Page 89 of Honey Cut
Is it love? Obsession? Something indelible to me that makes me crave being told what to do, how to do it, whether it’s how to make a bed or how to offer my open throat?
Isolde closes her eyes for a minute, a tear tracking down her cheek to run along her jaw and drop off her chin. It falls to the bodice of her dress, where her nipples are still crudely pushing against the soft fabric.
I understand. I’m close to crying myself when I finally answer, “Yes, sir. I think it’s fair.”
She and I deserve to be punished. Worse, we want to be punished. Worsestill, we want anything from him, of him, punishment or forgiveness or love or respect or anger or pleasure—there is no difference. It all comes from the same center; it’s all the same in the end.
It’s all him.
I see his free hand in the corner of my vision. He’s beckoning to Isolde.
“Come here, little wife,” he says. “You’re going to help.”
“Help,” she echoes. She’s opened her eyes again, and her lashes are wet. “You want me to help with this.”
“You know how to stop me. You know how to bring everything to a pause with only one word, so if you want to push me to test my will or if you want to push me to stall, that’s fine. If you want to make it clear that I am the monster here, then by all means. But do not pretend that you can’t stand up and leave the game any moment you choose.”
Her chin lifts a little—that flare of competition. She hates to lose, and more than that, she hates having her warped and murky consent dragged into the light, just as I do.
Isn’t it enough that we were built to want this?
Do we have to own up to it as well?
But she can no more leave the game than she could walk away from an unfinished chessboard. She steps forward, and then I can’t see her anymore. Only the heat lamps and the stars and Mark’s fingers at the edge of my vision.
“Unfasten his pants,” Mark tells her. “I need access.”
With a shaky breath, she complies, and I feel her hands on my waist and then on the hook and bar of my pants. Then on the zipper. There is pressure and grazing and the ghost of her fingertips over my throbbing erection, over the hair-dusted skin below my navel. My stomach clenches.
“Pull them down,” says Mark. “Then everything else.”
Her fingers curl around the waist of my pants and underwear, and then it’s all tugged to my ankles.
“Shoes,” Mark tells her, and there’s a dark satisfaction in his voice that sends fear and lust zipping down my spine. He’s getting off on this, on humiliating us. Her hands shake as she unties my shoes and then pulls them off my feet, a little awkwardly. My pants and underwear are pulled all the way off, and I feel so embarrassed and exposed right now, still in a suit jacket and tie, and then wearing nothing but socks and a bobbing erection below the waist.
Mark ameliorates this a little when he tells her to take off my jacket too, which happens just as awkwardly as the shoes, given my position on the table and Mark’s refusal to step away or stop pressing my head down against its surface. But the embarrassment is still there when he runs his hand up my naked flank and under my shirt. I shiver as his fingers tickle over my ribs. One of his feet plants beside my own and traps it. His dress shoe against the socked edge of my foot.
“In my suit pocket, on the inside, there’s a condom and a packet. Will you get them for me?”
How like Mark, to have a condom and lube inside his bespoke suit jacket just in case he needs to fuck. Of course, he probably had all of this planned for tonight. From the moment Andrea sent him the video, he must have been burning with the need to hurt us both in return.
Isolde must have gotten what he asked for because he says, “Take it out and put the condom on me.”
I hear fabric—Mark’s pants being parted and pushed down—and then the slide of skin on skin, like she can’t resist giving it a stroke. The tear of a packet and the slick sounds of wet latex.
I wonder if she’s looking at his sex or if she’s looking up into his face or if they’re both looking at me. I feel abruptly both extraneous to them and also the fulcrum on which their wedding vows tilt. It makes me miserable, and it makes me glow, and I don’t know what I feel.
“Now the lube,” Mark says in a low voice.
Another tearing noise and then a pause.
Mark seems to be answering an unspoken question. “On him, Isolde. Inside him. Work him open and get his hole ready for me to take.”
I nearly groan. My whole body feels as tight as a piano wire, ready to snap at any moment. This is sick. This is sick.
She should hesitate now.Thisis when she should hesitate, think about her safeword, question herself. Lubing up an asshole for her angry husband to fuck in front of her. Instead, her fingers are on me immediately, slippery and cool and slender, painting the pleated skin with lubricant and sending sharp thrills lancing through my belly.
“Inside too,” Mark reminds her. “As deep as you can get.”
