Page 72 of Honey Cut
His own voice is throaty and thick, and I don’t have to see to guess what they’re doing together…but I want to see. I want to know if she’s sitting or lying down. If she’s holding the phone or if it’s propped up.
I know I’m not as quiet as Isolde or Mark, but I do my best, and the chilly wind helps too, a constant blow over the terrace, chasing itself through the balustrades of the railing and snagging on cornices and friezes.
I can see her through the sparse branches of boxwood now, and I’ve been blessed by some kind of voyeuristic deity because she’s angled away from me, enough that I can see down the slope of her body to where her fingers are buried in her pussy. She’s supine on one of the outdoor sofas, a silk robe unbelted and lying in shimmering ripples around her hips. She’s completely naked underneath, wearing only goose bumps.
The phone is propped against the end of the sofa, and so I can see that too, see the screen with Mark. He’s in a suit, a glass of gin on a table next to him, his expression avid. His arm is moving in slow, rhythmic motions, and tragically, the phone cuts off just below his chest, so I can’t see him handling that inexorable cock of his.
“What a wet cunt,” he says, both indictment and praise. “Why don’t you make your nipples wet too? There you go.”
Isolde uses her fingers to smear her arousal on her already erect nipples. They shine in the strung lights above the terrace, immediately pulling even tighter in the brisk air, so tight that they look like they hurt. She arches a little, her belly quivering.
Clever of Mark, to find a way to hurt her from the screen of a phone.
It’s not fair.
The thought comes to me—quick, childish, irrefutable in its hurt.
It’s not fair. This is supposed to be an arranged marriage; they’re supposed to be business partners. Isolde is supposed to resist wanting him, and to him, she should just be a means to an end and nothing more.
But this is not performing for the people in the hall—this isn’t necessary to sell any version of their marriage. This is private. Like their chess games, their little fights over Bible stories.
I knew she was in love with him, but I thought?—
I don’t know.
It doesn’t matter anyway. I’ve already found the waistband of the athletic shorts I’m sleeping in tonight, already curled my fingers around my tumescent dick.
“I can almost taste you from here,” Mark says softly, his arm still working. “You know how I love tasting you, don’t you? It’s the taste ofmine. My cunt. Find your clitoris and stroke it for me. You can come whenever you’d like.”
It doesn’t take her long. She presses her fingertips to the needy place between her legs and rubs and rubs, hard and fast, and, within a minute, is crying out, her legs pulling up to her chest.
“Keep your legs apart like a good whore,” Mark says calmly. His words are like a kick to the stomach, and I start jerking myself at a brutal pace. My balls are already close to my body, tight and hard and full. “Let me see.”
Isolde barely manages to comply, her head thrashing on the cushion, her chest jerking with shallow, ineffective breaths, and then Mark’s jaw goes tight as his shoulder and arm flex even faster under his suit?—
I come at the same time he does, biting off my groan before it can alert Isolde to my presence. My seed spatters onto the terrace in white stripes and pools, and it keeps coming until my knees are about to buckle.
On the phone screen, Mark is still coming too, his head thrown back to expose his throat, one hand pressed to his forehead while the other milks his climax. I can tell that his hips are bucking up into his fist, and twice, I see heavy ribbons of cum shoot into view and land on his suit jacket or tie.
The image slides through my mind, briefly, of my semen dripping from the cuff of his wedding tuxedo, and I shudder.
And then we are all there, Isolde shivering as her breathing returns to normal, Mark and I left with the visible evidence of our prurience for her.
“Thank you, little bride,” Mark says. “I needed that.”
“I did too.” Isolde sounds like she’s admitting something she doesn’t want to admit. “I…miss you.”
A new smile around the edges of his mouth. He pulls his lower lip between his teeth and says, “I miss you too.” And now he’s the one making the admission.
“I didn’t think I’d feel jealous leaving you at Lyonesse, but I am a little,” she says, sitting up and pulling her robe back over herself. “I feel possessive of you.”
He seems to like that. “Good, because you know how possessive I am of you. But we made a promise, did we not? Mutual fidelity?”
“We did,” she says. There’s a lilt of uncertainty in her voice.
“At any rate, I’m not at Lyonesse. You might have noticed that it’s night where I am too?”
He’s not at Lyonesse?
