Disclaimer: I don't own the Twilight Saga.
Author's Note: Chapters Three, Four and Five will be about Rosalie's punishment. There will be eight chapters all-in-all. Also, stories like this and "The Only Way" are liked and understood by very few people. Not everyone will understand my works and what the stories are really about.
I'm intrigued in finding people who are like me in some way, or who at least, are open-minded enough to be able to grasp the way my mind works. Those people are a rare find. And I usually start finding them through one's review… Well, without further ado, I give you Chapter Three.
A is for…
Opening my eyes to pitch-black darkness, I found myself running up square stairs, and as I stopped to look beyond the railing to see where the top would end, I only saw more flights of steps. Though I didn't know where the fuck it would lead, and seemingly, it didn't have an end, I kept running. Running. Feeling like I wasn't getting anywhere. Feeling like my feet weren't moving forward at all. But I was starting to sweat. Continuing on, I ran. Until an invisible force knocked me off my feet, smacking me down to the ground, my back cracking as it met the hard, uneven surface of the steps.
Tumbling over and over, never stopping, panic and fear surged up within me, feeling trapped in this helpless situation. A sense of warm liquid seeping out from my forehead started to block my eyesight. I tried to grasp onto one of the flights of stairs, desperate to stop toppling over, frustrated to find balance that I couldn't fucking maintain.
Finally crashing on a flat surface with a loud thud, I was certain I had broken all my bones and in one single second, I fell back into unconsciousness.
Opening my eyes once more, this time, I was climbing a fence. Where on the other side, my wife was huddled; her knees up close to her chin, her arms around her legs, her hands in her hair, her head bent low, and her tears… I could hear her tears; even feel the weight of them. But tears weren't supposed to be heavy, were they? Tears were mere liquid after all…
As she looked up, I understood why I could feel them. They weren't tears. She was crying… blood. The frightening sight of my wife crying tears of blood didn't deter my resolve to get to her. My feet climbed the fence, and every time I stepped onto the ground of the other side, I was back in front of the fence, climbing my way up to get to my wife. Why couldn't I get to her? Why, goddamn it?!
More than a dozen times I had reached the ground of the other side, just to have myself ending up in front of the fence once again. As I reached the top of the fence for what seemed like the hundredth time, a strong gust of air knocked me off, the sensation of falling overwhelming me with fear of dying.
But I never reached the ground. In mid-fall, I awoke, opening my eyes, finding my naked wife on top of me, her tears of blood falling against my cheeks, and the thick white bodily fluid she kept in her mouth started to flow out as her tongue pushed itself past her lips. Her fingers grazed over my mouth, and with my chin then being cupped by her thumb and forefinger, she lightly pulled it open with the apparent intent to transfer that… that horrifying, disgusting male fluid that I knew from my nagging intuition didn't belong to me.
The thought of having that inside my mouth sickened me and though mentally I was thrashing around to get this insane version of my wife off of me, my body was as still as a statue. Just as soon as the warm liquid touched the corner of my mouth, for the last time, I woke up.
Panting and sweating from the vivid pictures that enclosed me in terror, I frantically looked around to ascertain nothing of it was real. Relieved to find the side of the bed vacant, I knew it was all just a nightmare. Yet there was a certain inexplicable sense of truth that spoke to me. Just as there was a gulf in between the room I was in and the room that my wife now occupied since the night I found Edward's wedding band, the second part of my dream resembled that distance between us now.
I stood up, the dream fading from my mind as I was pulled back to the world of consciousness. In front of my wife's door, I paused. As the confusion of my nightmare settled down, anger flooded through me. And yet, I couldn't figure out what the fuck I was so furious about. After all, it was just a dream…
White. Everything was too white. As I opened my eyes, I was met with a chilly breeze, numbing my whole body, only to find my body already too frozen to move even an inch. Realization hit me as I awoke to reality. I wasn't greeted with the comfort of my bed; instead, I was welcomed with the cruel coldness of the outside world, the snow falling from the sky in a steady pace.
The actuality of being outside in my naked state dawned upon my foggy mind and only added to the confusion my sleeping brain could take. Trying to take in this scene I was in, I tried moving my head from left to right, inspecting where exactly I was. Noticing my arms spread to my sides, ropes around my wrists, feeling myself bound to a sleek wood surface, with my hazy brain, I was unsure but it felt like I was tied to a wooden post. To be more accurate, this felt like the exact image of Christ on the cross.
What? How did I get here?
Facing front, the mansion in my sight was the one I shared with my husband, but where was he? Was he the one who did this? How was he able to drag me out here without me waking up, if he did so while I was asleep?
"Finally awake, aren't you?"
His voice came from behind me, but I couldn't turn my head around, belatedly realizing that my neck too, was tied to the post with a rope around it. Even my feet seemed to be entrapped by a rope, tied around the post, but my feet weren't covered under the snow. There was a little platform underneath my feet, and for it, I was grateful, dreading how sick I'd get from having my bare feet dug under the freezing snow, though being out here in this weather alone in my state of undress was bad enough.
What was I doing out here?
Hearing my husband's approaching footsteps, I waited, anticipated, until finally, he came into view. Fully clothed in heat-giving material, a sense of injustice crept up my skin, a spark of anger igniting within me.
Before I could speak up, his hand clamped over my mouth. The warmth of his breath tickled the skin on my neck, his voice filled with so much hatred, the sound of his words so biting; it almost felt like it had teeth that sunk its sharpness into my skin.
"You'll pay for everything, Rosalie."
The light shimmering reflection of a razor blade swept across my vision and in one quick millisecond, panic set in, the thought of my husband inflicting pain on me never ever occurring to me in any way possible.
"I think it's just appropriate to mark you for what you are, don't you think so too, my adulterous wife?"
Three lines. Three lines atop my left breast, etched into my skin, right above my heart, stinging against my tender flesh. The letter A. I welcomed the sharp, piercing, slicing sensation. For I knew what it stood for.
This was proof of what I was. Proof of my sin.
I could feel the blood trickling down my chest, the red liquid scorching, burning me. As my vision blurred with the help of my tears, I watched on with a mind as blank as a white sheet of paper as my husband pulled out a white rose bud from his jacket pocket, lifted it to my bleeding insignia, the fresh, innocent petals absorbing the liquid, turning it into a passionate red rose filled with sin.
"Be proud, my darling wife. Only you have the ability to make this flower turn into this spectacular red rose with your sinful blood."
Tucking the stained rose behind my ear, my husband made me feel like a mere decorated statue for display. Why was he doing this?
With a cold breeze moving past me, the wind whistling in tune to my agony, silence snuck its way between my husband and me, and we stayed still like we were dead, stuck in this eerie tranquility.
The sound of wheels of a vehicle made my eyes widen. 'I can't be seen like this!' The shiny black sedan stopped right in front of our main door, and out stepped an unfamiliar face, a total stranger, a fair-skinned woman with crimson red hair and bright green eyes, clad in a leather coat, made her way towards us. Emmett turned and greeted her with a kiss on her cheek, then led her over to where I was imprisoned, held against my will.
"Who is she?" the woman asked, pertaining to me, a strong, rough accent in that low, sultry voice of hers.
"My wife," my husband replied coldly and curtly.
The woman studied me for a minute then queried, "Why is she out here, bleeding?"
"Because she's my adulterous wife who needs to be punished," Emmett explained, his words spitting with venomous hate.
"I came all the way from Russia for this?" the red-headed lady asked, seemingly a little disappointed and insulted.
"Well, you've been wondering for a long time what it's like to be with me, haven't you, Victoria?" Emmett asked in return to her question. "So it's not like it's a total waste that you're here. Besides, I know how much you love to exact punishment on people who deserve it so you're perfect for this task of mine."
"How amusing that you remember that, Emmett."
Her voice had dropped even lower to a barely audible whisper as she turned to face my husband, her arms resting on his shoulders, her hands gliding along my husband's nape, her fingers entwining in the strands of his hair at the base of his nape, her face so close to his, their lips barely inches apart.
With unbelieving eyes, I watched how my husband's lips were kissed by her cherry red ones as her body was pulled in closer to his by his arms that encircled her waist, his hands resting on her backside, the leather of her coat restricting much of his grab.
Lips parted, tongues met, clothes were discarded, and to my horror, my husband continued this sexual act until both of them were naked, my husband sitting at the edge of the platform while this Russian woman, this Victoria, was kneeling on her coat to shield her knees from the snow, between my husband's legs.
From my view way up, I could see how hard my husband was for this woman. His cock was completely erect and she grabbed him with such intensity that my husband's head was thrown back, a groan leaving his lips, and the appalling sight made me feel affronted to be witnessing this disgusting act of infidelity just to spite me.
The nauseating feeling in my stomach reached my throat, and I annoyingly pushed it back down. There was no way I'd let him know that this was upsetting me. Slurping sounds reached my ears, and it was too difficult a task to keep my eyes away from where it came from.
Painted red lips enclosed over my husband's member, her mouth swallowing him whole. Salivating all over his full length, coating it with the clear liquid, her spit landing against his tip, her palm grazing along it, spreading it – I was so close to shouting. Was it really necessary for me to be seeing this?
With a loud pop, the Russian woman's mouth left the impressive hardness so erect, so proud, her body then leaning forward until the stiff rod was squeezed between her breasts, her hands carefully cupping them, positioning those two perky assets of hers to confine my husband's manhood. Was this real? Was this truly happening? Or were my eyes betraying me?
How could it not be real when I can see them so clearly, hear them so distinctly, especially my husband's proof of pleasure, the depth of his voice so enthralling, ringing in my ears as his hips started grinding upwards as he started thrusting himself between those enviable breasts?
In that single second, I wanted to slice them off her body, cut them off her gorgeous curves, then dismember every limb so she would never be able to use the seducing image of her body to lure men like my husband in. A sense of disorientation kicked in, and I shook my head to clear my thoughts. What was I thinking about?
A harsh thud forced my eyes back to the body that was slammed onto the platform; the perfection I was seeing made up of shapely curves, mounted hills and seductive depths on a natural, flawless canvas. Red waves of shiny locks splayed across the wooden surface, green eyes searching for the transparent blue ones of my husband, as red painted nails reached forward for flesh to cling onto.
Letting my eyes wander downward, where legs were spread, shock registered in my mind as my husband penetrated so swiftly, so hard, I could almost feel it, like it were happening to me. The breaking through of my entrance, feeling invaded, occupied, before the assault of his powerful thrusts began.
Repulsed by the dampness forming between my thighs, I tried to shut my eyes close, look away, concentrate on something else, focus my gaze at the distance, but nothing worked.
Just as my tears betrayed me, drowned me and filled me up inside, my eyes were glued to the two bodies meshing as one. The cry of my husband's name coming from the woman's lips awoke a stirring, vicious resentment within me.
No one should moan my husband's name that way. Only I should be doing that. Only I could call out his name that way.
Though sickened at the horrendous sight of seeing my husband bury himself deep in another woman, I couldn't bear to take my eyes off of the entrancing sexual interaction that made me feel such furious anger inside yet at the same time, leaving the core of my womanhood craving for the same sexual attention, envious with dripping lust.
I watched on with a lustful, longing gaze. Watched how my husband's cock delved deeper in her sanctity, disappearing into her over and over. Both amused and jealous with rage as he turned her over, ramming into her with such force while she was on her hands and knees. With each thrust, her body propelled forward, only to be pulled back against his hips by his hands grasping her slim waist. She must have been stretched enormously. Emmett was well-endowed, more than the average male, and he never failed to amaze me with his remarkable girth.
In one swift movement, my husband pulled her off the platform and was now standing, his hands grabbing tightly onto her thighs, holding her up perfectly with the strength of his arms. This Victoria swung one arm behind Emmett's nape for support, her hand clinging onto his shoulder while her other hand went to work on the hardened peak of her breast.
The dreadful yet alluring sight of that magnificent male specimen sliding in and out of the redhead's seemingly tight entrance was right before my eyes. Her succulent wetness coated my husband's hard shaft, the white liquid gliding down to his sacs, and for a moment, I had the desire to be under them, licking my way up to taste her tangy sweetness.
Her head turned slightly to the side, leaning close to Emmett's and I stared as her tongue darted out to meet his, the exchange of the saliva from intertwining tongues left me too stunned to think.
This Russian red-haired, green-eyed woman was attractive in her own ways. The pink blush on her naturally fair complexion and flawless face somewhat piqued jealous hatred inside me. Her long curled lashes and high cheekbones with the perfect arch to her eyebrows sent bitterness reeling in my brain. She was beautiful, yes, and she had a voluptuous body. This was the first time I felt someone come close to me in competition when it came to beauty.
As their lips parted, the bright emerald eyes of the redhead, with a dark mist of lust and pleasure in those heavy-lidded eyes of hers, searched for the crystal clear blue ones of my husband. My gaze drifted from her to my husband's expression, and what I saw shocked me, infuriated me and tore me into a million shreds.
'Stop! Don't! Don't look at her like that!'
With his eyes completely locked on hers, I felt a stirring ache in my chest, a painful racing of my wounded heart, my air suddenly being stolen, like the light in my life was being overshadowed by the painful possibility that my husband had feelings for this woman, for that look, that gaze he so intently laid upon her, spoke of a clear statement that she was now the only thing he could see, only thing he wanted to see.
'Don't look at her like that!'
Only I should receive that look. That look where he was so lost, drowning in the woman's eyes as his senses would overtake him as he'd greedily take what was his, the urge and need for release no longer a matter of what the woman needed but what he wanted. That possessive man who took orgasms any time he wanted, but never failing to bring me to my high next, that man was supposedly mine. And mine alone.
Shredding, tearing, ripping, all these sensations forced themselves on my beating life force, killing me slowly with excruciating torture as I watched on how my husband drowned himself in the sexual temptation, his controlled, paced thrusts no longer following a certain rhythm, his pounding, slamming, ramming into the woman so vicious, so erratic, so uncontrolled, so… uninhibited.
Through blurry eyes, my stare fixated on the two figures connecting as one, I hated him, despised her, and loathed myself. I no longer knew what this was all about. Until my husband's eyes suddenly bore into mine, glaring at me, sending piercing daggers through my heart, the hatred ablaze in his eyes, masking the real pain I was certain he felt underneath all the façade.
Breaking. I was breaking with every second that passed. All of a sudden, I felt the whole world crash onto my shoulders, crushing my body, my soul, my spirit into a mere nothingness, making my presence in this world insignificant. I didn't matter. I was nothing in this world. And I was nothing to him.
"Come for me, babe," he then whispered into the red-head's ear, and if it were anyone else, it might not have mattered, but that same line, that same way he whispered it, was only for me.
That encouragement to come for him was mine. Feeling my jaw quivering as tears formed in my eyes, I felt deeply hurt to hear my husband using the same endearment, the same words, the same encouragement and same way of saying it, and using the same position on another woman to bring her to her state of ecstasy.
Not being able to take any more of the maddening, debauched show that was openly broadcast in public with no shame, just to infuriate me, I desperately and futilely thrashed against my restraints, the rope around my neck and my wrists tightening, the mark already noticeably imprinted upon my skin.
I wanted to scream, cry, run far away; wanting nothing more but to forget that now Emmett would resort to this just to get even.
"Emmett! Don't stop, don't fucking stop!"
The string of profanities being screamed by the Russian woman made me aware that she was nearing her high. As much as I wanted to look away, the strong need to see the end to their insulting "punishment," as my husband called it, trumped over my nausea to see someone else receive his climax.
She was slammed back down on the platform, my husband once again claiming her like an animal, his thrusts hurried, quick, deep. His hands palmed her breasts, kneading them, tugging on her nipples with his fingers, all the while his body gradually leaned forward, pushing the woman's body along until her figure lay flat against the platform, my husband's body fully pressed up against hers, his arms on each side of her head, his fingers meshed in her hair.
The Russian beauty's expletives were now louder, and the obscene language came to a halt as Emmett thrust into her one last time, making her body shake with violent tremors, her pleasure finally milking his member, squeezing every last saneness my husband withheld.
I watched as he pulled himself out and this Victoria eagerly turned around and offered her open mouth to my husband's cock that he was now working on quickly, the spurt of his cum shooting into the redhead's mouth. With a moan of pleasant delight after a deep swallow, Victoria licked her lips and took my husband's cock into her mouth one last time.
As I was released from the post, my body collapsed onto the platform, and with what little strength I had left, I pushed my body forward, crawling off the platform onto the ice-cold snow. Too numb and too weak to move any further, I let myself sink into my bed of freezing winter, an appropriate place for an ice queen such as myself, fully aware of the cheating mistakes I've done with the knowledge of being an adulteress to my husband.
Lying in my tomb of white snow, I slowly noticed the blood seeping from the wound on my chest trickling down my skin, sinking into the whiteness, recreating my tomb of white snow into a sea of crimson blood, where my cold-hearted soul froze, trapped inside this unfaithful body of mine.
Frozen in time, I laid there, waiting for death to pull me out of my misery. But life wouldn't let me escape my sin this quick. For life was never forgiving. Especially for someone who's committed such an atrocious sin.
Author's Note: Please leave your thoughts in a review or PM, whichever you prefer more. I love hearing what my readers have to say.