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not me. She wanted this so she could walk away from me forever.”
Peter spoke calmly, soothingly, and Amy wondered how he could remain so steady
in the face of John’s anger.
    Then she looked from her husband to her lover and realized
that she had been wrong. This wasn’t the end between her and Peter. She wanted
Peter in her life, in her bed. And she still loved John. She wanted both of
them.
    She watched, transfixed, as her husband wound his hand in
his oldest friend’s hair, pulled his head back, and asked, “Do you love her?”
    “Yes. Yes, I love her. But she’s yours, and as soon as you
unchain me, I promise I’ll walk out of both your lives forever if that’s what
you want.”
    “No,” she sobbed. “I love you both. I want you both. Don’t
make him go.”
    The room was deadly still and silent for a moment, and Amy
feared she had condemned them both. Then Tregarth released Peter, took Amy’s
chin gently in his hand and tipped her head so he could see into her eyes. “You
belong to me. You’re mine. No one else touches you without my permission .”
    Without his permission? But other men might touch her, if he
ordered it. The thought was shamefully arousing. Peter might touch her if her
husband ordered it. “Yes,” she said, her voice breaking in gratitude and wonder
and love. “Yes, John. I’m yours. First and always, yours.”
    He smiled approvingly at her, but he was still distant,
cold, commanding.
    “I’m glad we understand one another. But Peter still
deserves to suffer. If you love her,” he pitched his voice to Peter now, “then
there won’t be a mark on her.”
    Amy shuddered. She wasn’t certain what he intended, but she
was frightened—and excited—by this new side of her husband.
    Peter slid his free arm around her. “You’re frightening her,
John. Let her go. Untie her. Take her somewhere alone and make love to her. We
can settle our differences later.”
    “No.”
    She hadn’t noticed the delicate whip lying among Peter’s
discarded toys. John picked it up, cracked it expertly in the air and brought
it down without warning on Peter’s back.
    Peter grunted into her ear and gathered her closer. She
screamed with terror, “Please, John. Don’t hurt him.”
    The whip sang out again, and she felt the man chained behind
her shift to take the blow where it would have stung her tender flesh.
    “You almost struck her,” he cried.
    “No,” Tregarth replied coldly, “you almost failed to protect
her. If we’re to share her, you must show me that you are willing to cherish
her as I do.”
    It was almost too much for her to bear, the heady eroticism,
the tangled emotions. The man she loved most in the world, her husband, had
taken command of her and her lover. And the man who had introduced her to
pleasure, terrified her with her own nature, then shown it to her again today
in startling and wondrous joy, was accepting a whipping from her husband,
shielding her with his body so the lash would not fall on her back.
    The whip came down again, and this time Peter moaned. His
anguish sounded somehow different, but she couldn’t interpret the tenor of his
cries. He held her tight, tucked her body in close to his. “Amy,” he moaned.
“Don’t be afraid.”
    The whip sang out once more and she felt something hard jab
the small of her back. Peter’s cock was erect, aroused by the whipping.
    She gasped, and her husband chuckled. “Always so dominant,
always the one in charge, always the whip hand, Peter. Even at school. You
never bent over for the older boys. You were always the one on top. Well look
at you now.”
    “Please, John,” she begged. “Let him go.”
    “He doesn’t want to be let go, my love. Those flimsy chains
were meant for you. They’re too slender to hold him if he wants to get free.”
    Peter groaned in her ear and rubbed his cock against her.
    Tregarth cast the whip aside, grabbed Peter’s free hand,
released the end of the manacle attached to the bed post