Page 72 of Bitter Burn
I have to look away as I shuck off my pants and underwear, his attention is that unbearable. I fold my things neatly and set them atop my shoes and climb onto the table. The leather upholstery—soft enough to accommodate knees and elbows, firm enough that a face could be pressed into it and not incur any respiratory risk—makes a subtle noise as I crawl over Isolde, noises I feel more than hear.
Her eyes are dark as she looks up at me, and the rest of her is bathed in shadows that are only briefly burned away by the blue and purple lights from the hall, each pulse of light etching the rope’s impressions into sharp relief. I sink down onto my elbows, and we gasp as our lower halves make contact.
I give a testing thrust—not inside—just sliding against the soft, wet valley of her. Her lips part, and I need to kiss her even more than I need to fuck her, so I slide my hands under her head, cradling it through that silky mass of ivory and gold hair, and bring my mouth to hers. Below, I still work my hips, getting her slick all over me, rubbing her clit with my erection as I do.
“Let’s be real in the dark,” she murmurs into my mouth, the words tickling my lips and tongue.
“I’ll give you anything you want,” I answer as I slot my lips to hers. “Anything at all, it’s yours the moment you ask.”
I kiss her with as much patience as I can stand—not much—until I give in and start dipping my tongue into her mouth. She receives it eagerly, her arms coming up to loop around my neck, and I keep kissing her as I reach down and take hold of myself, rubbing the tip up and down a few times to get myself all the way wet. My passage eased, I press into her entrance until I’m in up to the crest of the head. And then I freeze, choking off a breath as a sudden wave of euphoria seizes me, deep in my pelvis, curling insidiously in my balls, yanking at the base of my spine. I’m going to come already, and I can’t stop it—it’s been too long, and I’m too fucking turned on and?—
“Do I have to do everything? If I’m going to be the cuckold, I’d like to at least enjoy a few minutes in the cuck chair,” Mark says dryly from above us. Before I can process that he both understood exactly what was happening and managed to move over to the table without me noticing, he’s reached between my legs, wrapped an unforgiving hand around the base of my testicles, and pulled down.
I hiss, my orgasm stalling and tripping over its own feet, and I drop my head down next to Isolde.
Fuck. It’s like being harpooned in the stomach, except the harpoon is made of quivering, glorious agony.
Mark leans down to kiss his wife on the cheek. “Doing okay, sweetheart?”
Instead of answering, she turns to kiss him, and I have to listen to the sound of them kissing while I’m dying on top of her, the tip of my penis squeezed inside her slippery heat.
“You’re doing so well,” he’s murmuring now. “My good wife. My pretty wife. It’s not your fault that your pussy feels so good. No one can last long while inside you, darling.”
I bite my own forearm to keep his words from driving me over the edge—an edge I probably couldn’t go over if I tried, given the evil hand between my legs.
After what has to be hours, Mark finally relents and lets go. I stay as I am for a moment, too terrified to move. The climax has receded, but she still feels so good?—
Mark runs a hand up my naked thigh and ass, giving the tensed muscles an appreciative squeeze. “I love watching you fuck,” he informs me in a conversational tone. “I love watching all that goodness perish at the hands of base, atavistic lust. Where is America’s hero now? Fucking another man’s wife with absolute, mindless abandon. Getting ready to unload inside her hot cunt because he just can’t help himself, honor be damned.”
With that, he pushes against the curve of my backside, pushing me deeper inside Isolde. She arches underneath me and tries to spread her thighs even wider to take me.
“That’s it,” Mark says, a dark pleasure smoking around the edges of his words. “Go deeper. I want you all the way in, until you can’t get in any more than you are. Oh, you like that? It feels good, doesn’t it? It’s so tight, it’s really not fair to the rest of us. Pull out to the tip now, almost all the way out—good—God, you’re so wet with her, I can see it shining all over you—back in. Harder, my little knight, harder. She’s begging for it, aren’t you, sweetling? Yes, I thought so.”
I can’t survive this, not the silken sheath I’m currently fucking, not the slender, sweat-gleamed woman underneath me. Not Isolde’s closed eyes and arching throat, not Mark’s indecent commentary, as poisonous as it is beguiling.
And still he goads me, slapping a wide hand on my haunch like I’m an animal at work.
“Is that as hard as you can go?” he asks a little scornfully. “As good as you can fuck? I don’t loan out my bride lightly, Tristan. I expect a nonpareil performance. I expect peerlessness.”
Shame tugs at my heels, but lightly, because Mark has always known how to season humiliation with enough proof of his secret approval—and his plain desire—that I am assured my humiliation is making him happy, that I’m pleasing him. And so too now, because even as he’s telling me I’m not fucking his wife well enough for his taste, he’s walking around the table, finding the back of my head, and pressing my face against his groin. The erection inside his trousers could be made of iron, that’s how unyielding it is against my lips.
Peerless performance or not, he is alchemically hard: metal out of flesh, desire out of disloyalty. A husband ready to go after watching another man on top of his wife.
Isolde lifts her head too, and together we are kissing over his clothed cock, open mouths, wetting tongues. He doesn’t rock against us, although I feel the trembling restraint in the hand on my head, but he does grunt when we try to take more of him in our mouths. A low, haughty noise, like this is only his due.
My lips meet Isolde’s over Mark’s zipper, and we kiss deeply. I find a breast with one hand and palm it as I toil in the cradle of her hips. Her cunt fits me like a glove, snug and narrow and so needy that it clings to me when I pull out. The wet caress of it sends hot, tickling pleasure down my shaft and into my groin; my balls are pulling tight again, and every muscle in my stomach and back and legs is quaking.
“Oh God,” I breathe, pulling back to look at Isolde. Her face is so open right now, so unusually open, and I wish I could draw or sculpt or paint or that I could capture the ephemeral on film the way Mark’s dead husband did—anything to look at her like this again, whenever I wanted. To see the real Isolde, without her armor and her secrets and her cool insistence that no one get too close, even as you know that she wants nothing more than someone to be close enough to feel her tender, lonely heart.
“I love you,” she exhales, and I bend my head into her neck.
“I love you too,” I say, the excruciating pleasure clawing at my body, and then, at last, tearing me all the way open. I spill into her with a series of wrenching, jerking spurts, slicking my way even more and making everything immediately wetter and filthier. I feel like a beast fucking into her while she’s already turning her head to kiss Mark’s erection, but I can’t stop. I don’t think I can ever stop.
But stop I eventually do, gasping on top of Isolde while she kisses her husband’s groin and he strokes her hair.
“Was it good, darling?” he asks her.
“Very good,” she mumbles.
