(This was my submission for the February 4th, 2001, Friday Free for All hosted by The Smut Peddler over at Twilighted. I've done a bit of editing to this, but it's still unbeta'd. Can't remember if I let Char read this or not, but I'm going to thank her anyway.)

A/N: Because there is a lack of good Bellisle fics (not that I'm claiming this is any good), and Dinnertime is on an indefinite hiatus (I miss your face, Tash! No one writes 'wrong' quite as well as you).



Sins I Have Yet to Commit



Excited to be home, Edward bursts through the door with his hand clasped doggedly to mine so that he's dragging me along behind him, rendering useless my plan to hang reluctantly back until forced inside to be acknowledged.

"Mom! Dad! We're here!" he shouts it like we weren't just here three months ago for the holidays.

"Edward, honey! You're finally here! And Bella, too! Oh, sweetheart, it's been too long." Again, it's only been three months, people. Ugh! Edward's family is just too familial, loving, and touchy-feely for a girl raised by her perennial bachelor, police chief father.

Case in point, having already hugged her son (who had yet to relinquish his hold on my hand), Edward's mother sweeps me into her arms, squeezing me while telling me how much she's missed me. It's nice in its own way; there's nothing like a mother's hug and my own wasn't exactly a hugger…or around much, for that matter. I don't get to enjoy it, however. At exactly the same moment, he steps into the foyer, his eyes on me and his hand already extended toward his son. Edward chooses that moment—just when I need him the most—to sever our connection, setting me adrift so that he can shake his father's hand.

"Edward, my boy, nice to have you back home again so soon." Why is he the only one who realizes this? "We've missed you, son," he claims, and then father and son—one light, one dark—embrace with gusto. Oh, who am I kidding? His tone was absolutely sincere; Carlisle loves his son dearly, which only makes this whole thing impossibly more wrong.

While Edward's being welcomed home by his father, Esme finally releases me from her embrace…sort of. She takes a step back, holding me at arms' length to peer down her perfect nose appraisingly. "Let's have a look at you," she says—subtext: Let's see if that son of mine has knocked you up yet. I want a grandbaby.

When I blush and look at the floor, her inspection is only partly to blame; the rest of it rests on the heated blue eyes that are scorching me from over the shoulder of the love of my life several feet—but not nearly enough of them—away.

"You look wonderful, sweetheart—" subtext: too skinny to be pregnant, "—so grown up and gorgeous," subtext: grown enough to be thinking of starting a family. "Doesn't she look wonderful, Carlisle?" she inquires of her husband, looking over her shoulder—subtext: You're the professional—does she look pregnant?

Unable to help myself, my eyes dart to his face, finding it deceptively placid. With the fire from just seconds ago tamped—smoldering beneath a layer of ash, but not extinguished—he smiles at his wife while looking at me. "College definitely seems to be agreeing with her…Edward, too." Subtext: No, Esme, still not pregnant. "They both look great. We're so happy to have you both here for the week. We don't get to see you nearly enough, especially you, Bella."

Edward beams, his smile dazzling and disarming as he listens to his parents dote upon me. As if he can't stay away—as if their love and acceptance of me somehow reflects upon him—he saunters to my side, still smiling, and slings his arm over my shoulder—subtext: Yup, she's all mine. Didn't I do well?

"We're happy to be here, Dad. It's nice to be home, isn't it, babe?"

"It is," I say, looking down at my feet to hide how awkward I'm feeling. In a mumble, I add, "Thank you, Esme…Dr. Cullen."

Edward kisses the side of my head and my eyes flit to his father. His nostrils flair, but I think I'm the only one who sees it. I hope. "I'm gonna go grab the bags, love," Edward tells me, and then turns for the still open door, his mother hot on his heels. I watch them walk through the doorway and cross the porch before my attention is drawn back to the one place I don't want it to be drawn.

"Isabella," the way my name rolls off his tongue makes me feel warm and causes my stomach to clench, "how many times do I have to tell you to call me Carlisle? After all the years we've known you—the majority of which, you've essentially been a member of the family—I think we're beyond formalities, my dear."

"Sorry…Carlisle." I look up at him from beneath my lashes.

"You're forgiven…just don't let it happen again, or else..." It hangs in the air, and I feel my face flush, causing Carlisle to smirk at me. The expression is familiar, but the face isn't the one I've grown accustomed to seeing wear it, and I'm suddenly cold, doused with shame.

Our bags in hand, Edward comes back through the front door. His jovial is mood like a balm, dissolving the tension that's risen in the short time he was away, but not before he feels it and gives us an odd look. Or maybe I just imagine it; Carlisle looks perfectly at ease.

"I should help Edward with the bags," I mutter, unable to make eye contact with either of them.

We make our way upstairs, and Edward asks, "What's wrong, baby?"

"Nothing. Just tired, I suppose."

"Maybe you should take a nap, then." I cock an eyebrow in question. "There's plenty of time before dinner."

"O-kay…I think I'll do that," I say slowly, stepping into his childhood bedroom—the one we'll be sharing while we're here.

Edward goes downstairs to let his mother know that I'm going to take a nap before dinner, and then returns to tuck me into bed. Laying there beside him afterwards, I hate myself even more for lusting after his father.




After the first two days, we settle into a routine.

Carlisle's busy at the hospital, so I hardly see him, but the glances he gives me in passing or as we all sit around the dinner table are almost worse than his constant presence. At least if he were always around, I would be able to acclimatize myself to his presence—become desensitized—but now, I never know when or where I'm going to run into him; he just pops up unexpectedly. Unable to let my guard down, I'm always on alert, which keeps him at the forefront of my mind and me constantly aroused.

Edward benefits from it, but I die a little more each time; I know I'm just using him, trying to sate an insatiable need, and I hate myself for it. He's not the one who can quench my thirst—he's a band-aid, and I picture another when he's above me…behind me…below me. It's golden hair, not bronzed-brown, that I picture between my thighs; hooded blue eyes I see, rather than green. I picture a wiser face, kiss slightly thinner lips, and feel much more experienced hands touching my skin.

Lost in my fantasies, my orgasms are almost debilitating and Edward hasn't a clue that it's not because of him. At first, I feel guilty—horribly so—but with each occurrence, it becomes easier to bear. It isn't long before the guilt is overwhelmed by need; I feel as if I'll die if it doesn't happen soon, and I know Carlisle wants it too. I think he's wanted it far more fervently and for far longer than I have.

It has to happen. I don't want it to happen. It feels inevitable.




Reaching around me to grab a coffee cup, he presses too close for too long. Passing each other in the hall, he brushes against me unnecessarily. Over the dinner table, his eyes linger on me inappropriately—the curve of my breast, the column of my neck, the tip of my tongue when it darts out to moisten my lips. He makes me feel awkward and silly, young and naïve, faithless and whorish, and we haven't even done anything…yet.

I want to—I want it—want him—but I don't. I love Edward—always have, always will—but this lustful craving I feel for his father is burning me alive. I tell myself that Carlisle may not feel the same, that for all I know, I could be imagining it, projecting my needs and wants, but I don't think I am.

I know I'm not. Without a doubt.




With an annoyed huff, I slam my laptop closed in disgust. I give! The internet has just died on me for the seventh time in as many minutes. All I want to do is email my suddenly needy mother before she has a coronary or allows her overactive imagination to run away with her, and I haven't even been able to actually log on before the internet crashes on me. Stupid, shitty wireless connection!

"Is that damn connection giving you problems, Bella?" Esme asks apologetically.

"Oh, shit!" I gasp with a jump, nearly tossing my laptop across the room. My eyes bug out of my head and I clamp the hand not clenching my nearly destroyed Mac over my mouth, issuing my profuse apologies from behind it.

"I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to say that. I didn't know anyone else was still home. I'm so sorry," I explain, tacking on an extra apology for good measure...it's not as if I don't owe her one of a million. "And, um...yeah. I was trying to email my mother, but I can't seem to stay connected."

I'm blushing, so embarrassed. With Edward visiting his brother, and Carlisle at the hospital, I had honestly thought that I was alone; I had forgotten about Esme entirely. I'm always forgetting about Esme.

"Pshaw! No worries, sweets. Our wireless connection is so flaky sometimes. Why don't you go upstairs and use the computer in Carlisle's study? It's the only dependable connection in the whole house."

Time all by my lonesome in Carlisle's inner sanctum? I'm tempted, but know I shouldn't. After all, I don't know when he'll be home, and there's no way I can properly snoop with Esme puttering around the house.

"Oh, that's okay. I don't want to intrude, and doesn't Carlisle usually do paperwork when he gets home?"

"You wouldn't be intruding, dear. It's no bother, really. Besides, Carlisle won't be needing it tonight. He just came off a double shift, so he'll be dead to the world for the next eight-to-ten hours, and I insist. As a mother, I know how much it means to you to have your children keep in touch, and I would never forgive myself for keeping you from your mom."

I'm still hesitant, but my resolve is being worn down by the shiny lure she's unknowingly dangling in front of me. "Are you sure it won't be a problem?" I ask, biting my lip. Please say no. Please say yes.

"Absolutely." Gracefully alighting from her perch on the arm of the couch, she stands, expecting me to follow, and I do. It's only then, trailing behind her, that I notice she's dressed up and looking all 'Ladies Who Lunch.' Her heels click on the tile in hall. "Well, you know where his study is, so I'll leave you to it. I would show you up myself, but I have this meeting in Port Angeles for one of the hospital functions I'm chairing, and if I'm not there on time, things get nasty between Mrs. Denali and Mrs. Hunter.

"I swear, sometimes it feels as if I'm chaperoning the cast of The Bad Girls Club instead of well-bred society ladies," she confides with an exasperated sigh. "Anyway, the computer should be on, but there isn't a password or anything if it isn't. Hopefully, you won't be too bored being stuck here by yourself all day. I'll be gone until this evening, but Edward should be home before then. Feel free to call me if you need anything. See you later, dear." She kisses me on the cheek and then she's out the door in a rush, leaving me alone. Alone in a house with her sleeping husband.

I want to go upstairs and crawl in bed with him, but I don't because that would be wrong. I scold myself for my terrible thoughts, and proceed up the stairs en route to Carlisle's study. I need to get my mind out of the gutter, and nothing will help me do that faster than responding to my mother and her flights of fancy.




As I step inside Carlisle's study, it dawns on me that it's the first time I've actually been in the room alone—ever. Standing in the doorway, I examine the room, noticing it's the only one in the entire house that says 'Carlisle', and I decide it's my favorite room.

I pad across the hardwood floor to his desk, and gingerly take a seat in the large, high-backed leather chair behind it. As I relax into the comforting embrace of his chair—the supple, buttery-soft leather wrapping around me—I take a deep breath, and I smell him. He's spice and musk and man with just the slightest hint of antiseptic and bitter medicine, and I feel surrounded by him. It isn't the same, though, and it makes me long for his solid presence even more ardently.

While I don't entirely hate the things that I'm feeling, I do find them disconcerting, too romantic, but at the moment, I lack the focus to deduce why. My thoughts are all jumbled and wrong, and I really need to get my head out of the clouds…or the gutter, wherever. With a deep sigh, I open my closed eyes and jiggle the mouse, resolved to do what I came in here to do and nothing more. Of course, that plan is shot to shit when the monitor wakes up.

The generic screensaver disappears, and I gasp at the images on the screen before me. It seems Carlisle has quite the collection of porn, but that's not the part that has me gasping, it's the fact that the girls—women—featured in his extensive collection all bear a striking resemblance to me.

He can't have intended for me to find this—he didn't know I would come in here; it could have just as easily been Esme who found it. Hell, if Esme hadn't been running late, she would have found them with me…and how awkward would that have been? Scrolling through the open file, a thought comes to me that sends me scrambling for his recent files folder. I want to see what he watched, what pictures he looked at, the last time he was in here.

Opening first one, then the other without looking, I quickly pull up the first two items in the queue. The first one—the last file he opened—is a video of a girl who could almost be my twin being fucked, dominated by a man who's face is never in the frame; it's obvious his cock and his commanding voice are the stars of this video, and I can't say I mind. Nothing is worse than drooling over some actors cock only to have your fantasy shattered when the camera pan to his face.

I don't linger on the video; my snooping could be interrupted any minute. Closing the video, I click on the second file I've opened, and when it fills the screen, my heavy breathing stops altogether. It's a picture of me…actually, it's a series of pictures, all of them taken without my knowledge over the course of the week Edward and I spent in Hawaii with his parents. There's even a shot of me from the waist up as I was brought to orgasm by Edward's mouth on our balcony. This photographic evidence of Carlisle's infatuation with me could cause so much trouble. Shockingly, I'm not at all appalled even though I should be.

Actually, if the throbbing between my legs is anything to judge by, I'm the opposite of appalled. My hand has moved down between my thighs, my fingers casually stroking over the proof of my arousal that's evident through the layers of my yoga pants and panties.




"I was wondering when I would finally get you alone," a velvety voice says in my ear, causing me to moan and roll my hips hard against my teasing fingers. It isn't enough, so my hand slips into my pants, heading south until it encounters slick flesh, and I moan again. My fantasies have obviously gotten out of hand, because I could swear that I actually felt his hot breath on my overheated skin. When I feel his hand caress my collarbone, I know I'm not imagining it; I jump.

"C-C-Carlisle?" I question, disbelieving. His hand is still on me, smoothly gliding over my body and leaving goose bumps in its wake.

"Who else would it be, Isabella?" He doesn't wait for an answer, instead asking, "Do you like what you see?" I know he's referring to the two-year-old stalker-shots that I'm still gaping at on the computer screen since he's still standing behind me just out of my sight.

I don't know what compels me to answer as I do—doing so will inevitably turn the slippery slope we're on into less of a slope and more of a sheer drop that we'll go tumbling down—but I answer him honestly, whispering, "Yes," and I know that there's no going back now, even though I desperately wish we could.

"I've wanted you since the first time I saw you in the hospital after you moved here all those years ago. You were so young at the time—barely seventeen—that wanting you made me feel like a dirty old man. And then Edward fell for you, and I was envious, jealous of my own son for getting to have you. Did you ever wonder why I never checked on the two of you when it was just me at home?"

No. I never noticed, honestly; I was too wrapped up in Edward, at the time. I don't say this; I don't want to stop wherever he's going with his story, and anyway, he isn't looking for an answer.

"Oh, I checked, I just never let the you know I was there. I used to listen to the two of you fooling around and afterwards, I would come in here, lock the door, and stroke myself, imagining your hands on me and whispering your name when I came."

The room is filled with ragged breaths—his and mine. I don't want what's about to happen, but I do. I don't want to be the unfaithful girlfriend—especially not with his father whom he loves—but I'm going to be; I can't stop it.

"Does that turn you on, knowing what you've always done to me, what you still do to me?" he inquires as if curious when he already knows the answer.

"Yes," I answer unnecessarily, and then add (also unnecessarily), "I don't want to do this. I'm marrying Edward. I love Edward."

He nods. "But it doesn't change anything. This is still going to happen."

I don't nod or outwardly agree in any way, even though I do. I can't consent, or give permission. He can still save both of us—but I know he won't, and he doesn't disappoint. He never does. Instead, he replaces the hand in my pants with his, and begins whispering into my ear all of the dirty things he wants to do to me.

"I've been thinking about this for months, Isabella. All the things I'm going to do to you. All the ways in which I'm going to debauch you. And you – you're going to be my good little girl and do everything I tell you to do, aren't you?"

I nod, not bothering to lie, too turned on by the things he's saying. I clearly have daddy issues. I like being told what to do, being the victim, the one all of these things happen to, rather than the one who does them. It makes me less culpable—I think—even if only on a technicality.

"Do you want to know, my little slut, what I plan to do to you?"

I nod, and the finger teasing my clit stills—was that not right? What did I do wrong? I hate this game; I never know the rules—his finger taps my button once in admonishment. "Use your words, Isabella."

"Yes," I say. "I do. Please." I try to show my contrition, wanting to be his good girl, but there's a rebellious part of me that thinks she might want to be bad. What will happen if I disobey? I don't do it, of course, too afraid that I won't get what I want, afraid that he will just take, take, take, and leave me high and dry…well, high and wet. He's done it before.

"I'm going to get you naked, and suck on those perky tits of yours—the ones that you bounced and flaunted in my face while wearing that ridiculous excuse for a bathing suit in Hawaii."

I remember that bikini, just saw pictures of it, and it was pretty modest compared to the ones other girls were wearing at the time.

"And then," both him and his finger continue, "I'm going to lick my way down your body until I get to your hot," circling my clit, "tight," slipping inside me, "cunt," out and in and out and in, "and fuck you with my tongue until I taste you in my mouth." Yes, please.

"Once I've made you scream my name…?" Yes, yes, yes? "You're going to make me scream yours."

Apparently, today is about him.

"I want to see your lips wrapped around my rock hard cock while I fuck your face."

His other hand—the one I've forgotten all about—is suddenly pinching my nipple mercilessly, and I moan long and low, so needy.

"That's my good little whore. You're going to be such a good girl while I fuck your face, and then I'm going to reward you by fucking your tight little pussy. After you come on my dick, then I'm going to reward me."

I tense, concerned and wondering what his reward is going to be if fucking me isn't it.

"I'm finally going to do what I've always promised you I one day would—I'm finally going to feel your sweet ass around my dick. Has Edward fucked you up your ass yet, Isabella?"

I'm slightly angry that he is asking what Edward and I do together because it's none of his business, but I still find myself shaking my head. It's never appealed to me. Edward has asked me several times to let him go there, and I've always been adamant in my refusal. I'm going to let his father, though. It's not like I have any choice in the matter; he isn't asking for my permission.

Carlisle's smiling at me now, my answer making him happy, and it lights up his face. God, he's so beautiful it's almost painful, so much like his son. I'm going to hell—no passing 'go', no collecting two hundred dollars.

"Good. Very good, in fact. My son may have popped your cherry…" He knew that? "But I am going to be the one to take your ass."

He pinches my chin between his fingers, angling my head back uncomfortably so that I can't avoid his intense gaze. He's serious now, almost angry, but instead of frightened, I was more turned on. God, I was sick. This was sick. We are sick. "I'll be the only one to ever take your ass, Isabella. Do you hear me? Your ass belongs to me—no one else—and once I claim it, I'll take you there whenever I want. If you ever let anyone else have you there, you'll regret it. I don't share what's mine, and you had better not forget it. Got it?"

I nod again, because—again—I don't have a say. I never have a say. This has never been about my wants.


Proving that he'll do as he wants, his finger leaves my pussy, his hand pulls out of my pants, and he releases my chin before spinning the chair around so that I'm facing him.

"You're going to please me so much, Isabella. You're my dirty little girl, and by the time I'm finished with you, you're never going to want to be anything else." His eyes rake over me, so heavy as to be nearly palpable…almost, but not quite. I need more. I need him to actually touch me, and fuck me, to do all those dirty things he was just whispering in my ear.

"Stand up," he commands. I obey.

"Strip," he demands. I do. Urgent, like his voice.

"Sit," he says. So I sit.

He moves the chair further away from his desk and circles it, appraising me. "Very nice, Isabella. Very nice, indeed. My fantasies never do you justice. I can't wait to take you everywhere. "

I flush from his praise, as if I somehow have something to do with how appealing he finds me; I don't. I'm not that pretty. I'm not at all sexy. I'm cute at best, and if I have a nice body, it's because I have good genes; I don't work out, or for it, or at it.

By the time he's back in front of me, his shirt is gone and his pants hang open. His thick cock in his hand, he slowly strokes it, drawing out each pump up and down. I salivate, jealous of his hand. I want it in my hand, my mouth, my pussy, maybe even my ass…I just want it in me and I want it now. I shiver.


I drop to the ground and kneel before him, staring demurely at the ground. Carlisle groans. His hand goes to the back of my head, sliding under my heavy hair, and his fingers rub circles into the thin skin of my neck. He's so close to where I want him, but still too far away.

"Come here," he beckons, and I comply, crawling to him on my knees, feeling the slickness between my thighs with each movement. I've never—in my life—been this wet, and admitting it feels like the worst breach of faith yet. Only Edward should make me this wet. I'm so ashamed, but it does nothing to stop me from obeying his next command. In fact, I deserve to be used the way he's about to use me; I am a dirty, faithless whore. "Open your mouth."

He won't let me use my hands as I work my mouth up and down his shaft, pausing every few strokes to twirl my tongue around the tip. It doesn't take long for me to get him so worked up that he stops holding himself back, takes hold of my head, and goes to town, fucking my mouth with abandon. At first, not expecting the depth of his penetration, I gag slightly, but I quickly find his rhythm and relax my throat each time he thrusts his cock down it. Luckily, he's a hair smaller than Edward, so it isn't too difficult for me to take him like this. It's ninety percent mental.

He's back to telling me things that make me feel naughty…that make me feel like the dirty girl he wants me to be for him. I like it, it takes me out of my head and lets me get lost in his.

"Oh, Isabella! Fuck! You suck my cock so good. Yeah, that's it; take it all, little girl. You like sucking my cock, don't you? Of course you do, because you're a filthy little cocksucker and that's what filthy little cocksuckers like. Your mouth feels so good, but I bet your pussy and your ass will feel even better, especially your ass…" And on, and on, and on he goes, just like that, until he's close to coming and it deteriorates into unintelligible grunts and groans and moans.

"Fuuuuuck! That's it, that's it! Take it all, Isabella! Swallow it down, baby girl! Ohhhhh!" he cries with one final thrust, and then he's spilling himself so deeply in my throat that I have no choice but to swallow.

I keep him in my mouth until I feel him starting to soften, and then I pull away, swirling my tongue as I near the tip, before releasing him with an audible 'pop'. No longer occupied with pleasing him, my mind goes all Three Mile Island and starts its nuclear meltdown sequence. I'm feeling too many emotions all at once, all of them contradictory to the one before it: satisfaction, degradation, arousal, shame, hunger, heartbreak, want, sinful. And, hovering like an umbrella over it all, all-consuming guilt.

What have I done? What have I done? What have I done? What have I allowed to be done to me? What am I still going to do?

But none of that matters when we're again touching skin-to-skin, his hands release my hair and move down to cup my face. His thumbs press into my jaw, rubbing away the slight ache where it hinges as he gazes down on me in a way that makes me feel warm, proud of my cocksucking accomplishment. What is wrong with me?

"On the chair, Isabella. Now. Put your legs over the armrests, grab your ankles, and scoot your ass to the edge." I scramble to comply, and when I'm in position, he smirks down at me, eyes on the prize.

"Such an obedient little whore. Do you want me to make you feel good, Isabella?"

My whole body trembles as I nod and lick my lips. His face hardens. "I can't hear you, Isabella."

His tone makes me whimper, and then shout, "Yes! Please!"

God! Just fucking – fucking touch me already…before I implode. I know he sees how much I ache for him. My pussy is so wet and swollen and red, and it's pulsing with need…all for him.

Guilt licks at me, but he touches me then—one finger lightly stroking the length of my exposed sex—and it's enough to drive the feeling away. Guilt, guilt, go away, come again later today. As long as he touches me, all the feelings that tell me how wrong this is, are kept at bay; he banishes every single thought, allowing me to focus on how he makes me feel. It's as if he exorcizes my conscience; he's a sexorcist. His voice stops me from following that devolving line of thought any further into ridiculousness.

"Mmmm," he moans around his finger as he licks the taste of me from off it. "Such a little slut. You're practically dripping for me," he drawls, bringing his finger back to my pussy to stroke me again.

My body decides it needs more than just this one-fingered, teasing caress. Unable to stop them, my hips thrust up, driving my pussy against his finger, seeking more friction, more contact, more…more. The action gets me more, all right, more than my renegade hips bargained for. His finger disappears, replaced seconds later by a stinging pain as he slaps my wet flesh. A loud, hissing gasp leaves my lips—but from pleasure or pain, I'm can't say. However, I don't get a chance to decide which sensation it is, because he unexpectedly plunges two long, dexterous fingers inside of me—"Oh, fuck!" I cry, my head falling backwards, my neck unable to support it—and stills.

I don't realize my eyes have closed, and I'm shocked when he again grips my chin between his fingers. When he tilts my chin down sharply, my eyes open, and I wish I would have left them closed. Breathing heavy, face colored by irritation, he peers at me with such single-minded intensity, I feel as if I'm going to spontaneously combust if I don't break the contact, but when I try, he simply tightens his hold on my chin, refusing to allow me to look away. I cringe, caught off guard and completely taken aback by his roughness with me, but I'm still undeniably turned on. I really, really need therapy.

"Be still," he says with seductive smile that doesn't match his harsh tone. It makes me even wetter. Years of intensive psychotherapy.

My eyelashes flutter and I look at him coyly from beneath them. "It's been far too long since I've had this for me to allow you to call the shots; we're doing this my way, Isabella." We always do. "You do what I say, when I say and, if you're a good girl, I'll make it worth your while."

I'm panting at this point, desperate and aching, and wanting to be so good for him. His fingers, so big inside me, still haven't moved, and it takes all I have to remain still. "Please! Puh-please?" I beg. I'm not sure what, exactly, I'm asking for, just…something. Anything. I'll take whatever he wants to give me.

"Please what, baby girl?"

"Please whatever…anything! Whatever you want, j-just please!" I answer. I have no pride anymore, he takes it all away.

"That's right, beg me! I love to hear you beg. You're going to be doing a lot more begging by the time I'm through with you," he grinds out, slowly and deliberately moving his fingers back and forth inside me. "You like that, don't you—my fingers inside you, fucking you?"

"Yes," I whisper hoarsely, a subterranean tremor rumbling through my body. It's so intense already with only two of his slender (but not too slender) surgeons' fingers barely moving inside me, that I can't even fathom what it will feel like when his thick cock is squeezed in there. Just thinking about it causes the tremor to become a shiver that rolls down my spine, and my pussy starts to quiver around his digits.

"You are so fucking, argh…" he trails off, a fuckhot growl replacing whatever he'd been about to say. "You have no idea what you do to me—what you're doing to me," he groans, dropping to his knees in front of me. This is what I reduce him to.

One hand presses down on the front of his chair, tilting me towards him, and we both moan when his lips wrap around one taut nipple, sucking and biting and tugging. It hurts so good; I want more of this pleasured pain, and I want it now. I can't stop one hand from releasing my ankle and latching onto his hair, holding him tight to my chest. Realizing what I've done, I tense, worried I'm about to be in trouble and dreading the punishment, but no punishment comes and his lips don't leave my tit. I can only assume that he either doesn't notice or he likes the way I'm pulling his face into my chest too much to care about my disobedience.

Still working his fingers slowly inside of me as if he's trying to beckon my orgasm forth, he switches sides, biting down harshly on the new tit-flesh in his mouth.

"Ohhhhh!" I cry out in pain, but the way my body clenches around his taunting fingers, tells him how much I like it, contradicting my cry and making me out to be a liar.

"You are such a dirty girl…so fucking wet…Mmmm…so fucking tight. I'm going to do everything to you," he prattles, his words muffled by the flesh he worships.

He starts to lick his way down my torso, returning frequently to my tits as if he can't resist them. Delirious, all I can do is tug at his hair while tossing my head about and moaning. Finally—FINA-fucking-ly!—he nears the place where I want him…only to stop just millimeters shy of the prize.

"I'm gonna make you come so fucking hard, you're never going to want to stop," he promises…or maybe it was a threat? I don't know and I don't care, because as soon as the words are out of his mouth, his mouth is on my clit, and his fingers begin to move with purpose. Carlisle is so eager, making sure to angle his fingers just right to hit all those spots inside me that he knows will make me see stars. I'm not going to last long.

"Yes, please make me come…please! Oh, fuck, Carlisle!" I move against his fingers, demanding more, harder, now.

"Listen to you, begging me to make you come—you are such a dirty whore. I hear you and Edward at night, but I've yet to hear you beg for it the way you're begging me now! Only I do this to you, and you can't deny it. God, I can't wait to fuck your hot little cunt. If I didn't want to taste you so badly, I would stop right now and bury myself inside you."

I want to tell him to leave Edward out of this, but I can't. Each word he says vibrates against my clit, driving me crazy and eradicating the few threadbare shards that still remain of my mind. My verbal filter having long since abandoned me, words start pouring from my mouth unchecked. "Ohhhhh! Fuck! I love the way you lick my pussy, Carlislllllllle! Yessssssss! Fuck me with your fingers! Suck my clit. Oh, God! Oh, God! You fuck me so good! Please...please...make me come in your mouth. I need to come…soooo bad."

Part of me wants to be appalled—I don't say things like that—but my body won't let me. There isn't time enough for it right now, anyway. I have better things to concentrate on. I'm so close…so close.

"Don't…stop!" I half-pant, half-scream. "Don't ever...fucking…stop! Sooooo fucking…cl-cl-close!" The last part comes out as a breathy whisper, and no sooner are the words forced out, than I feel myself spin off into the atmosphere where I shatter and then leisurely begin re-entry.

Carlisle continues to lap at me, licking up every drop that he's made me spill, as his fingers slip out. He licks his glistening digits, and then uses them to open me fully to him so he can lick up the mess he's made. It's nice to see that some men still remember how to clean-up after themselves when they're done eating.

Still coming down from the heights of ecstasy, I'm not immediately aware of his tongue leaving me. I don't realize until I hear him speak that not only has his head left its spot between my thighs, but he is standing up, as well.

"Get on the desk, Isabella."

Lifting my head and opening my eyes, I stare at him, not comprehending. "Hmmm?"

"Get. On. The desk," he orders again, saying each word slowing and clearly as if I was a child. He has a cocky grin on his face, obviously pleased over my befuddlement. "Now," he adds firmly as an afterthought.

In my haste to obey, I nearly fall on my face, but Carlisle's strong arms are there to catch me and he lifts me up, spins around and sets my bare ass down on his pristine desk blotter. He allows my arms to remain latched around his neck and instructs me to put my feet on the edge of the desk before sliding me forward so that my ass is nearly even with my feet. The position is hell on my knees, but it's a pain I'm willing to tolerate for the pleasure I'm about to receive.

When he's arranged me to his liking (as if I'm his very own, life-size porcelain doll), he rams himself home in one thrust without bothering to tease me as he normally would. I don't think he has the patience for that; neither do I for that matter.

"I am gonna fuck you so hard, Isabella," he warns as he slowly pull his hips away from me. He pauses with just the tip in before slamming back inside. "Just…" withdraw, "like…" thrust, "this," he says, punctuating his words with actions.

"Please," I beg, "don't stop."

"Oh, I won't, my dirty little girl, believe me, I won't. Not until you come all over my cock."

There's no more speaking, just primal, guttural noises from both of us as he furiously and brutally fucks me while I cling to him. It feels so good—to finally have him give me everything I've been wanting for so long—that I'm delirious with pleasure. When he tries to kiss me, I almost let him, but I turn my face just in time so he kisses my cheek instead. No kissing, it's my one caveat, the one rule I was allowed make, but he's always trying to break it. I won't let him, though. Not ever. I don't think. I hope.

"I'm gonna…I'm gonna… Oh, fuck! Oh, fuck! I'm coming!" I shout when I finally come on his dick like he wants. Like I want. He never stops moving, fucking me all the way through it and making it so intense that it's almost too much.

I expect him to come shortly after me, but he doesn't; Carlisle is still long and strong and down to get the friction on, as Sir Mix-a-Lot would say, and I'm totally down with that. Who knows when we'll get to do this again?

When my orgasm stops pulsing through me, Carlisle stops and pulls out. Confused, I panic.

"Wh-what are you doing?" I question, because we can't be finished if he hasn't…finished. I'll feel like a failure if he doesn't come. "You're not finished yet."

"Was that an observation or a command?" He looks amused, so I know I'm not in trouble—thank fuck—but he doesn't wait for my answer. Not that he ever does. "You don't get to decide when I'm through; I tell you."

He steps toward me again, pressing his body against mine but not entering me no matter how much I whimper or wiggle.

"God, you are such a little whore. No wonder Edward is so infatuated with you. I just had you—just made you come like a fucking bomb, not once, but twice—and you're still begging me for more! I can't honestly blame him for never wanting to leave you; I don't think I could stop right now even if someone were to come home. Does my son know what a dirty little whore he has for a girlfriend?"

He slams into me again, so unexpectedly that I barely have time to fling my arms behind me, palms slapping against the hard wood desktop, to brace myself. My breath leaves in a rush when he reaches bottom, and he doesn't give me a chance to catch it before he starts his fresh assault. He's fucking me like he's got something to prove, and I almost topple from the force of each thrust.

My head rolls back on my shoulders, so I'm not prepared when he hooks my legs over his arms. Overbalanced, my elbows give out, and I fall backwards onto my forearms, cracking them against the wood as catch myself. It hurts, but I quickly forget about the pain.

I like this new position. It's ideal for the way he's pounding into me, since it allows me to curl the tips of my fingers around the edge of the desk, preventing me from sliding backwards each time his hips connect with my ass. Now, I can take him deeper, fully feel the force of each stroke, and the angle is perfection.

I close my eyes, and the sounds that fill the room remind me of a bargain bin porno, but I don't really care. I've never felt the way Carlisle is making me feel. He has me moaning and panting and once again saying things that I've never said before. Carlisle gloats.

"Is that good, Isabella? Is it, dirty girl? I bet my son hasn't ever made you feel this good, has he? You're going to think about this—think about me—the next time you're fucking him, aren't you? It's going to be my cock you want, not his. Edward can't ever give you this. He can't ever fuck you this good."

I thrash against him, because how dare he? It has nothing to do with my worry that his words might hold a glimmer of truth. "Don't you dare mention Edward. You don't get to say his name while you're fucking me. He's a far better man than you will ever be, and he deserves far more than what we're doing to him."

I can't finish, my tears are making it impossible to speak. I am the lowest form of life on earth. Sobbing, I'm still trying to get away from Carlisle, trying to get away from the scene of my crime, from my guilt—maybe even from myself—but he isn't letting me.

He holds me down, pinning me to the desk with his dick, his hips, his body, and his eyes. It's his eyes that really do the trapping—they're fierce and looking as if they'll brook no disobedience. "I make the rules, Isabella. I decide when we're finished, and we… Are not. Finished."

I'm flat on my back on his desk now, Carlisle above me, his chest pressing to mine and my knees, still over his arms, approaching my ears. Hello, knees, my ears say, we've always thought we should get better acquainted with one another.

I don't nod, but Carlisle isn't looking for my acquiescence; I gave up my right to protest the minute I let him stick his dick in my mouth. However, when he tries to kiss me again, I still refuse him. As great as my betrayal already is, it really is a moot point—the no kissing—but I feel as if, by not crossing this line, I may still somehow be able to redeem myself. God, I'm delusional.

Carlisle doesn't even acknowledge my show of will, he just carries on and, acting as if he never tried to kiss me and I didn't just refuse him, turns his attention to my breasts instead. Continuing to hold my body prisoner with his, he rolls his hips, grinding against me until I moan and buck my own and he makes me forget. I don't remember my anger or guilt or tears. With a groan, I beg him for more. I beg him to fuck me hard again.

"More, Carlisle! More! Fuck me, please. Move! Fuck me fast…hard."

He doesn't. He slows down, teasing me.

"I don't think so, baby girl. I've been doing all the work. I think it's time for you to fuck me. You need to learn to not being so selfish, so greedy." True, but not in the way that he's meaning it. "I need to show me that you want this."

I swallow, my throat suddenly dry, but I'll do it. I don't want to, but I have to. "Fine. Whatever you want. I'll do it."

"Respect, Isabella," he taunts, singsong, reminding me of my place.


"Please what?"

"Please may I fuck you, Carlisle?" I'm blushing, not from embarrassment, but from shame, hating this. Hating him. Hating me more. Most.

He smiles, loving my degradation almost as much as he loves fucking me, but he's not going to make this easy on me. He hasn't forgotten my earlier disobediences as I thought he had. I should have known better. He likes this—lulling me into a false sense of security and then making me beg to please him—much more than he likes to deliver his justice swiftly. Of course, with him, you never know; it can go any way. He doesn't like to be predictable. He's a sadistic fuck. I may get off on it, though.

"Is that what you really want?"

"Yes. More than anything. I want to fuck you hard, ride you like the whore I am. Let me please you. Let me show you how much I want you. Please."

I expect to have to beg some more, but he abruptly rises, taking me with him. He walks around to the armless chair on the side of his desk, and sits down, reclining slightly against the back of the chair, arms clasped behind his head.

With an air of disinterest, he goads, "Ride me, Isabella. Show me how bad you want it, and maybe I'll let you come."

He's the picture of leisure as I slide down his thick cock, trembling when he's fully inside, and the detached amusement that's prevalent in his eyes, on his face, makes me hate him a little more. The only part of him that proves his behavior to be a prevarication, is inside me. His cock is definitely interested. Even knowing his nonchalance is all and act, I have to break him, crack his veneer, own him the way he's owned me. It's our own little fucked up game; everything's a power play.

I lift up and then let my hips fall, a dead drop taking him in all at once. He tries to muffle his moan, but the tightening of his abs tells me how much he likes it. I do it again before rolling hips, teasing him, just getting started. I plan on teasing him more, making him beg for it the way he made me, but his hands grab my hips and his eyes meet mine urgently. "Fuck me, Isabella."

So I do. He's clearly still in power.

Up and down, up and down, up and down I move, fucking him, and his hips buck up to meet me, helping me take him harder, fucking me.

"Yeah, yeah…that's it, fuck me hard. Ride my cock, baby girl. Your pussy is so good…gah! So tight…so wet."

"Oh, ohhhhhh! You feel so big inside me…so hard… I love your fucking cock…love fucking you..." I declare, and then grit my teeth as a wave of pleasure, intense and unexpected, surged through me.

"Fuck, yes!" Carlisle growls. His eyes are wild, and he no longer resembles the suave, cool, controlled and controlling man he is. I relish his complete loss of composure; delighted by the power I'm wielding over him.

"God you fuck me so good! You're such a dirty fucking whore. Fuck me like you mean it, show me what a dirty girl you are. Look at you, so naughty, so fucking wanton that you can't resist spreading your legs for your father-in-law. Oh, fuck…fuck…fuck…" he groans, getting louder and louder with each shout.

I'm almost overwhelmed by how good it feels, how awful I feel. My chest and thighs burn with exertion and guilt, and I'm panting so hard that I can't even form words any more. All I can do is moan in one continuous wail that I can't believe is coming from me. Carlisle seems to be even more affected than me by our frantic fuck. He's lost every trace of civility. Almost feral, he holds my hips with bruising force and grunts each time he fully buries himself inside me.

We're so close, both of us straining for completion, but at the same time, not wanting it to be over yet. Carlisle must be closer than me, because his hand comes between us and two of his fingers begin rubbing quick, tight circles on my clit, trying to urge me over the edge, but I refuse to fall first. I'm struggling to hold on—my pussy squeezing him tight and creating so much friction that I don't know if can. His mouth and teeth move back and forth between my breasts, nipping and licking and sucking so good that I just want to fall, but I won't.

Trusting him to keep me safe, I lean back with one hand on his knee, and reach below us, between his legs, arching my back until my hand finds his balls. Rolling, tugging, never ceasing the movement of my hips, I urge him, "Come for me, Dr. Cullen. Just let go, Daddy."

He growls in frustration, knowing I'm going to beat him at his own game. Game over. I win. Starting to lose it and deciding that he's not going to go down alone, he pinches my clit. It's almost all she wrote. I'm like a supernova as I approach my climax, the pleasure just wanting to burst out of me, but I stubbornly resist, just barely holding on, clinging to the edge with teeth and nails. It doesn't want to be contained, it's too intense. For my sanity, I need to find an outlet to release some of what I'm feeling.

Desperate, I jerk his mouth away from my tits, and crash our lips together. Sucking, licking, biting, we devour each other. We're fucking each other's mouths, our tongues mimicking what his cock is doing. Mine delves into his mouth and his chases it back into mine. Somehow still riding him—it's as if I suddenly possess superhuman coordination-I slurp hungrily, eagerly, happily on his tongue, and I feel the first pulse of him spilling inside of me. Only now, finally, can I give into the chaotic pleasure of my orgasm.

Exhausted and needing oxygen, I break away from his lips. Our sweaty foreheads fall together, as we cling to each other, panting and trembling, holding the other up. Minutes later, we're still panting, and still haven't moved. We've barely recovered from our orgasms, but the distinct sound of a car rumbling down the gravel driveway doesn't care. Fear of discovery sends a spike of adrenaline into our bloodstreams, and we spring apart, madly scrambling for our clothes.

I'm about to step across the threshold of his den of sin, back to reality, when his hand comes down on my shoulder and he pulls me against him. "I guess I'll have to wait until next time then," he whispers, free hand grazing my ass suggestively.

"There won't be a next time," I spit at him, on the verge of tears.

I expect his words, I don't expect his hand tugging my hair, pulling me back and dipping me, or his lips on mine, kissing me like a promise and thanks all at once. When he releases me, he smiles and says softly, "We'll see."

And then he smirks, pushing me into the hall before closing the door in my face. The last thing I see before the wooden door blocks the room from my view is the blotter on his desk, the pristine white now stained, evidence of our egregious error in judgement…yet again.




Frantic, disgusted with both of us, and weighed down by the weight of my sins, I trip up the stairs to the third floor and stumble inside Edward's room. I go straight to the en suite where I lock the door behind me, turn the shower as hot as it will go, and break down. Sliding down the wall of the shower, I curl up into a ball of self-loathing on the floor and let the scalding water burn away the physical evidence of our tryst while I sob uncontrollably.

I cry over the sins of my past, the wrongs I've just committed, and the ones that will come in the future. I weep for knowing the feel of another's lips against mine, for my weak flesh and even weaker mind. Mostly, my tears are for the way I keep betraying the love of my life, the best man I've ever known…and for not loving him any less in spite of my betrayal. Throughout it all, I keep seeing that Goddamn blotter in my mind's eye taunting me, flashing proof of my infidelity like a neon sign.




When I eventually emerge, rosy skinned and raw-nerved like a newborn, Edward's there pulling me down to the bed and murmuring about how much he missed me today. He tells me he wanted to join me in the shower, and asks if I'll join him now.

"I'd love to, baby, but I just got out. I'm all clean," I reply.

"Well," he starts with a mischievous gleam in his eye, "guess I'll just have to get you all dirty again so you have an excuse to join me."

I willingly give him what he wants, too wracked with guilt to turn him down and needing the physical reminder of what he means to me, how much we love each other.




In bed with Edward, a short time later, I tell him I have a surprise for him. I'm finally going to let him do what he's begged me for, let him take me where he's always wanted to. As he enjoys his gift, I feel like I'm reclaiming something—us, a piece of me—by not allowing Carlisle to take this experience away from us, take it away from Edward. I'm not quiet about my enjoyment of the things Edward is doing to me. I can't be. I know that Carlisle hears me and I want him to know that whatever he has of me, he'll never have this, he'll never take this.

It feels like heaven when Edward and I fall apart in each other's arms—there is no push or pull, no domination, no manipulation, and no power plays. It's just the gentle coming together of two souls bound together and meant to be that way.

For the second time that day, I beat Carlisle at his own game; the ace is up my sleeve again, and I vow never to let him have it back. My vow may one day be broken—it almost certainly will—but I mean it with all my heart as I make it.




I wait until the house is quiet and I'm certain that Edward is sleeping before I slip from his arms, grab my bag, and start to creep from his room and out of the house. I love him too much to bear doing to him what I know I'll continue to do because I'm powerless to resist him.

Stepping out the front door, I'm stopped in my tracks by a voice that asks, "Going somewhere, Isabella?"

And it begins all over again.

Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned...

~ Fin ~