12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

Iris

I don't want to get out of bed. It's warm in my cocoon of silken sheets and down comforter, a stark contrast to the chill I can feel lingering in the air beyond my sanctuary. The days are growing shorter and colder as Christmas approaches. Part of me wants to burrow deeper, to lose myself in the lingering scent of sex and expensive cologne that clings to the pillows.

But there's an undercurrent of excitement thrumming through my veins, a restless energy that makes it impossible to truly relax. My mind drifts to our guest, wondering how he fared through the long, silent night. Did he manage to find any rest, bound as he was to that unforgiving cross? Or did he spend hours lost in his own thoughts, reliving every touch, every sensation we'd inflicted upon him?

The faint hum of the TV filters to me from the sitting area, barely audible but enough to confirm that Mason has already started his day. My lips curve into a lazy smile as I imagine him there, probably nursing a cup of strong coffee as he catches up on the morning news. Always the early riser, my darling husband.

Curiosity finally wins out over comfort. I throw back the covers, shivering slightly as the cool air hits my bare skin. Goosebumps ripple across my flesh as I pad silently to the closet, selecting a silk robe in deep crimson. The material whispers against my skin as I wrap it around myself, cinching the belt at my waist.

I pause at the full-length mirror, taking in my reflection. My hair is a glorious mess, auburn waves tumbling over my shoulders. There's a faint bruise blooming on my neck where Mason had sucked particularly hard the night before. My fingers ghost over the mark, a pleasant ache radiating from the spot. Perfect.

Stepping back out of the closet, I'm greeted by the sight of Mason lounging in one of the leather armchairs. He's shirtless, wearing only a pair of black silk pajama bottoms that ride low on his hips. His dark hair is slightly mussed, giving him a sexy tousled look that makes my mouth water.

His eyes flick to me as I walk closer, a slow, predatory smile spreading across his face. "Good morning, darling," he purrs, voice still gravelly. "Sleep well?"

I hum in response, moving to perch on the arm of his chair. His hand immediately finds my thigh, fingers tracing idle patterns on my skin. "Well enough," I murmur, leaning down to press a kiss to his temple. "Though I must admit, I was rather... distracted."

Mason's chuckle is low and wicked, sending a shiver down my spine. "Oh? And what could possibly have been distracting you?"

My gaze drifts across the room, landing on the figure bound to the St. Andrew's cross, his golden skin a stark contrast against the dark wood. In the soft morning light filtering through the curtains, he looks almost ethereal—a fallen angel, beautiful in his captivity.

The blindfold remains firmly in place, a strip of black satin that accentuates his sharp cheekbones and the strong line of his jaw. His chest rises and falls in a slow, steady rhythm, suggesting he might still be asleep. Or perhaps he's simply resigned himself to the sensory deprivation, lost in a world of darkness and silence.

I get up and approach him quietly, though I know he can't hear me. Up close, I can see the faint tremors running through his muscles, likely a mix of fatigue and the chill in the air. Goosebumps pebble his skin, and I fight the urge to run my hands over him, to warm him with my touch.

His lips are slightly parted, dry and slightly chapped from hours without water. The urge to kiss him, to soothe that abused flesh with my tongue, is almost overwhelming. But I resist. This is a game of patience, of control. And I intend to savor every moment.

"He's awake," Mason says softly, his voice cutting through my reverie. I turn to find him standing right behind me, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off his body. "Has been for a while now."

My eyebrow arches in surprise. "Oh? And how do you know that?"

Mason's lips curve into a wicked smirk. "I took him to use the bathroom about an hour ago. He was... pleasantly subdued."

The image of Mason manhandling a blindfolded and disoriented Elijah to the bathroom sends a thrill through me. "Did he give you any trouble?"

"No," Mason replies, his voice tinged with amusement. "In fact, he was almost docile. It seems all that sensory deprivation has... softened his edges somewhat."

I hum thoughtfully, turning back to study Elijah's bound form. Now that Mason's mentioned it, I can see the subtle signs of consciousness—the slight tension in his muscles, the way his breathing isn't quite as deep and even as true sleep would produce.

"Interesting," I murmur, trailing a finger down Elijah's chest. He flinches at the unexpected touch, a soft gasp escaping his lips. "And here I thought we might need to work harder to break that stubborn will of his. And did you give him any water?"

Mason nods. "Just enough to keep him hydrated. We wouldn't want him passing out on us, after all."

My mind races with possibilities for our next move. It's the third day of our little game, and I want it to be memorable. Something that will push Elijah further into the depths of desire and frustration.

"I have an idea for today," I murmur, turning to face Mason fully. His eyes darken with interest as I outline my plan, his grin growing wider with each detail.

"Oh, that's deliciously cruel," he purrs when I finish. "I love it.”

We spend the next hour preparing, moving furniture and setting up the scene. By the time we're done, the bedroom has been transformed. Three wide, full-length mirrors now surround the St. Andrew's cross, positioned at angles that will allow Elijah to see every detail of what's about to unfold.

I slip into a sheer black negligee, the material barely there and leaving little to the imagination. Mason opts for tight black boxer briefs that cling to every curve and bulge. We're a study in contrasts—my pale skin and auburn hair against his olive complexion and dark features.

Finally, we're ready. Mason moves to remove Elijah's blindfold and earplugs while I position myself directly in front of him.

The moment Elijah's eyes adjust to the light, his gaze locks onto me. I watch as his pupils dilate, drinking in the sight of my barely-covered body. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, and I have to suppress a shiver of anticipation.

"Good morning, Elijah," I purr, my voice low and seductive. "Did you sleep well?"

He swallows hard, his throat working visibly. When he speaks, his voice is rough from disuse. "Like a baby," he rasps sarcastically.

Mason's lips curl into a predatory smile as he steps closer to Elijah, his voice a low rumble. "Now, now, pretty boy. No need for that tone. We have such delightful plans for you today."

He approaches slowly, like a shark sizing up its prey. His fingers trail lightly over Elijah's skin, raising goosebumps in their wake.

"You see," Mason continues, his breath hot against Elijah's ear, "we thought we'd try a little... experiment. A twist on an old classic, if you will."

I watch as Elijah's body tenses, anticipation and wariness warring in his expression. Mason's grin widens, clearly enjoying the effect he's having.

"Have you ever heard of cuckolding, Elijah?" Mason asks, his tone conversational as if discussing the weather. "It's quite fascinating, really. The psychological dynamics at play... the mix of jealousy, arousal, and humiliation."

Elijah's jaw clenches, but he remains silent, clearly unsure where this is going. Mason continues letting his fingers ghost over Elijah's skin.

"Traditionally, it involves a man watching his wife with another man," Mason explains, his voice dropping to a seductive purr. "Watching her writhe in pleasure, cry out in ecstasy... all while he's forced to simply observe, unable to participate."

He moves away from Elijah, circling me now, dark eyes gleaming with wicked intent. "But we're going to put our own little spin on it. You see, you're going to watch as I pleasure my wife. You'll have a front-row seat to every moan, every gasp, every shudder of her body as she comes apart under my hands and my cock."

Mason's hand slides possessively around my waist, pulling me flush against him. "And the best part? You'll be able to see everything. These mirrors will give you a perfect view from every angle. You won't be able to miss a single detail."

His other hand traces the curve of my breast through the sheer fabric of my negligee. "You'll see how her nipples harden under my touch, how her back arches as I slide inside her. You'll watch as her face contorts in pleasure, as she screams my name when she comes."

Elijah's breathing has quickened, his pupils dilated with a mix of arousal and frustration. Mason's smile is positively feral as he continues.

"And all the while, you'll be right here. Bound. Unable to touch. Unable to stroke that pretty cock of yours no matter how desperately you want to. You'll feel every throb, every ache, with no way to relieve it. It's going to be exquisite torture. And I'm going to savor every second of it.”

Elijah's eyes darken, both defiance and arousal swirling in their icy depths. Despite his compromised position, a smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.

"If you really wanted to do cuckolding properly," he drawls, "then we should trade places, Blackwood."

The statement hangs in the air for a moment, electric and charged. I feel Mason stiffen slightly behind me, his fingers digging slightly into my hip. But then he chuckles, a low, dangerous sound that sends shivers down my spine.

"Oh? And why is that, pretty boy?" Mason purrs, his voice deceptively soft.

Elijah's smirk widens, his gaze flicking between Mason and me. "Well, for starters that’s how cuckolding works, but I've already had the pleasure of fucking your wife. And from what I recall, she seemed to enjoy it quite thoroughly."

Heat fills me at his words and I let a smile curl at the corner of my lips. Mason's grip on me tightens further, possessive and warning.

"In fact," Elijah continues, seemingly emboldened by our reactions, "I distinctly remember her moaning my name. Begging for more. Screaming as she came around my cock."

His words paint a vivid picture, bringing back memories of that night at the gala. The heat of his body, the skillful way he'd played me like an instrument. I feel a flush creeping up my neck, arousal pooling low in my belly.

"So really," Elijah says, his voice dropping to a seductive purr, "if you want true cuckolding, you should be the one bound to this cross. Watching as I fuck your wife into oblivion. Listening to her beg for my cock, plead for me to make her come again and again."

Mason moves so quickly I barely have time to register it. One moment he's behind me, the next he's in front of Elijah, hand wrapped around his throat. Not squeezing, not yet, but a clear threat.

"Careful, Winter," Mason growls, his voice low. "You're playing a very dangerous game."

But Elijah doesn't back down. If anything, he seems to relish the confrontation. "Am I?" he challenges, somehow managing to sound smug even with Mason's hand at his throat. "Or am I just stating facts? Your wife's pussy felt divine clenching around my cock. I bet she'd love to feel it again."

I watch, transfixed, as Mason's fingers tighten slightly. Elijah's breath hitches, but the defiant glint in his eyes doesn't waver.

"You think you could satisfy her better than I can?" Mason asks, his tone deceptively calm. "You think you know what she needs, what she craves?"

Elijah's laugh is breathless but still full of bravado. "I don't think, Blackwood. I know." His eyes flick to me, a smirk playing at his lips. "The way she moved against me, the sounds she made... I'd say I satisfied her quite well."

Mason's jaw tightens, a muscle ticking beneath the skin. But he doesn't rise to the bait. Instead, he leans in closer, his voice dropping to a wicked purr. "You think you know her? You've barely scratched the surface, pretty boy."

His hand slides from Elijah's throat, trailing down his chest in a deceptively gentle caress. "You've tasted a fraction of what she has to offer. A carefully crafted illusion, a performance tailored just for you."

Mason's fingers ghost over Elijah's abs, dipping lower. "Tell me, did you feel powerful that night? Did you think you were in control?" His hand wraps around Elijah's cock, already half-hard despite the tension in the room. "Because let me assure you, you were nothing more than a pawn in our game."

Elijah's breath hitches, his hips involuntarily jerking into Mason's touch. But his eyes remain defiant, locked onto Mason's with a challenge burning in their icy depths. "Game or not," he grits out, "I still made her come. I still felt her tight, wet heat around my cock. And I bet she's thinking about it right now, remembering how good it felt."

I can't deny the shiver that runs through me at his words. The memory of that night is seared into my mind—the thrill of seduction, the exquisite pleasure of his body against mine. But Elijah doesn't understand the deeper game at play, the wicked desires that drive Mason and me.

Mason's laugh is low and savage. "Oh, Elijah," he murmurs, his hand still languidly stroking Elijah's length. "You still don't get it, do you? This isn't about who can make her come harder or whose cock she prefers. It's so much more... complex than that."

He steps back, releasing Elijah's cock. The bound man groans at the loss of contact, his erection now fully hard and leaking. Mason turns to me, dark eyes gleaming with wicked intent.

"Tell me, darling," he purrs, reaching out to caress my cheek. "Do you think our esteemed District Attorney here would kill for you?"

I lean into his touch, a slow smile spreading across my face. "Mmm, I don't know. Would you, Elijah?" I ask, my voice dripping with faux innocence.

Elijah's brow furrows, confusion warring with the lust in his eyes. "What are you talking about?"

Mason's hand slides down my neck, tracing the curve of my collarbone before dipping lower to cup my breast through the sheer fabric of my negligee. His touch sends sparks of electricity through my body, and I can't help the soft gasp that escapes my lips.

"You see, Elijah," Mason purrs, his eyes never leaving mine as he continues to caress me, "what we have goes far beyond mere physical pleasure. It's a bond forged in blood and darkness, a shared hunger that can never truly be sated."

I watch as Elijah's eyes darken, his gaze flicking between Mason's hand on my body and our faces. There's something brewing behind those icy blue eyes, a storm of emotions I can't quite decipher.

"You think you know desire?" Mason continues, his voice dropping to a seductive whisper. "Tell me, Elijah, have you ever wanted someone so badly that you'd burn the world down just to see them smile?"

His hand slides lower, pushing aside the flimsy material of my negligee to expose my breast. I arch into his touch, putting on a show for our captive audience. Elijah's breath hitches audibly, his cock twitching against his stomach.

"Have you ever felt a hunger so deep, so all-consuming, that it threatens to devour you from the inside out?" Mason's fingers find my nipple, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger. I moan softly, the sound echoing in the charged silence of the room.

Elijah's jaw clenches, his arms straining against his bonds. But there's something else there now, beyond the lust and frustration. A glimmer of something wicked, perhaps? Or maybe just a different kind of hunger.

"You talk about making her come," Mason scoffs, his hand trailing down my stomach now, fingers dancing along the edge of my panties. "As if that's the pinnacle of desire. But tell me this, Elijah, would you kill for her?"

Elijah's eyes widen slightly, surprise flickering across his features before he schools his expression back into one of defiant nonchalance.

"Or better yet," Mason continues, his voice dropping even lower, "would you cover up her crimes? Would you use that position of yours, that shiny District Attorney badge, to make bodies disappear? To erase evidence? To keep her safe, no matter the cost?"

I watch Elijah carefully, noting the subtle shifts in his expression. There's a tightening around his eyes, a slight twitch in his jaw. He's trying so hard to maintain his composure, but I can see the cracks forming.

"You're insane," Elijah finally says, but his voice lacks conviction. There's a tremor there, barely perceptible but unmistakable to those who know what to listen for.

Mason chuckles sinfully, his eyes never leaving Elijah's face as his hand continues its teasing exploration of my body. "Insane? Perhaps. But you can't deny the allure, can you? The thrill of power, of playing God... it's intoxicating."

Elijah's eyes dart between us. "You're like some twisted version of Mr. and Mrs. Smith," he says, his voice barely above a whisper. "All charm and danger wrapped up in designer clothes and million-dollar smiles."