Chapter 6: The Cabin's New Game
The dawn light that filtered through the cabin’s windows was the color of old bone. Anna woke to its grey pallor and the familiar, comforting smell of frying batter and coffee. Mark was already up, his silhouette moving in the kitchen below, humming a tune she didn’t recognize. For a single, weightless moment, she was just Anna, on her anniversary trip, with a good man making her breakfast.
Then her phone, placed carefully screen-down on the nightstand, seemed to pulse. The memory of the cold floor, the silent, frantic climax, flooded back, souring the coffee-scented air.
She grabbed it.The message was already there, sent an hour ago.
Isabella: Good morning, my little liar.Wear nothing under your dress today.Let him touch you. Feel his hands on you and think of my orders.Report back.Every detail.“Anna? Pancakes are up!” Mark’s voice, warm and unsuspecting, floated up to the loft.
“Coming!” she called, her voice strangling in her throat.She dressed mechanically, choosing a simple cotton sundress. She did not put on underwear. The brush of the fabric against her bare skin was a constant, accusing whisper.She felt exposed and illicit descending the stairs, as if the dress were transparent.
Mark beamed at her, a plate in each hand.“Blueberry. Your favorite.”
They ate at the small table by the window. Mark talked about the hiking trail he wanted to try, about the history of the area. Anna nodded, forcing bites down, her body hyper-aware of the empty space between her legs, the loose dress hem brushing her thighs.
“You’re quiet,” he said, reaching across the table to squeeze her hand.His touch was gentle. Then his hand drifted upwards, a casual, married gesture, his palm coming to rest on her knee.Anna froze. The command echoed in her skull: Let him touch you.
His fingers began to trace idle circles on her skin, creeping slowly upward under the hem of the dress.His touch was warm, familiar. He was looking at her, a soft, amorous look in his eyes, completely unaware of the puppet strings attached to her limbs.“I love seeing you relaxed like this,” he murmured. His fingers climbed higher, brushing the soft flesh of her inner thigh.Her body, trained by fifteen years of this man, responded. A flush spread across her chest.She let her legs part, just slightly.An invitation. A betrayal.“Mark,” she breathed, a token protest that sounded like encouragement.
“Shhh,” he said, smiling, pushing her plate aside with his free hand. His fingers found her core, and he sighed at the wetness he encountered.“See? You’re happy to be here too.”
He slid two fingers inside her, a smooth, practiced motion. Anna gasped, her head falling back against the chair. She stared at the cedar ceiling, at a knot in the wood that stared back like a dark, unblinking eye.She thought of Isabella.Of the command.Report back. Every detail.Mark worked his fingers in and out, his thumb finding her clit. It felt good.It was a good, pleasant, married fuck. But in her mind, she was not here. She was in a sterile bathroom stall at work, knees bruised, a hand fisted in her hair.She was on her phone, describing this very moment to a woman who owned her.
“Come for me, Anna,” Mark whispered, his own breathing growing ragged.She obeyed. She arched her back, let out the practiced, breathy moan, and clenched around his fingers as the mild wave crested.It was nothing like the violent wreckage of the night before. It was a pleasant ripple in a pond.He kissed her, deeply, tasting of maple syrup.
“I love you,” he said, pulling his fingers from her, wiping them absently on his jeans.
“I love you too,” she echoed, the lie now a familiar costume she wore.
Later, while Mark showered, she took her phone into the forest behind the cabin. The mist clung to her, dampening her dress.She typed with cold, stiff fingers, a detailed, filthy report. She told Isabella how Mark’s fingers felt, how he tasted her on his lips, how she’d faked her orgasm while picturing Isabella’s face. She sent it, her heart a trapped bird against her ribs.The reply came not as text, but as a video file. The preview was a blur of skin.Anna pressed play.
Isabella was in her office, the one Anna knew, the one with the view of the city. She was naked, seated on the edge of her stark glass desk.Her eyes were locked on the camera, hard and dominant. One hand was squeezing her own breast, pinching the nipple roughly. The other was buried between her legs, fingers thrusting fast and deep into her own cunt.
“This is what you do to me, Anna,” Isabella’s voice growled from the phone’s speaker, low and rough. “You make me this wet. You make me fuck myself thinking of you, my pretty little married whore.” She threw her head back, her movements becoming more frantic, obscene, the wet sounds crisp in the audio.“You’re thinking of this right now, aren’t you? You’re aching. Say my name.”
On screen, Isabella moaned, a raw, guttural sound.“Anna!Fuck. Anna!”
She climaxed with a sharp cry, her body rigid, then slumping forward, a smirk of triumph on her face as she stared back into the camera. The video ended.Anna stood frozen, the mist curling around her. A heat bloomed in her chest, sharp and desperate.She played it again.And again. The third time, she fumbled with her dress, hiking it up around her waist. She leaned back against the rough bark of a pine tree, the scent of sap and loam filling her nose.
She used her own fingers, mimicking Isabella’s brutal rhythm, imagining it was Isabella’s hand, Isabella’s command. She thought of the video, of Isabella’s face in the throes of a fake orgasm meant for her.It wasn’t gentle.It was punishment. She rubbed her clit raw, her breath steaming in the cold air, silent sobs tearing from her throat. She came with a violent, twisting jerk, her vision whiting out at the edges, the pleasure so intense it felt like being skinned alive.
She sank to the damp forest floor, twigs and pine needles digging into her bare thighs.Her phone, still cradled in her hand, buzzed.
Isabella: Now you understand.You are a tool for my pleasure. Tonight, you will suck his cock.You will imagine it is mine.You will swallow every drop and tell me how it tastes. The game is not you and him.The game is you, him, and me. And I am always watching.Back in the cabin, the shower had stopped. Mark would be coming out, wrapped in a towel, smiling.Anna pushed herself up, her legs trembling.She smoothed her dress down. She would have to kiss him with her mouth still swollen from her own teeth, with the taste of the forest and her own salt on her lips. She would have to look into his kind, clear eyes and know that tonight, she would take him into her mouth and fantasize about someone else.
The cabin door opened.“Anna? Where’d you run off to?” Mark called, his voice bouncing through the trees.
“Just getting some air!” she called back, forcing brightness into the words, a performance already underway. She walked back toward the man she loved, each step feeling like a march toward an execution whose time she was secretly, feverishly counting down.