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Treavor emerges from thick and hazy dreams to find himself shirtless and tied to a bed. A blindfold restricts most of his vision, but what he can see through one sagging section tells him he's no longer in the brothel, at least. He can feel the muck on the walls. The bare, hard mattress rasps against his exposed skin as he tests his bonds. They hold fast. Drat.
"Hello?" he calls. "Anyone there?"
Silence. Soft rustling. His head is spinning. When the fog clears, it's going to ache.
"Release me at once!" he tries. "I am Lord Pendleton."
Silence again. Maybe stifled laughter. It's familiar, but in his disoriented state Treavor can't quite place it.
He continues, "Is it ransom you're after? My family will pay handsomely for my return."
Out of the gloom, a voice emerges: Custis. "No, we won't."
That laughter again, now unstifled: Morgan. Morgan doesn't laugh often, but when he does, it's usually—bad.
"Very funny," Treavor says, aiming for lightness. His voice shakes. "Now that you've had your fun, would you consider letting me go?"
"And let you destroy what's left of our name after that scene you made at the Golden Cat?" Morgan sneers.
"We had to carry you out," Custis says. "I'm not sure you're fit to walk yet. You really must watch your drink, little brother."
Treavor thinks back through the night. It's like dragging a corpse through the river. He'd been upstairs—one of the rooms—someone had sent up a bottle of wine... He recalls the crash of glass, a girl's horrified face. Nothing else. No slurred attempts at oratory, no flashes of teeth or steel, no bitter taste in his throat hinting at bile, nothing that recalls his greatest drunken hits of the past. It's all gone dark after those first few sips, like the press of fingers on a candle wick.
"You drugged me," he whispers.
"Whyever in the world would we do that?" Custis presses closer. His hand rests lightly by Treavor's bare shoulder. Treavor can't stop himself from flinching, and he knows it makes Custis smile. Morgan is circling him, somewhere near his feet.
"You DRUGGED—" he starts. But Custis' hand clamps down over his mouth, forcing him silent.
What do they have planned for him? It can't be worse than last time, or the time before that, or the thing that happened last year with Waverly Boyle, that duplicitous minx. To think that Treavor once considered her a friend, cherished hopes in his breast that someday she might... But no matter.
"Yes, I don't think you'll be welcome back at the Cat for some time," Custis muses, and removes his hand slowly from Treavor's mouth. There's a warning in his voice. Treavor wills himself quiet. "And we certainly can't return there this evening, not with our dear brother in such a state. A shame. Don't you agree, Morgan?"
"A shame," Morgan agrees. "But I suppose we can find other entertainments."
Morgan is fiddling with something at the foot of the bed. Treavor feels pressure and realizes with creeping horror that his brother is spreading his legs apart. He tries to kick, but his limbs are weak and sluggish. Morgan holds him down with one arm. He finishes adjusting the knots, then rips open Treavor's trousers. Treavor feels the cold of a knife against his hip.
"No," he says, half to himself. Morgan is cutting the fabric off his skin. Cold breeze prickles the hair on his legs. From behind him wafts the scent of body oil, a mild perfume that he recognizes from the Golden Cat. The ladies employ it frequently to smooth things along, as it were. The smell triggers a physical reaction—linked to his memories, nothing more—and he winces at Custis' disgusted inhale, Morgan's derisive chuckle.
"He's getting excited," says one of them.
"Greedy, more like," says the other.
Oil is dripped onto Treavor's thighs. Impatient fingers massage the oil along his skin, press inside him. He grits his teeth against the strain. They're only gentle to make it easier for themselves. All too soon, the insistent stretch of fingers is replaced with the blunt head of someone's—
"Did you want to go first?" says the twin about to fuck him.
"Please, I insist," says the other.
Treavor hates this. Hates this. It hurts. It drags. His head throbs. It means nothing that his cock is hard and bobbing with each thrust despite the pain. Irritation, rather than embarrassment, is what floods through him when a moan escapes his throat.
"Can you gag him?" says one to the other.
A wadded-up trouser scrap is shoved into Treavor's mouth. He chokes. Drool gathers. The one whose turn it is has begun to fuck him harder, flesh slapping rhythmically. Treavor can hear himself pant around the gag. He's above this. He's better than this. He should be doing this to someone else. Nails dig into his hips, gripping tight enough to bruise. It must be Custis. Morgan would be drawing blood.
Custis finishes in him with a grunt and pulls out with little regard for Treavor's comfort. Treavor is lost in the fog. He's halfway aware that he is a mess, naked and dripping with unmentionable fluids. Chill washes over him, and he almost wishes a body were on him again.
Behind him, Morgan is manipulating the ropes. Treavor tenses as his arms are briefly free. Custis begins to untie his feet. Morgan plucks the gag from his mouth, making sounds of distaste over the wet fabric. But they have no intention of releasing him just yet. Morgan and Custis soon maneuver Treavor up to a sitting position, then manhandle him into kneeling by the bed, their hands and arms like vises. Custis holds him. He hears Morgan undoing his trousers, can smell him, and realizes what they have in mind.
Do they expect him to behave for this? He bares his teeth. Even stripped, despoiled, and woozy, Treavor can still bite.
His question is answered when he feels the knife at the back of his neck. Just sitting there, the side of the blade just pressing.
"Go on," prompts Custis, and shoves his head forward.
Again, it hurts. Treavor's mouth is dry at first. Morgan goes slow at the start, but moves faster and deeper before Treavor is ready for it. He splutters, gags on Morgan's cock. Morgan pushes harder. Treavor tries to relax his jaw. It hurts. His throat is going to be scraped raw. Tears prick in the corners of his eyes, and he hears himself whimpering around Morgan. Morgan will like that. Maybe he'll finish faster.
Through it all, Treavor's cock refuses to go down. His ass twinges, his knees burn, and the predicted headache has swung into full gear, but as Morgan fucks his mouth, chafing and bloodying his already chapped lips, a secret part of him only wants to come.
At last, Morgan empties himself down Treavor's throat. He holds himself in there for so long that Treavor is gasping for air by the time he withdraws. The knife is taken away. Treavor collapses on his hands and knees. He takes gulping breaths, ignoring their laughter. His head swims.
He hopes they won't want to go more than once.