Chapter 12: Isabella drapes herself across the silk sheets, twirling the incriminating photo between her fingers—until Vanja tackles her, biting her fake tits while shoving three fingers into Isabella's tight asshole. 'You want to OWN me?' Vanja snarls, riding Isabella's face with brutal thrusts, forcing the journalist to choke on her dripping cunt as punishment.
The flight to Munich was a penance paid in metal and recycled air. Gareth’s furious text, a single block of all-caps Swiss German, glowed on her locked screen. She ignored it. Beside her, a businessman snored. Outside, the endless cloud cover was the same dense grey as London’s, as if her world had physically shrunk to a damp, oppressive tube. The lie she’d fed Tilly tasted like aluminum on her tongue. Sponsor thing. Legal. Tilly had nodded, had kissed her with a soft, trusting mouth, and said, “Hurry back.”
The hired Mercedes at Arrivals was black, silent, familiar. The driver did not speak. The city slid by, a montage of her old life: the turn towards the Olympiapark, the long straight she used for tempo runs, the unremarkable façade of her own building, which she passed without slowing. Her stomach clenched. Dino was in there, unknowing.
They stopped under the sleek awning of a building she knew. Isabella’s. The lobby was a cathedral of cold marble and hushed acoustics. The elevator was a mirrored box, reflecting a woman she barely recognized: sharp cheekbones shadowed, eyes a flat, cold green. She held her carry-on, a pathetic prop.
The penthouse door was ajar.
Pushing it open, she stepped into the vast, cool space. The view was staggering, Munich laid out like a circuit board, the Olympic tower a needle piercing the low cloud. The air smelled of expensive lemongrass cleaner and, faintly beneath, jasmine.
Isabella stood by the wall of glass, a silhouette against the diffuse light. She wore a silk robe, open at the front, revealing the sheer black lace of a basque that cinched her waist and pushed her augmented breasts into dramatic, perfect rounds. Her long blonde hair was sleek over one shoulder. She held a crystal tumbler of something amber.
“Punctual,” Isabella said, not turning. “The athlete’s discipline. I wondered if the Swedish puppy had leashed it out of you.”
Vanja let her bag drop to the polished concrete floor. The sound echoed. “I’m here.”
“You are.” Finally, Isabella turned. Her face was a study in curated beauty: the full, injected lips, the sharp arch of her brows, the cold blue eyes that catalogued Vanja’s every flaw. She took a slow sip. “You look tired. England’s cooking disagrees with you.”
“The photo,” Vanja said, her voice devoid of inflection. “Show it to me. Then delete it.”
Isabella’s smile was a slow predator’s curl. She set her glass on a low, sculptural table and glided to a sideboard. She picked up a tablet, tapped it awake, and held it out.
The screen burned Vanja’s retinas.
It was the Garten. The private club’s rooftop, the night sky alive with summer fireworks. She was in the shot, half-turned, captured in a burst of red and gold light. Her head was thrown back, her mouth open in a raw, helpless laugh. But it was the other details that eviscerated. Her dress strap was slipped down her shoulder. The man’s hand on her hip—a sponsor’s son, whose name she’d forgotten by dawn—was possessive, blurry with motion. And in her eyes, the glitter of something more than champagne. Something wild, obliterated, undisciplined. It was the antithesis of every carefully managed press image. It was a night of voluntary abandon, now weaponized.
“You see the narrative,” Isabella murmured, coming closer. “The pressure.The secrets. The need for release in… questionable company. The fall of an icon is a familiar story. But it sells.”
Vanja’s hand shot out, faster than any starting gun reaction, and snatched the tablet. Isabella’s eyes flared, but she didn’t move.
Holding the device, Vanja walked to the four-poster bed. The silk drapes were the colour of bone. She placed the tablet on the duvet, screen up. The damning image glowed.
Then she turned. Her gaze swept over Isabella, from the lacquered toes to the flawless, artificial face. The fury that had been ice in her veins began to boil. This was not fear. This was a cleanse.
“Take off the robe,” Vanja said.
A flicker of surprise, then pleasure, crossed Isabella’s face. She obeyed, letting the silk slip from her shoulders. It pooled on the floor. She stood in the black lace basque, sheer stockings, heels. A confection of vulnerability and power.
“Now the rest.”
Isabella’s fingers went to the clasps at the front of the basque. She unfastened them slowly, letting the garment gape and then fall forward. Her augmented breasts, full and heavy with large, darkened areolas, were fully exposed. She stepped out of the basque, then hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her lace thong and slid it down her thighs, stepping free. She was completely naked except for the stockings and heels. She arched her back slightly, presenting herself.
“Like what you see?” she purred.
Vanja closed the distance. She didn’t touch. She let her eyes roam, a cold, clinical assessment. “I see the invoice. I see the strategic choice. The perfect, fake slut.”
Isabella’s breath hitched, but her smile remained. “It’s a look you’ve enjoyed. Deeply.”
“I did.” Vanja’s hand finally moved, but not to caress. She grabbed a handful of Isabella’s sleek blonde hair, fisting it tightly at the roots. She yanked, not hard enough to truly hurt, but with enough force to dictate. “On my terms. Not yours.”
She dragged Isabella towards the bed. Isabella stumbled on her heels, a small, gratifying gasp escaping her lips. Vanja pushed her down onto the duvet, beside the glowing tablet. Isabella landed on her back, her legs falling open in a practiced, automatic display.
Vanja stood over her, looking down at the offered body. The body she had worshipped, had been addicted to. Now it was just a site for reclamation. She unbuckled her own belt, yanked down her jeans and underwear in one harsh motion, and kicked them away. She climbed onto the bed, kneeling between Isabella’s spread thighs.
“You wanted me back,” Vanja stated, her voice a low growl. “Here I am.”
She didn’t kiss her. She didn’t prepare her. She leaned forward, bracing one hand on the headboard, and with the other, she guided her cock— a rigid, unyielding length —to Isabella’s entrance. Isabella was wet; vanity and anticipation had seen to that. Vanja pressed the head against her, felt the tight resistance, and shoved forward in one brutal, deep thrust.
“Ah! Fuck!” Isabella cried out, her body bowing off the bed. Her nails scrabbled at the silk duvet.
Vanja bottomed out, buried inside her to the hilt. She held there, letting Isabella feel the full, stretching invasion. She looked down into the woman’s face, seeing the shock, the pain, the immediate, dark arousal.
“Is this what you wanted?” Vanja gritted out. She pulled back slowly, almost all the way out, then drove in again, hard and deep. The slap of skin on skin was sharp in the quiet room. “You blackmailed me for this? To be a hole?”
Isabella’s eyes were wide, her lips parted. “Yes,” she hissed. “Yes, you fucking animal. More.”
Vanja obeyed. She set a punishing rhythm, fucking into her with long, deep, relentless strokes. There was no tenderness, no art. It was piston-like, mechanical, a pure exercise in dominance. Each thrust rocked Isabella’s body up the bed. Her perfect breasts jiggled with the force. The sounds were obscenely wet, a squelching counterpoint to Vanja’s harsh grunts and Isabella’s sharp, ragged cries.
“You think you own me with a picture?” Vanja panted, leaning down, her face inches from Isabella’s. “You think you can leash me from another country?” She drove in particularly hard, making Isabella gasp. “You’re nothing but a desperate cunt with a contacts list.”
Isabella’s hands flew up, clawing at Vanja’s back, digging through her shirt. “Harder! God, just… ruin me.”
Vanja shifted. She hooked Isabella’s legs over her shoulders, bending her double, exposing her even more. The new angle was devastating. Vanja fucked down into her, each thrust hitting deeper, grinding against her cervix. Isabella began to shatter. Her cries turned guttural, incoherent.
“I’m going to… I can’t…” Isabella choked out.
“You’re going to come,” Vanja commanded, never breaking her rhythm. The sweat was dripping from her brow onto Isabella’s chest. “You’re going to squirt all over this expensive bed. And then you’re going to delete that fucking photo.”
The command, the brutal physical insistence, tipped Isabella over the edge. Her body went rigid, a silent scream on her face. Then a gush of warm fluid released from her, soaking the duvet beneath them, splashing against Vanja’s thighs. Isabella convulsed, her cunt clenching and fluttering around the strap in violent, rhythmic pulses. A long, ragged wail tore from her throat.
Vanja fucked her through it, through the shaking, through the oversensitivity, until Isabella was whimpering, pushing weakly at her hips.
Only then did Vanja stop. She withdrew, the strap slick and glistening. She looked at the mess on the bed, at the utterly wrecked woman beneath her, then at the tablet, its screen now dimmed by the shadow of their bodies.
She reached over, picked it up. With her thumb, she found the photo. She hit delete. Then she navigated to the recently deleted folder and permanently erased it.
She dropped the tablet onto Isabella’s heaving stomach.
“It’s gone.”
Isabella lay sprawled, breathing in ragged hitches. Her makeup was smeared, her hair a mess. She looked used, hollowed out. She looked at Vanja with a complex, shattered gaze—hatred, awe, addiction.
Vanja climbed off the bed. She pulled the strap off, tossing it onto the sodden duvet. She found her jeans, pulled them on, leaving her underwear on the floor. She fastened her belt with deliberate, calm movements.
“Next time you want me to fuck you,” Vanja said, zipping her jeans, her voice cold and clear in the aftermath, “you beg. You don’t blackmail.”
Isabella managed a weak, trembling laugh. “Or what?”
Vanja turned, fully dressed now, while Isabella lay naked in her own mess. “Or I’ll tell every sponsor, every editor, every powerful fuck you’ve ever sucked, that the great Isabella Rossi is a common predator. That she has to extort athletes into her bed because her own charms have curdled.” Vanja leaned down, picking up her bag. “You’re not the only one who knows how to craft a narrative.”
She walked to the door without looking back. The silence behind her was total, broken only by the distant hum of the city.
In the elevator, the mirrors showed a different woman. The shadows were still there, but the eyes were no longer flat. They burned. She had walked into the fire and, for the moment, had not been consumed. She had taken something back.
Her phone vibrated in her pocket. Tilly.
How’s the boring sponsor thing? Miss your face. Xx
Vanja leaned her head against the cool metal of the elevator wall. The lie now felt heavier, poisoned by the taste of a genuine, hard-won victory. She had protected Tilly. She had destroyed the threat.
But as the doors opened to the sterile lobby, a new, colder truth settled in her bones. Isabella’s silence was not a surrender. It was a recalibration. And Vanja had just shown her exactly where her weaknesses lay.
The car was gone. She walked out into the Munich drizzle, heading towards the U-Bahn, towards Dino, towards a night of pretending everything was fine. The scent of jasmine and sex clung to her skin, a ghost she couldn’t outrun.
The scent of jasmine and sex clung to her skin, a ghost she couldn’t outrun. It followed her onto the U-Bahn, a private cloud in the crowded carriage, turning the glances of tired commuters into imagined accusations. She kept her hands shoved deep in her pockets, fingernails digging into her palms, each sharp bite a counterpoint to the throbbing emptiness between her legs where the strap had been. The victory felt surgical, cold, and already fading.
Dino was on the sofa when she let herself in, surrounded by architectural sketches. “Back so soon?” he asked, not looking up. “Thought your sponsor thing was a dinner.”
“It was brief,” she said, toeing off her shoes. Her voice sounded distant, even to herself.
“You okay?” He finally glanced over, his eyes narrowing. “You look like you’ve been in a fight.”
“I’m fine.” She headed for the shower, needing to scour the evening from her pores. The hot water turned her skin pink but the feeling of Isabella’s body, the violent intimacy of it, seemed etched into her muscles. She thought of Tilly’ text, the innocent ‘xx’, and a wave of nauseous shame hit her so hard she braced herself against the tiles.
Clean, dressed in sweats, she was pouring tea when her phone buzzed on the counter. Not Tilly. An unknown number with a Munich prefix. Her gut tightened. She answered.
Silence. Then a shaky, drawn-in breath.
“Vanja.” It was Isabella. The single word was ragged, stripped of all its calculated polish.
Vanja said nothing. She watched the steam curl from her mug.
“I can’t….” Isabella’s voice broke. “The photo is gone. You won. Okay? You won.” Another pause, filled with the sound of her struggling for control. “I need you to come back.”
“No.”
“Please.” The word was a wet, torn thing. “Please, Vanja. I’m… it’s not enough. What you did. It’s not enough. I need…”
“You need what?” Vanja’s grip tightened on the phone.
“I need you to finish it.” The facade was not just cracked but obliterated. Her voice was a desperate, husked whisper. “I’m on the floor. I’m still on the fucking floor by the bed. I can’t move. I can smell you on me and I can’t… I can’t think. Please. Come back and… just… use me. Properly. However you want. I’ll do anything. I’ll delete every file, I’ll shred every note. Just come back and make me feel nothing.”
Vanja closed her eyes. The power shift was absolute, dizzying. This wasn’t a trap. It was surrender.
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” Vanja said, and ended the call.
The same black car, the same silent driver. The city at night was a river of blurred lights. Her heart was a dull, heavy drum. This wasn’t desire. This was an execution.
Isabella’s door was still unlocked. The penthouse was dark, lit only by the city’s glow. The sour tang of sex and spilled liquor hung in the air. Isabella was exactly as described: crumpled on the floor by the grand bed, naked, her back against the side of the mattress. The ruined duvet was a damp heap nearby. She didn’t look up as Vanja entered.
Vanja stood over her. She let the silence stretch, let Isabella feel the weight of her presence. Finally, Isabella tilted her head back. Her face was ravaged, tear-streaked, her famous blue eyes glassy and red.
“You came.”
“You begged,” Vanja stated flatly. “Get on the bed. On your hands and knees.”
A shudder went through Isabella’s body. She moved slowly, achingly, pushing herself up onto the sodden mattress. She got into position, her head hanging down, her ass raised. The sight was one of total degradation.
Vanja didn’t undress. She unbuckled her belt again, the leather sliding through the loops with a soft, lethal hiss. She pulled it free, folding it in her hand. The heavy buckle dangled.
“This what you want?” Vanja asked, her voice low. “To be nothing?”
“Yes,” Isabella whimpered into the sheets.
Vanja’s arm swung back, then forward. The belt cracked against Isabella’s offered ass, a bright, sharp sound. Isabella jerked, a cry escaping her. A red line bloomed across the pale skin.
“Again,” Isabella sobbed.
Vanja delivered another stroke, parallel to the first. Then another. She laid down a series of precise, stinging blows, painting Isabella’s skin with lines of fire. Isabella wept openly, her body trembling, but she pushed back against each impact, seeking more.
“You’re a greedy fucking mess,” Vanja growled, dropping the belt. She shoved two fingers into Isabella’s mouth. “Get them wet.”
Isabella suckled desperately, her tongue swirling, coating Vanja’s fingers in saliva. Vanja pulled them free, slick and shining. She didn’t tease. She drove them straight into Isabella’s cunt from behind, plunging deep. Isabella screamed, a raw, broken sound, her body clenching around the invasion.
“You’re so fucking loose,” Vanja lied, scissoring her fingers, feeling the hot, swollen flesh grip her. “All that work, all that surgery, and you’re just a used-up hole.”
“I am!” Isabella cried, grinding back onto Vanja’s hand. “I am, use it, please, just fucking ruin it!”
Vanja worked her fingers relentlessly, curling them, pumping hard and fast. It was a rough, impersonal fucking, a punishment. She added a third finger, stretching Isabella brutally. The wet, filthy sounds filled the dark room. Isabella was babbling, a stream of obscene pleas and fragmented apologies.
“I’m gonna… I’m gonna come again,” Isabella choked out.
“You don’t ask,” Vanja snapped, slapping her other hand against Isabella’s throbbing ass. “You take what I give you.”
The orgasm ripped through Isabella like a seizure. She collapsed onto her elbows, her back arching, a wordless shriek tearing from her throat as she pulsed around Vanja’s fingers. Vanja fucked her through it, prolonging the spasms until Isabella was a sobbing, limp wreck.
Vanja pulled her fingers out, glistening. She wiped them on Isabella’s thigh. Then she leaned down, her mouth close to Isabella’s ear.
“The next time you think of me,” Vanja whispered, the words ice-cold and final, “you’ll remember this. You’ll remember being on your knees, begging to be worthless. And you’ll know that I own this memory. I own you in it.”
She stood up. Isabella didn’t move, her breath coming in ragged, wet hitches.
Isabella didn’t move, her breath coming in ragged, wet hitches.
The penthouse was utterly silent now, save for the soft hum of the climate control and the distant, muted sirens of the city. The power she’d felt holding the photo, the sharp thrill of leverage, was ash in her mouth. It had been incinerated, leaving only this hollowed-out ache and the visceral, throbbing memory of the belt, the fingers, the words. She was untethered, floating in the wreckage of her own design.
“Get up,” Vanja said.
The voice wasn’t loud, but it sliced through the numbness. It held no heat, only a flat, undeniable command.
Isabella’s muscles protested. She pushed herself up onto her hands and knees. The cool air of the room kissed the fresh welts on her ass, a sharp contrast to the heat still pulsing deep inside her. She kept her head bowed, her blonde hair a tangled curtain. She didn’t dare look.
She felt the bed dip as Vanja sat on the edge. She heard the soft rustle of clothing. A zipper. The quiet snap of a button. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a trapped bird.
“Look at me.”
Isabella lifted her head slowly, her neck stiff. Vanja was sitting there, backlit by the city’s glow, a silhouette of long lines and coiled power. Her jeans were open. And in her hand, held with a casual, devastating possessiveness, was her cock. It was thick, rigid, a flushed, undeniable reality in the dim light. The sight punched the air from Isabella’s lungs. Her mouth went dry, then flooded with saliva.
Vanja didn’t speak. She simply held it, her gaze locked on Isabella’s face, waiting.
Isabella understood. She crawled forward, the movement awkward and animalistic on the ruined sheets. The distance felt immense. When she finally reached the edge of the bed, she hesitated, her face level with Vanja’s hips. The musky, clean scent of her skin, underlined by a hint of sweat, filled Isabella’s nostrils. It was terrifying. It was everything.
“You want it?” Vanja asked, her voice a low hum.
Isabella could only nod, a frantic little jerk of her head.
“Then take it. Show me how a desperate slut begs with her mouth.”
The permission, framed as an insult, unraveled her completely. Isabella leaned in, her lips parting. She didn’t tease. She took the head into her mouth, the smooth, broad crown pressing against her tongue. The taste was salty, clean, profoundly intimate. She hollowed her cheeks and sucked, her eyes fluttering closed.
A rough hand tangled in her hair, not yanking, just holding. Anchoring.
“All of it,” Vanja murmured. “Don’t fucking play.”
Isabella obeyed, sinking down further. The thickness stretched her lips, filled her mouth, nudged the back of her throat. She relaxed her jaw, letting Vanja guide her head with that firm grip. She began to move, a slow, deep rhythm, her tongue swirling along the prominent vein underneath. She focused on the weight, the heat, the sheer physical fact of it. Her own arousal, thought extinguished, sparked back to a low, desperate flame.
Vanja let her work for a minute, her breathing deepening slightly. Then she pulled Isabella off with a soft, wet pop.
“On your back. Now.”
Isabella scrambled onto the bed, rolling onto her back. She spread her legs, an automatic, offering gesture. Vanja stood and stepped out of her jeans completely, then climbed over her, bracing her hands on either side of Isabella’s head. She positioned herself, the head of her cock nudging Isabella’s soaked entrance.
“You’re going to ride it,” Vanja said, her hazel-gold eyes boring into Isabella’s. “You’re going to fuck yourself on me until you forget your own name. Understood?”
“Yes,” Isabella whispered.
Vanja lowered her body, entering her in one slow, controlled, breathtaking slide. She filled her completely, a deep, stretching presence that made Isabella gasp and arch her back. When Vanja was fully sheathed, she shifted, rolling them both with a powerful twist of her hips. Suddenly, Isabella was on top, straddling Vanja’s waist, impaled.
Vanja’s hands went to Isabella’s hips, her fingers digging into the flesh. “Move.”
Isabella rose up, feeling the delicious drag of Vanja’s cock inside her, then sank back down, taking it all. She set a rhythm, rising and falling, her inner muscles clenching instinctively around the invading girth. Each downward stroke sent a jolt through her core. Her augmented breasts bounced with the motion, full and heavy.
Vanja watched her, a predator’s calm in her gaze. Then she lifted her head, capturing one peaked, dark nipple in her mouth.
Isabella cried out, the dual sensation short-circuiting her thoughts. Vanja sucked hard, her tongue flicking the taut bud, while her hands continued to guide Isabella’s hips, forcing a harder, faster pace. The wet, slapping sounds of their bodies meeting filled the room.
“Look at these perfect fake tits,” Vanja growled against her skin, transferring her mouth to the other breast, biting gently then soothing with her tongue. “You bought them to be worshipped. Now they’re just handles. Just something to lick while you fuck yourself like a whore.”
The filthy words, spoken against her most sensitive skin, detonated inside Isabella. Her rhythm faltered, became frantic. She was so close, a tight coil at the base of her spine.
“You’re nothing but a greedy, needy hole,” Vanja continued, her voice husky with exertion and malice. “My greedy, needy hole. You came here for a story and you’re leaving as a cocksleeve. Remember that. Remember what you really are when you’re doing your shitty interviews.”
Isabella came with a shattered scream, her body locking, her cunt milking the cock inside her in violent, fluttering pulses. She collapsed forward onto Vanja’s chest, her muscles turning to liquid.
Vanja didn’t let her rest. She rolled her over again, pinning her wrists above her head on the damp silk. She drove into her, hard and fast, chasing her own end. The bedframe rattled against the wall. Isabella, oversensitive and raw, could only take it, each thrust a breathtaking punishment and a gift.
Vanja’s release was a silent, intense thing. She stilled, buried deep, a low groan vibrating in her chest as she pulsed inside Isabella’s spent body. She held there for a long moment, her weight a profound comfort and a prison.
Finally, she pulled out and stood up, leaving Isabella empty and trembling. Vanja walked to the ensuite bathroom without a word. Isabella heard the shower turn on.
She lay there, staring at the ceiling, feeling the slow trickle of their combined fluids between her thighs. The physical evidence of her obliteration. She had begged for this. She had gotten it. The victory was Vanja’s, absolute and complete.
Vanja emerged ten minutes later, dressed, her hair damp. She picked up her bag from where she’d dropped it hours before. She looked at Isabella one last time.
“The story is dead,” Vanja stated. It wasn’t a question. “If it breathes, I breathe fire. You’ll burn first.”
Isabella nodded weakly, unable to form words.
Vanja left. The door clicked shut with a sound of terrible finality.
The shower was still running. Isabella finally moved, stumbling into the bathroom to turn it off. The steam had fogged the mirrors. She caught a blurred glimpse of herself: red-eyed, marked, used.
Her phone, abandoned on the sideboard, buzzed. A message from her editor. Any progress on the Kongsgard piece? Need an angle by Tuesday.
Isabella looked at the text, then at her reflection. She started to laugh, a thin, ragged sound that dissolved into helpless, silent tears. She had her angle now. It was carved into her skin, written in the ache between her legs. It was the one story she could never, ever tell.