Page 73 of Bitter Burn
“Let’s see how much he gave you. Get to your knees, Tristan.”
I shakingly manage to obey, my sides heaving and the cool air immediately assailing my wet dick.
Mark shifts to run a thoughtful hand between his wife’s legs. Opaline cum gathers immediately on his fingers, and he looks impressed.
“This is so much, puppy. You’ve been saving up.”
I shudder. He knows what this does to me, and he’s enjoying it, enjoying the way my half-lidded eyes can’t move from his fingers toying with Isolde’s cunt. Every flash of light from the window shows more ejaculate spilling and pooling out, coating his finger as he probes deep into her channel. She squirms, sensitive there, but then goes still and breathless as he adds a second finger and enough pressure to counteract the ticklishness.
“You’d think he’s never come before,” Mark says and shakes his head as if in pity. “We sent him away to a kink club, and he comes back nearly bursting with seed. What should we make of it?”
“I haven’t,” I whisper. Two sets of blue eyes—one drugged, the other dangerous—find me. “I haven’t been with anyone at Armorica.”
Isolde blinks. “Not even Isabella?”
“I’ve only been gone a few weeks,” I say with a huff of laughter. “Give me some credit.”
“I won’t credit you where there would be no debt,” Mark says. “Isolde and I are here together. You are alone. I wouldn’t blame you for needing relief.”
A small scowl flits over Isolde’s lips, but they’re so full that the effect is only to make me even more aware of how much I enjoy looking at her mouth.
Mark looks down and laughs. “I see my jealous wife and I are not of the same mind about this.”
His fingers are still inside her, and he must do something that I can’t see, because she moans.
“I am jealous,” she admits. “I want Tristan to ourselves.”
“But surely you are jealous of me? Because I enjoy taking my relief inside Tristan very much, and you’ve seen what it does to him.”
“You know very well that’s a different kind of jealousy,” she protests—and then gives another humming moan as he adds a thumb to her clitoris.
My hard-on, which had never fully abated after pulling out, is kicking back to life. Quickly.
“Yes, yes, because we all love each other. Or hate each other. Or whatever it is that we do. But it doesn’t arouse you at least a little to think about him getting so desperate and so full of cum that he just has to fuck? That jerking off thinking of you isn’t enough anymore, and he can’t even think straight until he gets inside someplace warm and tight?”
Isolde’s lips are parted, and her eyes have hooded so far that I can only see a glimmer of her stare from under her lashes.
“He might even be thinking of you while he fucks someone else. Wouldn’t that be awful and perverse? Closing his eyes and imagining his Isolde underneath him while he strokes into Isabella’s lovely pussy? It’s a good one, Isolde. I’ve had it before, although yours is my favorite. Which might make me a predictable sort of husband, I suppose.”
“You are the furthest thing from predictable,” she mumbles, hips chasing the wicked touch between her thighs. “Oh God.”
“I’ve already told you that sir will do. And anyway, God isn’t listening right now. He can’t hear how you’re getting wet all over again from thinking about Tristan fucking someone else. About how he’ll be in so much need that he can’t help himself, but he’ll bitterly regret every drop of cum that goes into someone who isn’t you.”
“Sir,” I grind out, pleading and furious. My hands are gripping my thighs, and my dick is now pointing straight up at the ceiling, fresh arousal pooling at the slit.
“But isn’t that right, Tristan? Isn’t that what would happen if you used sweet, accommodating Isabella for your private needs? You’d come so hard because you’d need it so badly, but all you’d be able to think about is this cunt right here, about how perfect it looks when it’s dripping. This cunt, your seed: worth the wrath of heaven itself. And even if you can’t help needing a substitute, you’ll be so, so miserably aware that it’s not enough, it’s never enough until you’re right…back…here.”
With each of his words, he taps two wet fingers against Isolde’s clit, wringing three pathetic whimpers from her.
A bead of precum spills over the crested tip of my organ and down over the sensitive frenulum. I pant like I’m being flogged.
“Of course,” Mark says, with a clarion sort of malice in his gaze, which immediately terrifies me, “we could make him pine for so much more. Couldn’t we, Isolde? He’s already besotted, but I think we could make him shame himself with it. Would you like to do that, my queen? Send Tristan away so thoroughly possessed by you that you never have to worry about him fucking anyone else without you foremost in his feverish, obsessed mind?”
Fuck, his words—his words. I am panting again, and I haven’t even touched myself. I haven’t even moved.
Isolde nods frantically. Her feet slide against the table as she twists in abject, wretched lust. “Yes, sir,” she says on an exhale that could be a sob.
The sir from her slices a small aperture in Mark’s sangfroid—he mutters Jesus Christ under his breath and scoops her up so quickly that her hair swings below her as he carries her back to the chair.
