by Roxy Sloane
Relief flashes on Isabelle’s face. Just as I anticipated, she wants to surrender, to not have to make a single decision for herself tonight. To be taken care of.
She unbelts her robe and lets it drop to the floor. Then she throws her shoulders back and lifts her chin, but like a good sub she knows to keep her eyes down.
Fuck, she’s so beautiful.
Blood rushes to my cock as I slowly take in the view. Her golden skin is still damp from the shower, each high, perfect breast tipped with a rapidly-stiffening nipple. Her flat stomach leads down to the apex of her thighs, and her long, coltish legs.
I take my time admiring her, knowing that the anticipation is already pounding through her body, chasing away the fear and pain. I pace in a slow circle around her, drinking in every detail as her breath quickens – this time not in panic, but arousal.
I come to a stop behind her, admiring that firm peach of an ass. I slide one hand over the curve and then bring it down in a resolute slap.
Isabelle groans.
“I should give you a good spanking,” I murmur, leaning closer. I let my lips graze the curve of her neck, noting the way Isabelle’s breath hitches and her nipples tighten into stiff peaks. Everything else has faded away. All that matters is her response to my words and touch: I want to consume her with this need I feel, overwhelm every sense until she only registers my voice, my orders, the ache of her own tender flesh.
I wrap my hand in her silken hair and tug it to one side, exposing the curve of pale flesh.
I lick along her throat. She lets out a breathy moan.
I move my hands around to her front, not touching a single part of her body until I pinch her rosy nipple between my thumb and forefingers.
The moan turns into a whimper.
“I have some clamps I’ve been wanting to use” I tell her, pinching tighter. Her body shudders in response, and I see her bare thighs clench.
She’ll be wet by now. Wet and ready for me.
“Would you like that, my pet? To clamp these tight nipples in cold, hard steel, make you feel the bliss of their exquisite pain?”
“Yes,” she whispers.
I pinch harder, rolling the tender flesh between my fingers until Isabelle yelps. But I don’t stop, I keep up the pressure, pinching and releasing, over and over until she’s gasping for air and her legs are unsteady.
“Don’t move,” I warn her sternly. “You stay still right there until I say, unless you want to face my punishment.”
Isabelle nods, fighting to keep her balance until at last, I release her. I turn her around and bend my head, covering her breast with my mouth and licking her nipple in a soft frenzy of sensation.
This time, her legs do give way. She sinks against me in a sigh of pleasure, gripping onto my hair and holding me to her, moaning loudly as I turn my attention to her other breast: licking and sucking the buds.
“God, that’s so intense!” she gasps. After the pain of pressure, the soft licking must be an exquisite relief.
I pull away. Now her face is glazed with desire: her pupils dilated, her chest rising and falling in heavy breaths of arousal. “I’m going to fuck you,” I growl.
Isabelle swallows. “I want you,” she answers, parting her lips. Damn, a man could slide his cock between those pink pillows and die happy. But it’s not about me, not tonight.
“Where?” I demand.
She flushes. “Inside me.”
“Be specific,” I smirk, almost amused at her good girl manners.
“In my… pussy,” she whispers.
“Are you wet there?” I murmur, watching her. “Do you ache for me to slide my fingers inside you? Stroke that tender clit until you’re screaming?”
“Yes,” she moans. “Please, Master,” she pants. “Please, touch me there.”
“Turn around and move to the edge of the bed,” I instruct her as I roll up my shirt-sleeves. “Now part your legs and lean over until your hands are splayed on the edge of the bed. Good, like that.”
I smile in satisfaction. She makes a pretty little picture like this: her ass jutting back, her body bent over, her sweet pussy on display. I move closer and nudge her feet wider apart. Isabelle twists her head to look back at me, but I gently push it down so that her cheek is resting against the soft linen covers.
“Now, my darling. You are ready for me.”
I sink to my knees behind her, part those sweet ass-cheeks, and bury my tongue in her cleft.
Isabelle lets out a moan of surprise, but I don’t stop. I drag my tongue along her seam, finding that tight ring of muscle; swirling and lapping until she’s quivering against me.
“Oh God,” she gasps. “Cam! What--?”
I probe deeper, nudging the tip of my tongue just inside. Isabelle wriggles with another moan, but I grip her hips, keeping them locked in place, powerless to escape my wet exploration.
Her moans become cries of pleasure. My tongue flicks and swirls in a fast rhythm designed to drive her wild. She thrusts back eagerly against my face, all her earlier blushing innocence forgotten.
This is what pleasure does to us all; makes slaves of us. Makes us beg for things we never dreamed ourselves capable.
But I’m no slave here. I’m the one in control of her ecstasy. I can take her to the brink, or leave her gasping.
I have the power, and fuck, it feels so good.
My cock grows harder, blood pounding in my veins. I want her. Want these moans to echo with every hard plunge of my dick; want her body to clench around every thick inch of me.
I spread her cheeks wider and renew my licks, dipping one finger in the slick wetness of her cunt only long enough to coat it in her juices.
Then I sink it inside her, all the way to the knuckle.
Isabelle groans, clenching around me. “Oh my God!”
I pause, not wanting to push her too far tonight. I gently slide my finger out of her, but Isabelle lets out a whimper of protest.
“You like that, my sweet dirty girl?”
“Yes,” she gasps. “More, please. I need… I need it. I need to feel. Please, Master,” she begs, twisting again to gaze back at me. “Take me. Fuck me. Do whatever you want. Use me.”
Lust slams through me. She wants it all. She craves the exquisite pain of submission, and fuck, I’m going to give it to her.
“Don’t move,” I growl, striding over to the bedside table. I pull out a bottle of lube, and return to her arched body. I strip off my belt and pants, finally freeing my hard, hungry cock.
I stroke myself with the lube.
“Keep your hands on the bed,” I growl. I toss the bottle aside, and slide my hands over that perfect ass. “Grip the sheets if you need, but don’t you dare break position.”
Isabelle trembles. She lets out a moan of anticipation as I part her cheeks and take up position between her legs.
I lightly scratch my nails down the length of her back, making her arch and moan. Then I find her puckered hole and nudge my cock against it.
Isabelle tenses.
“You like it, don’t you? You want me to fill you up, possess every part of you.” I slowly push past her entrance, using my voice to lull her, distract her from the pain she craves and flinches from in the same breath. “You were made to serve me, my pet. Your body exists to pleasure me, to open wide, and feel the hard drive of my cock invading every inch of you. Do you feel that?” I growl, clenching my jaw to keep from moving too fast, but fuck, she’s so good, so goddamn tight.
I press deeper, inch by inch. Isabelle whimpers, clutching the covers in her hands. Tears are running down her cheeks, but she’s arching back, gasping for more.
“Please,” she whimpers, over and over, “Please, Master.”
It takes everything I have not to slam into her, possess her completely, but I keep control. I thrust gently, until finally, I’m buried to the hilt in the vice-like grip.
“You belong to me,” I growl, fisting her hair in one hand. “I’ve taken every part of you
now. Your sweet mouth, your juicy cunt, and this tight ass.”
I land a light slap on the curvy flesh. Isabelle clenches around me, and fuck, I nearly lose my mind.
“Do you understand?” I demand. “I possess you. Always, Isabelle. Every fucking inch.”
I pull out a few inches, and am rewarded with a moan of protest. I can’t hear what she’s saying, it’s muffled in the covers, so I tug her hair, pulling her head back off the bed.
“More,” she breathes, “I need it. More. Harder. Please!”
I know fulfilling this need of hers will free her mind from the suffering she’s had to endure. But the desperate need in her voice destroys the last of my defenses. I’m doing this as much for her as for myself.
I move back into her, pushing the two of us forward onto the bed with the force of my thrust.
Isabelle screams. “Yes!”
I grip her hips and thrust again. Deeper. Harder.
“Oh my god! Yes!”
I slam into her again. Fuck, there’s nothing left in the world, nothing but heat and force and the clench of her ass gripping my cock, demanding every inch of me. The friction is insane, every thrust driving me past all control, past reason and logic, into a haze of pure animal lust.
Isabelle whimpers and writhes against me, thrusting back to meet my ravenous plunging. I hold her down, my erection harder than ever, every new stroke a fucking miracle. Fuck, it’s an avalanche building, a fucking tsunami so close to the edge. But I can’t let go, I can’t give in, not until—
I yank Isabelle’s body back against me, sliding a hand between her legs and finding her clit. It’s slick, wet with needy juices. I gently press down, teasing her as I slip a finger into her waiting pussy. I circle back up to her clit and put more pressure there as I thrust into her one last time and finally she comes, moaning as her body convulses and my own epic climax is ripped from my body.
I pull out, yelling my release as I spurt a torrent of hot cum over her naked back and ass. The pearly liquid marks her flesh like rope, like bonds.
Like a brand.
Mine.
THREE: ISABELLE
I fall asleep in Cam’s arms believing everything will be OK. But the real world is still out there, and there’s no hiding from it for long, not with my mugshot on the front page of the society section, and a murder charge hanging over my head.
First thing in the morning, I’m back at the police precinct. This time, I’m in an interview room instead of a holding cell, and I have Cam by my side, and lawyers too: our friend Justine, and a law school buddy of hers, Grant West, a specialist in criminal law.
“This is just an informational interview,” Justine explains to me with a reassuring smile. “We’re allowing the detectives to ask you some questions. And it gives you a chance to explain your side of the story.”
Grant nods. He’s wearing an expensive suit and has a designer briefcase resting against the metal table. I’m hoping all that money comes from being unbeatable in court. “Keep your answers short and simple. Don’t let them bait you. I’ll let you know if you should answer, or keep quiet.”
I’m nervous just listening to them. I look to Cam.
“You can do this,” he tells me firmly. “Just stay calm. Tell them the truth, and everything will be fine.”
I nod, fighting to keep my breathing steady. The last thing I want is another panic attack like last night. But Cam takes my hand and holds it tight, and just like that, my fear eases.
He’ll protect me. He won’t let them take me away again.
There’s a noise from the hallway, then the door to the interview room flies open. A heavy-set man in rumpled clothes strides in. He drops a file on the table and looks at us. “Well, ain’t this the soiree. You all need to be here?”
Justine gets up. “We’ll be right outside,” she tells me, nodding to Cam.
He rises from his seat too. Panic grips me, and I feel myself shaking as I let go of his hand.
“You’ve got this,” he tells me, his eyes filled with confidence. “I believe in you.”
I want to prove him right, so I take a deep breath and brace myself as he and Justine exit the room. Another man files in right after them, a younger detective with an attempt at a goatee and a nervous twitch.
The older guy sits. “I’m Detective Bates, and this is Officer Ruiz.”
Bates hits the button on an old tape recorder. “This interview is being recorded. Are we ready to begin?”
I nod, my stomach tied up in knots.
“Alright then,” Bates continues. “This is an informational interview with the suspect, Isabelle Ashcroft, charged with the murder of Richard Clayton.”
He says it all with a yawn, reaching to scratch at his two-day stubble. “Also present is the suspect’s lawyer…”
“Grant West,” Grant speaks.
“OK, Miss Ashcroft.” Bates glances at the file in front of him. “As stated, you stand accused of the murder of Richard Clayton. He died on August seventeenth—“
“A death ruled accidental by the coroner,” Grant interrupts. “Not to mention the Hillway Shores police department, the Alachua County PD, the DA…”
“Are you going to interrupt the whole way through?” Bates seems unimpressed. “Because this can take all day if you want it to. We ain’t got nothing else planned, do we?”
He turns to his partner. The kid shakes his head. “No, nothing.”
“Grant.” I give him a look. “It’s fine. Let’s just get this over with as quickly as possible.”
“Smart girl.” Bates nods. He flips the page. “Now, the night of the fire. You were how old?”
“Thirteen.” My voice trembles.
“Do you remember much of what happened?”
My gaze flicks to Grant and he nods at me. “Go ahead, Isabelle.”
The memories are hazy at first. I’ve tried so hard to forget everything that happened that night, it’s like digging up fossils from the past.
Sins that should be left buried.
I take a deep breath. “I was at the Clayton’s house by myself. I was home sick from school, the other kids were all gone. Mrs. Clayton left for work, but Richard been fired from his delivery job a couple of months before. So he was always around the house.”
I pause, already slipping back into the past. I’ve been blocking it out for so long, now it all comes rushing back.
“He was a drinker,” I say quietly. “It got worse after he lost his job. He couldn’t get work because of the DUIs on his record. He was always angry, or complaining. Or…” I stop.
Bates and Ruiz wait, watching me. I hate their eyes on me, so I stare at a scratch on the table, and force myself to continue.
“There were four of us kids,” I say. “Two boys, they were older. Clayton would push them around sometimes. If they stepped out of line, he’d give them a beating with his belt. Mrs. Clayton looked the other way. She said, we should learn to behave.”
I swallow. My throat’s dry, but there’s no water, so I keep talking. “I shared a room with the other girl, Britney. Well, it wasn’t much of a room, it was the laundry room out back, they shoved a couple of beds in there. Mr. Clayton was always walking in, pretending like he needed clothes from the hamper, or to run a load.” I shake my head, my skin prickling just at the memory. “Britney was younger than me, but she looked older, I guess. She got a growth spurt, started filling out, you know. And Mr. Clayton…he noticed. He started hanging around more.”
I remember Britney; she was just a kid. She’d gone into the system only recently, after her mom died, since her dad was stationed overseas and there wasn’t any other family to take her. The Claytons were her first family—she didn’t know how the system worked. I was the one who taught her how to hide snacks under the mattress so the boys couldn’t steal them, and shove a chair under the bathroom door handle so Mr. Clayton couldn’t ‘accidentally’ walk in when she was in the shower.
“Miss Ashcroft?”
I
blink. The detectives are waiting.
“Right. Where was I?”
“The day of the fire. You were home sick.”
I nod. “Right. I was in the living room, on the couch, reading. Mr. Clayton came in. It was only the afternoon, but he was already drunk. He stumbled over a table, started yelling and calling me names. I tried to leave, but he followed me back into the bedroom.”
I gulp. “He was saying all kinds of things. How I should be grateful he’d taken me in. How I could be sent somewhere much worse, if I didn’t behave myself. He said I should be nice to him. That I should show him how much I appreciated him.”
My throat tightens. The walls close in on me again, but I fight to stay strong. “He tried to grab me,” I continue, feeling tears in the corner of my eyes. “He threw me on the bed. His hands… his hands were all over me, he was grabbing, trying to… to force himself.” I haven’t talked about this with anyone but Cam, and never in this much detail. I don’t want to remember my terror, my determination to protect myself. “I fought him off, I ran, trying to get away. But he chased me. He tripped again, on a toy or something. He fell, and hit his head. I didn’t stay.” I whisper, “I ran, I went straight to school. I never said anything. I didn’t know about the fire until I got home again that night and saw the fire trucks.”
I stop. Grant gives me a nod. I’m doing OK.
“How did the fire start?” Bates asks.
“I don’t know, I wasn’t there. I mean, he was smoking…” I stop. “I remember the ashtray, on the table. It was always full. Maybe I knocked it—”
“That’s enough for now,” Grant cuts me off. “My client has stated she wasn’t present when the fire started.”
“She said she wasn’t sure,” Bates corrects him. “But she also stated she left Mr. Clayton suffering from a potentially life-threatening head-injury.”
“After fleeing a sexual assault,” Grant fires back.
