt the fat pole climb his bunhole while his organ pounded Pepit's slit. The girl below writhed in frantic bliss for her excitement was greatly heightened by the animalistic charging the men were doing. Pepit was by force terrorizing her hole with unbridled assaults. In a gloriously frantic and heaving unleashing of emotion, the four twisted and churned in the throes of fiery orgasms. First, Porthos ... then, Petit ... the girl and lastly D'Artagnan, all squirmed and wiggled to the floor in a ball of splendid discharging.
When the muscles stopped contracting and their breathing paced to about normal the four dislodged and fell fast asleep. The abrupt and loud entrance of Athos brought them from their stupor.
"My God," the Musketeer shouted. "I sacrifice myself for you and what do I receive in return?"
"The supreme sacrifice," D'Artagnan yawned. "My flesh."
"Get up, you lout, and listen for I bring you news. Your landlord has been returned safe and sound."
"When?"
"An hour ago. By word of Picard."
"He is a fine fellow, Porthos. You chose well," D'Artagnan complimented.
"Then is it safe for me to return to my lodgings?" D'Artagnan reasoned. "I shall dress and be off."
The youth robed quickly, thanked Athos and bid his friends stop by his house on the morrow. Then, hurriedly, he stole into the wee hours of morning to his lodgings.