Page 134 of Bitter Burn
“Hmm. What about you, Tristan? Do you like the way you look, all messy and dripped over? Do you like being so sweet and pretty for us?”
The knot of his throat works up and down as he closes his eyes. “Yes,” he says pitifully. “I do.”
“He’s too pretty not to reward,” I muse, my fingertips drifting over the colorful topography of the night. “Shall we?”
Isolde’s mouth curves wickedly. “Yes, sir.”
She swings herself gracefully off the table, handing me her candle stub and then retreating into a screened-off dressing area. After I set her candle and mine under the table, I distract Tristan by caressing the strong lines of his jaw and neck while I slot my lips against his and slowly taste the inside of his mouth. He kisses me back eagerly, artlessly, his hands flying up to find the front of my shirt, feeding me delicious noises all the while. I’m about to find his wrists and patiently press them back into the table, but before I can, he takes my left hand and brings it to his mouth, worshipfully kissing my palm, giving it little flicks of his tongue and reverent brushes of his lips.
He’s kissing the barely visible line of a burn from two years ago, from the time I watched a candle burn to nothing in my hand while he and Isolde said goodbye in my apartment. A bleaker kind of wax play, but it’s one of Tristan’s favorite parts of my body to visit. Maybe one day I’ll let him drizzle wax on me. If I’m feeling indulgent.
Isolde returns, wearing a harness with a silicone cock fitted into its O-ring, a slender blue length that looks absolutely lovely on her. My body, already all the way awake from playing with Tristan, gives a hot, needful surge seeing her. I hold out a hand to my wife as Tristan keeps the other against his mouth.
“You have the power to utterly unravel me,” I murmur as I pull her close. “Looking like you do in that lingerie with a cock between your legs. I should have you fuck me with it sometime. Would you like that?”
“You know the answer to that is yes,” she says, eyes glittering.
“I’d like that too. You could make me come so hard, sliding into me and making me take every bit of it.”
A short laugh. “Making you take it. As if I could.”
I think about this. “You could try,” I suggest. “The trying would be fun at least.”
We look down at Tristan, who’s let go of my hand and is now staring slack-jawed at Isolde. This is new—not because we haven’t wanted to do it but because I’d wanted to taunt him with the idea of it for a good long time, make sure that the fantasy of it was a torment all on its own, for no good reason other than that it sounded fun to do.
I was right about it being fun, of course. I usually am.
“Oh, honey,” Tristan breathes at Isolde as she climbs back onto the table. “I—I?—”
Words have failed him. His throat moves, and there’s a faint click as he tries to speak and can’t, and he’s already restless on the plastic again, so fucking restless. Isolde is kneeling between his legs; she arranges him so that his thighs are slung over hers. Not quite to the point of being able to wrap around her hips but nearly if he wanted to.
I find the lube bottle I’d stashed under the table earlier, and I squeeze a fat dollop on her extended fingertips.
“Rim around the outside first,” I instruct, watching Tristan give a start and then a long shiver as the cool kiss of the lube leads to Isolde stroking the sensitive skin there. He tries widening his legs, but his hips are angled upward, and he struggles. “Hold your legs up, puppy. Hands closer to your ankles—yes, just like that, very good. Isn’t that better? She can see you that way, get your hole all slick and ready. Now her finger—God, it’s a needy hole, isn’t it? I can see how eagerly you’re taking her, like a wax-covered whore. Shameful. Are you ready for her second finger now?”
Isolde extends her hand once again, and I dispense another pump of lube, utterly charmed by the concentration on her face, the serious frown paired with the blush staining her chest and throat and the raw appetite in her gaze.
I know why she’s concentrating though, why she’s nervous. Fingers she’s had inside Tristan before, but this is something new, and I know she wants to make it good for him. Which is why, when I drizzle lubricant over the blue shaft, I tell her, “He’s going to love anything you do, sweetheart. Aren’t you, puppy?”
“Yes,” Tristan says, half whimper, his poor erection looking so sore and neglected, his eyes glued to where Isolde is carefully ensuring every inch of her dick is covered in lube.
“And it would be too coarse for a gentleman like myself to mention in detail, but I can assure you that Tristan has weathered much worse.”
Isolde’s eyes drop to the front of my tented trousers, and she lifts an eyebrow. “I believe you.”
I pump some lube into my own hand, set the bottle down, and join in my wife slicking up the silicone before I help her guide the tip to the waiting entrance between his cheeks. Once she’s wedged against it, I find her fingers and guide them to the slippery, pleated skin beginning to give under her invasion. “You won’t be able to feel for yourself, so it’s a good idea to be able to see him, see where you’re pushing. You want right in the middle, a good angle—yes, just like that. See how he’s opening? The head of your cock will be the hardest, since it’s wider than the rest, so give him a little grace here. There’s the second ring of muscle, and—oh, very good, Isolde. Stop for a minute now that you’re inside, and enjoy what you’ve done to this poor hero, our supposedly good boy. Do you see how much he’s squirming on your cock? How his own cock won’t even lie down now? That means he likes it.”
Tristan looks like he’s being broken on some kind of medieval rack right now—his hands claw at the plastic by his hips, and his head is tossed to the side. His ribs jerk and his stomach moves so much with every breath that thin cracks start appearing in the wax. His balls are already pulled up tight and hard. A vein on the side of his organ throbs with the labor of keeping him erect.
I trace around his stretched hole fondly, a little jealously, and then kiss Isolde, who has to lean down a little to meet my mouth from where she kneels on the table. A sweet novelty.
“All the way in now,” I coach her. “Push as slowly as you like, but it should go easier than the tip.”
Her thighs tense and her stomach goes firm as she flexes her hips, in an inch, out an inch. In and out, deeper each time, until she’s nearly all the way there. I remove my hand so that she can press her lap fully against him, and then they’re together completely. Tristan moans, eyes still closed, and Isolde has paused to take it all in: the long, trembling length of him, the shimmer of sweat and the oil we massaged into his skin before we started with the wax.
I unbutton my shirt and strip it off, tossing it over a chair before I toe off my shoes and socks and start on my trousers. The sound of a zipper is enough to pull my two perverted lovebirds from their private moment, and they both turn to look at me, to watch as I open the placket and push the fabric down my hips. To watch me patiently stroke myself as I come back over to the table.
My plan had been merely to observe the two of them, to treat myself to some leisurely self-pleasure as I watched Isolde fuck the cum out of Tristan—perhaps see if I could use Tristan’s mouth for part of it and turn his pegging into an airtight fuck—but that all goes to hell now. From here, I can see how perfectly the harness frames Isolde’s ass while she kneels like this. I can see her nipples pushing stiffly against the bralette of her lingerie. I want to know if she’s wet in that silk underwear, if it gets her wetter to be fucking with a cock, how soon she wants to be fucking me with it.
