Sinric the Wanderer

Athelstan smiles at Sinric, stroking Ragnar's hands and leaning down to kiss him again without breaking eye contact with Sinric, hoping to convey that he's more than willing to share.

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Sinric probably meant something different; and Ragnar, finally understanding what this is all about, is more than ready for it.

"Please," he moans. "More!"

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Sinric kisses the curve of Ragnar's rear and draws away. "That is something Athelstan should give you, Earl Ragnar."

He slides off the bed to rinse his mouth with wine before rejoining them.

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Athelstan's eyes widen, because he's never thought of this as a possibility, but slowly he shifts over to straddle Ragnar where he lies.

"May I", he whispers, "my lord?"

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Ragnar tilts his hips towards him.

"Yes," he moans, "Athelstan, please, yes!"

He turns his neck and looks at him imploringly.

So it's happening sooner rather than later.

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Sinric kneels on the corner of the bed in front of Ragnar, letting them find their own balance and comfort. This is no small thing for Ragnar, or for Athelstan and he will offer what support he can.

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Athelstan is nothing but careful and gentle, knowing this can only be Ragnar's first time this way, as he begins to press into him.

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Ragnar tilts his hip to meet him, moaning.

Yes, he wants this!

He reaches out for Sinric, needing to touch flesh in some way.

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Sinric moves to him, pulling him into a kiss and drinking his moans. "Do you wish to be inside me, as Athelstan is inside you?"

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Athelstan is quite open to this, kissing the back of Ragnar's neck as he eases into him.

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Ragnar moans wildly at the feeling.

"... not too complicated?" he manages to say, to Sinric's question.

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Sinric shakes his head and wriggles under Ragnar, his back pressed against Ragnar's chest. He spreads himself, open and ready to be taken. It will be easy for Ragnar to enter him.

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Athelstan is a little worried about Sinric being squashed under both their weight, and moves a bit to the side in an effort to avoid that, so that more of his weight is on the bed than on Ragnar.

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Ragnar lifts his hip to securely catch Athelstan's weight with his strong thighs, and thrusting forwards towards Sinric.

Knowing Sinric, he will be ready, and the entrance will be smooth, as into a woman, so he doesn't even try to fumble with his hands in the first place.

His dexterity is out of order from all the sensations inside him, anyway.

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He is ready and braced to take their weight. He has does this before and with heavier men than them. Ragnar enters him smoothly, ringing a high, warm moan from his throat.

Knees spread and arms stretches out before him, he moves slowly, thrusting back to envelop Ragnar utterly.

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And, slowly and carefully still, Athelstan begins to thrust into Ragnar, a little further in each time.

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With each of Athelstan's thrusts, Ragnar moves backwards to meet it; with each of Sinric's thrusts, forward.

It takes him a moment, but then he finds a rhythm, and a strange sort of clarity that comes from moving between them, doing something, not simply taking what is given.

It's the plateau. "This is lovely," Ragnar declares. "I could do this all night!"

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"And I, very ready to serve you, my Lord." Sinric purrs, arching his back to take Ragnar deeper.

He makes a lovely image - this smooth and pale skinned youth stretched out before Ragnar like a cat, the Earl's prick vanishing into his perfect heart shaped rear with every thrust.

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And Athelstan, small by comparison and dark, over the two of them, gaining in confidence that he won't hurt Ragnar and starting to move faster.

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Ragnar, big and golden in the middle, paces his thrusts and hip-tilts to both of them, pricks sliding in and out of them like the pistons of a machine from the future.

The new-found clarity enables him to tilt and angle his hips, as Sinric must have that sweet spot inside him as well -- he can have physical pleasure, after all, even if he doesn't dare or wish to peak. Athelstan has given it, so Ragnar will try for it, as well.

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Ragnar's spear thrusts true and Sinric cries out, his mane of gold falling over his shoulder as he arches back. Wrists crossed in front of him as if bound, Sinric writhes, his little snail hardening against the bedding.

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Athelstan reaches past Ragnar with one hand to stroke Sinric's shoulders, the other hand on Ragnar's back to steady himself.

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Ragnar gives a deep sigh of pleasure and starts aiming for that same spot with every thrust, wanting Sinric to have as much as he trusts himself to take.

One day, he will take that sweet little snail into his mouth and bring him to completion, but Sinric must learn to trust his own pleasure and give up control that far -- he must be patient.

And right now, Sinric writhing and crying out is more beautiful than any dance, to Ragnar.

He manages to shift most of his suspended weight on his left arm (and knees, of course) so he can reach around with his right, to try and touch Sinric's breast and nipple on that side.

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Sinric's first instinct is to pull away. This is a first for both Ragnar and Athelstan and he wants to take nothing away from their pleasure.

But the feel strong hands on his breast and the spark inside him with Ragnar's thrusts makes it difficult to focus. He half turns, his back twisting to press into Ragnar's touch, his breathing a shaky moan.

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