Chapter 26 #4
I press a fingertip to the thin skin between her cheeks, painting over the pleated ring with the lubricant, swirling until I find the center, the place where the tight muscles can be made pliant and ready.
I drop my head to kiss her shoulder and—standing between Mark’s planted feet once again—invade her with tender patience.
She straightens, her head falling forward again, her hips moving a little to accommodate the unfamiliar pressure.
She’s had her ass played with before, with me and with Mark, but as far as I know, it’s only been a finger or two and some slender toys.
This is the first time she’s gone further, taken something wider and longer, and I want to make sure she’s as comfortable as possible.
It’s probably a good thing to take my time anyway, because simply the squeeze of her around my finger has me dragging in long, heavy breaths, my hard organ bobbing and seeking.
I slide my finger out to the last knuckle and gently knead at the opening, using my free hand to stroke her arm and shoulder. Mark sweeps her hair over one shoulder so that it hangs in front, giving me the length of her back to caress at my pleasure.
Her breathing is a little jagged as I continue, with every atom of patience my body can muster, to gradually massage the tension away, to make the intrusion feel natural and welcome, to accustom her to the fullness and pressure.
And slowly I can feel it, the forgiveness, the tractability.
It’s easier and easier to move my finger.
Mark, inhumanly observant, cradles Isolde’s head in his hands. “That was three easy breaths in a row. Ready for two fingers now?”
She nods at him, and he keeps his hands around her face as I carefully introduce the second finger, taking time to tease and push at the nerve-ridden circlet before sliding a little deeper and crooking there.
A short hiss comes from Mark, and with a frisson of erotic surprise, I realize he can feel the work of my fingers, that I can wring a reaction out of him as well as Isolde.
I slide deeper in, to the point where Isolde’s body is no longer an airless squeeze but hotter than hellfire and softer than an angel’s wings.
I stroke through the silk and feel the implacable column of her husband there. I stroke harder, a small masturbation through his own wife’s body.
Mark jerks and then gives me an offended look, like I’ve just pulled a dirty trick on a playground.
It’s Isolde who speaks then, with a quaver of a voice. “Tristan, go easy on him.”
Mark briefly licks the bottom of his top teeth, a wicked, satisfied gesture that Isolde misses.
I suddenly feel as if I’ve been scolded by the teacher while the actual instigator stands smugly behind them, unnoticed and unpunished.
“Yes, Tristan, go easy on me. I’m an old man, and I can only withstand so much, you know. It would be cruel to taunt me over it.”
I shake my head, unable to help the small bubble of happiness in my chest. This Mark, this Mark above all others, makes me feel like I’ve stumbled into a fairy realm and decided to drink the fairy wine and eat the fairy food.
This is the roguish king who could cajole innocent knights into dancing under his hill for centuries, his caprice lined with equal parts playfulness and icy violence.
He can just be so goddamn charming sometimes. It’s not fair.
“I would never taunt, sir,” I say.
“You don’t even mean to and you taunt, like a jewel glinting in a case or a spring day outside an office window. Lube yourself up now, more than you think you need. And don’t be shy about making a mess. No one’s coming to inspect the room and make you run a mile for every unrolled pair of socks.”
Isolde turns to watch as I follow Mark’s instructions and drizzle lube along the top of my penis, listening to his advice about using more than I think I’d need. God knows I’ve been on the business end of a lubed-up rod enough times to know that more is always better.
Her lower lip catches between her teeth as her eyes follow the rhythmic shuttle of my hand up and down, up and down. She squirms, fucking herself wantonly on Mark’s cock, and he drops his hands to grab her hips.
“A reprieve, sweet one,” he says evenly. “I am either going to come right this instant or I am going to forget the entire point of this exercise and attack both of you like a fox around a pair of bold little bunnies, and either way, my plans will be quite disrupted.”
She goes still but paws helplessly at his bare chest, fingers twisting in the golden hair there. I can tell it hurts, but it’s a fast and vicious smile that passes over his face and not reprobation at all. He slaps her backside hard as I step behind her.
“If you want to spar again, I’m more than willing,” he says and nuzzles her throat, inhaling with transparent pleasure. “I like your claws as much as the rest of you, kitten.”
She reaches up to slide her hands into his hair, tousling it, tugging on it. “You are all claws and teeth, so it’s only fair.”
“I wish it were any other way, Isolde. I can swear that to you with my hand on a Bible and a sword at my neck. May God strike me down if it’s not true.”
I think of the supply closet before I left.
I don’t want to be spoken of in whispers.
“I’m happy to be the sword at your neck,” she says and runs her hands through his hair again. I know how silky it is, spun gossamer and sunlight. “But you don’t have to swear. I wouldn’t have you any other way.”
“You hate me,” he points out. Only curious, not defensive.
“I love hating you and I hate loving you. We are the first day of creation, darkness and waters, a welter and waste.”
“I suppose that makes Tristan the light,” Mark says, looking past Isolde to me. “Well, don’t just observe the vagaries of marriage, sunshine. Let’s see what illumination you bring.”
There is one thing about loving a married couple that I didn’t think of earlier, and that’s how it feels to be folded into their dragon’s nest, welcomed in from the cold. An open door glowing with light and beckoning the weary traveler inside.
Listening to their combative courting of each other feels like I’m in the courtship too in a strange way.
Let into the archives of a museum or the light-controlled cells of a rare books room.
It’s privileged information, the way the two of them are when they’re alone, and I’m being given the honor of learning it.
I drop another kiss on Isolde’s shoulder, and then I have to bend my knees a little to get lined up.
“How precious,” Mark says, and there’s a shift now in the tenor of his corruption. From impish to remorseless. “Reach back and pull your cheeks apart for Tristan. Yes, just like that, so he can see your hole. Show him what he’s about to get, how tight it is. How obscene.”
A flurry of lights from the window show me exactly what he’s promised—a shining, wet hole, promising suffocation. Vulgar release.
Whenever the lights flash, I can see exactly what I need to see, and I step even closer as I fist my dick, pressing the wide, crude head against the delicate eyelet calling me home.
Just this small amount of contact is enough to grip me by the spine and shake me until my teeth rattle, and I know it must show on my face, because Mark observes, a little coolly, “It’s a little early to disgrace yourself, don’t you think? At least get inside first.”
I would love to snap back, to remind him that just a minute ago, he had to force Isolde to stay still so he wouldn’t spend too early either, but my concentration is wholly bent on clenching every muscle in my body, in somehow managing to slowly push forward without howling at the ceiling like a wolf.
“Breathe out,” I tell Isolde in a low voice, and she exhales. I slip forward to the second ring of muscle with a grunt, and she lets out a gasp of discomfort.
Mark rubs her thighs. “I know, gorgeous, I know. Want me to help so you can hold on to me instead? Here, here.” He replaces her hands with his own, large enough that his splayed fingers nearly reach all the way to where I’m breaching her.
She does as he suggests and grabs uselessly at his shoulders and neck and hair, all a fuss.
And then my tip pops all the way through the cinch, and the three of us share a single, shattered inhale.
“It’s so hot,” I mumble. “Fuck. Sir. How .”
I don’t even know what I’m saying, but Mark seems to understand.
“Now you know why I can’t get enough when it comes to you,” he agrees, the gentle tone he’d just used already melting back into something unearthly and malign.
“There’s nothing else like it. Tight enough to choke your cock, and then all that smooth heat beyond. Go in deeper. Feel it for yourself.”
I slide in another inch or two with some clench-jawed effort, and then I begin to feel him, not just as lack of room but him , the unrelenting shape of his desire in her pussy.
“Oh,” she breathes, still palming and grasping at him. “I feel both— oh .”
Mark’s hands do their cruel work and part her even more, to the point where every detail is neatly exposed when I look down. The wet pink hole stretched thin around my intrusion. The vein running along the top of my dick. The heavy erection spreading her cunt open below me.
I run soothing hands up her back and down to her waist. I drop clumsy kisses on her shoulder and the nape of her neck. “I’m going to go all the way now,” I say. I sound like I’m being strangled.
She nods, and then I press and press and press until I’m fully seated and the three of us are a chorus of cleaved inhales and tormented exhales. Isolde is making a moaning kind of hum, somewhere between pleasure and pain.
“Does it hurt or does it feel good?” asks her husband.
“Yes,” she answers weakly. “ Yes .”