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I lost count after the eleventh strike, my body shivering and my heart sliding into my stomach, and I wondered if the lights were bright enough that the audience could see the shape of my pussy through my underwear. I wondered if they could see that I was flushed and slick there. I wondered if Mark could see. I wondered if he wanted to fuck my cunt, right now on this stage, pulling my underwear down to my ankles and unbuttoning his tuxedo pants and impaling me in front of everyone
I wondered what it would feel like, him sliding thick and merciless inside me, taking his pleasure, using my hole until he filled me full.
And then pleasure ripped through me like fabric tearing in two, sudden and violent and irreversible, and my pussy clenched tight and then released. Again, again—clench, release—surges that stole my very breath, until I was panting, mouth open against the leather, shuddering and shaking and crying.
His free hand found the hem of my dress and moved up my thigh to cup my pussy. I shivered against him, the pressure and heat of his hand so wonderful that I wanted to push against it, grind shamelessly against it. Make him hold me there forever. Even in front of everyone here. Maybe especially in front of everyone here.
He was trying not to touch me, I could feel that right away; he was trying to keep a nearly invisible distance between his touch and my skin. But my boy shorts were tight and the angle was strange, and his fingertips brushed once over my vulva. He froze behind me, his hand going still, and again, his fingertips skated over my slick seam. Intentionally this time. A rough exhale near my ear.
“Did you come?” he asked in a low voice. I hesitated, and then gave a tiny nod. Another exhale.
I wished I had the courage to ask him to touch me for real, to make me come for real. I wished I had the courage to say take me, use me, press my face into the floor and make me scream.
Fresh horror washed through me. Pure, unwashed horror at the intrusion, the violation of it. The evil of it.
Sweetheart. It was the first time he’d called me such a thing. Heat threatened to bloom on my cheeks; my heart was thudding. I had to force myself to think again.
“I’m well aware of the bullshit premise of virginity, Isolde.
Maybe I wanted to matter to someone. Even if it was only through the lens of sex. I wanted to be something more than a tool, something more than a means to an end. Or maybe you just want more of what Mark gave you at Lyonesse.
“You do not,” he said. “Because on the other side of the curtain is being mine. Belonging to me, and I do not mean the version of myself that I’ve allowed you to see. I do not mean the careful, thoughtful man that you believe that I am. I’ve fostered that belief—fed it as much as I could—because I do regret that your future had to be sacrificed for my gain, and it will make the next handful of years go easier for us both. But you do not want to test me on this, darling. Stay on the other side where it’s safe.”
“Or you will learn why people whisper my name,” he said, the words as rough as his fingers on my skin. “Why I’ve never collared a submissive. What it looks like when I decide to have someone as my own.” He lowered his mouth to my ear and murmured, “There would be no politeness, no mercy. Your only recourse would be your safe word. I’ve waited years to have someone belong to me, and I would make you feel every day, every hour, that I’ve abstained.”
“I am all want with you, Isolde. You think that I don’t think about you all the time? That I don’t want your scent all over my bed? You think that I don’t wish I had you under my desk with that serious little mouth available for my relief every morning? That I don’t want your snug cunt whenever I goddamn feel like it? Yes, I want you, and I want you collared, and I want you mine. That should be enough to terrify you, because I would hold nothing back until I’d eaten your very soul. I would hold nothing back until it was written on your skin and scratched into your bones how much I crave you.”
“And you think your virginity is a hard limit for me?” His laugh was carnivorous. “It wouldn’t have changed my fascination with you one bit if you weren’t a virgin, just so you’re aware. But you’d better believe I’ve thought about nothing else since you agreed to marry me. Nothing but that pretty little cunt, the one that comes just from being punished. How tight it would be, how swollen and slick I could make it before I wedged my way inside.”
“You,” he said, his other hand finding the hem of my respectable skirt and shoving it up to my waist, “are a terrible idea.” He looked down at where my white cotton panties were exposed and let out a sharp, ragged exhale. “So maybe it’s fitting that I’m a terrible idea too.”
“Pull your panties to the side,” he ordered, now stripping off his jacket and tossing it carelessly over the back of a nearby chair. Without it, I could see the impressive tent in his suit trousers. “Hold them there until I’ve looked my fill.”
I quivered as my fingers dropped against my thigh, I was that worked up. And when I curled my fingers around the cotton, I could feel how damp I’d made everything down there. Given the first shiver of cool air over my cunt, I knew it was wet enough to look wet, and sure enough, Mark gave a punched breath at the sight. “So pretty,” he said and pressed the heel of his palm to his erection. “So, so pretty.”
he was using his thumbs to brush lightly over the softness of my vulva, using them to spread me apart so that he could look inside. His nostrils flared, and his jaw was rigid. He almost looked furious: dilated eyes and the parted, hungry lips. “It’s a very good thing I didn’t see this until now,” he told me, not taking his eyes off my pussy. “A good thing for both of us.”
He gave me another long kiss, sucking the swollen pearl between his lips before releasing it and swirling his tongue inside my opening, making noises of rough pleasure as he did.
“Good girl,” he said, and a hot, fierce pleasure curled in my chest. Then he dropped his fingers between my legs, his eyes back down to my pussy. To where he was slowly parting me, finding the tight entrance between my folds.
“This will pinch,” he warned, and I fought to breathe as his finger pressed deeper. His expression was avid, awed—gleeful—as he watched his thick finger penetrate me. Taking something that shouldn’t matter, that didn’t matter—and yet also did, because we’d decided together that it meant something. That it was his to have, even if it didn’t change anything about what came next. And then the pain, a sharp, low agony that had me panting and squirming.
“That’s it,” Mark said, still in that voice full of dark promise. “Just a minute longer.” His free hand came to wrap around my hip and hold me still as he tore me between the legs. And just when I thought I couldn’t stand it for a second longer, he added a second finger. I made a low, whining noise then, the pain clawing up to my chest and my throat, stealing my air. It was clean and gorgeous and awakening, like all the torment he gave me.
“So tight, Isolde,” Mark praised. “So good to take what I give you, even when it hurts. Keep those legs spread for me. Let me see that pretty pussy getting filled for the first time.”
“You take me so gorgeously,” he murmured. “After we’re married and you come to live with me, you’ll take my cock every night. Every day. As often as I need, and I need it a lot, Isolde. I’ll need your mouth and cunt and eventually your ass too, and you’ll be my pet, my little wife, to give me relief.”
He pressed his thumb to the erect bud above my entrance and began working it, just as his fingers worked in and out of my channel, their entry made slick and wet by arousal and blood. I let out a choked groan as pleasure yanked abruptly between my legs, brought on by his expert touch, by the need evident in the hard cock straining his pants and in the hungry lines of his face.
I came around Mark’s fingers, squeezing them, using them, my hips bucking as if trying to fuck them deeper and harder into me. He watched with undisguised enjoyment as I futilely tried to spear my cunt on his fingers, and then as I slowly, slowly went still, shivering and whimpering and limp.
I’d never seen one in person before. It was circumcised and thick and straight, long enough that his hand had to travel some distance as he gave himself a few leisurely pumps. A thick vein meandered up the side, and the head was flared and swollen.
