Chapter 28 #2
Tristan’s flush has spilled down his cheeks to his neck, and his lower lip shines from licking it.
“I—I don’t know. It’s not something I’ve ever imagined doing.
” He places a wide hand on the small of Isolde’s back, right over the twin dimples there.
“I know I’ve hurt you a little before, when you’re close to coming, but… ”
Isolde twists to look back at him. “It’s okay,” she says gently. “I want you to.”
I don’t know that I’ve ever seen someone as conflicted and also as superhumanly aroused as Tristan Thomas in this moment. His green eyes have gone black, and his shoes are shifting restlessly on the floor.
But his frown and the protective hand on her back speak volumes.
“You can still make her come,” I coax. “That’s the point of this—her release. And you’ll have given her something she needs, given it safely and responsibly. You like taking care of her, right? Serving her? This is just another way to serve.”
He runs a hand thoughtfully over the curve of her backside and then gives it an experimental slap. Hard enough to move the flesh, gently enough that I’d consider it more flirting than spanking.
“I just lectured you about safety so you would know there’s a difference between being safe and being a fucking gentleman about it. You’ve seen me with her. You’ve sparred with her. Give her what she can take.”
He pauses, chest moving hard, and then brings his hand down on the other cheek with an air-splitting crack .
Isolde makes an involuntary noise, erotic enough that I briefly forget what I’m doing. Tristan is staring at the back of her head in wonder.
“Again, puppy. Harder.” My voice is a little rough at the edges now. “You want her red by the end.”
He spanks her again and then another time, enthralled by the way her bottom moves with each strike, and then the next time, when Isolde starts wriggling in his lap, he looks up at me with a helpless expression that I could commission a hundred oil paintings of and never get tired of looking at.
“I could have told you there were advantages to not being a gentleman if you’d only asked,” I say with some amusement. “Get the spot at the top of her thighs a few times, and then give her a little reward. Your choice.”
“A reward,” Tristan says, mostly to himself, and I can tell he likes the idea.
He would. He’s not a natural sadist any more than I’m an angel, and pain will always make the most sense to him with pleasure wrapped around it.
It’s not a bad thing. It gives me hope that he’ll take care with her, rather than a demon like me, who will always be drawn to the furthest edge of a person’s soul.
He delivers four quick smacks to the sensitive creases below her ass, and while she’s still squirming in his lap, he reaches between her legs and cups all the needy flesh there.
She squirms even harder but with a goal in mind, chasing the friction.
He lets her go at it for a moment or two, and then with excellent instincts, he pulls his hand free just as she gets a little too keen.
She goes motionless, save for a shiver of frustration that she can’t seem to suppress.
“Well done,” I tell Tristan, and he tucks his lower lip under his teeth and nods, like he doesn’t trust himself to speak.
He repeats this pattern a few times—hard swats, followed by caresses between her thighs that have her wriggling in an entirely different way—and then seeing the effects of his labor, he warms to his task admirably, varying the depth and power of his strikes, soothing over the red splotches he’s made and running pleased fingers under her sweatshirt to stroke her waist and spine.
I watch from above, idly rolling my palm against the front of my sweatpants, enjoying both the power of Tristan’s arm and the glimpses of needy cunt that appear every time Isolde squirms. I watch his hands a moment more, hands that are so lovely and yet have done such violence.
It is a small corruption in my soul that I can adore them as much as I do.
She’s crying out with every swat now, her legs starting to kick up reflexively. “Don’t let her kick,” I advise. “Use your leg if you can’t use an arm—good, yes, exactly.”
Tristan has hooked one leg over both of hers now so that she’s pinned behind her knees but still bent over his other leg, and then he delivers a flurry of spanks that would have any seasoned spanko beaming with joy.
I take in the shade of red on her skin—bright, not yet magenta—and then squat down so I can see her face.
When I push the hair away and tuck it behind her ear, I see tears caught in her eyelashes like dew.
They haven’t fallen yet, so they’re new, but the rest of her is a mess.
Hair is caught in her mouth, the tip of her nose is as red as her ass, and there’s a little glisten of drool on the leather cushion where she’s been rolling her face.
Perfect.
I narrate this to Tristan and tell him to give her two or three more as a nice little coda. They have the effect of spanking the tears right out of her; they drop fatly onto the sofa, as audible as raindrops.
The last spank earns us a guttural moan, and Tristan and I make eye contact.
His sides are heaving, sweat gleaming in the notch below his throat, an outrageous erection tenting his trousers.
I reach into the waistband of my sweatpants and give my own dick a few quick jerks as I watch Isolde panting with her red backside up in the air.
Her loose sweatshirt has worked its way up enough that I can see the curve of her left breast.
“Such a good girl, wouldn’t you agree, Tristan?” I let go of myself so I can use both hands to cradle her sweaty, tear-stained face.
“Yes,” answers Tristan hoarsely.
“I think we should give her a real reward now.”
Tristan groans and then moves his leg so that hers are free again.
She doesn’t take advantage of her new freedom, just lying limp across his lap until he starts toying with her pussy.
I can’t see what he’s doing, but I can hear it, how wet everything is, and I can see the effect on Isolde.
With slow, dazed shudders, her body starts chasing his touch.
“Show me how wet she is,” I demand, and Tristan complies immediately, holding up two glossy fingers. “Taste her,” I add, and he closes his eyes with pleasure as he licks his fingers clean. I pull in as deep a breath as I can manage, searching for some shred of control.
It’s not about me— yet . I want to give them this.
“Her clit now.” I go back to looking at Isolde, nuzzling my nose against hers. “It’ll be easier if you slide your hand underneath her hip. Yes, like that. And then you can use the fingers of your left hand to give her something to come around.”
Her breath stutters and falls out of her like she’s never exhaled before in her life, and when Tristan starts fingering her in earnest, she turns into a beautiful spread of quivering muscle and poppy-red skin.
“Will you come for him?” I ask her in a murmur. “Will you show him that he was such a good boy for spanking you?”
She nods frantically, her mouth parted in a desperate kind of need, and I can see a sliver of pink past the white line of her teeth. What I wouldn’t give to stand up and push my erection past those flushed lips, to rub against her soft, slick tongue.
Just a little longer. Them first, them first.
Tristan, sweetheart that he is, seems unbearably close to losing it in his pants while Isolde soaks his hand and shamelessly tries to fuck herself on his fingers.
“You’re making us so hard, darling,” I tell Isolde, pressing my forehead to hers. “You’re so good. Tristan can’t stand it, how good you are. Can you let Tristan give this to you? Can you show him how grateful you are?”
She nods against me, gasping, and her lashes flutter to her cheeks as a soundless scream freezes her chest. Then several deep, pulsing quivers ripple through her body, down to the soles of her feet and out to the ends of her twitching fingers.
When she finally finds her voice, it’s with a sharp wail, a swear word, Tristan’s name.
Tristan watches with a rapt and hungry expression, his eyes fixed to where his fingers are still wedging her open, his legs more and more restless under her body. As she goes limp once again, I kiss her warm, damp mouth and then her temple.
“Beautiful girl. You should see Tristan now. He’s not even lucid after watching that. Take a deep breath. There. And another.”
Tristan is licking his fingers clean, still staring at her cunt.
I move my mouth to her ear. “I think you could return the favor if you wanted, you know.”
She has her head on her arms now. “With a spanking?” she asks in a mumble.
“I do think he’d like that, but I have something else in mind. Do you remember when you first came to the penthouse, years ago, and I told you what the hole in that table was for?”
Her eyes slide open, suddenly much more awake. “You want him to…”
I nip at her ear. “I want you to do it to him. I’ll show you how. Don’t worry.”
She inhales at the pressure on her abused bottom when I help her sit up. Tristan shifts, as if in a sweetly ironic protest at her feeling any kind of pain, but I shake my head.
“We’ll spoil her in a minute. But right now, you need to get undressed.”
He glances between Isolde’s flushed face and mine before he reaches down to unlace his shoes and pull off his socks.
He stands, and his hands are shaking as they move to unbutton his shirt, so I step in and help, enjoying immensely the uneven movements of his chest, the sweat on his throat, the rapid flick of his bright green eyes.
Like he senses danger but can’t tell which direction it’s coming from.