Chapter 34
“Mark,”Isolde says, and I hear tears in her voice now.
“Do you have pretty excuses for me, Isolde? I’ll listen to them. I’ll listen to them all. I’ll even believe them because I had to give up Tristan too. Do you see how gorgeous he is like this, pinned down for me to fuck? Do you see how beautifully his hole takes my dick? Do you think it was easy to stop using him? That I didn’t also want to ride him until he was sticky and sobbing? That I don’t also think about green eyes and a good heart?”
My heart is in my throat now, and I can’t look at him, and I can’t move, and I can’t even speak because each shove of his erection steals the air right from my lungs, and I don’t know why it hurts more than being a third wheel, being a secretly wanted third wheel, but it does because his words are raining down on that dreadful, destructive bloom I carry in my chest for him.
Does he really think about my eyes? My heart? The hours and hours we spent together in some kind of tangled, kinky paradise, where an apple had already been bitten and I didn’t even know it until I learned the apple’s name?
Isolde is crying now, really crying, the wet kind of inhales and juddering exhales that can’t be controlled. “Is this my real punishment?” she manages to whisper. “Letting me know that you miss him more than you ever wanted me?”
I try to speak, try to move, the suffering in her words mobilizing me, but Mark doesn’t let me. He keeps me pinned and then gives me another rough thrust so that the only thing leaving my mouth is a helpless groan.
“Come closer,” Mark says, his voice still cold but silky now too, as coaxing as the serpent’s in the garden. “Closer still. There you go. Does it hurt to hear that I’ve missed Tristan? Missed his tight body and his hot mouth because they make me come so hard? That I wish I could snap my fingers and make him kneel for me and sing for me and crawl for me?”
His voice drops a little now and becomes even silkier. “You know how good his mouth feels on your cunt, with those pouty lips and that eager tongue? How good it feels when he gets your clit in there and sucks? I don’t even have to imagine it because it’s the same on my cock. And when he comes and he’s as desperate as a dog and the way he looks at you while he spurts all over—it’s addictive, isn’t it? Does it hurt to know that I jerk off to the memory of it? That I imagine making him come all over my shoes and then making him lick it off after? What, still crying, my bride? But it’s not just your face that’s wet, is it…? Why don’t you lift up your skirt and show me?”
It’s poison that he’s murmuring to her, a poison that poisons everyone who hears it, because my heart is breaking for her and also for me, and also I’m poised on the brink of a bleak and malevolent climax, and I think it’s going to kill me.
“Oh, my poor darling bride,” Mark croons and I think that means Isolde’s done it, she’s held up her skirt for him to see what he wants. “You’ve soaked right through that silk, haven’t you? How embarrassing. You might as well take them off; they’ll do you no good now.”
A sharp, miserable breath. And then I hear movement, fabric, the click of high heels. She’s doing it.
“Give them to me,” commands Mark, and then they’re tossed next to my face. Ivory silk, smelling like sweet pussy. I moan into the table, and he gives me a hard thrust to keep me quiet.
“Now feet apart, Isolde,” he says. “Hold your skirt up so I can see exactly what you let him have.”
His own breathing is a little rougher now, his strokes a little meaner. He’s looking at her naked cunt. And given how saturated her panties are, I know it has to be slippery and wet looking, even on the outside.
And then I hear something that nearly stops my heart—slick noises and Isolde’s wounded gasp.
I know that gasp.
Mark has his fingers inside her.
“So fucking wet, my wife. Is this for him? For the big strong soldier bent over the table? Or is it for me? Because you secretly like this, don’t you? Suffering and hurting, and no one can make it hurt like me, can they?”
She whispers something, and then he laughs, sudden and loud and genuine.
“Yes,” he says. “Okay, you’re right. God can.”
I need to see. I’m so close to coming, but I’d trade away this orgasm in a second if it meant I could see Mark with his fingers inside Isolde while he’s inside me. Just the sheer depravity of it has my mouth watering.
This time, as I try to twist and squirm, Mark lifts his hand from my head, clamping it around my hip instead. Now I can look, even if I’m still trapped between his cock and the table.
“Do you want to watch, Tristan?” he asks. “You want to see how easily I can make her come? Literally one-handed.”
An evil triumph is in his voice now, but I don’t care because I look back and I can see. I can see Isolde holding her skirt up, her thighs quivering as Mark shoves two thick fingers inside her and gives her the heel of his palm to ride.
The angle isn’t quite there, so he steers her with the hand that’s inside her pussy so that she’s now standing with her backside pressed to the edge of the table. Her hip touches my hip, and even though we’re facing opposite directions, I feel closer to her than maybe I’ve ever felt because Mark is inside us both at the same time, as we are touching. And I can’t see enough from this angle, only blond hair and pink dress, so I face forward again but I reach back and find her hand. We lace fingers as Mark starts fucking us both in earnest.
“How sweet,” he says. The sneer in his voice is horrible, and yet my cock jumps at it. “The two lovers, as faithful to each other as they are faithless to me.”
She’s still crying through all of this, and moaning, and I can feel her hips chasing his hand as he finger-fucks her.
“What I wouldn’t do,” he says softly, “to keep you as my two pet whores forever. To punish forever. I’d keep you naked and locked away, and I’d fill you with my cum constantly, as many times a day as I needed to unload, and every time I left you alone, you’d fuck each other, and so I’d never run out of things to punish you for.”
The image his words conjure is corrupt, beautiful, maybe everything I’ve ever secretly wanted. To be a kept puppy, fucked and fucking, and between my villain and my princess, I’d have my heart’s bipartite desire.
I can’t handle that fantasy, not with his thick sex against my prostate, not with Isolde’s warm hip squirming next to mine, not with the sounds of her tearful moans and her sopping cunt being fingered. And I was right earlier, I was right to fear this orgasm.
It’s fucking brutal.
I scream and roll my face into my forearm as the climax scissors viciously through my belly and saws up into my chest. I don’t realize I’ve tried to move my feet like I’m running away from my own ejaculation until Mark swiftly kicks a foot back to where it was and pain sings up my leg.
My hand is squeezing Isolde’s like I’m hanging from it off a cliff, and my hips keep shoving forward, bruising themselves against the edge of the table as I try to fuck the air, an imaginary mouth, a hand, anything, as my swollen, miserable erection begins jetting semen onto the terrace in heavy spurts. Hot spurts. Long. And they keep coming as I scream and scream and scream.
The orgasm is wrenching itself from the deepest center of me, the center of the universe it feels like, and it won’t stop, it won’t ever stop because it feels like it’s trying to wring out my very soul through my cock.
“I knew you’d come like this, puppy,” Mark says over my noises, still fucking me mercilessly, his hard organ stretching and stretching me. “Let me milk you dry like a good little slut—there you go. I know you need it. I know you need it.”
Isolde seizes next to me, a lovely, lonesome cry breaking through her tears as she comes on Mark’s fingers, panting and writhing. Our hands are linked tight through it all, an anchor in the storm that is him, and then as she and I both wash up shipwrecked on the shore of our own release, Mark finally chases his own peak.
I hear the sound of sucking, and when I look back, he’s sucking on the fingers that were just inside his wife, his eyes closed in rapture. His other hand is still a vise around my hip as he rams into me like a fiend from hell. His balls swing hard enough to slap me, adding to the obscene smacking of his hips against my ass, and his breathing around his fingers is jagged and heavy.
He drops his wet fingers to curl around my other hip, to haul me back against him and meet his thrusts, and his strength is impossible, inhuman. My cock is still leaking—I think I’m still coming, but I can’t tell anymore—and then he gives a hiss that I know I’ll hear in my dreams and nightmares for the rest of my life.
His dick swells, huge, hard, and then I feel it jerk and shudder deep in my body as he fills the condom with his orgasm.
“Fuck,” he growls, still going. “I don’t want to stop. I want to ruin you both forever—fuck?—”
Another wave of pulses, his hands bruising my hips, the filthy sounds of sex rising in the air. Between my legs, cum still leaks out of my tip, like Mark is fucking it out of me.
And then, slowly, wetly, it finishes.
Mark pulls out of my body; my erection finally stops twitching and dripping.
Isolde is still softly crying.
I’m slumped over the table, pantsless, my cock wet, my ass wet, and there’s a crying woman next to me, and I’m fairly certain Andrea has witnessed it all from just out of sight. And yet I can barely move. My body feels hollow, my heart like a paper thing, torn in half and lit on fire. And when I’m finally able to brace myself on my forearms and turn, I see that Mark is already tucked away and zipped up, his suit jacket buttoned and the condom somewhere unseen. Only his mussed hair and still-violent eyes speak to what just happened.
“Three times, you said?” he asks, looking at Isolde and me.
She nods, miserably.
“Then I’ll have two more turns with him at some point, and we’ll call ourselves even. Good night, my bride.”
And with that, he strides off the terrace.
After he leaves, she moves. “Oh God, Tristan, are you okay? I didn’t—I should have—” She’s helping me up now, hugging me, pulling back to check my face.
I am in socks, a shirt, and a tie and nothing else. Lube makes everything slippery below the small of my back. I need to dress and then shower and then—fuck, I don’t know. I don’t know what I need to do.
And I’m supposed to survive this two more times?
“I should have safed out for both of us,” Isolde whispers now.
I force myself to focus on the tearful woman in front of me. I push my hand into her hair and pull her into my chest with my hand cradling her head, although it’s a weak embrace because I can still barely stand.
“I didn’t want to safe out,” I tell her. “I’m so sorry, Isolde. But I wanted…that. Even if I hated it, I wanted it. Does that make any sense?”
“Yes,” she says into my chest. “Yes.”
Even though it’s the last thing I should do right now, I kiss her hair. “I’m sorry too,” I say quietly and pull back to look at her. “For the yacht, for last night. For this. Tell me what to do, Isolde, because whatever you want, I’ll do it. If you want me to safe out, if you want me to quit, if you want to run away together.”
“Run away together,” she repeats, a small curve to her mouth like she thinks I’ve made a joke.
But it’s not a joke, not to me. “I can quit and you can file for divorce and we can submit our safewords in triplicate. And then we can move somewhere quiet and get a dog and take naps whenever it rains outside. We don’t have to live like this. Most people don’t live like this.” I gesture to the table with its knocked-over glasses and pooling wine.
Her eyes follow my hand. “Is that what you want?” she asks carefully.
I drop my head forward. “I don’t know. I just know that I can’t watch you hurt.”
She takes in a long breath and then dips a little so she can meet my eyes. “I like hurting, Tristan,” she says, a little sadly. “And we can’t run away from who we are.”
We stand there for several long minutes, the air empty of all sound except for some faint city noises and the ever-present breeze.
When we finally step back and Isolde helps me find my clothes and my belt, I see what was next to me all along—the spray of shattered glass from Mark’s flung gin. That’s why he kept kicking my foot. He didn’t want me to step on the glass and cut myself.
As we leave, I dare one last glance back at the shards on the ground. They sparkle against the cum that I spilled all over them, a scatter of diamonds and pearls in the night.