Investigator 

by Nysidra

Erotica (MF)

Summary: Special Investigator Marion captured by the fugitive he's been hunting. 

<->

From behind the blindfold, Marion tried and failed to block out the dire predictions: law enforcement bulletins, crime scene photos, autopsy reports. In his line of work, there was no shortage of people who wanted him dead. He never entertained the idea that he would get caught. 

Adrenaline made him jittery, and Marion hated himself for it. 

It could have been a twenty minute drive or an hour. Either way, they were moving fast. His body rocked during the hard turns, the engine rattled as the driver took off from each stop. The car came to a full stop. Doors rolled open. Men on his left and right took his body up. Marion let himself go limp. Be damned if he was going to make this easy on them. 

"Take up the arms," one of them said. 

Marion drew his knees up and kicked out. The man at his feet stumbled, fell, and Marion followed, his head smacked on the edge of the car. He groaned at the throb in his head. 

Curses pierced through the staggering dizziness, then more pain. Two blows - his cheek and his stomach. As the force of the blow ebbed, a swelling ache surged to replace it. Bile and blood filled his mouth. 

***

Marion woke to a symphony of pain. Dull ache in his abdomen, throbbing knot on the back of his head, swollen cheek. Tinny taste of blood in his mouth. His eyes blinked open. He was staring down at his bare chest. He tried to move his hands, but they were bound tightly behind the chair. 

Turning his head, he took in the room around him, but only one side. His face and neck throbbed from any movement. 

Wood paneling, dark wood desk, hanging lamps. Hardwood flooring. Smelled like a house - clean, pleasant. Where in the hell was he? 

On numerous occasions, Marion had come face-to-face with his prey - it was always a surreal moment. A face only seen in mugshots, surveillance photos, and such come to life before your eyes, moving, speaking, breathing. Francesca 'The Butcher' Atwood was no exception. 

She entered the room impeccably dressed - tailored pants and a crisp silver blouse. Her gaze was almost friendly, warm, unnerving because Marion knew what horrors this woman was capable of. She took the chair opposite him, relaxing into chocolate brown leather. 

She looked much older than her mugshot, but then she was only 19 at the time. Francesca had grown into a gorgeous woman, full figured, lush, and glowing with vitality. This would be his angel of death.

"I hear you have been looking for me, Agent Spruce." Her words came out in a relaxed, casual tone. With a name like 'Francesca' he expected an Italian background. She had more of an island accent. She reached over and pulled a file into her lap. The little he saw sent ice water into his veins. "This case file doesn't do any favors for your investigative prowess." She huffed and set the folder aside. "Is that all you have on me?" 

"I'm working on it," Marion spoke, though his swelling lip took away some of his bravado. "The abduction and assault charges will help." 

Francesca rolled her eyes. "Do you know what I do to people who oppose me?" 

Marion glared at her.

"For the random annoyances, I have them beaten and tossed into the incinerator, but occasionally, there comes a special case that requires my special touch. Those are the people I dismember, disfigure, and scatter to the earth." 

"Hence, the butcher." 
She smirked. "You're no stranger to a little dirty work yourself." 

Silence. Marion burned with fury and shame, but he couldn't find the words to deflect her. 

"Few track me without my knowledge. I make it a point to know more about you than you will ever learn about me. I know you very well, Marion." 

As he took in her measured glare, he realized that he believed her. What did she know? How did she come to know it? Why was she holding his files? 

After a long pause, Francesca sat forward in her chair. The silver blouse framed the swell of her bosom. "You're lucky to be so fucking handsome." Her dark eyes appraised every inch of him as if sizing up a rare steak. 

Lucky? Avoiding the incinerator and her blade? Perhaps Marion could work his way out of this trap after all. 

Francesca waved her hand. Two men flanked him and pulled him onto his feet. These were not the men who captured him earlier, but they kept to the uniform - muscle tight black shirts and black slacks. Francesca had a touch for the dramatic. 

She stood and strolled toward him, hips swaying with each step. She stopped less than a foot in front of him. Her proximity carried the subtle scent of perfume and a hint of lemons. He felt cloaked in her presence. He looked at her with pleading eyes, while internally trying to work out an exit strategy. 

"They'll come after me," Marion said. 

"No, they will not." Her matter-of-fact answer filled him with both rage and fear. 

"Killing a federal officer is a capital offense." 

She grazed his swollen cheek with a silver gray nail and circled his lips. Her breasts pressed to his chest and her lips brushed his ear lobe as she whispered. "I will not kill you, Marion Spruce, but you will scream." 

She pulled away and the henchmen drug him out the room, down the hall, and into a windowless room. The idea of fighting came and went. Marion was in too much pain. He needed to gather his strength before making his play. 

Hands free, locked in. Marion inspected every corner of the room. The window was boarded, almost flush with the wall. He had a bathroom, but it had a walled over window as well. The cabinets, closets, and drawers had nothing to make a weapon from, but there were linen, one-sized clothing, bare amenities. 

Marion sat awake on the futon bed wondering listening for any activity within the house, around him, beyond these walls. No traffic, no voices, no train whistle, no animals, no mutter of a television. The quiet of the place bore down on him until there was nothing to do but sleep. 

***

He woke with a start. Reached under the mattress for a weapon that was not there. The dull pound of his head reminded him of his fate. This was no nightmare, but his waking torment. He had been taken hostage. 

The end table had been empty when he was put in here. Some time during the night it had been set with fresh fruit, a pitcher of water, and... He eased out the bed to inspect the small plastic cup. Aspirin, if the tiny white pills were to be trusted. He touched them with the tip of his tongue. 

As hostage situations go, The Butcher was a hell of a host. Marion poured himself a cup of water and knocked the pills back. 

The flash of a tiny red light drew his attention to the top corner of the room, over the door. 

Where was this place? The address alone would give him enough evidence to raid the place, take her and her band of henchmen down. 

Marion went to the bathroom and scoured every corner with fresh eyes. No cameras that he could find, but the shower was a beaut - spacious and large. Each time he passed by the mirror he winced. A dark nebula and purple and pink covered much of the left side of his face. He'd had his fare share of bruises in life, but never one as artistic as this. He traced the darkest part with his fingertips. It hurt like hell. 

Marion went back to bed. Meals and painkillers arrived while he slept. No clock and no view of the sky meant he couldn't be sure of one day to the next. All the food was non-perishable, able to sit out until he decided to give it a try. Fruit, cookies, even a mini cooler with cold cut sandwiches. 

Somewhere in the realm of two to three days, he was left utterly alone. No torture or interrogation. All he had were his thoughts and the churning mental replay of faults and self-reprimand. To break up the monotony, he drew himself a bath, availed himself of one of the books on the shelf. He was in a terrible situation, but at least he was getting a solid amount of sleep. 

He could almost imagine himself on a meditational retreat, if only he meditation did not include the growing list of worries and concerns about his life beyond these walls. Bills gone unpaid, lovers gone uncalled. Where were they in this stage of the manhunt? Despite Francesca's arrogant confidence, Marion knew he was missed, that there were people looking for him. 

Food came and went, but save for tiny nibbles, Marion avoided it. The aspirin stopped coming, but that didn't mean the food wasn't poisoned. Maybe that was why he was still here, maybe that's why no one would look for him, if they were going to stage his abduction as a drug fueled bender. 

Marion woke to the transcendent smell of steak, and potatoes, and... he took as deep a breath as his lungs would allow. He must have been dreaming. This cell only provided him with fruit, confections, and lunch meat. Why would he imagine such a delicious aroma? 

"Are there dietary restrictions you care to tell me about, or have you resolved to behave as stupidly as possible?" 

Marion bolted upright. Francesca leaned against the wall near the door, both arms folded under the fullness of her breasts. 

"What are you doing in my room?" 

"Your room?" Mirth filled her tone. "Mr. Spruce, one would think that in your starved state you've forgotten where you are and who put you there. You are in no position to question me or my presence." 

It had been a stupid thing to say. 

"Why aren't you eating?" She demanded. 

"I choose not to," he said. "If this is where I am going to be kept, then I'll eat what I want when I want." 

Francesca advanced on him. "Marion," she purred. "You do realize I could make this so much worse for you." She punctuated each word with a step toward him. 

Reluctantly, Marion nodded.

"Tell me." 

"Tell you what?" 

"That you understand how much worse it could be." 

Marion blinked, swallowed thickly. That damned steak filled his lungs and mind. 

"Say the words, Marion." 

"I understand ... how much worse it could be for me." 

She smiled and sat down on the foot of his bed. That when he noticed the expanse of bare leg peeking from the split in her robe. "If I were you, I would be much keener to convey my gratitude." 

That statement messed with his head. Fog rolled in and Marion battled to clear it. If he'd eaten, then his brain wouldn't be in such a mess, he reasoned. Woman, robe, bed. Gratitude? The fog cleared and Marion remembered where he was and why. The Butcher had taken him hostage, but had not hurt him, in fact, seemed concerned as to his health. 

"You must be terrified," he said, "it would be all over the news by now, a federal man hunt underway. You know they're looking for you." 

This made her smile. Why did she have to be so fucking beautiful? If Marion had seen her in a bar or a club, he would have made a play for her, tried to get her in a bedroom alone. "Poor Marion." She stood and picked up the plate of - he had it right - steak, potatoes, and buttered carrots over to the bed. She cut the steak and picked the piece of up with a fork, held it out to him. 

His stomach churned loud enough to wake the dead. Fuck it. He took the morsel into his mouth and struggled not to moan. 

"What did you have on your person when we found you?" 

Found him? He wasn't lost! "My badge, my gun, wallet." Did she fake his death? Put his personal effects in a pile of ashes? It didn't matter, even a body would prompt a full investigation. 

"Think harder." She put seasoned potatoes on the fork this time. 

Fucking hell. This woman was feeding him. He begrudgingly took another bite. Savory perfection. "This is good," he mumbled. 

"That's why I won't let it go to waste. Your phone, Mr. Spruce." 

He swallowed, but his throat wouldn't unstick. 

"You're not ready to return to duty," she cut another piece of steak. "You asked for more time off - a leave of absence. It is truly remarkable how understanding federal officers can be when they think you've made your first ever kill." She held the steak out with a knowing grin. "We both know it wasn't your first." 

No search. No hunt. The realization hit him like a wrecking ball. She could send or say anything on his behalf - with the way Marion had been acting lately - they would believe it. 

He was fucked. "What do you want?" 

"Eat." 

He took the steak into his mouth and reached for the plate. 

"No. I'm enjoying myself." She picked up two of the carrots and held that out to him next. "I took care of the man who did that to you." She gestured with the fork. 

Marion pressed the left side of his face. It barely hurt anymore. "What do you mean?" 

"I had him whipped until he begged for my mercy. Then I beat him until he stopped screaming. Then I tossed his body into the incinerator." 

A minor annoyance. 

Marion took the next bite out of inertia. Food lost its flavor. It was one thing to know a person could do something. Lists, facts, but to hear the confession from her own lips, as if she were detailing a minor infraction. Marion never faulted the man. He fought, they fought back. 

"I said you were not to be harmed," Francesca said impassively. "I do not command an army of killers with kid gloves, Mr. Spruce. I give an order, and I expect it to be followed." 

She wad insane. Marion took the next bite and wished he was finished. She murdered her own people for fighting back? 

"Please leave." 

Francesca paused in cutting another piece of steak and only her eyes moved to meet his. She took the knife, but left the food. Not a single word as she went to the door and walked out. 

The door locked in her wake. 

***

Days marched on - how many remained a mystery, but enough that Marion developed a routine. He woke and did a light work out': push ups, squats, sit ups. He ate a piece of fruit. Then a shower, where he handled the day's erection. He dressed - futile, but it gave him something to do. The clothing took a turn toward more fitted items - and with labels. All of it was lounge wear, but with names like Brooks Brothers, French Connection, Gucci, and Ralph Lauren. 

He dressed, imagining himself to be some uptown yuppy on the way to the country club with his trophy girlfriend. No where in the course of his investigation did anyone mention The Butcher's obsession with finery and class. 

After dressing, he made his bed - or changed the sheets depending on how much he sweat in the night. He put any refuse and dirty plates near the door with his dirty clothes. He would check the shelves and select a book to consume. After a hundred pages or so, lunch(?) would arrive. One of her men would put down new food and take the pile he created. 

Since the steak and potatoes visit, the food was vastly improved. Marion no longer held back from eating everything on his plate - the servings were small, but a finer quality than he'd ever had. 

After the lunch, Marion lay over the bed and closed his eyes. He let his mind take him away from this luxury prison. He would dream up escape scenarios, triumphant rescues. Reports and fellow officers surrounded him as he led Francesca on a wildly publicized perp walk. 

He missed his friends, even some of his enemies. Would they look for him? Surely Aaron or Kayleigh would call. Marion had no family, no steady relationship. He was a dedicated bachelor, not lonely. The word rang hollow now that he needed someone to care. 

Following his period of daydreaming, he would take out the book again and read until the last meal of the day arrived. 

Silence. Oppressive silence made up most of his day. How did monks manage a life like this? Nuns made to stay in one little hovel and pray the day away. So many hours. Marion wanted to see the sun, to feel a breeze, something. Floor vents pumped in plenty of air, but they carried little in the way of sound. 

Some days Marion wanted to scream at the top of his lungs, just to beat back the maddening quiet. 

The surveillance camera became a source of entertainment, a way to torture the person watching over him. Most likely a man. So, Marion would exit the bathroom naked, toweling his body. He positioned his rear to the camera went he bent down to pull on his drawers. Or some days he would forgo dressing for a few hours.

Until Marion got the brilliant idea that just because Francesca's men were killers, it didn't make them straight. 

He went back to dressing in the bathroom. 

Marion had his strength, his wits, and his mind about him. 

Time to make his escape. 

-

Marion, given his time to daydream, had the whole thing planned out. He made a big production of not being able to get out of bed, too weak to hold his head of to read, going in and out of the bathroom. Finally, Marion limped his way into the bathroom and did not come out. 

He readied the broken piece of tile he'd chiseled from the bathroom wall during his baths. All he had to do now was wait, making low groans and spewing water into the toilet. 
"Hey?" Light knocking on the door. 

Go time. 

The door opened and lodged the wedge of tile into the man's face, barely missing his eye. The thin man made a long guttural cry. Marion darted around the man and made for the door. He took an immediate left out of the room. It was a long corridor of wood paneling, framed art, and closed doors. He bolted, sprinting down the hallway while trying to keep his footfalls light as possible. Adrenaline pumped through his body. All he needed to do was find a door. 

A door creaked on its hinges from behind him. Marion chanced a look back and crashed to the ground, a heavy weight settled on him. Still trying to keep quiet, Marion thrashed and tried to push the person off him. The person grabbed him by the shoulder and slung him over. 

Oh. 

Francesca sat on top of him, seething, her whole face red. Demons never breathed such fury. 

Not to mention Marion had to think back at the way she tackled him. 

Along the hallway doors opened and men spilled out into the corridor. He didn't dare turn away from his Mistress' raging countenance. This was it. He was going to die. Split apart or beaten and burned? 

"I see my mercy is wasted, spat upon." Her fists balled the material on his chest. There might have been more, but she looked up. 

"He got the jump on me. Stabbed me." 

She gestured over him. "Take care of that. Get this ungrateful piece of shit back in his room. Tie him to the bed." She stood and a crowd took her place, dragged him back down the hallway. 

They were rough, tied the ropes tight. His fingertips tingled. 

"Leave." She hissed from the doorway. 

Five men filed out. She locked the door behind them. Marion craned his neck to follow her movements through the room, heard her in the bathroom. She came back out with a candle and struck a match. "The tile," she muttered as she sat beside him on the bed. The light was on, so what was the candle about? 

Her long fingers caressed his arm down to his neck. 

Francesca unbuttoned her shirt, revealing a fitted ribbed tee. Her shoulders appeared much larger than he noticed before, her muscles well toned under her smooth skin. This woman was more than capable of administering her own beatings. 

"Marion," she spoke with a hushed, almost weary tone. "You should know that I would never allow your behavior to go unpunished. Honestly, you should be dead by now. Where did you think you were going?" 

"I wanted to get out of here." 

Whack! The sting of her slap burned his cheek, the right one. Then another slap, this time on his left. The muscles of his shoulders screamed. 

A soft click brought his eyes open. A thin switchblade gleamed over his chest. 

"No, please, no." He muttered. "I had to try. I--" 

He cried out as the knife lunged toward his stomach, but Francesca tilted the blade up and ripped his shirt open. The knife slipped under the waistband of the cotton shorts in a single, long slash the fabric tore. She repeated the action down his other leg. 

He lay naked, tied to the bed, hands and feet tingling, shoulders screaming in pain. Was she going to cut him open now? 

She stepped in, knife still in hand and Marion squeezed his legs as best he could, trying to protect his pride from her assault. 

Marion worried about that unnecessarily. Her hand caressed the sting of his cheek, cupped his jaw in a tender gesture. Her thumb brushed across his parted lips. Her hand traveled to the nape of his neck and grabbed a handful of hair. Marion groaned as his head was snatched back. 

She set the blade down and picked up the candle. 

Before her could form the question, he got his answer. Hot wax fell on his nipple. He cried out as the sting caught him off guard. Then again on the other, burning, searing the tender circle of flesh. 

"Sorry!" He screamed. "I'm sorry!" 

Nothing he said seemed to effect her. She was in another place, eyes far away as she dripped wax on his chest, on the sensitive patch of his belly. No lower. Please, no lower! 

I'll make you scream. 

Now that day had come. He screamed and trembled while she tortured him, but without the request for answers or information. As it carried on, Marion got a hold of himself. Yes, it hurt, but what hurt more was the uncertainty, how much more she would do, how much more it might hurt. 

He grunted as she picked dried wax off his body. She leaned down and licked the red patch of skin. The next one was over his nipple. He held his breath. Was she going to? 

That groan wasn't one of pain. The cool relief of her tongue fucked with his stressed body. Those huge breasts of hers pressed on his groin and when she shifted, his erection waved in the air. 

Francesca paid it no mind. Her focus remained on his burns, removing the wax, licking and kissing each sore spot. 

Marion strained against his binds and a whimper escaped his lips. 

Francesca crawled on him and sat down. His erection squarely between her thighs. She leaned forward, pressing those breasts in his face. Her fingers messed with the ties around his wrists, but he couldn't get free of her chest to see. He could barely breathe. 

He thought of biting her, but only for a second. He'd had enough with suicidal ideations for the day. 

Pins and needles set his hand on fire. He groaned and cried out into her bosom, but he couldn't pull his hands down. Somewhere beyond the pain and discomfort, an idea occurred to him: she smells good. The bulge between her legs pulsed. He wanted that fabric gone. 
Francesca sat back and massaged his shoulders, spreading the pain even further along his arms. 

That didn't stop him from grinding lewdly against her, thrusting up, seeking friction. 

"You make it hard for me to punish you," she whispered as her finger nails raked his chest. "Hard, but not impossible." She took off the ribbed tee and the bounty of her breasts hung there, two fat melon drops on her body. 

Marion's mouth watered. He was in a coma. This could not be real. 

She shifted and got off his erection. She reached for something else on the nightstand (not more wax!) and came back with glistening hands. 

Those hands wrapped around his erection. 

"Fuck," he moaned. Now that his hands weren't dying, all that was left was the delight of her hands stroking his cock. 

"What's that?" 

"Fuck me." Marion mumbled. Pain and lust had him in a fog. Did he just say that? Reason had left the building when he decided to run away. All he had left now was lust. 

"Believe me, Marion. I want to." She breathed against his ear. "If only you weren't such a bad fucking boy." 

Nails pressed into the spot just behind his balls. Not so much that it hurt, but enough that it might. Marion held his breath, did not move an inch. 

"Disobedient little prick." She nibbled the side of his neck and caressed rather than hurt him. 

Marion was close, just a few more and he'd-- 

Francesca withdrew from him and gathered her clothes. 

"What? Where?" Marion struggled against his binds. Fuck! He was right there! 

"I lied," Francesca giggled. "I'm very good at punishments. This is yours." She left the room and closed the door. 

***

Marion looked up from the book. He had read and re-read the same paragraph over at least thirty times. It was no more possible to concentrate today than it had been for the past 4 of her visits. Apparently all the time in the world was not enough to focus his thoughts. 

He groaned and tried to focus on reading again. 

Was she going to show up again today? 

Marion had been changed, slowly, irrevocably. She violated him. He knew this happened to hostages, but he assumed he could be stronger than ... than her. 

She barely touched him, not like she did the first time. Always a tease. Men enter and strap him to the bed. She undressed him, touched him, but not there, not that way. The last time she only touched herself. 

Marion closed his eyes against the memory. Everything came back. The smell of her arousal, the wet smack of her fingers as she played with that pretty pussy of hers. She did it while straddling his chest, moaning his name. Fuck, he was so hard. He tried to come without her touching him, anything. 

The men didn't return until he lost his erection, long after, when the eroticism of the moment turned to a need for the bathroom and discomfort. 

But later, later he took to the bathroom and stroked his cock thinking of her, only her. 

Stripped, tortured, fondled - all against his will. His mind was filled with dizzying moments of the past few days. He recalled the dark glare of her eyes while she purposefully teased him. The way she smiled as reluctant moans escaped him. 

Punishment. That's all it was. Marion almost preferred the beating and burning. 
If she wanted to fuck him, she could have. He got rock hard just thinking of her. It wouldn't be rape. By the end of his torture Marion begged to be inside her - any part of her - mouth, pussy, tits, ass, hands. He'd take anything. 

Marion closed the book with a sigh of frustration and threw it across the room. 

What would it be like to be inside her? Marion didn't call his dick his pride and joy for nothing. It had brought many a woman to a screaming conclusion. Who those women were or what they looked like had been burned from his memory. He only had one woman on his mind - always. 

Agitation only grew - swirled into a flurry of heat and swirling thoughts. She was a gorgeous woman, by any standard. She looked like a fucking celebrity - but not the waif, look obsessed. No, rich, wealthy, poised. A woman like Francesca could have any future she wanted. 

Maybe she did. She had a criminal empire under her belt - an illicit network or extortion, lies, loyalty, and death. 

He begged her to fuck him! Marion face flushed with shame. The first time he asked, but every time after that there was no question. He begged. He whimpered for her mercy like a fucking child. It could happen to any man, right? Her body provoked a primal, physiological need. He needed to her body wrapped around his cock. 

Arousal weeping from the head of his dick soaked the boxers. All he had left were cotton boxers. She had taken everything away. No nice clothes, no fine foods, no new books. 

Marion wanted to punch his dick and make it go away. It had turned him into this pitiful creature, desperate to find a way to please her. What kind of man did that make him?

He rolled his neck, kneading his fingers deep into the muscle. She left him tied to the bed, hating himself a little more each time, and then the final stroke of shame. Her fucking henchmen untying his naked body. 

Why was he still alive? Why was she doing this to him? What the fuck is going on? 
Francesca had no reason to keep him. She never asked him a single thing about his work, his life, what he did or did not know. Everything about his capture was so fucking pointless. 

Was he a prisoner? It didn't even feel like a prison until he went and fucked up his country club treatment. 

How long would he be trapped here? 

Marion resented the memory of her. Worse, anticipation or how she would torment him next. 

What did she want from him? Was it her plan to seduce him? Hurt him? Use him? Was she manipulating him? 

Didn't she have enough meat around here if she just wanted to get off? 

***

The door opened and Marion waited to be tied, but that didn't happen. A black bag went over his head and his was dragged from one room to the next.  

"Calm yourself, sir."

The age of the speaker got his attention more than the words. Young, teens? 

The bag came off and Marion squinted against the bright light. 

"Look behind you." The young man said. High pitched voice, but he didn't look as young as he sounded. 

Two armed men at the door. 

In front of him, nothing but nature and sunlight. 

"You're free to walk around. I assume you don't want to incur her wrath?" 

Marion shook his head. No need to ask who she was. He knew. 

The man extended his arm toward the yard. 

The yard. Marion closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Soil. Sun. Grass. Even lifers got more sunshine than he had. How long had he been missing? Even if he took leave, someone would get in touch with him. 

Just his thin, light blue boxers. Marion lay down under the sun and closed his eyes. A few minutes later he rolled on his stomach and let the heat beam down on his back. Sunny day, probably a good eighty degrees out. At least it was still spring. Right? It could have been a mild summer day. Time got away from him. According to the length of his hair, he couldn't have been gone more than a month or two?

Marion felt like a reptile, sunning and still, soaking up the light. For once his mind wasn't on her - until that thought just then. He rolled with a sigh. Trying to run away was really a stupid fucking idea. It had been a while since he got tied down, and now he was out sunbathing. 

She was probably too busy to torture him today. Bodies to dismember and scatter perhaps.

"Follow me." 

Marion looked up. He had a nice tan going. Yeah, he'd better get inside before it become a burn. He put on the head cover and took him back to his room. 

In his absence the room had been polished and scrubbed. It smelled like cleaning products. Everything was fresh and new. Clothes back in the closets, a fine lunch on the table, new books on the shelf. 

And a note at his bedside. 

"There won't be a third chance to please me." 

Marion's hand trembled as he set the note back down. Please her? What in the hell did she want?! 

Not stabbing her 'people' in the face. He through with a wry grin. 

He took a long bath, but opted for just the boxers. He wasn't going anywhere, had no visitors. If he got out to sun again, he'd do it in the nude. Tan lines did not become him. 

***

Marion woke that night with a gasp. Instinct, he reached for weapons that were not there. 
"Clasp your hands above your head." 

Her voice. 

There won't be a third chance. 

He was surprised his hands weren't already bound. He brought them up over his head and laced his fingers. He scowled at her though, made sure she knew he could still hurt her if he wanted. 

"I like that determination." Her half smirk made a mockery of his glare. "How determined are you for more discipline?" 

She approached the bed and removed the robe revealing a sheer pink slip of a gown. Like an unplugged machine his brain powered down. 

"I see you still enjoy the sight of me." She pulled the blanket down and her fingernails scraped the tent made by his erection. 

"You're one sick bitch." 

Francesca cut her eyes at him and grinned again. "I'll take that as a compliment. That's how you meant it, right?" 

"Yes," he breathed. 

"Thought so." She tugged at his boxers, and damn his immortal soul, he lifted his hips to help her. "What do you want, Marion?" 

Those sultry eyes, that breathy tone. Her fucking heavy breasts swayed. 

Let me go. It occurred to him to speak those words, but that wasn't what he wanted. "I want to fuck you." 

"Oh? You don't want me to fuck you?" 

"No. I want to fuck you." 

She grinned and crawled on top of him. "Don't move those arms unless I tell you to." She lifted the gown over head and she was naked on top of him. Naked and there was nothing holding him still but her word, her power. Her scent - sweet, rich, and fragrant - washed over him like a wave and overwhelmed his senses. 

"Please." 

Francesca cocked her head to the side. "What was that?" 

"Please, I need to be inside you." 

"I like the sound of that." She leaned forward, her body stretched over him without actually touching him, save for her breasts squashed between them. "Marion," she whispered, "I told you before. I know so much about you, more than you can imagine. I've combed through every scrap of your life, unearthed your secrets." 

Marion groaned as heat kissed the tip of his erection. Fuck, so close. Don't fuck this up. Don't make her angry. What she said didn't matter. All he needed to know was how to get deeper inside her wet pussy. 

"I knew the moment I saw you I had to have you." Her teeth pulled on his ear lobe and her lips and tongue played along the side of his neck. 

Wait. "What?" 

"If I want something, I have to take it. I don't have the luxury of being invited out on dates or silly little encounters. My work demands most of my attention." By now she moved to his lips and kissed him. Marion kissed her back and groaned as more of him pressed inside her. Fuck. Why was she so fucking tight?! "I've been in your apartment, read your emails, scoured your browser history. You can stop faking." 

Marion took a deep breath. He needed her to get off him. No. That was a stupid thought. What was she saying? Think about it later. Grab her hips and bring her down on his cock. 

"You are here because you are mine. Say it." 

"I am here because I am yours." 

She eased down a little further and whimpered, then eased up. 

Something about this wasn't making sense. 

She crawled up his body. "You wouldn't want to piss me off." 

"No, Francesca. I only want to--" Please her. He managed to shut his stupid mouth before his dick said something stupid. 

"Get me off. Then you can fuck me." 

He licked directly over the length of her clitoris. Francesca made a low sound in her throat. He moved his hands to frame her hips and probed deeper, settled into his task. He kissed her pussy, saving the folds of flesh and lapping, probing, circling with her tongue. Soon he was going to be balls deep inside her, as soon as he made her come. 

She combed her fingers into his hand and rode his face. Her thighs trembled as tensed. Marion closed his eyes as he tasted, smelled her sweet musk. Her sopping folds made his cock ache. He wanted to ravage her, fuck her wet little cunt until she screamed. Soon, Marion promised himself. He needed to make her come, first on his tongue, then on his cock. 

It took everything in his power to stay on task, not to use his grip on her hips to move her down to his cock. She was going to let him fuck her, right? This wasn't more punishment? 

Francesca was close now. He could feel the way her vaginal muscles clenched, the way her thighs tensed for longer and longer periods. His tongue methodically orbited her swollen clitoris, driving her closer to her destination. 

She was right there on the edge and Marion wanted to push her over. Her wedged his hand between them and drove two fingers into her sopping wet pussy. His cock twitched as two of his fingers fit snugly inside her. 

Holy fuck, this woman was tight! 

Francesca gave a great shudder and practically smothered him in her death grip. The bed creaked as she gyrated in pleasure. 

Marion could have come himself with this veritable queen of evil losing herself on his tongue. He continued to lick at her, careful of her sensitivity. Her pussy clasped and milked his finger. 

He needed her. He had to have her. 

Fuck it all, he belonging to her body and soul. 

Francesca crawled down, panting and shivering. She left the bed but returned shortly with a damp cloth for his face. 

Marion watched her every move. If she made one step for the door, he wasn't sure he wouldn't earn himself a lifetime of torture. 

She set the cloth aside and climbed into bed beside him, rolled onto her back. 

Moving slowly, waiting for her stop or direct him in some manner, he rolled on top of her, took hold of her thighs. He swooned as the tip of his cock rubbed up and down her folds. 

"There's no hymen to worry about. Just take your time." 

Why would he worry about a hymen? No questions. He took his time. No. No, this couldn't be true. It must have been a long time for her, that's all. Busy murdering and killing and torturing. 

Fuck it. Don't think about it. 

He sank into the vice grip of her body. And paused to get his wits. Good thing he got her off, all his thoughts of making her come again would have to wait. "Fuck. I can't." 

"I know." She kissed him, those nails dug into his ass. 

Three or four strokes at most. That's all he had before he was shooting inside her like a prepubescent boy. 

"Good behavior has it's rewards. Yes?" 

"Yes," Marion panted. 

<->

Written: June 2014

Contact: nysidra at hot mail dot com
    

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