Page 135 of Bitter Burn
I climb up behind her on the table, pressing my chest to her back and my burning shaft against the small of her back, feeling the firm strap of her harness and silk. I find a breast and squeeze, biting at her shoulder as I slide my right hand between us and tug the silk aside.
“There’s my wife,” I say to her, dark pleasure curling in my belly. She’s soaked, embarrassingly wet, and when I find the tender berry at the top of her sex, it’s hot and swollen.
She moans when I caress it, my fingers having to fight for the real estate with the bottom of the harness there, her hands paused on Tristan’s thighs, flexing like a cat’s as I stroke it. I let go of her breast, take myself in hand, and then seek out the wet slit with a couple impatient rocks of my hips. She moves a little too, which means she moves inside Tristan, and he whimpers.
And then—ah—fuck—yes, yes, it’s all slick and hot and like a fist around me, gripping and soft too, and I’m impatient, I can’t wait, and I shove all the way home in one thrust. It fucks her deeper into Tristan, who flings an arm over his face, like he can’t bear to be alive right now. I find his thighs, arrange them so they’re slung over Isolde’s, his knees just past her hips. I stroke his calves where they rest by mine and then lean back.
I look down to see my cock pushing in and out of Isolde, glazed with her arousal. I see a hint of blue silicone just beyond it. When I look up, I see the grip of her hands on Tristan’s thighs, the side of a pert breast, the curve of her supple back and shoulders. And of course, Tristan, all flushed skin and wax, one hand fisted in the plastic, one arm over his face, and his helpless dick bobbing with every shared thrust between me and Isolde.
“Slow, then fast, then slow again,” I croon to my wife, instructing her as I show her how, using her pussy to teach her how to fuck our Tristan. In and out, forward and back, her hot body gripping mine, Tristan taking her cock like a good boy, a ripple of moans and sighs rolling through the three of us as we move.
I find Isolde’s waist, cup her breast, and then slide my other hand under Tristan’s knee, gripping it firmly enough that he can’t move his leg, even when he’s jerking and squirming with every thrust.
“What do you think will happen if you touch it?” I murmur in Isolde’s ear, leaning forward to look at Tristan spread out in lewd persecution in front of us. It’s harder to fuck at this angle—not impossible, just harder—but it’s worth it to watch Isolde give Tristan’s pitifully hopeful hard-on a vicious little flick, right on the underside.
His leg jolts in my hand, and he groans like he’s being torn open. Somehow he swells even more, bobs even higher above his stomach, strings of glistening fluid dripping from the end.
“My cruel bride, my fiendish queen,” I purr, nuzzling her. “So mean to such pretty boys.” I’m still rocking into her, and she’s rocking into him, and she turns her head to kiss me like I’ve just flattered her. Which I have.
This angle is bad too, but I don’t let it stop me from tasting her lips, her mouth, and Tristan makes an inhuman noise in front of us, watching us kiss as we jointly fuck him. “You’re both so beautiful,” he says on a breath, his eyes fluttering, his chest heaving. “Wish I could be exactly here forever.”
I know what he means. It’s only because there are a million and one permutations of the three of us fucking and kissing and snuggling and playing chess that we have the courage to pull apart occasionally, to leave each other long enough to shop for groceries or go to the dentist or fall asleep. It’s only because we know that we have no shortage of each other, cups that will always overflow, that we can bear the limits of everyday life, and even then, we bear those impatiently. Even the time it takes to change the oil in the car is a personal injury; by the time we’re done brushing our teeth, we’re aching to reunite with caresses and sighs.
There is nothing that I don’t share with them, every secret now naked and excarnated between us, and there is almost nothing they hide from me. But after years of manipulations and revenge, I am quite content to let them manipulate me, take as much revenge as they want; I find it adorable when they plot against me, conspiring to tie me up or kidnap me away to some small vacation or force me to watch the two of them together and not allow me to touch, even once. If the rest of my life is enduring their revenge, then I’ll die with a smile on my face, and if our love always feels like obsession, like hunger and sickness, then I’ll pay any price from my past or my future to keep it.
Like the rings we still wear—black and silver, gold, ruby-studded, etched invisibly but indelibly—our love is mismatched, full of warnings, born of lies, strange and strangely sourced. But it is ours. Scarred as it is, jagged as it is, bitter and burning as it is, it is ours.
We don’t last long like this, not that anyone would, I think. There was too much buildup, too much beauty in torturing our Tristan, and now there is simply too much to take in, a banquet of sleek flesh and tight holes and thumping blood and cooled wax and sweat and oil and us. It’s a banquet of us, wrong and urgent and insatiable.
I move harder against Isolde, pleasure shivering up my erection with every stroke, climbing my thighs and simmering at the base of my spine, and she fucks Tristan harder in response, her blue dick sliding in and in and in, then she reaches down and with admirable clemency takes hold of his neglected shaft and circles it, masturbating him with hard, brutal strokes.
He is inconsolable in front of her, his arm back over his face, his knees trying to turn inward as if to protect himself from the climax breaking down the door, and then with a muffled moan, with his teeth sunk into his own forearm, he spurts wild and thick all over his wax-covered stomach and chest. We can hear it on the wax, the splattering, heavy and wet, and one pulse makes it as far as his collarbone, a white spatter over the blue and pink and orange petals, and when he moves his arm and sees what he’s doing, adding his own hot fluid to the wax on his body, his thighs and stomach shake violently, and another few impossible surges are forced out of him. Also violently, if the noises he makes are any indication.
Isolde and I go still as we watch it, absolute beauty, exquisite filth, cum everywhere and broken sobs wrung from the man in front of us. Isolde lets her hand drop and then slowly curls forward. She presses her mouth to his cum-covered chest and then straightens up to turn her head to mine.
I cup her head and drag my lips over hers, tasting the alkaline tang of Tristan’s orgasm, tasting her, and her cunt is so wet, so soft and greedy, and it’s the kiss that does me in, I think. A few hard thrusts, and bliss shudders its way up my body, a pumping, brimming ecstasy that rolls over my entire body, electric and urgent and breath robbing, tingling at the soles of my feet and sending bright scatters of light over my vision. I empty myself entirely in Isolde, kissing her the entire time, Tristan’s pleasure between our lips. Even after I’m completely drained, I give her a few more desultory thrusts, just to have her pussy around me a little longer, to relish the feel of my cum inside her.
God, that feels good.
The minute our lips break apart, I’m sliding out of her body. I’m off the table and pulling her to the edge so that her legs dangle toward the floor. I drop to my knees and press her thighs as far apart as the table will allow. I’m too impatient to unfasten her harness, so I tear at one side to loosen it and then shove the cock high enough to get at her clit, which I do with a wild, sucking kiss. She moans and stabs her hands into my hair, trying to arch her cunt harder against my face. My orgasm is leaking right back out of her. Her cute little feet hang in the air on either side of me, and when I look up at her face while I eat her, I see that her hair has half come undone, that she still has a pearly streak of cum near the corner of her mouth. Despite how hard and how long I just came, my body gives a lazy stir of interest.
Forever, I remind myself. You have forever now.
Tristan, who I’m pretty sure died during his orgasm, has come back to life and is now moving closer to Isolde and kneeling behind her. He kisses her neck and caresses her shoulders and plays with her nipples.
“Bite her,” I say from her cunt. I work two fingers into her wet, wet channel and press up until her toes point on either side of my shoulders. “Bite her until she squeaks.”
He bites her.
His teeth dig into the tender place between her neck and her shoulder, and she lets out a high note of forlorn lust, and then with me sucking her clit, she ruptures and comes apart in a flooding rush of clenching release. Her hands are tight in my hair, she’s moaning my name, Tristan’s name, God’s name. Her lingerie is half-off, the still-wet cock is shoved against her thigh, and wax is flaking around us like flower-colored snow.
As Tristan said earlier: I wish I could be exactly here forever.
My wife comes longer than I think possible, and I make a note to put pegging in the regular rotation. God bless.
When she finally slumps back against Tristan, we all look at each other and the carnage of wax and lube and cum, and maybe carnage was all we were ever going to be, blood and burned-out buildings and silver wristwatches and chess queens, but we are fucked, I tell you, absolutely corrupt and depraved in the same ways, because we like it like that.
We look at this room we’ve destroyed, and we’d do it again. Everything from start to finish, we’d do it all again.
