Page 90 of Honey Cut
And then I feel the press and test of her fingers against the ring of muscle. The fingers that had just been carefully slivering apart patisserie and holding unnecessarily expensive stemware, the fingers that can flip a knife faster than the eye can track, that work over her mother’s rosary every morning—they are now sliding inside my entrance, first one and then a second.
I grunt a little, moving instinctively away from the intrusion, but, of course, there’s nowhere to go. I’m bent over the table with Mark’s hand on my head, and the edge of the table is already biting into my hips. My poor cock is trapped below the edge, a turgid and pitiful thing leaking at the slit.
Mark kicks my foot back a little from where it tried to move, trapping it once again.
We’ve barely done this, Isolde and I, just once on the yacht, and then we didn’t have any lube at all, just her own slick that she used to feel the inside of me. It made me so hot that I flipped her over and started fucking her before she could do more than a cursory exploration.
But now I’m trapped, and now Mark is here, saying cold, tremble-inducing things likedeeper, turn your wrist, fingers down, feel that? See him jump? Rub it there, yes, like that.
My head can’t roll with his hand where it is, but I’m still trying, the pleasure and pressure as he supervises Isolde working my prostate like something unsurvivable. I can barely breathe, and I’m so past being embarrassed now, trying to move away, trying to fuck against her hand, just trying tomoveat all, because the sensation is inside me, in my bones, thrumming up to my scalp and buzzing at the soles of my feet.
“Enough,” says Mark finally, when I’m to the point where I’m moaning like someone dying.
Isolde withdraws her fingers—I give a disconsolate groan—and then Mark says, “Put me in,” and I don’t think I can do it. I don’t think I can live through Isolde guiding Mark’s flesh inside me.
I can’t see her face, can’t see her wrap her fingers around him, but I feel the huge press of him against my rim and the familiar terror of that first few seconds when it feels impossible, like being wedged right in half.
He is too big, too big for anything, and my toes are curling and pain is pricking goose bumps all over my skin. But my cock is leaking and leaking now, and I know if I could see it, I’d see long strings of pearly fluid. I’m shuddering and it’s like I’m already climaxing, but it keeps rolling on and on as he gives me several rough shoves until he’s fully seated, with only Isolde’s fingers between the base of his cock and my stretched opening. She strokes the skin there before removing her hand, a light, almost licking touch, and I shudder some more.
“You never answered me,” Mark says. The words come out over gravel, asperous and shredded. “Is this a fair requital for what you’ve done, little wife? Will this balance the scales between us?”
Her hand has moved to the small of my back now, still damp from the lube, her fingertips pressing in possessively. “I suppose that’s up to you,” she says in a low voice.
“That’s a good point,” he says, and he is still stroking himself with me all this time, still pressing in and circling his hips to get even deeper. “How many times have you fucked each other since our wedding?”
Shame burns in Isolde’s voice as she lifts her hand from me. “Three.”
“Three times.” Mark’s voice is cold enough to freeze the moisture in the air. “Yes, perhaps this isn’t enough.”
thirty-four
TRISTAN
“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 secretlywantedthird 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.”
