“Nobody else will ever have you.” I drag my teeth down the length of her spine and splay her pussy apart as I kneel behind her. “You’ll always belong to me.”
“And what about you?” she demands. “Who will you belong to?”
“That sounds like an admission of jealousy.” I dip my face between her thighs, the first lash of my tongue startling her.
A strangled sound gets caught in her throat when I do it again. I want to feast on her. I want to fuck her all night until she can no longer walk without feeling me. But to do so would be weak. It would prove she has some sort of hold on me, and that can never be true.
I lick at her again, and she whines, trying to arch back into me as I pull away.
“This isn’t for you. Only good wives get to come. And you haven’t yet begged for forgiveness.”
She groans in protest as I rise back up and unzip my trousers.
"Please," she begs. "Just take off the mask. It's so heavy. I can't—"
"I'll take it off when I feel you've learned your lesson."
I free my cock and rub the head against her sensitive bud. A shiver moves over her body, even as she’s crumpling under the burden of her mask. I suspect she will come undone for me within moments, despite my declarations that she isn’t allowed.
In one swift movement, I thrust into her, groaning once I'm seated fully inside. Ivy forces a startled sound from her lips and then moans when I break my own rules and reach down to tease her as my hips begin to move. I roll into her as the other man's thrusts begin to grow frenzied. The woman is moaning out her release when he slams into her and comes violently. It only reinforces my own need.
"Are you ready to ask for forgiveness?" I thrust against Ivy, making her shudder.
"No!" she shouts back. "I hate you."
"You hate me?" I laugh darkly. "Let's see if that holds true."
I start to move my fingers against her with a frantic pace as I thrust into her over and over again. From the corner of my eye, I can see the other member and the courtesan watching us with interest. Ivy is clinging to her resolve not to break, but her body is no longer under the control of her mind.
Her head sinks lower and lower as her muscles tighten and contract, only to release in a powerful orgasm that squeezes my cock so forcefully, it pushes me over the edge too. For endless seconds, my release seems to empty inside her as I dig into her hips, undoubtedly leaving finger marks behind. My eyes fall shut, and it takes a minute to catch my breath as I wonder what the hell just happened. I don’t think I’ve ever come so hard in my life.
When I open them again, something about Ivy's head looks odd. Her hair is hanging so low the tips are skimming the floor now, and her neck is bent at a strange angle. When I pull out of her and release her hip, her entire body falls slack against the one cushion holding her up.
Panic blurs the edges of my vision as I rush to help her.
"Is she okay?" the courtesan asks.
"Untie her ankles," I order as I reach for her head. It's heavy in my hands, and I know it's the mask. I remove it with uncoordinated fingers, shielding her face against my body as I work on her hands next.
The woman manages to free her ankles, and I dismiss them both, telling them to leave us as I scoop my wife's limp body into my arms.
"Ivy." My voice has an edge of desperation I don't seem to recognize as I carry her to a padded bench and drape her over it. "Ivy, please."
After a few moments, she begins to stir, blinking slowly as she comes back around.
"Ivy." I squeeze her hands in mine as I lean over her, trying to examine her eyes. "Tell me what's wrong."
It takes her longer than I'd hoped to speak. She licks her lips and glances up at me in confusion. "I must have fainted."
She closes her eyes again, and a stray tear rolls down her cheek. Another swiftly follows, and whatever liquor was running through my veins when I decided to bring her here has quickly evaporated. I've never felt as sober as I do when I survey the damage done to my wife. She is pale and weak, barely able to move or speak. Her hair is a tangled mess, cheeks stained with tears, and her wrists and ankles are red from the chafing of the ropes. She looks a miserable sight, and it hits me unexpectedly. I am the one who did this.
"Ivy."
"Take me home." She turns away, refusing to look at me.
I feel out of sorts as I untie my cloak and drape it over her body, securing her in a cocoon as I cradle her against my chest. She doesn't protest when I carry her into the courtyard and back to the waiting car, but she still won't look at me either.
As soon as I place her in the back seat, she slides as far away as she can get, turning away from me as silent sobs begin to wrack her body.
It bothers me more than I ever could have anticipated to see her this way. I wanted her tears but not her complete destruction. Or didn’t I?
"Tell me what happened," I plead.
She barely turns to me, her jaw set, anger vibrating off her.
"What happened?" she asks incredulously. "Are you serious? You are what happened, Santiago! You pushed me past the point of what my body could handle with that display and then the mask. You knew exactly what you were doing. Don't act like you don't."
It occurs to me then that she's talking about her vestibular issues. And of course, in the back of my mind, I assumed there would be some limitations to what she could handle. But I didn't realize the severity until I saw it firsthand.
I wasn't thinking straight. But I should have been.
Dr. Chambers sent me her medical records as I requested. Not just his notes, but her entire file from all her previous visits to doctors within The Society. I read about her problems with balance and coordination. The vertigo. The stress-induced flares. Her father had taken her to the doctor, but he had done little else to help her after her diagnosis. There were things that could have been done. Things that should have been done. And now I am left to wonder why didn't they do them? Why didn't he hire the best physical therapist that money could buy to help her? Why didn't he seem to care enough about his daughter to make that minimal effort for the benefit of her health?
"Ivy." I reach for her hand, and she shoves me away.
"Don't," she warns. "I don't want to hurt you, but if you touch me right now, I will fight. I will scratch and claw until I draw blood if only to prove you are human."
Her words sting more than they should. It isn't like me to take demands from anyone, let alone my enemy. But right now, in the dim light of the car, she looks less like my enemy and more like my prisoner. I recognize that solemn expression well because I have seen it many times in my own reflection. I thought this was what I wanted, but now that I have witnessed it in her, I understand I couldn’t have been more wrong.
My hand comes to rest on the seat between us. Close enough to feel the warmth of her body, but far enough away to feel the arctic chill taking over her.
Without a doubt, I have fucked up.
And I wish she could hear the thoughts so loud in my head. The words unspoken, too proud to fall from my lips.
I'm sorry for it. More so than I have ever been.
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