Author's warning: I make good on my promises. Content of a highly sexual nature.
The tallow of her sputtering candle dripped slowly from its melted, deformed mouth. Yellow wax pooled on the crude tabletop… drip… drip… drip. Barely enough light flickered from the flame to cast the darkest shadows around her small bedchamber.
And Cécelie sat on the covers to her bed, half undressed from her petticoats, her short-stayed corset already cast aside to the simple wooden chair. Her knees bent under her, she took a ratted old brush to her hair, trying to make its bent and cracking fibers push through the thick strands of her own, taking her fingers to the snarls that were too tough for its weakened, aged strength.
Shaking, her hand ran through her locks over and over again, her mind still caught up in the day's actions; Get control, she told herself. He stayed away the rest of the day just to manipulate you, throw you off guard. Get control. It's not like you to quiver and twitch in fear, and you never for one second supposed the Inspector to be a weak-minded man.
Not like her husband, that dead bastard. In a jolt of rage at his memory, the wooden handle of the hairbrush cracked from the sudden strength of her grip, ending the life of the useless object in the first place. Little good it served her whole, she shrugged.
Life had been various stages of hell to begin with anyway; a life at the beck and call of a heartless policeman, where a broken hairbrush becomes a luxury might as well be her equivalent to heaven at this rate.
She threw the wooden handle across the room in the dark, unable to so much as see where it hit the wall and clattered to the floor. It made a thin knocking on the wooden floor.
Followed by a rapid, heavy knocking at her door. Cécelie grabbed the dying candle from her nightstand and crossed the room, careful not to let the flame gut out. In the failing light, she cracked the wooden door open just a bit. A flash of emerald flickered in the shadows above her head, and she peered into his face. Severe as ever and harsh. His square jaw clenched tightly beneath his thick sideburns, his brows weighing down heavily over his half-lidded eyes. And his lips remained flattened firmly together. His wide-brimmed hat, however, was missing from the crown of his head, revealing his brown hair pulled strictly from his face, tied somewhere behind his back in a ribbon unseen.
She waited for him to speak, her heart racing out of control. Surely this was about earlier. Why else would he be here but to punish her, having proven himself devoid of all manly motives.
His thick sturdy hand braced against the edge of the door, forcing it to open wide enough for him to enter. As he passed the candle in her hand, the flame flickered out, dying in the disturbed air of his wake.
In the darkness, she squinted to locate his face, finding him in shadow by the heaviness of his breath rather than by sight.
More silence. Not even a movement from her visitor. Finally, she dared him a question. "Inspector, I cleaned the papers from the floor. I followed your instructions to the letter, Monsieur," her voice sounded strangely calm even to her own ears.
"You did," his voice barely above a whisper.
His breathing deepened, or was it growing louder because he was approaching.
"If you're looking for an apology, Monsieur, I give it freely," she continued to the darkened void.
Now his voice came from beside her, closer. He was moving about her with not so much a sound, years of practicing this silence to catch his criminals. To stalk his prey. "As freely as you profess to give of yourself, Rénauld?"
She spun to face the voice again, but without her candle, seeing anything was hopeless for her in the night's darkness.
From directly behind her, a hand reached into her hair, grabbing a handful of blonde and spinning her around wildly. Sharpest pain seared through her scalp as she was dragged towards her bed, stumbling through her own tiny room. In the light of the small window, she finally saw his face, just for a moment before he flung her across the covers. Better adjusted to the darkness, better lit closer to the window, she could only watch as the Inspector's fingers removed each button to his uniform jacket rapidly, mechanically and meticulously, flinging it to the floor's shadows.
"Show yourself to me," he commanded.
Cécelie hesitated just an instant as she sat up on the bed, unsure what to make of this. Not moments ago, she thought herself worthy of a flogging for less than this.
"Show yourself to ME!" he snarled, pulling the cravat from his throat with one hand, the other working over the buttons to his waistcoat. Both he let fall at his feet.
Her hands tugged the final layer of petticoat from her hips, next removing her thin undergarment from over her head. There, she stood naked before him in the darkness, just as she had that same morning. Only this time, she shivered in the evening chill, feeling her skin pricking and pimpling in the cold. She shook it away, and taking a deep breath, she climbed to the edge of the bed, resting back on her heels beneath her as he dropped his trousers to his ankles, passing over the white chemise he still wore.
"Give me your hand," another growl. And she felt him grope down her arm to clutch her by the hand, pressing her palm to the base of his penis, wrapping her fingers around him. She raised a brow at just how thick he was around, running lightly down his shaft to discover he was equally impressive in length.
"It would seem your Billy club is not the only large rod you carry, Inspector," her mood lightened for a moment, glad he reconsidered her offer free from retribution.
"Shut up," his other hand clutched back into the base of her scalp, "No more words." He threw her down on the bed, pinning her beneath him again, and a constricting tightness filled his chest. No more words, no more looks, no more touching himself to end this.
His hand between her legs, he spread her thighs wider beneath him, pressing his hand harshly between her folds, finally jabbing deep into her vagina with his thumb. Now he knew where to pierce.
She writhed at the pressure, "Monsieur…" she began to speak. But he clapped a large hand over her gaping, simpering mouth, willing her into silence with his iron-wrought stare. She mumbled into his palm, trying still to speak, but his grip was firm.
He thrusted violently into her, barely knowing exactly what his body craved. And at the warmth, the wetness, the pleasure he felt, he understood why he had denied this of himself for so long. Grinding his teeth together, he looked down at the space between their bodies, watching as the swell of her breasts heaved and shook with her gasping breath. Beautiful like cream, he denied himself to touch them, forcing his eyes away from their enticing fullness, focusing his gaze at the base of her neck instead. That neck he so often envisioned in irons again, in reality and in fantasy. Now she was as good as shackled, with him swelling, pressing, penetrating inside her.
As he thrusted again and again, she laughed morosely to herself; she'd suffocate beneath his grip before she'd ever begin to enjoy his labored fucking. The weight on her chest, the weight on her mouth. All of it choked. Filled her with unbearable, delicious pain.
Like an animal, he grunted with each plunge, his rhythm constant and metrical. She'd have laughed at his form if she could breathe. She closed her eyes, finally feeling his hand slip away from her nose as his fucking sped up.
It was not unpleasurable, to feel him glide in and out, filling her past the threshold of comfort. Forceful and hurried, he drove as deep as he could into her each time, the sound of flesh slapping against flesh deadened her senses, as rhythmic as his beating was inside her.
Thrusting faster and faster, he knew enough to realize his release was close. And that was when he felt her voice moan beneath his hand, and her body contracted around his cock from the inside. Uncontrollable, he shuddered and spasmed, hitching in his metered beat with a growling groan. His thoughts blurred, pressure leaving him as he emptied himself, fighting to not be overcome with warmth and exhaustion. Heart racing, legs trembling, he dared to look up from her neck, finding her eyes opening to his. Despite the damnable dark, he knew just how searchingly blue those eyes were. His lip turned down into a scowl as he withdrew from her, standing from the bed and pulling his trousers back around his waist from his feet.
She was wet, and she hurt from his lack of care with her, but she managed to sit on the edge of the bed. Coldly and silently, she watched him dress with attention to every last detail of his appearance. Each button was fastened perfectly in place, his shirt flawlessly tucked inside the top of his trousers, his cravat meticulously knotted and wrapped around his thick neck. The only piece amiss was a single strand of dark hair that had escaped from his tail with all his exertion.
He made the slightest motion to go, his boots still miraculously silent on the wooden planks of her floor.
"Monsieur l'Inspecteur," she spoke, her voice steady, hiding a slight lilt she felt was due. "I take it this means I won't be due a flogging for earlier."
"No, you are mistaken yet again, Rénauld," he spun around at the foot of her bed, the faintest of starlight just catching his face enough to make the cruelty in his eyes and in his sneer visible. "What I ordered still stands. Ever dare to make unwarranted solicitations of that nature again, and you will find yourself extremely uncomfortable lying on your back."
He opened the door, "And be sure I would take every advantage of your pains." Then he shut it tightly behind him, victorious.