Wild Submission(8)

“What about your birth parents?”

Isabelle hesitates. I stop stroking.

“I never knew my dad,” she says quietly. “My mom was an addict. She got busted too many times. They took me away from her when I was just a kid.”

I feel a surge of anger, but I fight to keep it hidden. She’s opening up more to me than ever before. This is all part of her initiation, to belonging to me.

“Do you remember her at all?” I ask, whispering in her ear.

Isabelle shakes her head. “Not really. I don’t even have any pictures.” She pauses, and her voice is quiet and wistful. “Maybe it’s better that way.”

“How did you come to be adopted by Charles and his wife?” I ask. I don’t want to push her too hard, too soon, but I have a burning desire to know the truth. I can tell she’s uncomfortable revealing so much about herself, so I make sure to keep my touch light and soothing, distracting her from the ugliness of the story she’s telling.

“I was bounced around different foster families and group homes for years. Some of them were OK, but the others...” Isabelle pauses, and I feel her body tense again with the memories. She shakes her head. “Then I got lucky, I guess. I was in a group home when a social worker came one day. Said there was a couple, looking to adopt. I guess they’d seen my photo on the website. Even back then, I was pretty,” she adds, with a note of self-loathing in her voice. “They came to meet me, and that was it. They took me home with them the same day.”

“How did you feel about it?” I ask.

She shrugs. “They were good people. And I was lucky, I know. The money, the houses… They gave me everything money could buy.”

There’s a lot she’s not saying. I realize that the Ashcroft I knew: so ruthlessly ambitious, always working, on trips abroad and in the office, wouldn’t have been a perfect father. I probably saw more of him in the past eight years than she did.

I turn Isabelle to face me, and catch the flash of lonely vulnerability on her face. That’s why I kept her back to me this whole time—so she’d be as open as possible. I want to scoop her up in my arms and make love to her. Drive out all that sadness and isolation. Make her feel adored and treasured.

“Lie down on the bench,” I tell her softly. Isabelle lets out a breath of relief. She clearly thinks our conversation is over, but it’s only on pause for now.

She follows my command, draping her perfect body on the low, wide platform.

“Spread your legs for me,” I continue. She flushes, self-conscious, but she does it all the same.

I take a razor from the shelf and kneel down in front of her.

“I said I’m going to get to know every part of you,” I tell her. “Look at that gorgeous pussy.” I smooth a handful of foam between her thighs.

Isabelle wriggles.

“Be still,” I order her. She stops moving. I push her thighs further apart. Her pussy lips part gently, giving me a tantalizing glimpse of her swollen clit.

I slowly draw the razor down over her mound. I rinse and repeat until she’s cleanly shaven and bare. Then I lower my head and drop a light kiss on the smooth skin.

She shivers, arching her hips up against me. I can’t resist trailing my tongue lower, until it’s dancing over her clit.

Isabelle lets out a breathy moan.

God, she sounds so good. I lick lower, tasting her sweet, fresh taste. She parts her thighs wider, a silent invitation to take everything my body is straining to claim.

But I pull back. I get to my feet, and offer her a hand to help her up. She’s a little unsteady, swaying against me as I lead her out of the shower and wrap her in a soft robe. I take her out to the bedroom, and gently set her down in the middle of my huge king bed.

She lays there, her eyes bright with desire, her lips parted with anticipation.

I take three steps back, and sit down in the chair at the foot of the bed.

“Now, Isabelle, you’re going to do everything I say.”

“Yes,” she nods eagerly.

“Yes what?” I demand.

“Yes, Master,” she quickly corrects herself.

I reward her with a smile.

“Good. Now I want to see you touch yourself. I’m going to watch you come.”





FIVE: ISABELLE


I freeze, staring at Cam with a nervous excitement. He’s lounging back in his chair, but his body looks tense and poised for action.

“That was an order,” he tells me with a steely note. “Touch yourself, Isabelle.”

My stomach twists.

No one’s ever watched me before. Then again, Brent was never concerned with my pleasure. He only cared about his satisfaction, not mine.

I take a deep breath. It seems so intimate, so vulnerable.