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Most of the time, the Duke and Duchess sandwich Havelock between them on their big bed and give him what he needs, which is a thick cock up his backside and Sybil’s tight, wet cunt around his shaft. Sam does most of the thrusting to spare Havelock’s leg, and Sybil has a delightful ability to squeeze down on you when you’re pulling out. Havelock of course is so perfectly controlled he could take the whole thing without batting an eyelash, but he’s learning to make noise, to let them know how he likes it, and the occasional hiss of surprised pleasure, or a genuine moan when he spills, is all the sweeter for their rarity. It’s a good old time and releases tension all around. Ankh-Morpork doesn’t know what causes it, but appreciates the days when the Patrician seems tranquil, refreshed and even cheerful. Well, most of Ankh-Morpork appreciates it; it scares the heck out of Downey.
On lazy mornings, hard to come by and therefore treasured, the men will get their mouths on Sybil’s generous pink flesh, suckle her nipples and her clit and lick deep into her until their faces and hands are wet with her tangy, sweet juices, and when she’s had her first gasping, bucking orgasm, they lie down on either side of her and slowly, carefully, enter her together. It’s as much as she can handle, almost too much, but she swears the edge of pain is where the most pleasure is, and she tends to say this in a squeaky, slightly desperate voice while dragging her nails down the back of whoever is in front of her, so they believe her. She’ll usually do the moving herself, tiny little ups and downs that for the men is practically edging, and she’ll laugh breathlessly at Sam’s tortured groans. Eventually, she’ll get Havelock’s clever fingers on her clit again, and when she cums she tightens around them deliciously. Sybil can have several orgasms in a row, and her men love giving them to her. It’s a win if her legs are still wobbly when she leaves for her Dragon Sanctuary board meeting, her cheeks red and her eyes bright and hazy.
And sometimes, dark and hushed sometimes, Sam will stand in the Patrician’s office with a lost look in his eyes and a body clenched so tightly it trembles with the strain, or he’ll come home and barely speak, just look, look, look at Sybil in mute appeal. They’ve thankfully learned to recognise the signs, and know what to do.
Havelock tells Drumknott to hold his callers, and locks the door. He gives orders and accepts no complaints because that’s what Sam needs, taking from him his armour and weapons to be reclaimed later. Then Havelock leads him by secret passageways to a simple bedroom, where the orders follow in measured succession, until Sam is naked on his back on the mattress, holding his knees up, silently waiting, shaking, desperate. Only then will Havelock undress, holding all power, and when he lies down on top of Sam he uses his weight to press him down, embracing him, taking him deeply and firmly. Havelock burns away the burden of responsibility and office in the heat of submission and pleasure, reminding the Commander that he is not alone.
Sybil, when she’s the one to handle it, takes her husband to bed and gets the ropes, the collar, the gag, and the belt with the straps and the thick, stiff appendage, so that for a time Sam does not have to be in charge of anything, and in fact wouldn’t be even if he wanted to; he needs only take it and like it, and oh, he does. Sybil makes him loud, makes him howl, even sob, and she makes his orgasm deep and exhausting.
Afterwards, whether it’s Havelock or Sybil, they hold their Sam until he sleeps.
In these ways and many more, they play, they comfort each other, and they make each other better than they were before.