Page 6 of Bitter Burn
“Thank you,” he whispers.
I’m genuinely curious now—more than the morbid curiosity of a betrayed husband, more than the abject lust of the spying cuckold—and I watch as Isolde leans back in the chair. Pantsless, in a too-large T-shirt, her cunt still exposed, she suddenly looks like a queen. All five foot two of her, with her doll face and her faint freckles. Her chin is lifted, and her upper lip holds the barest hint of a sneer.
“Undress,” she says.
The change in Tristan is immediate, heartbreaking almost. His head drops, and his chest heaves, and how many times have I seen this before? The grateful submission, the mindless ache that only a firm hand can soothe?
With his eyes down, Tristan gets to his feet and efficiently pulls his shirt over his head and then toes off his boots and socks. The jeans and boxer briefs come last, worked off and then folded neatly with the shirt and socks, the boots perfectly parallel on top of the pile, like it’s awaiting a sergeant’s inspection. My darling West Point boy.
The clench deep in my gut becomes painful as I watch Tristan step in front of Isolde. It’s not only the nakedness of him—the heavy limbs and flat navel, the dark hair on his thighs and the beautiful part of him stretching out in swollen offering—but the space between the two of them, the vulnerability and authority rendered into a firelit silhouette. Isolde and Tristan are playing Dom and sub, and I’ve never imagined this, never even considered its possibility, and yet I am completely riveted by it, by Tristan’s bowed head and Isolde’s curled lip.
She’s more than playing a dominant. She’s doing it and doing it well, although I can see what Tristan cannot: the twitch of her fingers on the arms of the chair, the swallow before she speaks again. But when she does speak, her voice is level and a little hard.
“On the floor,” she says. “Flat on your back.”
The instruction—tame enough on its own—drips with disdain, and Tristan trembles. But he complies immediately, the quick, utilitarian movements of a soldier, and soon he’s supine on the imported carpet in front of the fireplace, his hands by his sides, his cock lifting up from his body and leaving strings of precum caught between its tip and his stomach.
He sucks in a breath as Isolde stands and moves so that she’s next to him. She lifts a dainty foot, and even though I can’t see it from here, I know the motion exposes the secret pink flesh between her legs. He can’t breathe properly at all now, his fingers scratching at the carpet as she lowers her foot and presses it to his erection.
“Please,” he begs. “Please.”
“Look at you, pleading for this,” she says. “You must need it so badly.”
She grinds her foot against him as she speaks, and he arches into the humiliating friction, throat straining.
“I can’t imagine how much it hurts,” she tells him, grinding harder. “Craving something so much, especially after you were so good to me.” Her voice is still cool, but the praise is sincere, and she’s doing a marvelous job with him, threading the needle between stealing the power he wants so badly to be stolen and actual debasement.
Like all good soldiers, Tristan wants to obey. He wants to do a good job. He wants to be made to do a good job. Humiliation, punishment, pain—they are all in service of that one need, and it takes a perceptive dominant to see the subtle distinctions inside a submission like Tristan’s. He craves the raw clarity of helplessness, of smallness, of being forced, but it doesn’t mean he can go without seeing his top’s satisfaction and pleasure in him. The used feeling only feels good when it’s inside a place where he belongs, whether it’s because he’s signed some papers or because he’s—however foolishly—surrendered his heart.
Some people want to have their dick stepped on but not be called a disgusting piece of shit while it’s done to them. What can I say? The taxonomy of fucking is endless.
À chacun son goût and all that.
Tristan’s thighs are splayed as his heels rub against the carpet, and I can see the space under his testicles, the shadows and firm curves of his ass. I’m hard inside my trousers, but I curl my hands into fists and press them against the paneling, refusing to touch myself. It was bad enough when the two of them were on the yacht, fucking every chance they got, and I could watch Tristan screw like a soldier on leave whenever I wanted. I could watch Isolde in all those pretty clothes I’d picked out for her, just as breathtaking during a thalassic romance as she’d been when I’d broken her hymen on her father’s desk. For those strange ten days, I’d barely recognized myself, excusing myself from business, from the hall, sneaking off to watch my bodyguard and my bride fuck all over my yacht like Adam and Eve before the fall, like they’d never fucked before, even though I’d historically fucked both of them within an inch of their lives.
I nearly jerked myself raw that week.
Tristan is close to climax now, has probably been close since the moment he tasted Isolde, and he’s twisting on the carpet like he’s being tortured with hot coals. I can’t see Isolde’s eyes or even her face; from here, I can only see that her neck is curved, that her attention is completely on him, that it’s effortless for her to balance on one leg while she chafes his erection with the sole of her foot.
And then, with a precision it takes some dominants years to learn, she lifts her foot in the crucial moment before Tristan erupts. His flesh gives an unhappy, enervated lurch, and then fluid drips from the end, leaving a small pool on his belly. Like a dab of pearlescent paint on a painter’s palette.
I want to smear it up to his chest and watch it shine in the light of the fire.
Tristan’s whimper is one of utter misery. I, of course, am an artist of misery, a priest of it. Hearing that whimper, I know he could give me so many more. I know I could push him, torment that blood-flushed cock of his until the skin pulls so tight that it shines even when it’s dry. I could have him sobbing.
But Isolde is still learning, maybe, or just impatient. She pounces on him like a cat on a mouse—if a cat could pounce on a mouse twice its size—and is over him on all fours, kissing him hard enough that he grunts.
I hear that grunt like I made it myself, and my fingers curl even harder against themselves. I won’t masturbate watching the two of them, I won’t. Even an unrighteous man has to have his dignity.
My body doesn’t care about dignity, however, and I don’t have to look down to see the tent in my trousers. Every part of me is stretched like a wire even before Isolde sits on top of Tristan’s hips and strokes his penis with her slick cunt, and then by the time she’s begun rocking on top of him, my forehead is pressed to the paneling, my arms braced above my head, my heart pounding.
Tristan tries to push inside her, but she doesn’t let him at first, lifting away or leaning forward, a slow game of chess. Pressing, retreating, pressing, retreating.
Until he’s begging, beautifully, pleading with her to let him inside, to make it stop hurting, to please let him make her feel good. She could torment him like this for as long as she pleased—God knows I could keep him trembling in this state for an entire night—but her own patience must be at its breaking point. She reaches between them and fits his length to the entrance of her body. And then slowly sinks down.
“Oh God,” Tristan mumbles, his eyes squeezing closed, his fingers digging into the carpet. Every muscle under his sweat-damp skin is quivering and tense, and his teeth clench together in barely endured agony.
For Isolde’s part, she seems to feel much the same, because her thighs are already gripping his sides; her head is dropped back. She rides him hard, just like I’ve done on this very carpet, the direction of penetration less important than who is using whom, than the power stolen right out of Tristan’s big, strong hands. She’s using him to get herself off, and he is squeezed in agonized bliss, desperate not to come until she does, but it’s nearly past any controlling now. He reaches up with a shaking hand, pushes it under the T-shirt she still wears, and palms her breast.
