They've been at each other all day.
Even Don's mother has noticed it, has been glancing at the two of them, and at once point leaned into Don and asked in an undertone if Donald didn't think, perhaps, that Mr Mead is being unusually demanding of the new footman.
Don had shrugged his shoulders, pretended not to notice, but he has noticed.
He notices everything where Mead and Harrison are concerned, but he
certainly
noticed this.
"Posture, Harrison," Mead has been growling all day, and every time he seems to catch Harrison by surprise, making him jerk up by three or four inches to straighten out his shoulders.
Twice, Mead has physically taken hold of him to adjust his form, and each time Harrison seems like he's barely holding back the urge to turn around and tear Mead's throat out with his teeth, and all day Mead has been finding flaw with Harrison's work -- his shoes aren't polished, the silver still has tarnish on it, he's missed a torn button on the master's coat, his footsteps are too loud in the corridor.
It's no surprise that Harrison is wound so tight he's ready to burst when Don creeps into the little room off of the parlour downstairs, and Don would almost think to himself that Mead had done it for this purpose alone if he knew it wasn't somewhat more personally motivated than that.
Harrison grabs him by the hair, and Don gasps against his mouth as he's pinned back over the table, Harrison kissing him so hard he almost wonders if his lips will bruise. He spreads his legs, invites Harrison between them, tries to get him to come grind up against him, but Harrison ignores it as he unbuttons his braces and drops trou.
Don goes willingly onto the floor, feels his knees against the stone and craves the hard, cool pressure, gasps at Harrison's tight hand in his hair, dragging him forward, and when Harrison shoves his cock down Don's throat, Don chokes on it.
Mead doesn't treat him this roughly, would never -- he'd never throw Don around like this, would never try to fuck his mouth like this, but if he did and then Don choked, if he gagged, he'd pull back immediately.
Harrison pulls him down by the hair until his cock is thrust down Don's throat, and Don cries out, the sound muffled around his cock. He grabs at Harrison's thighs, squeezing, pleading with his eyes.
"Tha can take it," says Harrison, holding his head in place by his hair, and Don tries to swallow, takes in a sharp intake of breath through his nose.
If Mead was doing this, he
wouldn't
be able to breathe -- Harrison can only do this so easily, really, because his cock isn't big enough to kill Don dead. Don's eyes are watering, and Harrison waits, staring down at him with his lips twisted in a scowl, until Don stops struggling.
When Harrison starts to thrust into his throat like it's a cunt ready made for him, Don moans, and wonders if he ought feel ashamed that he's so very hard in his own trousers, pulled around like this, treated so roughly --
He likes it.
It's the reason he took up with Harrison in the first place, the reason he let Harrison fuck him up behind the dog sheds, fuck him so hard that no matter that his cock was smaller he was making sure Don felt every thrust into his arse in the back of his throat, as though the footman were trying to fuck straight through him.
"Slag," says Harrison, and Don feels his cheeks burn hot and pink. "Fucking love that, don't tha?"
Mead isn't like Harrison. Mead is gentle, tender -- he touches Don very lovingly, with a firm but kind hand, and he won't even be convinced of sodomy, will only fuck between Don's thighs even though Don has told him thrice how much he likes it. He doesn't want to debase him, he says.
There's a lot to be said for a spot of debasement, from time to time.
"For God's sake," Mead hisses as he enters the room, closing and locking the door behind him, and Harrison fucks more savagely into his throat, making Don choke again, his eyes watering, his grips loosening on Harrison's thighs.
He can hear the
slap
of sound as Mead's hand claps upside Harrison's head, and when Harrison is dragged away from Don, Don coughs hard, aware that he's messy, not just soaked with sweat, but with dribble and ejaculate shining over his chin and his lips.
"Fat, jealous fuck," says Harrison, and Don feels his mouth fall open in surprise, because Mead looks
furious
, and for just a moment, Don really thinks he'll hit him. He doesn't, of course: Mead schools his fury into an expression of cold anger, his lips pressing together, his gaze boring into Harrison in a way that would make Don want to crumble, but just makes Harrison puff up his chest and stand on his tip toes.
He's still a head shorter than Mead, and must be half his size.
Mead picks up a cushion from the wooden bench and hands it down to Don, and obediently, Don takes it and puts it under his knees. It is a relief, somewhat, but it makes Harrison scoff.
"I an't finished," says Harrison.
"You're lucky I allow you to touch him at all," says Mead, his voice in such a low, heavy growl that it seems to come right from the core of his big, barrel chest.
Don shifts, pressing the heel of his hand against his crotch.
"Well, Vic," he says, "it's not really your -- "
"Hush," says Mead, and Harrison adds, "That mouth in't for talking tonight, lad."
Don shivers, feels himself smile giddily even though his face is a mess, and it's this smile that seems to make Mead take pause, drawing himself up to a further height.
"Now, see," says Harrison. "He's a slag: wants a hard fuck. Don't need his butler mollycoddling and being his fucking nursemaid."
"You've not the slightest idea what he needs," says Mead immediately. "You
insolent
little tyke."
"Insolent?" demands Harrison. "Why for then, 'cause I know better nor thee?"
Mead bristles, and Don reaches out, touches his thigh.
Mead's hand loosely curls in Don's hair, and while he doesn't grip as tightly as Harrison had, doesn't hold him by the hair hard enough to really pull the hair at the root, it's firm, and Don likes it.
"Take his mouth, if it's what tha wants," says Don. "I'll fuck from t'other end."
Mead looks scandalised.
"You'll do no such thing," he hisses sharply, as though frightened they'll be overheard: his grip tightens in Don's hair, and Don moans softly, his eyes closing. "Is that what you've been doing with him?"
"Well," says Harrison, with a low laugh. "I an't been giving him roses and chocolates. The fuck did tha think I was at with him?"
When Don looks up at Mead's face, he sees the butler's ruddy cheeks have gone slightly pink, his lips parted, and he's shifting on his feet, looking beyond scandalised and indignant now, but quietly horrified.
"He's a young man," says Mead.
Harrison leans back from him, looking baffled. "He's no younger nor us, Mead."
"He's a
gentleman
," Mead goes on.
"Not when he's on my cock," is the dry response, and Don shudders, because Harrison's hand is gripping loosely in his hair from the other side, forcing Don to pull his head up and tilt it back slightly.
"You might continue with his mouth," says Mead at length.
"Gonna fuck his arse?"
"
No
," snaps Mead, and Don lets out a low sound of disappointment that makes Harrison laugh.
"Up," Harrison orders, and drags him by the hair to drag him, still clothed, over the table. It'd be too high for Harrison to be bent over it like this, but Don is somewhat taller, has longer legs, and his toes only just come off the ground. Mead's hands slide gently over the backs of his night clothes, beginning to gather up his dressing gown. "No wonder the young
master
," there's an ironic lilt to Harrison's voice that makes Don shudder, his cock hard in his pyjama trousers, especially because Harrison is looking down at him with a knife-edge smirk, too, "came wanting for us to fuck him. Butler won't do it as he needs."
"Don't be unkind, Sam," says Don, and Harrison scoffs, sliding two fingers into his mouth and pressing them onto his tongue as Mead tugs his pyjama bottoms down.
"Thought Christmas'd come early for us," Harrison goes on, sliding his fingers around Don's mouth, and then pressing harder on the back of his tongue, making Don gag slightly and laughing at him. "Thought tha must be hung as dormouse, for all that bulk on thee. Imagine my surprise, when the slag says tha've a great weapon in them trousers, only won't use it none."
"I hardly expect he said any of that," says Mead darkly, but his fingers are massaging a wonderful rhythm against Don's arse, making his cock thrill without even sliding inside him, and Don closes his eyes, sucking harder at Harrison's fingers. "Unlike some present here today, Mr Howard has a strong command of the English language."
"Bet he'd like command of that cock," says Harrison. "Have it spear his boycunt wide."
Don whines despite himself, and Harrison laughs, tucking his fingers back soaked with spit that comes away from Don's mouth in wet threads.
"Aye, aye," he says mildly, amused. "Thinks he's thy nanny but won't spoil thee none."
