I swear, those two are trying to kill me.

And not in the fun, "let's tie Nick up and see how many orgasms we can give him in one night" kind of way either. Though I must admit-that was a good night. Man, I don't think I've ever come so many times in one go. Screamed myself hoarse, rubbed my wrists raw. Made Gil give me the next night off from work.

If Warrick could have blushed, he would have when he saw the marks. Gil, though, just got this goofy grin on his face, followed by this hungry look, like he wanted to lick my wrists and do it again.

But that's beside the point. The point is that they've come up with another scheme to get me to have "fun" and it just isn't in the same league.

See, my two lovers have decided that I don't get out of the house enough. Warrick even went so low as to say that Gil gets out more. At first I denied it, but it might be true. I'm a homebody. No reason to go out if you've got it all there under your own roof, know what I'm saying? And there are so many freaks and weirdos and okay, stalkers, outside.

They still want to take me out. They just don't understand how dangerous it might be.

Me. Gil. Warrick.

Dancing.

Sounds like a recipe for disaster. But they keep telling me it will be fun. A boys night out.

After I finally agree, the next fight, of course, is about what we're going to wear. More specifically, what I'm going to wear. I don't understand what's wrong with my wardrobe. So I happen to like chinos and polo shirts. And yeah, much of my wardrobe is a lot darker and looser than it used to be. So what? I don't feel like drawing attention to myself all the time. I also don't care what Warrick says-it doesn't scream "gay white boy." If anything, it's preppy. And okay, so maybe that isn't the look that I should be going for when we're going out dancing at Oil Can Harry's, but I really don't care that much.

Warrick dresses in rough-boy chic; a sleeveless denim shirt unbuttoned to his navel, jeans with strategic tears in the knees, butt and hips, and some chunky silver bracelets and rings. Gil is wearing an ice-blue silk shirt and black pants. I tease him about looking like a conservative sugar-daddy. His only concession to our going out is a wicked pair of cowboy boots, black with metallic toes and silver stitching.

They eventually dictate that I should wear in a white muscle-T and my brown leather pants, the ones that lace up the sides. Now, I've only worn these outside the house once, and, well, I didn't necessarily start a riot, per say, but there was some fighting. I still don't believe that it was all because of me, but Warrick's pretty adamant that I always walk around with blinders on, particularly when it comes to other people looking at me with interest. If he really feels that way, though, why is he insisting on me wearing these tonight? I mean, isn't it like taking a red cape to a bull fight?

Still, Warrick and Gil assure me that between the pair of them they can take care of any trouble. I'm still not certain-I feel like I'm on display. It makes me uncomfortable. I'm not interested in other people staring at me, drooling over me. I get enough of that from the pair of them.

Then Gil goes down on his knees and starts tracing the laces with his tongue. Which makes me happy that I'm wearing the pants, but raises my doubts about going out in them. I'd much rather stay at home and let Gil practice arpeggios with his tongue, know what I'm saying?

Warrick joins the game at that point, coming up behind me and doing a bit of bump and grind, promising to stick this close to me while we're there, teaching me how to dance through example, so I don't feel self-conscious. Gil, of course, offers to get me liquored up, proposing a different method to achieve the same goal. Between the pair of them they get me hot and bothered enough not to notice when we go through the door-of the house that is, not the bedroom.

It's a Saturday night and there's a line to get in. Doesn't matter-Warrick knows the bouncer and he talks our way past the rope without showing any skin. Well, anymore skin. And I don't think Gil had to growl at him more than once.

The heat and the noise are like a solid wall. The dance floor is a mass of bodies, a single moving cell. I'm not sure why we're here, or if we can squeeze in, but Gil seems to have other ideas. He pulls me down for a hard kiss, does the same to Warrick, then instructs us where to go. He's figured out a spot from which to watch us-Gil is even less of a dancer than I am.

It takes some pushing to get to where Gil wants us. It isn't often that Gil directs us in public, at least, not in obvious ways. That he's decided to take charge, though, is cool with both of us.

Warrick keeps his promise and stays plastered to my back. His large hands wrap around my hips, fingers wriggling their way under the laces to brand my skin. He whispers encouragements in my ear, telling me to let go and let him take care of me and just move with the beat. It's harder than it looks, hard to get into it -there are so many bodies pressing in against us, distracting me, getting into my personal space, making me nervous. I guess I really am a homebody. I'd much rather be doing this with Warrick in our living room, to some smoky slow song played by a band I've never heard of.

The heat finally starts to get to me, though, as well as the lack of air and Warrick's fine, fine cock riding the crack of my ass. He's just kissing and holding and rubbing me until finally I give in, close my eyes and tip my head back so it's resting against Warrick's shoulder and I'm letting him do everything for me. The night goes into that timeless place where I'm no longer bothered by the people around us, the flashing lights just bounce off me, and the beat from the music is like another heart pounding through my skin.

He moves us around, shuffles our feet together, sways us together with the music. I listen to him purr in my ear about how good I'm being. I'm still learning how to submit. It's something that Gil's been teaching both of us. It feels good to let go, even though it's a struggle. I trust Warrick, though, trust that he'll watch and be careful, trust that Gil will watch even closer. I also trust that when I do let go, the reward will be wonderful and worth it.

Then Warrick tells me that he's spotted Gil watching us. Our other lover is standing up near the entrance, on the stairs, drink in hand and eyes only on us. I can damn near feel the extra heat, the weight, of Gil's stare. It makes my muscles pliant, taffy-loose and honey-sweet. I put one arm up so I can wrap my fingers around the back of Warrick's neck, pull him closer so our cheeks can rub together, keep my eyes closed so Warrick can position us, put us on display, for Gil, and Gil alone.

Warrick eventually says something like, "Let's go." I nod and try to follow, still in that starlit place where my brain has stopped working and my worry muscles are non-existent. I can't quite believe how my lovers manage to get me here and make me so comfortable in my own skin without sex or alcohol, just with words of love, pride and protection. I don't think they'll ever understand how hard it was to learn to trust again after Nigel Crane.

Or maybe they do.

Then Gil is kissing me, possessing me, opening my mouth with his and coaxing me to pour my soul into him, for him to treasure and keep safe. He gives Warrick some of the same while I'm draped across his back, still not really aware of where we are or even caring, just glad that they're both there, real, alive, and full of love, warm under my hands, skin pulsing with need.

When I look up I realize that we're in a corner of the backroom. Normally, we don't go in for public displays, but maybe this is what Gil needs tonight, or Warrick. Or maybe it's for me, another lesson in trust.

Suddenly I'm wondering if that's the real reason for my lovers to get me out of the house.

Gil positions Warrick and I together in the corner, wrapped around each other.

"Let's play 'Simon says,' shall we?" he tells us. It's hard to hear him over the music, but we both nod. His mild tone makes me shiver, makes me warm and cold and I slip a little further down into that safe mindless space.

"Simon says, kiss. Not on the mouth."

Gil's commands have a way sending all my blood straight to my cock, as well as by passing all the thinking matter and interacting with the reptile mid-brain, you know? Where all I can do is long to kiss Warrick's mouth but I drag myself away from that and toward his neck while he's doing the same, angling for my earlobe while I work further down, licking and nibbling his collarbone and pressing my dick as hard as I can into the thigh he's thoughtfully placed between my legs.

"Simon says, stop."

With a groan I pull myself away. All I can taste is Warrick's musk, all I can hear are his panting breaths, all I can feel under my groping fingers is his sweating skin.

"Shirts off."

I hold myself still while Warrick unbuttons the last two buttons on his shirt and slips it off his shoulders.

"Ah-ah-ah. Simon didn't say."

I grin while Warrick just hangs his head. Gil comes up closer and reaches up to massage my neck with strong fingers, petting the back of my head. I don't do anything, don't reach out, don't try to touch. This is Gil's show, his game, and all I can do is wait, the fingers on my neck grounding me while at the same time stretching out my longing until I'm almost shaking with need.

"I think," Gil says after a pause, "that Nick should be rewarded for playing so well. And Warrick should have a forfeit."

I shiver but stay silent. Warrick puts his hands on his hips and looks up, smiling and chagrined, his eyes hot and heavy on me.

"Ah yes, Warrick." I can hear the grin in Gil's tone. "I think Nick needs a blowjob. And I think you're going to have to wait until we get home before you find your completion. Is that acceptable?"

My mouth goes dry. I don't think words could form even if it was the only way to put away a child rapist. I manage a nod. Warrick nods as well.

But as Gil steps away and Warrick's reaching for me, the noise around us suddenly slams into my skin.

Catcalls.

I can't help but look. A crowd has gathered, a group of young wolves; some already have themselves out and are masturbating at the picture we present. Warrick looks too, but Gil doesn't flinch, doesn't even growl. He gently turns my face away, back toward Warrick.

"Kiss him," he directs. Warrick closes the distance between us without a pause and brings his lips down onto mine.

I hesitate. I can't help it. We're out here and everyone is looking and I don't feel right about this but Gil is there as well, petting and caressing me and telling me that it's okay.

And I try, I really do. But when Warrick pulls back I'm shaking and I can't get back in to the game. I feel ashamed - my lovers want to play and I'm holding them back. I can feel a thousand eyes on me though, making my skin crawl. I'm having problems breathing. There are too many people here. I'm shivering with cold even though I know the club is overheated.

I'm determined to go through with this anyway. Gil and Warrick were proud of me earlier, and I hate disappointing them. I lean in for another kiss from Warrick, but Gil stops me.

"Let's go," he says.

I want to protest. I want to tell them that it's okay. All I can do is sigh in relief and say, "Thank you."

Gil turns without another word. He's in uber-protective mode at this point, growling and forcing a path through the gathered crowd for us. Warrick is draped around me again, covering my back. I close my eyes, let them guide me. I can feel tears welling up. I shouldn't still be so damn sensitive, but I can't help it.

At the car, Gil throws Warrick the keys and pulls me into the backseat. Normally, this kind of thing would get a comment from Warrick, generally along the lines of "Yes, Mas'ser, ya'll want some chitlins with yo fried chicken?" He doesn't say anything, though, and I have to wonder what he's seeing in my face. Gil, too, because he doesn't attack or try to get as naked as possible on the drive home. Instead, he just pulls me into his arms and holds me in a soft embrace, then kisses me with light, butterfly touches, warm and dry and sweeter than my mama's honey-yam pie.

I'm feeling kind of sheepish by the time we get home. It shouldn't have been that big a deal. Maybe it isn't too late. Maybe we should go back.

But Gil won't hear of it. Sends Warrick up ahead to open the door and pulls me in for the type of kiss I've been expecting all night, the kind that steals my breath and sets my heart racing and makes me start to shiver again, but in a good way.

By the time we get to the house Warrick already has the lights turned down and something sultry and Latin on the stereo. Gil hands me over to Warrick and gets himself something to drink, pulls out a chair from the breakfast bar and sets himself in it.

It's show time again, only this time it's going to be okay. Warrick is dancing with me, like he'd done before, leading me around the room to that slow beat, keeping his kisses gentle, making us both happy. This time when he turns us toward Gil I feel brave enough to open my eyes, see the hot gaze already on me, let Warrick position us. Warrick blatantly rolls his hips, making mine move in sync. The only reaction we get is Gil taking another sip of his drink, as if his throat's dry.

I'm starting to float away again when Gil speaks up. "Don't you owe Nick a blowjob, Warrick?" He sounds so cool, so collected. As if he'd just asked Warrick for an evidence bag. I rarely hear his voice grow harsh with need - then again, he usually isn't the one begging.

And yet that calm voice raises the temperature in the room, turns on the heat like the sun through the clouds.

Warrick moves us so that Gil has a good view, then he goes down on his knees, at my side. I'm about to protest, ask him what the fuck he's doing, when I feel his tongue along the laces of my pants. He nips my side while he undoes the knots. With his teeth, he pulls the last bow out, a long slide that's too slow.

But I'm not the one in charge here.

He unstrings the laces partway down my thigh, using teeth, tongue and fingers. I'm not quite squirming. The way Warrick's breath skirts across the skin he's just wet casts webs of goose bumps all across my thighs, up my spine, down my dick.

After Warrick unlaces the other side he pauses for a moment, looking over his shoulder at Gil.

"Very good," Gil purrs.

Still putting on a show, Warrick unpeels the pants from the front and back, like flaps. I'm still mostly encased in strong leather, only able to open my legs so wide. Not as wide as I'd like, not wide enough so that I feel stable.

It's another lesson in trust. Warrick won't hurt me. Neither will Gil, at least, not in any way I don't like. And they won't let me hurt myself, won't let me fall.

After Warrick repositions us again, he looks up at me, licks his lips and grins. I grin back. He's got the devil in him sometimes, and it looks like I'm going to have quite a ride.

But it's never going to be as simple as that, and this is one of the reasons why we work so well. Why we're still together. Why it's never going to be the same old, same old. Why it's never going to get, well, boring.

Because Gil speaks up then. "Just the tip, Warrick."

And suddenly it's a whole new game. Warrick moves in slowly, just takes the head of my cock in his mouth, holds it lightly with covered teeth, and runs his tongue over and over the head, caressing it, teasing the slit. I force my hands on to my hips: it's the only way I can stop myself from reaching down and touching him.

"Very good," Gil says. "Now Warrick, you can touch him."

I swear Warrick's moving in slow motion as he brings his hands up. I can feel every inch of skin land on me, tip, then finger, then palm, as one hand slips around my bare hip to hold me steady. He gently reaches for my balls with his other hand, reverently touching them, moving them back and forth in their sack, then tugging on them, all the while he's just holding me in his mouth, warming and wetting just the tip.

I groan. I can't help it. It feels so good. We can do fast and furious, barely-getting-through-the-door sex. But this slow pace that Gil sets for us is also unbelievably good. Yet my lovers sometimes wonder why I don't want to leave the house. It isn't just for the sex. It's for this, too, when the world just shrinks down to the three of us and whatever we're doing is enough to cocoon us from everything.

"I'd like for you to lick him now, Warrick," Gil instructs.

Bastard. He knows how much this gets to me. Warrick switches between just the tip of his tongue, a single, sticky line down the back of my dick, and broad flat strokes, up and down. It's gentle and harsh and all the things in between. My knees are locked but my legs are starting to shake. I figure I'm the only one panting, but when I glance at Gil, his eyes seem a bit glazed.

Gil shakes himself, looks away from my gaze, and says, "Suck him." And Warrick goes to town. Pulls me into his mouth and hollows out his cheeks and sucks hard. I know I'm moaning full-time now. I always get vocal. The part of my body controlling my vocal chords tends to shut-off during sex. It's embarrassing as hell, but Warrick and Gil seem to dig it.

"How does it feel, Nicky? How does it feel to have that hot mouth on you?"

"G-g-good," is about all that I'm capable of at this point. Warrick tugs on my balls again, not letting me get any closer, which is both a good and a bad thing that I'm going to get him for later.

"Do you want Warrick to get one of his fingers wet? To slide it along side your cock in his mouth? To coat it with fluids so that he can fuck you with it? Would you like that? Would you like Warrick to fuck you with his finger? Make you see stars when he starts rubbing across your prostate? Would you like that?"

Oh god. Oh god. Oh god. He doesn't really expect an answer to that, does he? But now Warrick's slowing and stopping and noooooo. I nod my head.

"Don't move Warrick. Just wet your finger. Yes, like that."

I can feel the digit along my cock, scraping hot and tight and deliberately brushing against that sensitive spot just under the head of my dick and damn I'm going to kill him-when I have a brain again.

"Back behind his balls now, yes, you can start sucking again. Are you sure you want this Nick?"

I manage to gulp some air into my lungs, knowing that it won't last long, the heat from the pair of them will force it away again soon enough. "Yes," I grind out. God I want this. I want Warrick. I want Gil. I want it all and everything and it's never enough, no matter what they give me, it's never enough.

Warrick enters me with a sharp push. I suck more air in, but it's not helping. The room is spinning slightly. I'm not going to fall over: I'm just thinking that gravity doesn't like me very much and has decided to lay hard on my shoulders for a while, you know?

But Gil seems to recognize what's going on because he's suddenly there behind me, his strong arms pulling me against his smooth, silk-covered chest, holding me up, grounding me.

As well as torturing me, of course. One hand is already pulling at my nipples while the other does insanely sensual things to my stomach. And he's hard, as hard as I am, as hard as Warrick is, and I can feel that heat riding my ass. And while Warrick's finger feels good, is good, Gil would feel so much better. . . .

Gil still wants to direct though. "Swallow him down Warrick. Good boy. How does that feel Nick? Warrick's mouth all along your length? It's hot and wet and tight, isn't it? Are your balls starting to draw up toward your body? Are you getting chills up and down your spine?"

My head falls back onto Gil's shoulder. Gravity really isn't my friend. Neither is the AC; it seems to have conked out. Again. Or maybe it's as usual, as it seems to happen every time we have sex.

"And Warrick's finger. How does that feel Nick? Gliding in and out of your hot ass? And when he presses . . . "

Shit. Warrick scrapes across my prostrate and I jerk and it's a good thing Gil's there because that one may have sent me to my knees - "How does that feel? Does that feel good?"

"Good. So good." I can't believe how low and rough my voice sounds. How I'm able to speak at all is beyond me. Maybe it's just another thing Gil's conditioned in me.

Warrick presses against my prostate again and I can't help the shudder that wracks me. "Good boy," Gil whispers into my ear. "So helpless. But we'll take care of you. So good. Keep sucking Warrick."

One of Gil's hands has disappeared from my front. I can feel him between my legs, caressing Warrick's hand as he thrusts in and out of me. I want to spread my legs further, but I'm hobbled. I have to depend on them to keep me upright.

Even though Warrick's pressing into me again and all I'm seeing are stars, I can still hear Gil's zip, loud even with the music playing. Then his knuckles are pressing against me, rubbing me as he rubs himself. I know better than to tense with excitement, but I'm still having problems breathing.

"I think that knees would work best, don't you Warrick?"

How can that man sound so detached? I can hear a little rasp in his tone, a slight burr, but that's the only hint that we're doing anything other than sitting at the dinner table and he's just asked Warrick for the salt.

Slowly they slide me to my knees, and this is better. This is much better. I didn't realized how far away the ground was. Touching it now, I know that I'd been floating pretty far off of it.

It doesn't take much more positioning before Gil's slowly stretching me, filling me, then is solidly in me, completing me, and I don't want the feeling to ever stop. He's hoisted me back on my knees, letting me rest against him so Warrick still has access to my dick. I've never been more grateful for Gil's miraculous multi-tasking skills, how he's able to hold me while he slowly skewers me, over and over again, how he's telling me the dirtiest, nastiest things about how Warrick's mouth looks like around my dick and how I feel squeezing around him and how good I smell and taste. He's not quite directing us, but he's still holding the reins, still taking care of me, of both of us.

The end comes sooner than I expected. Gil tells me to let go, that it's all right, that he has me. Then his breathing starts hitching, the way it does just before he comes, and that's what sets me off. That somehow, even though I'd screwed up his night and his plans I still pleased him enough that he can't wait any more.

So I let go-just let the lightning pool and crackle and fuse my spine before it comes crashing out my cock, and I'm coming and sparks are flying and I'm seeing white. Gil is coming too, thrusting soundly into me, forcing more lightning through my nerves, prolonging my orgasm until there's nothing left but to collapse back against Gil and pant some more.

That is, until Warrick pokes me. Hard.

"Gil?" I whisper.

With a grunt, he slides out and pushes me forward. I'm barely able to move - my hands are weighted down with sleep and pleasure - but I'm not going to leave my buddy in pain. Warrick comes up for a kiss, needy and demanding, and I let him, let him bring me back up, bring me back to life. I lay myself down and unzip him - then I let him do all the work, fucking my mouth hard and fast until he's coming too, pouring into me, completing me as well.

After Warrick finishes, I realize that Gil's still touching me, holding my ankle, lazily caressing up and down the side of my leg. I have one hand on Warrick's belly, feeling his breath slow down, even out. When I force my head off the floor I see that Warrick and Gil are connected as well, fingers intertwined between them.

I feel like I need to say something. I'm not unhappy with how the night turned out, but maybe they were right. Maybe I do stay home too often, and not for the right reasons. Well, maybe Gil was right. I'm not ever going to tell Warrick that he was right, not unless he tickles it or wrestles it out of me and makes me cry "Uncle". But maybe I do need to get out more, on my own or with them. Maybe we should try another boys night out.

But not tonight. Now it's time for a group pile, some slow and gentle kissing, maybe a shower, and quite possibly some ice cream - in bed, of course. Just because I'm willing to try to change some habits doesn't mean I need to change everything.

So we collect ourselves and get up slowly and undress and start to get ready for what comes next. I don't say anything, none of us do; it's hard to talk, even with them, sometimes. But I think it's okay. I think the words will come.

Or maybe I'll just take them dancing next week.