Page 248 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

"Sorry," I manage to croak when I see Whiskey's palm bleeding. I lick it instinctively. "I, um, guess I'm not the only one getting marked tonight?"

"Holy fuck," Whiskey breathes against my ear.

Sounds like he loves it.

Plague pulls back, wiping his glistening chin with the back of his hand even as he eyes the blood with mild wariness. His eyes are blown almost entirely black, his hair mussed and wild across his flushed bronze shoulders.

And he hasn't even been touched yet.

I feel something bumping against my ass and glance back over my shoulder, still catching my breath, and… well. I've seen Whiskey's cock before, obviously. Done more than seen it.

But now that they're both about to fuck me at the same time…

It's ridiculously thick.

Beer can thick.

"Whiskey."

"Yeah?"

"That is not a cock. That's a weapon."

He actually blushes as he lets out a low, sheepish chuckle. "A weapon of ass destruction?"

I grab a pillow and whack him with it over my head. He catches it, laughing.

Plague rolls his eyes, positioning himself first. He lines up in front of me, the head of his cock slicked and pressing against my entrance. His hands settle on my hips, steadying me.

"Slow," I tell them both. "For the love of fuck, slow."

Plague nods and pushes inside me.

My head falls back against Whiskey's collarbone and I grab Plague's forearms, nails digging in, my breath locked up and my toes curling.

"Oh—"

"Breathe," Plague murmurs, his forehead dropping to mine, his loose waves curtaining both our faces. His hips still when he's fully seated up to his knot, giving me time, and I feel his toned abdomen flex against me with the effort of holding back. "Tell me when."

Behind me, Whiskey's cock twitches against my ass, heavy and slick with lube, and I'm suddenly, viscerally fucking aware of what's about to happen.

"You with me?" Whiskey asks, his breath warm against the shell of my ear.

"Y-yeah." My voice comes out thready.

His slicked tip nudges against my rim, then breaches me, pressing in, and I'm so full I can't breathe, can't think, can't do anything except grab onto Plague's shoulders and dig my nails in hard enough to leave marks of my own on his bronze skin.

"Fuck—fuck⁠—"

"Easy." Whiskey's palm splays across my lower abdomen, holding me steady against his chest. "Easy, wildcat. I'm barely in."

"Just the tip is the size of a fucking baseball," I choke out.

His chest shakes behind me with a stifled laugh. "That might actually be accurate."

"Not helping," Plague and I say in unison.

They wait, both of them, while my body decides whether it can do this. Then the searing edge dulls into a deep, insistent pressure I start to wrap around instead of fight.