"I noticed that as well." It wasn't as if Data wasn't gifted in his own right, though the Doctor was impressive. "He is very nice looking," he mused in response, breath puffing with each word against the Doctor's neck. Even an experimental grazing of his teeth. "As if he should be painted in the van Baburen style. While you are very much one of Honthorst's works, Avon."

He oozed the Doctor more onto his back on the carpet. There were about thirty seven different positions that would be preferable for the three of them to pursue in this position... and he couldn't put a bead on one of them. His polywater addled mind was too busy artistically appraising the attractive forms put before him.

He shrugged off the robe, letting it drop off to the side. He couldn't even remember why he was wearing it, now. "I suppose I came in last," he mused regretfully. "And being that you beat me, and you are a guest... in this room..." for... why was he here? Oh. Naked. Didn't matter. "...Avon and I will take care of you for a little while."

And from his strange, upside down, crouched over the Doctor's head vantage point he leaned down to give him a kiss. Lips grazed warmer lips (though cooler than Avon's he noted), his chest tightened a bit, muscles tensed, and it was the last thing necessary to get his cock throbbing as hard to possible to his mechanized pulse.

He was about to formulate a verbal protest but Data's cool lips pressed against his, and all that eased past his throat was a groan. A fairly surprised but nonetheless pleased groan.

Which deepened when warm, dexterous fingers enclosed around his length. He bucked in response, at first an attempt to throw off the touch, but he was well and truly snared at two vulnerable spots on his person, and--

--and he rather liked it. The twitching eased, became a gentle rolling of his hips and arching of his back. He understood being caught in the middle of two much more experienced individuals when it came to...well...whatever it was they were doing.

He had a vague idea in his head that this ought not be occurring to him, that arousal was beyond his ability and understanding. And yet he seemed perfectly capable of it. Then again, he was in very gifted, skilled hands.

Extremely pleased at the effect their ministrations were having on the Doctor, Avon readily accepted the leash in his free hand. He watched happily as Data grasped the Doctor's cock, suspecting he knew what was going to happen next.

"Don't worry," he told the Doctor, "Data knows what he's doing. He's fully functional, you know. He can do a lot of very imaginative things."

Data's lips trailed down, over his chin, to his neck. Down his chest, nipping lightly. Having to scoot along the Doctor's side as he went, lining himself up as he worked his way down his abdomen.

He held the Doctor's length steady. He still wasn't particularly good at servicing men. It wasn't in his original programming, he had to adjust his programming to fit it, but he knew what felt good to him. And even his augmented programming was dwindling at the moment.

He cupped his mouth over the Doctor's length and went down on him. All the way down, swallowing against the pressure of that impressive endowment and coming back up with a harsh, wet suck. And then all the way back down again, lips meeting base.

His own length panged with some sort of implied jealousy at the attention he was giving to the other man's, and Data found himself reaching between his own thighs to stroke. A little more attention and he would have this ready for Avon to make proper use of.

Oh, yes, he found the service exemplary. For as much pleasure as he took from those fingers clasped around him, the sensation was completely dwarfed by Data's mouth taking him entirely in. He was surrounded by flesh, cool and slick and supple, the edge of Data's teeth teasingly grazing against his length, forcing out another moan.

He strained against the leash, the strap tense around his neck, reminding him that he was caught, trapped, unable to flee. Though he wondered why anyone would attempt an escape from this...bliss.

He managed a hand placed upon Data's head, burying his fingers between straight, dark strands of hair, sharing a caress that was awkward and inexperienced, but earnest.

Avon was thoroughly appreciating the sights and sounds of what Data was doing to the Doctor; nonetheless, he was at least as eager for what would happen next.

"I think that should be enough," he said, "depending, of course, on just how rough you were expecting it to be." He gave Data an emphatic squeeze.

"Actu-ually Avon, I was ah... intending for you to do the honor." His speech was broken with noises of pleasure, of what Avon was doing to him. But he could be just as curious, just as anxious to watch two aesthetically pleasing forms engaged in one another. It was, after all, still a relatively new and novel experience to be aroused by such a thing.

At any other moment, the Doctor could easily have refused such offers with a dismissive wave, thinking such baseness beneath him. Any refusals now seemed rather...churlish.

Or it would be, if he could have remembered what the word 'churlish' meant.

"I..." he started, muddled head still attempting to place logical sense to this situation. "...slow?" He really had no idea one way or the other, the only reason he had for not settling on fast was that he wished this to last as long as possible.

"As slow as you like," Avon purred. Already naked from the waist down - he didn't usually wear underwear - he took most of his weight on his hands and carefully lowered himself onto the Doctor's slick member. "See? Very slow..." he breathed. He met the Doctor's eyes, then Data's, smiling a small, feline smile. He lowered himself a little more still; moved back up, and then down again, slowly, the most minute of movements, eyes narrowed in effort.

He enjoyed that fascinating perusal of his skin, the way the Doctor's hands slid over him. It was peculiar, suddenly wanting to be appraised by a scientist. But the Doctor had a way of making one feel valuable. After all, he was both a work of art and a person.

Until the Doctor got distracted; of course, a diversion of Data's own making, but he lamented the loss of attention.

He moved to kneel by the Doctor's head, placing himself in better reach by hovering over him with his knees on either side of his fluffy hair (one pressing down on his "leash" too), facing Avon and that wonderful display of lowering down he was making. This gave him a prime position to see that charged, predatory gaze Avon was so good at, with the added bonus of putting himself within reach again.

He had an inkling of a thought which suggested that a camera might not be the best idea. Or he would have had that thought if he weren't so profoundly distracted by...well...everything. The deep, breathy grunts, the fascinating juxtaposition (and only a Time Lord would be able to dig up the word 'juxtaposition' during something like this and recall what it meant) between cool and warmth, between Data and Avon. Avon, calling up waves of pleasure with each movement.

Data.

The android's presence was a comfort in the confusion roiling in his mind, in his jumbled thoughts, caught up in sensations no Gallifreyan was meant to feel.

The leash forced the Doctor closer to Data than he'd ever been, eyes squeezing into slits as he settled his gaze, his warm hands resting on smooth golden thighs stretched taut, fingertips drawing along synthetic skin.

Edited 2010-03-06 08:46 am (UTC)

Avon let out a strangled moan, the doubled intensity almost overwhelming. He threw his head back, biting down hard on his lips as he quickened his movements, unable to maintain the slow, stately pace, consumed with need.

His movements became increasingly irregular as he drove the Doctor deeper into him, and himself deeper into Data's wet, welcoming mouth. Dizzy with inhibition, he let out an unrestrained cry of pure sensual joy.

It was something Data certainly wasn't objectionable to. The sensors there were finally tuned, and the graze along the loose skin made his entire body shudder, made him moan along the length that he was attentively sucking.

Then long, talented fingers gripped him and began to stroke (probably more talented if he weren't drunk, and it was a wonder that they were doing so well). One of his hands went to Avon's hip, forcibly steadying him against the Doctor bucking up into him and his own mouth going down; finding the optimal middle ground to maximize the technician's pleasure.

He could tell from those wonderful noises that were goaded out of them that they were doing well. From the flutter of three pulses that weren't his own, the smell of sweat and hormones. The unruly tensing of disobedient organic muscles. He could still even taste the Doctor from earlier, flavor lingering behind the taste of Avon's skin and savoring the combination.

His length throbbed against the Doctor's fingers, swollen thick and hard as it could get.