Page 59 of Honey Cut
“There’s a difference betweenin the halland sitting right in front of me,” I try to explain. “It doesn’t feel…polite.” I could almost laugh then. I’m trying to avoid masturbating in front of my husband’s bodyguard—a bodyguard who’s filled me repeatedly with cum—and the only word I can find ispolite.
“I’ve consented, Isolde,” Tristan says. He’s looking at me now, but he’s chafing his palms on his thighs, repeatedly. He is the picture of stress. “I agreed when I took this job that I was comfortable seeing this kind of thing. That it wouldn’t compromise my professionalism.”
When he says the wordcompromise, his shoe nudges ever so slightly against the toe of my high heel. His eyebrows pull together in a kind of wordless plea.
I think he’s telling me to do this. I think he’s warning me that it would be more suspiciousnotto get my cunt wet in front of him. That a refusal to do so might indicate an aberration of feelings where Tristan is concerned, and I’m not ready for Mark to know about my many Tristan-shaped aberrations just yet.
“Okay,” I whisper. I pull up the skirt of my dress, cool and slinky, made heavy with embellished beads that twinkle like stars against the black fabric. They twinkle now hectically, dazzlingly, over my knees. Scatters of prismed light, like raindrops, dance all over the closed-off passenger area of the limousine.
Tristan is looking away again, and Mark is now on his phone, his other elbow braced against the window as he peers down at the screen. Is he truly that bored with the idea of me masturbating right here in front of his pet bodyguard? Or is he trying to give me privacy?
It’s ridiculous that I should want his attention right now. Or Tristan’s. A sign of my degenerate soul. I didn’t lie when I told Mark that I deserved to be punished. I’ve always known that about myself, that I needed to atone. I just didn’t know why until I met him.
I am wearing nothing under the dress, and so it’s as easy as dropping my hand between my legs to find my slit and the nub above. My clitoris isn’t swollen yet, still beneath the hood, and the soft folds of my labia are faintly damp but not slick.
It’s something I never considered a skill, masturbating, until Mark came into my life. I feltdesirebefore him, would sometimes wake up from dreams rubbing myself against a mattress, but the actual competence of inducing orgasm in myself didn’t even occur to me as a thing that other people acquired for themselves, much less as something that they had to work to acquire. And even after my engagement to Mark, I could barely admit to myself that he excited me, that my body needed something from me when I thought about him. It took coming to Lyonesse—to being played with or lightly beaten or bound for hours—to realize that the ability to get myself off would be a useful one.
I strum my fingertips lightly over myself, trying to mimic the way Mark played with me last night when he was teasing me between paddle strokes. I pet up over my vulva; I try working a finger inside.
I would love to be doing as I’m told right now; I would love to be getting wetter. But I’m just…not.
Maybe because Tristan is here, and this feels like we’re a razor cut away from discovery. Or maybe because I wish it were him touching me, or my husband.
Or maybe because I spent my high school and college years determined that all fleshly desires were evil and I was evil for wanting them and that stimulating myself was confirmation that I secretly craved evil things.
I readjust in my seat, sucking in a surprised breath at the pain in my backside, and keep trying. I close my eyes and pretend that I’m alone, that no one is watching me. I try to keep my mind blank, free of any faces or bodies or strong, hair-dusted ankles…
A large hand covers my own, and I open my eyes to see Mark leaning over from his seat, his expression unimpressed. “You look like you’re filing taxes.”
That competitive streak flares in me, that urge to win. I lift my chin. “Maybe you should help then,” I rejoin with some irritation. “Since this was your idea.”
His eyebrow lifts. “If you’re offering,” he says, but he doesn’t push my hand aside. Instead, he gestures at the empty seat across from him like an apologetic usher.
“Tristan,” he says. “If you don’t mind.”
Whether Tristan minds, I don’t know, but he does move, settling himself into the seat across from Mark. Once he does, Mark moves, and I understand too late what’s happening.
“Mark!” I protest as he’s kneeling between my high-heeled feet and tucking my thigh up and over the center console. “You can’t?—”
He’s in the middle of shoving my dress up to my hips now, and he pauses to give me a look that could strip paint. “Ican’t?” he asks. “I cannot? This cunt, right here, I’m not allowed to eat it?”
“No,” I say, flushing. “Not that you can’t—eat—I’m not safe-ing out. But Tristan?—”
Mark looks over at Tristan, who is no longer pretending to stare out the window. He is looking at us both with a taut, almost wild expression.
“Will you be okay watching this, puppy?” asks Mark, and the endearment seems to tear at something inside Tristan because he squeezes his eyes closed.
“Yes,” Tristan forces out.
Mark gives me a look likeSee?and then bends down and gives my pussy a long, savoring lick.
I squirm under the sudden wet pleasure of it, and before I can adjust, Mark finds the swells of my sex with his thumbs and peels me apart like fruit. He presses me open—cool air tickling the entrance of my vagina, my clit, the cinched inlet of my anus—and then licks again, from bottom to top.
I pant.
“I’ve been wanting to taste this pussy,” says Mark conversationally. “Properly. Not like the little sample I had on your father’s desk. I thought maybe I’d save it as a treat for myself, as a reward for winning you over after you agree to be mine for real. But needs must…”
He lowers his head again, this time giving me a long, lingering swirl. His tongue is shockingly strong, and when he pushes the flat of it up to my now-swelling bud, I make a low noise.
