Page 91 of Honey Cut
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.
