Page 86 of Bitter Burn
After we have his clothes off, I find Isolde’s hand and wrap it around the stiff organ currently bobbing between Tristan’s hips. “Lead him over to the table,” I tell her. “You can probably guess how we want him once he gets there.”
Tristan may need some coaching when it comes to spanking, but Isolde needs almost no guidance when it comes to topping. I can see the momentary hesitation—a mere instant’s worth—once I step back and she realizes she’s meant to pull our bodyguard over to the table by his cock. But Tristan in his hyperoxygenated haze certainly doesn’t notice, and she quickly converts her always regal bearing into something lofty and heartless, so that by the time she’s pulling him forward, she looks like she’s made a storied career of leading people around by their dicks.
It creeps up on me, almost sinister in its obviousness, how much I enjoy watching the two of them together. How much I enjoy the distance of it even, getting to take in the entire picture of her slender hand wrapped around his ruddy flesh, the dramatic difference in their heights, how Tristan stares down at Isolde with an unsteady expression, eyes lost, lips parted. A man who’s just realized he’ll let someone lead him straight into a pit of fire and he won’t do anything to stop it.
I am jealous still, eternally fighting off the itch of anger under my skin when I think about this torch they’ve been carrying since the yacht. But it’s also something profoundly erotic to see them together, to see both these restless, radiant spirits try to sate their restlessness with each other.
It’s inarguable: I love watching them love each other. A small gift, and one I didn’t plan on, but I’m grateful for it anyway…even if tonight might be the last time I get to enjoy it.
Tristan mounts the table—I’m teased with a flashing view of the eyelet between the curved muscles of his backside—and Isolde manages with casual grace to keep hold of his cock the entire time, guiding it right through the hole in the middle until she has to let go. She looks over at me, and I silently tilt my head at the cuffs dangling from the corners. Scarlet blooms anew on her chest as she starts cuffing Tristan’s ankles, and I wonder if she’s thinking of the time that I cuffed her to this very table, years ago. I know I’m thinking of it. It had strained every ounce of my control to have her bound in front of me, a flogger in my hand, and to keep things purely instructive. To explain the difference between suede and oiled leather when all I wanted to do was crawl on top of her and coax her lips open and taste her. Make out until we were both panting. Bite her pretty breasts until she begged for mercy.
Isolde cuffs Tristan’s wrists now, and I amuse myself by bracing an arm on the table and then ducking my head underneath to watch his cock bob uselessly through the hole. A gossamer string of precum leaks from his tip and drops to the floor when his erection gives a sudden jerk. I reach out and give him a light tug, enjoying very much the pained groan from above the table.
“Come down here, Isolde,” I call.
Isolde drops lightly to her knees and crawls under the table, a wicked gleam in her eyes as she beholds the genius of the milking table, the humiliation of it and the specificity of its torture. Tristan can’t pull away as Isolde gives the underside of his erection a pensive flick; he can’t thrust into her hand as she grips the head. His shameful need is on indisputable display—the twisting blue veins, the flushed skin stretched tight, the vulgar fluid beading at the crown. The table has reduced all his desire, all his vitality and strength and attention, to the swollen penis jerking pitifully through the table’s hole.
Isolde is enthralled. She needs no coaxing from me when it comes to caressing and stroking and then stopping the moment he gets too close; she makes me laugh when she finds her own little mean streak and flicks him again, when she runs her nails down his length, lightly but certainly memorably.
There is one thing I do want to see though. “Use your mouth. See how needy you can make him with it.”
Tristan moans—it’s unclear if it’s a moan of yes or no. This sparks a grin from Isolde, and she meets my gaze under the table, both of us partners in cruel crime. “He’s so wet,” she murmurs as she scooches closer, angling just underneath the thick organ and touching her tongue to the end.
Tristan jolts, the table shaking, a heart-stopping shock via soft, pink tongue.
“I know,” I murmur. She’s swirling her tongue around Tristan’s slippery crown now, lapping at the slit, and I am very close to having her crawl over here and service me as well. “He always gets wet like that. He’s such a little slut. Aren’t you, Tristan?”
I straighten up so I can thread my fingers through his hair and tug. His head is turned to the side and facing me, so he can’t lift it much, but I do get to see the mindless expression on his face when he says, “Yes, sir.”
“Yes, sir what?”
“I am a little slut,” he confesses breathlessly. “I love being slutty for you. I—oh shit—” He groans as Isolde does something unseen, and I take mercy on him and let go of his hair so he can rest his head on the table.
I stroke down his bunched arms and tensed shoulders, follow the valley of his spine to the muscled cleft and then down below that to his scrotum, tightly bunched and ready to unload. But Isolde isn’t letting him get any closer than the edge—she’ll jack him hard and fast or suck on the tip of him like a lollipop, but the instant his grunts shift into moans, she lets go, pulls back, and leaves him to writhe as much as he possibly can face down on the table. Which isn’t much.
After caressing Tristan’s thighs for a few minutes, I join Isolde under the table, sitting, since I’m too tall on my knees.
“Take more of him into your mouth. Let him feel your throat.”
She does it right away, her pink lips stretching around him, the top of her throat flexing.
“Swallow,” I say softly, and she does, the movement compressing her throat around him. Limbs flail above us, and I hear bitten-off curses. Isolde pulls off just in time to arrest his climax, and we both watch as his erection swells and judders and leaks. And then, once the swearing stops above us, I nudge Isolde aside and take him in my own mouth.
The skin of his organ is thin and silky and scorching, and I taste the salt of his precum as I give him a long slide all the way into my throat. I do it again and again, several torturously paced movements, swallowing against him every time, until I feel him reach the final, angry swelling just before release.
Then I back off and laugh when I hear more twisting and scrabbling on the table above. Isolde laughs too, and I pull her into a quick, happy kiss, open-mouthed and smiling. I guide our kiss closer to Tristan, break away from her mouth so I can lick at him and then kiss her and then kiss her with the tip of his cock between our open mouths.
He’s begging from above us now, truly begging, his sanity clearly on the line, and finally, I decide on mercy.
“Let’s drain him dry, darling,” I say, kissing Isolde’s cheek, and she sets herself to the task with ruthless delight, wrapping both hands around him one above the other and then jerking him hard and fast. It’s brutally efficient, and the onset of the orgasm must be overwhelming, because Tristan has begun grunting and pulling at his cuffs, like he’s trying to escape or like he’s trying to press himself through the table, maybe both at the same time.
I crawl out from under the table and stand up so that I can play with him. I palm his flexed ass and lean down by his ear. “Can you come for us now? Can you show Isolde how much you can give? Because you like doing that, don’t you, showing off how much that big cock can leave inside someone? How good you’d be if only someone would let you inside?—”
He shudders, groans, and then his entire body is a quivering, rolling, seeking mess. I hear a pleased noise and lower my head to watch as Isolde works rope after rope of cum onto the floor. His cock pulses in her hands, jolting with each spurt, and there’s enough fluid that we can hear when his ejaculate hits the hardwood.
It goes on and on, Isolde milking him with admirable relentlessness, an alabaster puddle growing underneath him, the cuffs clicking and clanking as the orgasm tears him limb from limb.
Finally, the spurts grow further apart, smaller, until they’re just a few drops, and then after a dry aftershock or two, he’s finished.
