The boy who was bent over the table is now on his back over it, taking another man down his throat. Two women are tangled in a pile of limbs on a couch, grinding against each other’s thighs. A few warriors are watching them, from chairs or from the floor or from above.

There’s a familiar voice rambling and moaning somewhere far across the room.

Dorothy is in her back on a chair and demanding more, deeper, harder, now from the woman fucking her, hands tight on her braids.

Someone passes down the cup.

When it reaches him, Camillo presses it to his new friend's lips.

"Drink it."

He seems to try to protest, at first, squeezes his lips shut—

Then he takes one swallow, gulps it down with obvious difficulty.

"Go on."

He twitches, very noticeably, and keeps his lips shut.

He’s breathing very hard as the second dose starts to hit him.

Camillo keeps pressing the cup to his lips with one hand and pinches his nose shut with the other.

He holds out, starts to shake a little under Camillo’s hand, holds out, holds out —

and then drinks frantically, one two three four gulps until the cup is drained, so he can gasp in some air.

His skin is hot between his shoulder blades, and Camillo can feel his pulse in at least two places.

“Haah — I — you — that’s not —”

He drops the cup and winds his hands in the pretty hair and fucks him hard and fast.

His eyes are wide, heart pounding out of his chest, body shaking, every too-quick breath out a moan. Every time Camillo thrusts into him he drips onto the floor.

He comes for the first time just a minute in, clenching hard around him and screaming, scratching his nails on the floor.

Camillo fucks him through it -- manages to hold out a minute longer -- comes, fucking him hard into the floor -- collapses, halfway on top of him, wondering why that seemed like such a good idea with a leg wound.

He’s nearly to his second orgasm when Camillo comes, and he twitches underneath him, gasping, mind blacked out by arousal, trying to get a little more stimulation.

That's really hot.

Camillo is going to appreciate how hot it is while resting his head on the pretty boy's pretty back and trying to ignore the throbbing in his leg.

On the plus side, whatever he took seems to make ignoring it a little easier.

This has no downsides.

Someone takes pity, or advantage, or something, and kneels in front of his new friend.

He pulls himself forward a couple of inches and then his head collapses in their lap as he grinds backwards against Camillo, unable to keep his train of thought, gasping for air.

Um rude. That's his toy.

Camillo pulls himself up by a table leg and reasserts his claim by way of fucking his toy's ass.

His toy makes an absolutely inhuman noise and collapses completely from the waist up, shuddering, dripping down his leg onto the floor.

This particular hole clearly doesn’t get much use, and it spasms unevenly at the unusual intrusion.

Good god that feels fantastic. Everything feels fantastic. His entire body is thrumming with energy. His leg doesn't even hurt anymore.

Camillo could fuck this boy forever.

“—hey. Hey!”

Z unbalances him, pulls him back and away.

Camillo shivers at the shock of cool air where he'd been pressed against hot flesh.

"I'm busy," he protests, with a whine in his voice as his cock twitches.

The boy makes a devastated noise at the loss when Camillo pulls out. He doesn't quite close up, afterwards.

"Yeah, I know. That's too much blood, man."

“It’s just the right amount of blood,” Camillo protests absently, eyes fixed on his lingering effects.