Page 87 of Bitter Burn
I straighten up and kiss behind his ear. “Good boy,” I croon, licking where I just kissed. “You gave up so much. You like being milked, don’t you? You like showing off for us like a stud at a show. I’ll tell her to put something inside you next time. Then you’ll give us even more, so much that you’ll be empty for days and days.”
Isolde crawls out from under the table while I’m working on the cuffs around his wrists, and she starts on his ankles. Once he’s free, I check his circulation and then help him roll over so I can check his cock and balls for any discoloration or loss of sensation. He curls up like a shrimp when I test the feeling in his dick by running my fingertips along the underside.
“Ahhhh,” whimpers our brave, decorated hero.
Isolde, whose ass is still glowing bright red, doesn’t look very impressed by his fortitude.
“Get him into bed, and then water for yourself and him,” I direct. “I’ll be right in.”
She takes his hand to induce him off the table and into my bedroom, which is right off the loft. Once I hear water running from the bathroom, I get some cleaning supplies, take care of the cum puddle under the table, and wipe down the leather.
By the time I join them, they’re both tucked in, Isolde’s head pillowed on Tristan’s chest and her hair spilled everywhere, on his shoulder and across his throat and all over my pillow. I don’t climb into bed with them right away—I watch them a moment instead, and they watch me, the three of us caught in a quiet tide where nothing needs spoken, nothing needs saved or studied or solved.
They are so beautiful together, my two beloveds, one dark-haired, one fair, both with full mouths and doll-lashed eyes. They look so right holding each other, as if they were sculpted this way and only chiseled apart at the very last moment, and I try to take comfort in it, even as it scalds the inside of my mind with envy.
But I’ve always known I wasn’t sculpted alongside anyone else, that I wasn’t made to fit against anyone else—that I don’t deserve something as gentle or noble as that.
I don’t believe in fate, but this, I think, is ordained: I was meant to live alone. I’m meant to die alone.
But I’ll have tonight, if nothing else.
I approach the bed, padding silently to the edge.
“More?” Isolde asks, watching me.
“I should think so, Mrs. Trevena,” I reply. I pull the sweatpants off, leave them abandoned on the floor, and then go to my bedside table for lube and a small towel. They watch the bottle of lube with wary interest as I set it and the towel on the bed—and then their stares move to my naked body.
Tristan’s tongue grazes his bottom lip, and my cock lifts in response. There was a time—unbearably short-lived from my perspective—when I had his mouth available for my use every moment of every day. Under my desk while I worked, at night while I relaxed in the shower, in the back seat of my car while I caught up on the news.
What the hell? It wasn’t the plan, but just a minute won’t hurt. I move onto the bed and kneel in front of my matched set of lovers. Isolde is between me and Tristan, but she’s shifted so that her back is pressed against his chest and she can face me. She’s moved down just a touch, enough that her ass is tucked against Tristan’s lap and that I have access to Tristan’s mouth.
“Keep his hands down,” I tell Isolde and then delight in her mean genius as she presses one of Tristan’s hands against her breast and guides the other between her legs. His hands curl possessively over the soft flesh on offer.
I couldn’t have restrained him better with a neoprene sleep sack.
His lips are already parted for me, and I guide the end of my dick into his mouth, sighing at the first exploratory flick of his tongue.
Fuck. That’s more like it.
I reach for his head, his short hair tickling my palm as I hold it in place, and I flex my hips to push in deeper, deep enough that his lips are stretched and the full velvet length of his tongue is pressed against the side of my erection. “God, you’re so good,” I say, rocking a little deeper, just so that I nudge the very back of him. The angle is a mess; I’m sideways and at my widest like this, and there’s no way for him to use any real skill right now, no way for him to work his tongue or open his throat, but I think I love it all the more for that reason. It’s just raw biology now: hard cock, willing mouth, and some things don’t need the seasoning of experience, truly. Some things are perfect just as they are.
I move in and out a few more times, going as deep as the position will allow and feeling his hot throat close defensively around me. I want to hang on to this until I can’t hang on to anything else: his too-short hair, his eager tongue, the tiny muscles fluttering along the delicate depression of his temple. When I pull out and he looks up at me with a mindless need all while his hips pump restlessly against Isolde—that moment I memorize too.
I grab the lube bottle and then find Isolde’s hand, tugging her away from Tristan. “I need your help,” I implore with a smile.
Confusion draws a neat little line between her eyebrows as I hand her the lube.
I clarify: “Put him on his back, and slick up that lovely cock for me. I’m going to put it to good use.”
Isolde does as she’s asked, pushing a hesitant Tristan on his back and dispensing lube into her palm.
Tristan lifts his head as if to ask a question but then drops it back onto the pillow the moment Isolde’s slippery hand makes contact. His toes curl, a little at first, and then all the way to his soles as she makes a fist around him. She’s good at this though, so good at reading his pleasure, at backing off before it can fully take root. She has him slick and shining with just a few pumps of her fist, and when she’s done, she lets go. His cock smacks wetly against his stomach and then lifts a little again, hard enough to go seeking sensation.
“Is it my turn, sir?” she asks, and it occurs to me that she assumes that she’ll be taking Tristan’s cock inside her next, that this will be a repeat of New Year’s Eve.
“We’re going to try something different,” I say. I find the lube and squirt a liberal amount onto her fingertips. “It’s my turn, actually.”
She doesn’t move, as if she doesn’t believe me, her eyes narrowed ever so slightly.
