Chapter 26 #5
I’m still doing my utmost to caress her and lavish her with touch, but time has elongated into one urgent, eternal shiver, and it’s exactly as Mark said, an indecent squeeze followed by a velvet cloud made of heat and illicit pleasure, and when I pull out and feel myself dragging along his erection, my knees nearly give out.
“Fuck, oh my God, fuck,” I pant. This would already be too much on its own, but with him inside her too, it’s fucking deadly, it’s the end of me, it’s slaughter by fuck, because I don’t think I can take another stroke and survive.
But between us, Isolde is shifting, testing, moving in the tiniest ways, her inner muscles clutching and flexing and sliding. There’s a mist of sweat along Mark’s throat and collarbone now, and the muscles of his chest and stomach are quivering, and I am much the same.
“I’m afraid if movement is what’s needed, then it must be you,” Mark advises me. His jaw is clenched hard enough that a muscle leaps along the side. “Slow at first. I can help with my hands.”
I close my eyes, suck in a breath. I’m going to come, and I’m going to come so quickly that there will be no doubt what fucking Isolde does to me, what it does to me to fuck her at the same time as Mark, to feel him…
and perhaps that was the point after all.
If the flight across the Atlantic, the declarations of love, the nights spent chasing away nightmares, and weathering the storm of Mark’s attention—if those aren’t sufficient enough on their own to prove that Isolde and Mark are the only obsessions of my sick and besotted heart, then here’s this physical proof. I’m undone just from being inside her.
But fate has spoken, and I must answer the call.
I pull out at a slow, bone-humming pace, savoring the clench of her asshole and the swelter around my tip, the rub of Mark against me, and then push back in.
Heat rushes up my thighs, and I have to put a hand briefly to Mark’s knee to catch my balance, because consciousness is becoming harder and harder to hold on to.
“I can feel you trying to rub your clit on me, dearest,” Mark says to Isolde, still holding her wide open for me to stroke into. “Does it feel good? Do you want more?”
“Yes, more,” she hums and leans forward onto his chest. The change in angle makes us both groan. “Breed me there, Tristan. I want to feel it.”
Darkness swarms over my vision as the blood rushes from my head and up from my feet, my entire body converted into a damp, trembling clutch of need.
“You heard her,” says Mark softly. “Give her more. It’s the least you can do with what I’m giving you.”
Even inhaling too deeply will make me come at this point, but I’m as unable to resist as I would be if he had me on marionette strings.
I clench my stomach and pull out almost to the crown, looking down to see the sight of my erection sliding out of her perfect asshole, and then I push back in again, the ring of pink around my length only visible when the club lights flash the brightest. Mark’s hands frame the lewd view, and I can see how each thrust has me rubbing against him, our balls nearly touching whenever I’m all the way seated.
Isolde has begun pressing back against me, meeting my thrusts, and the roll of her ass, the arrogant hands helping her, the taut, muscled cincture that I’m piercing with my own thick need…
That’s it, it’s over, and somehow Mark knows, because somehow Mark always knows.
“Look at me,” he says in a low voice. “Thank me.”
I look up and meet his dark, glittering stare. Wordless pleasure, filthy pleasure, the primal sensation of fucking a slick hole—I’m being overridden by my body, overwritten by this blistering, phoenix-like ecstasy.
But his eyes are constant, they’re standard candles, fixed points of navigation, and whatever is left of Tristan Thomas in this moment must obey.
“Thank you,” I choke out.
“For what?”
“For letting me fuck your wife. For letting me breed her. For letting me fuck her ass. For letting me feel your dick inside her, sir. It feels so good against mine.”
A satisfied smile overtakes his features. “You’re welcome, puppy.”
It was too late before that, but it’s the puppy hanging in the air that I surrender to, the cataclysm that is his smile and Isolde’s low moans and all the slick squeezing and scorching of this intimate place of hers.
I buckle as my cock swells and pulses, hard and fast, desperate to breed even as I have to list forward and support myself on Mark’s shoulders, my dick jerking in her hole and giving her everything I have left to give.
Mark lets go of Isolde and reaches up to touch my face as I stare helplessly at him, the eruption spurting on and on, unending, dizzying.
I reach up to catch Mark’s hand so I can keep it pressed against my jaw. The wedding ring on my ring finger—the ring from a wedding that wasn’t mine—flashes. He stares at it a moment, all sorts of emotions moving through his face, and then he brings my hand to his mouth and kisses it.
“You make me so proud, baby,” he murmurs. “I’m so pleased with you.”
With a grunt, I pulse out the last of my cum, and then I slide free of Isolde and stagger backward into a wall. I want to trap Mark’s words in a jar like fireflies.
You make me so proud, baby.
I’m so pleased with you .
Mark eyes me where I’m barely holding myself upright, even with the wall. He stands up with Isolde in his arms, his glistening length pulling free as he carries her over to the table. He deposits her there limply and turns to me.
“Your turn in the cuck chair,” he says, tone brooking no disagreement. “Before you collapse.”
Somehow I manage to make it over there, and I drop into it like I’ve run a hundred miles. My heart is pounding, my skin is hot and ruddy, and stinging twitches of pleasure are still coursing through me. A scrim of sparks and gray has been pulled over my vision.
I watch as Mark comes over to the side table and helps himself to the lube and the vibrator. With a few strong, sure movements, he has Isolde at the edge of the table, the wand turned on and buzzing on her clit, and has once again speared himself into her flushed, ardent cunt.
It takes almost no time at all. Her back bows, her limbs thrash, her head tosses on the table.
Mark’s control is almost gone, I think, entirely threadbare, because he fucks like a lost man brought in from the cold.
Her entire body twists and seizes as she calls out his name— Mark, Sir, Mark —and Mark lets out an unholy groan as she comes on his dick, going motionless and lifting the wand as if to savor her crude undulations in their purest form.
She gives a long, broken moan, still arching and trying to fuck herself against Mark, and then after a long moment, she finally uncurls and goes quiescent.
Mark slides free and drops a kiss right between her breasts. “Stay,” he tells her, like she can do anything else, and then comes to kneel in front of my chair. He presses two fingers to my pulse, studies my face and respiration.
“Can you stand?” he asks.
“Not for long,” I say. I sound like I’ve just been wrenched from a deep and dreamless nap.
He regards me for a moment. The lights from the window paint his golden hair in shades of blue and purple and pink. “What’s the difference between a dragon and a wyvern?” he finally asks.
Bemused, I slowly reply, “Dragons have four legs. Wyverns have two.”
“What’s twenty-three percent of two hundred?”
“Forty-six.”
“Dulce et decorum est…”
I inhale deeply, the cool air clearing my head. “…pro patria mori,” I finish faintly. It’s from one of his favorite poems.
His hand flexes around my wrist. “Good enough,” he says, standing up. “And what do you say to stop me?”
I exhale shakily. “Hazel.”
He takes my hands and helps me to my feet. I’m as good as my word—I can walk over to the table, but I’m grateful for the support as soon as he bends me over the edge.
“Can I fuck you?” he asks.
Yes. The answer is always yes. Even if I’m wrung out from fucking harder than I’ve ever fucked before. Even if I’m so sensitive that merely the air on my skin feels vaguely sadistic.
“Always, sir. Forever.”
“We can dream, can’t we?” he asks wistfully. And then my legs are kicked apart, and my asshole kissed and licked once, fondly. The click of the lube bottle echoes in the room.
As Mark readies himself, I turn and look at Isolde, who is staring at me with a look of soft, open affection. Staring at me like the Isolde she might have been if she’d had a mother who’d never died, a father who really loved her, or an uncle who saw her as something more than a tool.
“You’re so beautiful,” she murmurs. “Like a painting.”
For some reason, that makes my chest ache. She thinks I’m beautiful like a painting; she says it like she’ll never have another chance to say it.
Cool, slick fingers work me open as I rest my cheek on the leather table, facing her. I brush the hair away from her temples as Mark pushes a finger all the way inside, and then a second.
She’s on her back and I’m on my stomach, and we’re close enough to touch each other’s lips and eyelids with wonder like Adam and Eve discovering each other in Eden, and it occurs to me as Mark presses the head of his cock against my opening that this is very nearly the same position we were in on the roof in Belgrade.
The night our god announced how he’d punish us for tasting the fruit of the forbidden tree.
Isolde is wrung out and supine rather than sitting up, and we’re not surrounded by rolling fruit and splinters of glass, but it’s still very close.
There’s still that same jealousy, clinging like a winter mist, and there are still secrets strung between our words like pearls on a necklace, and our love is still a tessellation of obsession and misery.
But something is different tonight. Perhaps it’s that we know that the tessellation does add up to love.