Page 67 of Rears & Vices

Lead on.

Everard backed until his bare thighs knocked against the iron ribs of the Stanhope. Vitaliy pushed off the doorway and followed him, step for step. The carriage touched Everard’s back like a shock; he groped blindly behind him, and pulled. The wheel spun, and the carriage slid forward with a loud, firm thunk—precisely where Everard needed it to be.

He hauled himself up, weight on his palms, and settled his arse down upon the flat—holy God, cold—surface. He thanked brand-new bearings, three-quarter-inch bolts, cast iron brackets wider than his arm. Also that his bollocks were still high and close from taut, unresolved arousal; the rest of him could absolutely bide.

He watched Vitaliy’s expression morph through realisation, disbelief, and then steady contemplation.

“Well, Vitya?” he demanded. He resumed his stroking, up and down. “Will you fuck me?”

Vitya swallowed. He crowded in closer, until he and his ropes-climber body stood near enough to warm him.

“These plans of yours sound like blasphemy,” he murmured.

Everard laughed. “So sayeth the ex-Quaker, atheist pirate.”

Vitaliy bent closer, put his hands on Everard’s chest, trailed fingers down, and clutched tight round his waist. He smelled like iron, sweat, honey-on-toast sweetness. “You want to screw on an altar,” he whispered.

Everard shivered. “Yes.”

“You want me inside you. Seventeen hundred pounds of cast iron beneath you?” Vitya splayed his hands over Everard’s thighs, stroked down, lifting and spreading as they went.

“Yes.”

Vitaliy still had breeches on. He nudged him wider. “A very expensive fuck if it fails.” He pushed Everard lightly on the chest.

Everard lay back as if liquid, as if compelled. He put both hands up behind him, gripped hard to the shoulders of the press. Thanked God he was tall, and put up his feet. The height was nearly perfect; Vitya had only to bend his knees a little—Sant Jesús, cast iron was cold on his back.

“We built her,” he gasped. “She won’t fail.”

Vitya let go one leg. He unbuttoned and, in a flash, pulled out his already-wet cock. He laid it down in heavy promise, a perfect, blazing-hot fit in the crease of Everard’s thigh and hip, just beside Everard’s cock. Then he leaned and put hands to either side of Everard’s waist, and gripped the flat iron carriage. He pulled forward, pushed back, testing; skin slid and stuttered on skin.

“It yet rolls,” he said, revelatory.

Everard was breathing very hard. “That was the idea.”

Vitaliy smiled down. “You have good ideas.”

“Thank you.”

“But you remember the trestle table?”

“In York? How not?” In the cabin—the second night—Vitya had splayed himself over the little table, a display of broad chest, tapering waist, tawny, inviting fur, a bright and erect cock. Everard had fucked him so hard, the trestle support beneath them had cracked and split, forcing an abrupt, giggling redirect to the hearth-warmed plank floor.

“You will have your recompense for it?” Everard asked.

The sliding movement seemed to enrapture Vitya; he stared down. “No. Only that it will have to be gentler than that, I think.”

“By all means,” Everard said, panting now. “As long as there are means.”

“Mmm,” Vitya said, promisingly. “One moment.” He twisted round, one way, then the other, searching. His eyes lit upon the tin of beeswax, with which they’d greased the iron.

“Absolutely not.” Everard laughed, nudged him away with a foot. “Look among the crates.”

Vitaliy gave him a curious glance but went; Everard was treated to the glorious sight of his arse in buckskin as he bent and rummaged.

“Further plans,” Vitya said, amused, finding his quarry. He returned in a moment, the bottle of sweet almond oil in hand. “When did you— No. I will not ask.”

Slick, so slick between their pricks now; Vitya slid him on creaking wheels until they groaned, and Everard was arching up, his fingers painful on the iron.