Chapter 26 #2
When she finally goes still, her hands loosening on my head, I force myself to stop.
I rest my head against her thigh, my mouth still brushing against her flushed, wet cunt, and close my eyes as I breathe her in.
She’s slumped back against Mark’s chest, panting, and I hear Mark crooning something to her, sounding pleased.
We stay like that a moment, me kneeling between both of their thighs, Isolde enduring the aftershocks with small hitches of her breath. And then Mark says, “I think the table will serve your purposes quite nicely.”
I know which table he’s talking about, a padded leather one in the middle of the room.
There’s also a bed, neatly made with satin sheets and outfitted with hooks and cuffs, but the table is closer.
If Mark means to watch from his chair, then the table would afford him the best view.
And judging by the way he settles back and crosses an ankle atop his knee as I stand and lift Isolde into my arms, he’s planning to watch from right where he is.
Isolde rests her head against my shoulder as I carry her, and even if I don’t have Mark’s appetite for pain or control, I still feel the thrill of gratified ego when she’s like this.
Isolde Trevena, a saint of the Church, the tightly wound murderess who never unclenches her fist around her rich girl poise, is now sweet and pliant in my arms. It makes me feel like I’ve done something right, like I’ve given her a gift maybe.
I lay her on the table and don’t bother with any of the assorted accessories, toys, and restraints in the discreetly joined cabinets nearby. I work on unbuckling my pants, my hands shaking, and then pause when I hear Mark’s voice behind me.
“Shirt, socks, and shoes too, Tristan. We’re not heathens. It’s only polite to be as naked as she is.”
He certainly wasn’t worried about being polite when he fucked her on the stage tonight, with his pants still hanging off his hips, but I’m pretty sure politeness isn’t actually the point; getting to look at me without clothes on is the point.
My breathing speeds up as I unbutton my shirt and toe off my shoes.
I bend down to work off my socks, and when I straighten, I see that he’s propped his head against his hand and is staring at me like I’m the provided entertainment for the evening.
A flush burns from inside my skin, along my chest and cheeks and throat, and I don’t know what to do when he looks at me like that. I’ve never known what to do.
I’m physically incapable of denying him anything he wants when he looks at me like that.
I have to look away as I shuck off my pants and underwear, his attention is that unbearable.
I fold my things neatly and set them atop my shoes and climb onto the table.
The leather upholstery—soft enough to accommodate knees and elbows, firm enough that a face could be pressed into it and not incur any respiratory risk—makes a subtle noise as I crawl over Isolde, noises I feel more than hear.
Her eyes are dark as she looks up at me, and the rest of her is bathed in shadows that are only briefly burned away by the blue and purple lights from the hall, each pulse of light etching the rope’s impressions into sharp relief.
I sink down onto my elbows, and we gasp as our lower halves make contact.
I give a testing thrust—not inside—just sliding against the soft, wet valley of her.
Her lips part, and I need to kiss her even more than I need to fuck her, so I slide my hands under her head, cradling it through that silky mass of ivory and gold hair, and bring my mouth to hers.
Below, I still work my hips, getting her slick all over me, rubbing her clit with my erection as I do.
“Let’s be real in the dark,” she murmurs into my mouth, the words tickling my lips and tongue.
“I’ll give you anything you want,” I answer as I slot my lips to hers. “Anything at all, it’s yours the moment you ask.”
I kiss her with as much patience as I can stand—not much—until I give in and start dipping my tongue into her mouth.
She receives it eagerly, her arms coming up to loop around my neck, and I keep kissing her as I reach down and take hold of myself, rubbing the tip up and down a few times to get myself all the way wet.
My passage eased, I press into her entrance until I’m in up to the crest of the head.
And then I freeze, choking off a breath as a sudden wave of euphoria seizes me, deep in my pelvis, curling insidiously in my balls, yanking at the base of my spine.
I’m going to come already , and I can’t stop it—it’s been too long, and I’m too fucking turned on and?—
“Do I have to do everything? If I’m going to be the cuckold, I’d like to at least enjoy a few minutes in the cuck chair,” Mark says dryly from above us.
Before I can process that he both understood exactly what was happening and managed to move over to the table without me noticing, he’s reached between my legs, wrapped an unforgiving hand around the base of my testicles, and pulled down.
I hiss, my orgasm stalling and tripping over its own feet, and I drop my head down next to Isolde.
Fuck. It’s like being harpooned in the stomach, except the harpoon is made of quivering, glorious agony.
Mark leans down to kiss his wife on the cheek. “Doing okay, sweetheart?”
Instead of answering, she turns to kiss him, and I have to listen to the sound of them kissing while I’m dying on top of her, the tip of my penis squeezed inside her slippery heat.
“You’re doing so well,” he’s murmuring now. “My good wife. My pretty wife. It’s not your fault that your pussy feels so good. No one can last long while inside you, darling.”
I bite my own forearm to keep his words from driving me over the edge—an edge I probably couldn’t go over if I tried, given the evil hand between my legs.
After what has to be hours, Mark finally relents and lets go. I stay as I am for a moment, too terrified to move. The climax has receded, but she still feels so good?—
Mark runs a hand up my naked thigh and ass, giving the tensed muscles an appreciative squeeze.
“I love watching you fuck,” he informs me in a conversational tone.
“I love watching all that goodness perish at the hands of base, atavistic lust. Where is America’s hero now?
Fucking another man’s wife with absolute, mindless abandon.
Getting ready to unload inside her hot cunt because he just can’t help himself, honor be damned. ”
With that, he pushes against the curve of my backside, pushing me deeper inside Isolde. She arches underneath me and tries to spread her thighs even wider to take me.
“That’s it,” Mark says, a dark pleasure smoking around the edges of his words.
“Go deeper. I want you all the way in, until you can’t get in any more than you are.
Oh, you like that? It feels good, doesn’t it?
It’s so tight, it’s really not fair to the rest of us.
Pull out to the tip now, almost all the way out—good—God, you’re so wet with her, I can see it shining all over you—back in.
Harder, my little knight, harder . She’s begging for it, aren’t you, sweetling? Yes, I thought so.”
I can’t survive this, not the silken sheath I’m currently fucking, not the slender, sweat-gleamed woman underneath me. Not Isolde’s closed eyes and arching throat, not Mark’s indecent commentary, as poisonous as it is beguiling.
And still he goads me, slapping a wide hand on my haunch like I’m an animal at work.
“Is that as hard as you can go?” he asks a little scornfully. “As good as you can fuck? I don’t loan out my bride lightly, Tristan. I expect a nonpareil performance. I expect peerlessness.”
Shame tugs at my heels, but lightly, because Mark has always known how to season humiliation with enough proof of his secret approval—and his plain desire—that I am assured my humiliation is making him happy, that I’m pleasing him.
And so too now, because even as he’s telling me I’m not fucking his wife well enough for his taste, he’s walking around the table, finding the back of my head, and pressing my face against his groin.
The erection inside his trousers could be made of iron, that’s how unyielding it is against my lips.
Peerless performance or not, he is alchemically hard: metal out of flesh, desire out of disloyalty. A husband ready to go after watching another man on top of his wife.
Isolde lifts her head too, and together we are kissing over his clothed cock, open mouths, wetting tongues.
He doesn’t rock against us, although I feel the trembling restraint in the hand on my head, but he does grunt when we try to take more of him in our mouths.
A low, haughty noise, like this is only his due.
My lips meet Isolde’s over Mark’s zipper, and we kiss deeply.
I find a breast with one hand and palm it as I toil in the cradle of her hips.
Her cunt fits me like a glove, snug and narrow and so needy that it clings to me when I pull out.
The wet caress of it sends hot, tickling pleasure down my shaft and into my groin; my balls are pulling tight again, and every muscle in my stomach and back and legs is quaking.
“Oh God,” I breathe, pulling back to look at Isolde.
Her face is so open right now, so unusually open, and I wish I could draw or sculpt or paint or that I could capture the ephemeral on film the way Mark’s dead husband did—anything to look at her like this again, whenever I wanted.
To see the real Isolde, without her armor and her secrets and her cool insistence that no one get too close, even as you know that she wants nothing more than someone to be close enough to feel her tender, lonely heart.
“I love you,” she exhales, and I bend my head into her neck.