Chapter 12: Interrogation
The candle flame guttered, throwing monstrous shapes onto the water-stained plaster walls. Erin knelt on the rough floorboards, the splinters biting through the thin denim of Aaron’s jeans pooled around her thighs. Isabella’s command hung in the thick air, laced with salt and cheap cologne. "What do you want? Right now?"
Erin’s throat seized. Want? The word felt jagged, foreign. She wanted the floor to swallow her. She wanted the impossible thrill of the hotel suite back. She wanted Isabella’s punishing hands to stop. And… not stop. Her gaze flickered to the smudge of Aaron’s blood dried on Isabella’s knuckle. "I…"
"Louder." Isabella’s voice was a velvet whip. She hadn’t moved, still kneeling before her, that unnerving stillness radiating power. Her dark eyes reflected the flickering flame, unreadable pools. "If you can scream filth for strangers, you can tell me. What. Do. You. Want?"
The tears kept coming, hot and shaming. "To stop it hurting," Erin whispered, the confession raw.
Isabella’s laugh was a low scrape of sound. "Liar." Her hand shot out, not to strike, but to grasp a fistful of the oversized flannel shirt at Erin’s shoulder. She hauled her forward, off her knees, forcing her to sit upright, legs awkwardly splayed. "The pain is part of the taste, isn’t it? Like the salt on your skin. Like the cheap whiskey he choked on." Her thumb found the damp trail of tears on Erin’s cheek, tracing it with rough deliberation. "You thrive on the sting. Admit it."
Erin flinched but couldn’t pull away. Isabella’s proximity was a physical force, her perfume an intoxicating, terrifying musk. "I… I don’t know," she gasped.
"You know." Isabella’s voice dropped, became a low, intimate murmur. "You remember. The hotel. All those bodies. All that heat." Her free hand moved, not to Erin’s face, but lower, her fingertips brushing the inside of Erin’s thigh, just above the bunched denim. Erin jerked as if branded. "Tell me how it started. The gangbang. Detail by detail. Position by position."
"No, please…" The plea was weak, drowned by the roaring in Erin’s ears.
"Pou malakas!" Isabella spat, the Greek curse sharp in the confined space. Her fingers dug into Erin’s thigh, insistent, demanding. "You paraded yourself. You begged for it. Now parade for me. Show me." She released Erin’s shirt and gestured sharply to the grimy floorboards between them. "On your hands and knees. Like the eager slut you were."
Humiliation burned hotter than the candle flame. Erin’s limbs felt leaden, yet she obeyed. The wood was rough and cold against her palms. She lowered herself, the oversized shirt hanging open, exposing the delicate curve of her spine, the swell of her ass barely contained by the sagging jeans. She kept her face down, blonde hair a messy curtain.
"Better," Isabella purred. She shifted, circling Erin like a predator assessing prey. The flickering light elongated her shadow, making it dance across Erin’s vulnerable back. "Now. The first one. Where did he take you? Against the minibar? On the carpet?" Her voice was deceptively casual, conversational, as she stopped beside Erin’s hip. "Did he push you down? Or did you kneel willingly?"
Erin squeezed her eyes shut. The memory surged: the clink of bottles, the cool metal against her cheek. "H-he… pushed," she whispered, her voice muffled against the floorboards. "Against the minibar. Hands on my hips."
"Show me," Isabella commanded. Her own hand landed firmly on Erin’s hipbone, mimicking the pressure. "Hard?"
"Yes." The word was a gasp.
"Kala. Good." Isabella’s hand didn’t move. "And then? Did you open your mouth for the next one? Or were you still busy?" Her other hand reached down, fingers tangling roughly in Erin’s hair, pulling her head up slightly. "Open."
The command was absolute. Erin’s lips parted obediently, a small, helpless sound escaping her. Isabella’s thumb brushed her lower lip, a mockery of tenderness. "That’s it. Like taking candy. Only… stickier." A cruel chuckle. "How many? Before they decided the bed was softer?"
The memory crashed over Erin – hands grabbing, pulling her away from the cool metal, stumbling towards the vast expanse of rumpled sheets. "T-two," she choked out. "Then… then hands everywhere… pulling me…"
"Show me the pull." Isabella’s grip in her hair tightened, pulling Erin up onto her knees, forcing her back to arch. Her free hand slid around Erin’s waist, fingers splaying possessively low on her belly, pulling her back against Isabella’s legs. Erin’s breath hitched violently; the contact sent a jolt straight to her core, a terrifying mix of violation and electric arousal. "Like this? Dragged like a prize?"
"Yes!" Erin gasped, the admission ripped from her. The rough hand on her stomach pressed harder, fingers dipping slightly beneath the waistband of the jeans, scraping skin.
"Poly kala. Very good." Isabella’s breath was hot on Erin’s ear. Her voice dipped lower, rougher, switching to Greek, the guttural consonants like stones dropped into Erin’s soul. "Pigaine pio vathi… Take it deeper, malaka… Show me how you spread for them… Ti glykia pou eisai… Sweet little thing..." The foreign words, harsh and intimate, painted vivid, degrading pictures far more potent than English. Each phrase was punctuated by the tightening of her grip, the scrape of her nails.
Erin trembled, suspended between shame and a dark, unwelcome thrill. She felt the dampness between her own thighs, a humiliating counterpoint to Isabella’s invasive touch. "The bed," she whispered, needing to escape the Greek, needing to obey. "They… I was on my back. Legs…"
"Dose ta podia sou!" Isabella commanded, the Greek phrase snapping out. "Show me!" She released Erin’s hair, shoving her forward onto her hands again, then grasped the waistband of the jeans. Before Erin could react, Isabella yanked them down roughly, past her hips, exposing her bare ass and the vulnerable cleft below to the cool, damp air and the flickering candlelight. Erin cried out, burying her face in her arms, utterly exposed.
"Legs apart, poutana!" Isabella ordered, her voice thick with dark amusement. A sharp slap landed on Erin’s exposed backside, the sound loud in the room, the sting immediate and shocking. "Wider!"
Sobbing, Erin obeyed, spreading her knees wider on the filthy floor. The position was excruciatingly vulnerable, the air cool on her most intimate skin. Isabella’s shadow fell over her.
"Like this?" Isabella murmured, reverting to English, her voice dripping with faux sweetness. "Open and ready?" Her hand slid down from the small of Erin’s back, over the curve of her ass, fingers trailing through the dampness gathering at the apex of Erin’s thighs. Erin whimpered, pressing her forehead hard against the rough wood, torn between wanting to flee and arching into that punishing touch.
Isabella chuckled, a low, satisfied sound. "There it is. The proof. Just like the stains on my sheets." Her fingers found slick heat and pressed, not gently, exploring the swollen folds she found there. Erin gasped, her hips jerking involuntarily. "You filthy little skylí," Isabella breathed, her Greek endearment sounding like a curse. Her fingers pushed harder, parting slick flesh. "This is what you want, isn't it? Even now? Even with the floor biting your knees? Even with my handprint on your ass?" She curled a finger, finding the tight, resistant entrance hidden within the wetness. "Admit it. You need this. The degradation. The filth. The punishment."
The intrusion was rough, sudden, undeniable. It stole Erin’s breath. Shame warred with a dark, pulsing wave of pleasure that coiled tight in her belly. Isabella was right. The rough handling, the crude commands, the terrifying exposure – it was stripping away layers, leaving only raw, desperate sensation. She was aroused. Profoundly. Shamefully. By Isabella’s fury, her control, her utter lack of mercy.
"Yes," Erin choked, the word barely audible, muffled by the floorboards and her own tears. It was surrender. It was truth. "Yes."
Isabella stilled for a heartbeat, her finger buried deep. The only sounds were their ragged breathing, the crackle of the candle, and the relentless cry of the gulls outside the thin walls. Then her free hand came down, not to strike, but to tangle gently in Erin’s blonde hair. The contrast was jarring.
"Good girl," Isabella murmured, her voice softening almost imperceptibly, the Greek roughness gone. Her thumb stroked Erin’s scalp where moments before her grip had been punishing.
Her thumb stroked Erin’s scalp where moments before her grip had been punishing. The gentleness was a shock, a sudden stillness in the storm. Erin froze, the sob catching in her throat, confused by the shift.
Isabella withdrew her probing finger slowly, the slick sound obscene in the quiet. "Look at me," she commanded, her voice low but devoid of the earlier whip-crack anger. It was simply… present. Demanding. Erin lifted her head, blinking away tears, her cheek scraping against the rough wood. Isabella’s dark eyes held hers, unblinking, reflecting the guttering candle flame that made shadows dance across her sharp features. "You remember the taste? The smell of them?"
Erin swallowed hard, the phantom sensations flooding back – sweat, cheap beer, cologne. "Y-yes."
"Which one made you come first?" Isabella’s question was casual, conversational, yet it felt like another intrusion. Her hand drifted back down, fingertips lightly tracing the curve of Erin’s exposed hip, making her flinch. "The one at the minibar? Or the sweaty one who couldn’t wait for the bed?"
Erin squeezed her eyes shut again. "The… the third one. Against the window." The memory was sharp, the cold glass against her back, the sheer exposure. "He… he used his mouth." The admission burned.
Isabella made a low, considering sound. "Clever boy," she murmured. Her exploring hand slipped lower, past the denim bunched around Erin’s thighs, finding the slick heat again. Her touch was different now – not punishing, but deliberate, assessing. "And this?" Her fingers circled the sensitive bud hidden within the wet folds, applying just enough pressure. "Is this what you wanted him to do? Or did you just spread wider and hope?"
A ragged gasp tore from Erin. Her hips jerked forward involuntarily, seeking more. The conflicting waves of shame and raw, undeniable need left her trembling. "I… I don't know!" It was a plea, almost a wail.
"Bullshit." Isabella’s voice remained calm, almost bored. Her thumb pressed harder, rubbing in a slow, devastating circle. It wasn't kindness; it was testing. "You knew exactly what you were doing, parading around in those little shorts at the bar earlier. Flashing a smile at Stavros. Leaning over the pool table for Dimitri." Her other hand tightened momentarily in Erin’s hair, a silent warning against movement. "You wanted eyes on you. Wanted their filthy thoughts. Wanted them to imagine exactly this. Spread open. Needy."
Erin couldn't deny it. The thrill before the chaos, the electric charge of being watched, desired. It was part of the dangerous dance. "Maybe," she whispered, the word thick.
"Maybe?" Isabella’s laugh was a breath against her ear. "Look at you. Look at this." Her fingers dipped lower, sliding easily through the slickness, finding that tight entrance once more. This time, she pushed two fingers in slowly, stretching the resisting muscle. Erin cried out, arching her back, her knuckles white where they gripped the floorboards. The invasion was brutal and undeniable. "This isn't 'maybe'. This is 'yes'. This is 'more'." She began a slow, relentless rhythm, her knuckles grinding against Erin’s skin. "You love the filth. Crave the debasement. It makes you wetter than any sweet talk."
Tears streamed freely now, mixing with sweat on Erin’s face. The pleasure was building, a dark, coiling pressure beneath the shame, fed by Isabella’s words and the insistent thrust of her fingers. She felt utterly owned, dissected on the filthy floor. "Please," she gasped, unsure what she was begging for – stop or don't stop.
"Please what?" Isabella demanded, her voice hardening slightly. She increased the pace, her fingers curling sharply inside, finding a spot that made Erin see sparks. "Do you want the punishment to stop? Or do you want to come? Like the cheap little slut you pretended to be?" The rhythm became punishing, driving deeper with each thrust.
Erin couldn't speak. Her body was betraying her completely, rocking back against Isabella's hand, chasing the impossible peak. The rough floor scraped her knees, the candle smoke stung her eyes, Isabella’s words cut deep. Yet the pressure built, undeniable, terrifying. A low moan escaped her, guttural and raw.
"Answer me!" Isabella snarled, twisting her wrist sharply. The sensation was electric, painful, perfect. "Do you want this?"
"Yes!" Erin screamed the word, the sound ripping from her throat, echoing off the damp walls. "Yes, I want it!" It was surrender. It was truth laid bare. Her body clenched around Isabella’s fingers as the climax tore through her, violent and shattering. She collapsed forward onto her forearms, shaking uncontrollably, waves of intense, shameful pleasure washing over her, leaving her gasping and utterly spent.
Isabella held her there for a long moment, fingers still buried deep inside, feeling the aftershocks ripple through Erin’s body. The only sounds were Erin’s ragged sobs and the frantic beat of her own heart against her ribs. Slowly, deliberately, Isabella withdrew her hand. She didn’t wipe her glistening fingers on the floor or her own clothes. Instead, she brought them to Erin’s upturned face, slick and shining in the candlelight.
"Open," Isabella commanded, her voice back to that unnerving calm. Her eyes were dark pits. Erin, dazed and trembling, obeyed automatically, parting her lips. Isabella pressed her wet fingers against Erin’s tongue. The taste of her own arousal flooded Erin’s mouth – salt, musk, the undeniable tang of submission. "Taste it," Isabella murmured, watching her intently. "Taste your own truth. Remember it."
The candle sputtered violently, threatening to drown in its own wax. Outside, the distant crash of a wave against the cliff face sounded like a fist hitting stone.
The taste of herself—musky, sharp, salt—coated Erin’s tongue. She choked, trying to pull back, but Isabella’s fingers pressed harder, forcing the slickness deeper into her mouth. The humiliation burned hotter than the slap on her ass, hotter than the memory of the hotel suite. Outside, another wave slammed the cliff, shaking the taverna’s foundations.
"Swallow it," Isabella murmured, her dark eyes locked on Erin’s, unblinking. The command was velvet over steel. Erin gagged, tears welling anew, but obeyed. The thick swallow felt like submitting all over again. Isabella watched, a flicker of something unreadable—satisfaction? contempt?—passing over her face before she finally withdrew her fingers, wiping them casually on the thigh of her own dark jeans.
The sudden absence of contact was jarring. Erin knelt, shivering, jeans still pooled around her thighs, the cold air biting her exposed skin. The flickering candle cast monstrous shadows that danced across Isabella’s sharp features and the water-stained walls. The scent of sex, salt, and cheap cologne hung thick. Erin wanted to cover herself, curl into a ball, vanish from the weight of Isabella’s gaze. Her body still trembled with the fading echoes of the brutal climax Isabella had wrung from her.
"Look at you," Isabella said, her voice low and devoid of its earlier fury, yet still carrying an edge that scraped Erin’s nerves. She reached out, not to strike, but to trace the drying tear tracks on Erin’s cheek with the back of her knuckles. The touch, almost gentle after the violence, was terrifying. "All that fire. All that shame. Twisted together." Her thumb brushed Erin’s lower lip, smearing the remnants of wetness. "You wear it well, Erin. The desperation."
Erin flinched. "Don't..." The word was a dry rasp.
"Don't what?" Isabella tilted her head, a predator studying wounded prey. "Don't see you? I see everything. The way your breath hitches. How you tremble. The slick heat I just pulled out of you." She leaned closer, her perfume – jasmine and smoke – cutting through the taverna’s stale air. Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "Tell me something true. Did any of them, in that hotel, make you feel this raw? This... seen?"
Erin squeezed her eyes shut. The memories were a chaotic blur of grunts, sweat, anonymous hands. Intense? Yes. Consuming? Sometimes. But seen? Understood? Never like this. Never stripping her down to the terrified, aroused core beneath the carefully constructed Erin persona. She shook her head mutely, unable to form the words.
"Thought not," Isabella said, a note of finality in her tone. She shifted, moving from her kneeling position to crouch directly in front of Erin, blocking the shaky candlelight. Her presence filled the cramped space, overwhelming. One hand slid behind Erin’s neck, fingers tangling firmly in the damp hair at her nape, not pulling, just holding. Anchoring. The other hand cupped Erin’s jaw, thumb still resting on her abused lower lip. Her touch was deliberate, possessive. "They used a fantasy. I see the man beneath the slut."
Panic, sharp and cold, sliced through Erin’s haze. Aaron. The name screamed silently in her head. Did Isabella know? Was this the punishment? The ultimate exposure? Her breath seized; her muscles locked rigid. The fragile construct of Erin threatened to implode under the sheer weight of that terrifying possibility. The rough floor, the lingering sting, the taste of salt and submission – it all narrowed to this pinpoint of utter vulnerability held in Isabella’s unforgiving hands.
Isabella’s dark eyes searched Erin’s face, seeing the panic, the dawning horror. A ghost of a smile touched her lips – not cruel, but utterly inscrutable. She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. The hand on Erin’s jaw tightened slightly, tilting her head back. Then, with a suddenness that stole the air from the room, Isabella leaned in. Her lips crashed against Erin’s, not tentative, not questioning, but deep and consuming and absolute. It wasn't tender. It was claiming. A searing brand of possession that swallowed Erin’s gasp, her fear, the taste of salt, the lingering shame, pulling her under into a dark, unexpected tide.
The kiss wasn't gentle. It was a dive into deep water, cold and shocking, swallowing Erin whole. Isabella’s lips pressed hard against hers, demanding entry, tasting of salt and Erin’s own slick submission. Erin froze, the world narrowing to the pressure on her mouth, the grip on her neck, the rough scrape of Isabella’s jeans against her bare thigh.
Then instinct surged, raw and desperate. Her hands flew up, palms slamming weakly against Isabella’s shoulders. A muffled sound escaped her – protest, fear, maybe something else entirely tangled in the suffocating heat. Isabella didn’t yield. Her hand fisted tighter in Erin’s hair, holding her head immobile, deepening the kiss with a ruthless precision that stole Erin’s breath. The taste of her own arousal mixed with the faint metallic tang of blood – Aaron’s blood? Hers? It was dizzying, a violation that somehow fed the embers still smoldering low in her belly.
Just as abruptly as it began, it ended. Isabella pulled back, releasing Erin’s hair and jaw. Cold air rushed into the space between them, making Erin gasp. Her lips felt bruised. Isabella stayed crouched before her, breathing slightly faster, her dark eyes glittering in the candlelight, utterly unreadable. She wiped her mouth with the back of her knuckles. "Get dressed," she ordered, her voice low and thick, devoid of the fury from before but edged with something just as dangerous. It wasn't a request. It was a dismissal.
Erin scrambled back, fumbling with the bunched denim around her thighs. Her fingers trembled violently, catching on the rough fabric. The cold floorboards bit into her knees, grounding her in the sudden, jarring silence. The intimacy of the kiss, after the violence and the exposure, left her feeling flayed open and strangely hollow. She yanked the jeans up, the zipper scraping her still-sensitive skin. Outside, the muffled roar of the tavern crowd surged, a reminder of the world waiting just beyond the thin curtain.
Isabella stood, towering over her, a stark silhouette against the flickering light. She adjusted the cuff of her dark jacket, a small, precise movement. "You play a dangerous game, glykiá mou," she said, the Greek endearment sounding like a threat. Her gaze swept over Erin’s disheveled form, lingering on the tear-streaked face, the swollen lips. "Dressing up. Flirting. Inviting wolves to the feast." She took a step towards the curtain separating them from the bar. "But you forget," she added, pausing, her voice dropping to a near-whisper that carried chilling weight, "wolves bite back. And sometimes," she glanced back, her eyes meeting Erin’s, holding them captive, "the sheepdog bites hardest of all. Think on that while you finish cleaning yourself up." She pushed through the heavy velvet curtain, vanishing into the roar and smoke of the tavern, leaving Erin alone on the filthy floor, the taste of Isabella and shame still sharp on her tongue, the candle sputtering its last breaths beside her.
Erin stared at the swaying curtain long after it settled. Her jaw ached where Isabella’s fingers had dug in. Her knees felt raw. The phantom pressure of Isabella’s mouth, the possessive grip on her neck – it all echoed, a confusing aftershock that left her trembling. She touched her lips, wincing. Wolves bite back. Isabella wasn't just a spectator. She wasn't just angry. She was a player Erin hadn't accounted for, a force that saw through the persona and reached for something underneath, something raw and terrifyingly exposed.
The muffled sounds from the bar – raucous laughter, the clink of glasses, the thud of pool balls – suddenly felt alien, miles away. She was alone in the dim backroom with the guttering candle and the lingering scent of sex and sweat. Isabella’s words circled like vultures: I see the man beneath the slut. Panic, cold and sharp, sliced through the daze. Did she know? Was that the point? The kiss felt less like a claim and more like a brand, marking her. She pushed herself up, wobbly, leaning against the rickety table. The candle flame dipped low, stretching the shadows grotesquely.
She needed to get out. Now. Before Isabella came back. Before anyone else saw her like this – tear-streaked, lips swollen, jeans hastily zipped, smelling of arousal and fear. She wiped her face roughly with the sleeve of Aaron’s flannel shirt, the coarse fabric scratching her skin. It grounded her slightly. Erin was the persona, the fantasy. Aaron needed to surface, needed the solidity of his own body, his own name. He took a shaky breath, pushing the trembling, aroused, terrified part of himself – the part Isabella had unearthed and exploited – back down deep. Get it together. Move.
He pushed away from the table just as the candle finally drowned in its own wax, plunging the room into near darkness. Only a sliver of light bled under the curtain. The sudden blackness felt suffocating, amplifying the frantic beat of his heart against his ribs. He stumbled towards the thin line of light, hand outstretched, groping for the curtain. His fingers brushed the heavy velvet. One step. Then the floorboard beneath his worn work boot let out a sharp, protesting creak. The sound seemed unnaturally loud in the sudden quiet.
A low voice, startlingly close just beyond the curtain, cut through the bar noise like a knife. "Oy! Everything alright back there, Bella?" It was Stavros, the burly fisherman who’d leered at Erin over the pool table earlier. "Sounded like ye dropped somethin' heavy. Or someone." A rumble of knowing laughter followed from others nearby.
Aaron froze, hand inches from the curtain, heart hammering against his sternum. Escape was a foot away, just through the fabric. But stepping out now, looking like this, smelling like this, straight into Stavros's leering curiosity… it was as dangerous as staying put. The shadows pressed in, thick and tangible. Behind him, the darkness of the room felt like a void waiting to swallow him whole. The air, thick with the fading scent of sex and cheap cologne, suddenly tasted stale, suffocating. Every instinct screamed run, but his feet were bolted to the creaking floorboard. The tavern's noise seemed to swell, pressing against the curtain, a cacophony waiting to engulf him the moment he stepped through.