Isabelle's Awakening Ch. 04

She pressed up against the brick wall of the house to avoid being seen, shivering in the freezing wind. This had to go in the record book as the stupidest idea she'd ever had. When did breaking and entering into someone's house in the middle of the night ever sound like a good idea? Sure, it seemed easy enough on paper but wait until you're out in a dark alley with the temperature hovering in the low 20s.

She took a deep breath and prepared herself for the next step. If you're going to be stupid you might as well be stupid all the way. And Isabelle had always been one to give her all. She crept towards the back door and reached under the potted plant to retrieve the key she had used countless times in the past. She had been here before many times, usually to water the plants and air out the house.

The house belonged to Beatrice Sterling, or it had until she passed away three months ago. Beatrice's son and daughter had inherited the house but she figured no one had gotten around to removing the key. And she was right. The key was tucked securely under the same tired old plant. Now came the hard part; actually using it.

Was she really going in there to enact her revenge on D.S.? She hadn't been able to stop thinking about the nights he had visited her. It was all his fault; she would have been content to be a housewife her whole life, never knowing what was missing until he came to her house that first night. Now he was all she could think about.

She had spent a good amount of time pondering D.S.'s identity. She had made a mental list of everyone she knew, crossing out names and ruling certain people out automatically because of their physical characteristics. But she hadn't been able to pinpoint who D.S. was in that list. No one she knew, so to speak, fit the profile.

It wasn't until Beatrice had passed that a spark of memory came to Isabelle. She remembered spending afternoons with Beatrice on her back porch, drinking sweet tea and being told stories about her son Dillon. He was, according to Beatrice, a handsome man, but so many parents think their children are attractive. Judging by the looks of Beatrice, she had a hard time imagining her son as handsome. Beatrice wasn't ugly; she was just a huge hulking woman, with graying hair and large, doughty features.

Dillon had visited his mother often, so for that he was a good son. She had never met him, but had spent time with his sister, Cheryl, on Beatrice's back porch. Cheryl didn't seem as impressed with Dillon's achievements, as siblings are often harder to impress.

Beatrice could talk of little else. Dillon was visiting, could we help her clean? Dillon sent this wonderful bouquet of flowers; could we put them in a vase? Oh, and wash out the vase first, pretty please? Beatrice was old so we forgave her bossiness and did as much as we could to help, even if it meant slaving over her house for an entire Saturday and neglecting our own duties at home.

But she knew she had more than a little resentment built up towards Dillon, as he was the cause of countless hours of cleaning. Cheryl did as well judging by the dark looks she shot her mother's way every time Dillon's name was mentioned; which was often.

Beatrice's passing had taken her mind off of D.S. temporarily, at least until the funeral. At the graveside service, Cheryl and her family had huddled together under an umbrella. Standing right behind Cheryl was the acclaimed Dillon. She had surreptitiously tried to study the man Beatrice had raved about, hoping he wouldn't notice a married woman with husband and children in tow staring at him.

Beatrice hadn't lied when she told of his good looks. He was handsome, with dark brown hair that curled carelessly over his scalp, deep gray brown eyes that probed into your mind, and long graceful fingers. Why she noticed his fingers when there was so much more to notice bothered her, but notice them she did. He had broad shoulders encased in an expensive black suit that fit his somber attitude but didn't quite match the glint of mischief in his eyes. He stood there with his family and did his duty with class and grace, never once giving anything away in his demeanor.

She, however, wasn't that lucky or good at being surreptitious and had left her class and grace at home. He had caught her staring at him and raised an eyebrow in her direction. She couldn't be sure but she sensed a glimmer of humor in his eyes, as if he found it amusing that he had caught her. Then he did something so bizarre, well, bizarre for a funeral, that she had literally staggered. He had blown her a kiss.

A kiss for crying out loud! What had that been about? She had quickly looked away and hadn't looked at him again for the rest of the service. Or at least when she looked she made sure she wouldn't be caught. After the service she took her family home and grieved for Beatrice, for even though she had been an old curmudgeon, she had been her friend. She would miss her a great deal.

It wasn't until later that images of Dillon started to interrupt her thoughts. There had been something familiar about him, something she couldn't place. It wasn't just that she knew so much about him from Beatrice, there was something else. She just couldn't figure it out.

A memory of something that had happened at the funeral had kept replaying in her mind. At one point during the service, when she had been successful at studying him without being detected, or so she thought, he had ran his hand down his niece's face and that movement had struck a chord in her. It was the same lazy stroking her rapist had used. She had brushed it off at the time but it had continued to haunt her.

Could Dillon be D.S.? The questions had jumbled up in her head. She couldn't be sure but knowing Beatrice like she did, she was almost positive she had talked about her to Dillon, but why would he have chosen her to rape? Surely there were more attractive, young, nubile women out there? No resentment there, she snickered. He was certainly attractive enough to get his own dates without force. So why choose her? As far as she knew the funeral was the only place she had ever come into contact with Dillon and even that had been extremely limited.

Shortly after the funeral Dillon had moved into his mother's house. She hadn't been back since Beatrice had passed but Cheryl had kept her up to date on Dillon's activities. She could have cared less what Dillon was doing as she had heard enough about Dillon from Beatrice to last a lifetime but she had listened politely anyway.

What did she care if Dillon was fixing up his mother's house? As far as she was concerned he should have done that when Beatrice was alive. But Cheryl seemed to have gotten over her sibling rivalry now that Beatrice was gone and Dillon was her only surviving relative.

She had only half listened when Cheryl had talked about Dillon's latest achievement, something to do with producing music. But she remembered clearly sitting bolt upright when Cheryl said the name of his production company, D.S. Productions.

Then she had turned into a fiend, asking Cheryl questions about Dillon's work, where he worked, how long had he been using D.S. in his business name? She stopped short of asking what his schedule had been when that mysterious visitor had come to her house and before Cheryl got suspicious. She had never before shown any interest in Dillon so she didn't want to give anything away.

After that conversation, she had started doing some investigating of her own. She checked out D.S. Productions and was able, through their website, to see where D.S. had been during that time and found out he had been in town, both times. She was also able to read the web profile on D.S. and gleaned a few more interesting tidbits of info from that. The biggest clue had been the company logo, a knife with D.S. engraved on the handle and Productions running down the blade. That was when she knew the identity of her rapist. That was when she began to plan.

She didn't want to go to the police; it would be her word against his. She didn't have confidence that she would be believed and without DNA evidence it seemed useless to go through all that. Truthfully, she didn't want him jailed for what he had done. But she did want revenge for the desires he had awakened in her. He deserved to pay for the hunger he had instilled. So she had watched Dillon, trying to find out his habits, trying to figure out for sure if he was the one who had disrupted her world.

Based on what she had seen, he could very well be her mysterious visitor. He was the right height, his hair was the right color and he moved with an animal like grace she had witnessed only a few times before. Plus, his being her rapist made sense; there had been no evidence of a break-in at her house, only someone with a key could have gotten in. Beatrice had had a key to her house. She was certain it was him and that led her to come up with this plan. This stupid, stupid plan! What was she thinking? When her husband informed her he was taking off on his usual weekend trip with the kids, she had gone into action.

Now, teeth chattering, she stood on Beatrice's back porch and listened to the night, trying to discern if anyone else was out there. She held the key in her palm and rubbed its rough edges, torn between enacting her revenge and going home to her warm bed. She should go home and forget this man ever existed but she couldn't forget, wouldn't ever forget. With that thought she felt a kernel of courage, she couldn't forget and she was willing to bet money that he hadn't forgotten either.

She stepped forward and slid the key into the lock. It turned smoothly and opened easily. She pushed the door open and stepped into the darkened kitchen. This breaking and entering stuff was easier that she thought. She placed her bag down on the kitchen table; thankful she had been in the house so many times before and knew where everything was.

She removed her heavy winter gear and proceeded to dig through her bag. Knife: check. Rope: check. Blindfold: check. She was looking forward to making him pay. She quickly stripped out of her street clothes until she was clothed in only a small tank top, even smaller panties and the skimpiest bra she owned. She grabbed her gear and crept up the stairs to the master bedroom.

She stood in the shadows of the doorway and watched Dillon as he slept. Had he done the same to her? How long had he been in her house with her completely unaware? She shivered just thinking about him watching her in the dark. But she didn't take her eyes off of his sleeping form. He had thrown the blankets off during the night and lay sprawled and entangled in the sheets.

Her mouth went dry as she studied him in the shadows. This was the first time she could look fully at the man she had been dreaming about for months. He was big, but then she had known that. His chest was covered in a fine mat of dark curly hair that led straight down his belly towards his cock. His arms and legs were muscular and also covered with that same dark curly hair.

She crept closer to look at his face, hoping he wouldn't wake just yet. She reached out a hand to caress him, her fingers aching to touch his sleep roughened cheek, but then she remembered; she was here for revenge.

She quickly backed up and reached into her bag for the rope. She silently moved to the headboard and tied the rope to it, leaving two ends down. She had to be careful, he was much stronger than her, so she only had one chance to tie him down and she had to do it right the first time. She put the knife on the ground next to the bed but still within reach and quickly tied knots in the rope that she could then slip over his wrists. She wasn't an expert in tying knots but that was what the internet had been invented for. She finished the knots and thought about how she should do this.

His hands were close enough that she was sure she could grab at least one, the question was would she be fast enough to grab both without waking him up.

She took a deep breath, trying to calm her racing heart and grabbed a hand, slipping the rope over it and pulling it tight. She moved to the other side of the bed and was reaching for the other hand when he let out a small groan. She froze and watched to see if he would awaken. He didn't wake up, but pulled slightly on the rope as he adjusted his position slightly. Isabelle quickly snagged his other hand and secured it.

She was sure he was going to wake up at any minute so she snatched the blindfold up and bent over him. She placed the silken blindfold over his eyes and tied it haphazardly, in too much of a hurry to secure it as well as the rope.

She felt a shift in the atmosphere and knew he was awake. She sensed his confusion and his panic at being tied up but knew it was too late for him to do anything about it. She didn't know she had it in her, but she relished his confusion, his frustration, for it was the same confusion and frustration she had felt the first time he had visited her bedroom. She truly didn't know where this sadistic streak in her had come from but she would use it to exact some of what he had coming to him.

"What the hell?" He growled, coming fully awake and pulling on his restraints.

"I see you're awake," she murmured in response.

"What are you doing Isabelle?" he asked, trying to move, but she was happy to note the ropes held. She was also secretly thrilled that he recognized her voice.

"I believe its called revenge. Yes, that's it, I'm getting revenge. How does it feel to be tied up with your eyes blinded, not having a clue what's going to happen to you next?" she whispered close to his ear, letting her warm breath cascade over his earlobe.

"You better release me Isabelle. You know what happens when you disobey me and this qualifies as seriously disobeying me."

She chuckled at his response. "I'm just taking what's mine." She repeated his words back to him.

"This isn't funny. Release me now." His voice had changed as he realized the situation in which he now found himself.

"No," she answered in her best don't mess with me voice.

She seated herself close to Dillon without touching him. She was careful not to get too close because even though he was tied securely, she didn't doubt that he was capable of getting loose if the situation called for it.

She smiled in the dark; already imagining him squirming under her machinations. She was enjoying turning the tables on him. She was torn though. Part of her wanted to caress him, tease him, and taste his skin and yet another part wanted him to pay for what he had done to her. She knew she would never be the same, knew that no man would ever satisfy her unless it was him. She had no illusions that he felt the same way, but she wanted him to remember her at all costs. He had to pay for sentencing her to a lifetime of yearning.

She felt on the floor for the knife he had left behind and laid it gently across his chest.

"Do you recognize this D.S.? Or should I say Dillon?" she asked, waiting to see if he recognized the knife on his chest as being the same one he had left. "Did you think you could leave that behind and not get caught?"

"That was a mistake," he answered tightly.

"Hmmm, yes, I suppose it was. I imagine you didn't think I could find you based on your initials. Tell me Dillon, were you planning on returning for your knife?"

She lifted the knife and ran the handle of it over Dillon's chest, moving the sheet a little farther down. She liked the sense of control she had over him. Her fingers were practically itching to touch his long, lanky body but she was here to make him pay, not to fulfill her own selfish desires. He still had not answered her question.

"Going to answer me Dillon?" she asked, her voice syrupy sweet.

"No, I wasn't going to come back."

"So you think it's okay to rape a woman and walk away without getting punished for your actions? Is that it?" She heard her voice starting to crack and took a deep breath to calm down.

"No, just you Isabelle. I had to have you. You call it rape; I prefer to call it something else."

"Why me Dillon?" she kept saying his name partly to hear it on her lips and partly to remind him she knew his identity.

When he didn't answer right away, she bent down close to his ear again and repeated her question.

"Why me?"

"I saw you with my mom. She was always talking about you, about how if things had been different you could have been her daughter-in-law. She was always badgering me to meet you so I could talk to the wonderful Isabelle. I managed to avoid you when you visited my mom, but I watched you through the window one time."

"And...?" she prompted.

"I liked what I saw."

"That's it?" she asked incredulously. "That can't be the only reason Dillon. After seeing you at the funeral I have a hard time believing that you can't get your own dates."

"Of course I can get my own dates," he said, indignantly, "but I wanted you."

"Why?" she repeated.

Dillon sighed into the dark room and didn't answer.

"Ok, if that's how you want to play it. You leave me no choice but to do what I came for."

He snickered. "And what exactly did you have in mind?"

"Well, since your eyes are blindfolded and you're tied to the bed, you'll have no choice but to wait and see," she snapped in response.

"Isabelle," he growled.

Isabelle moved off of the bed to give herself some distance. She had to be careful with him; if she continued to talk to him she might change her mind. She had come too far to stop now. She couldn't deny that she wanted him again either, hadn't stopped wanting him. So it was now or never.

She smiled as a thought came to her. She quickly stepped out of her panties, bra and tank top. She clenched her panties in her hand as she lifted the knife off of his chest and tucked it on the bed next to him. God, could she really go through with this? Should she? There would be recriminations of course, there always was. She decided to quell the annoying thoughts pinging in her head and gathered her courage.

She leaned down close to Dillon's mouth and placed a soft kiss on his lips. She lingered there a moment, letting her tongue softly trace the shape of his mouth. His lips were soft and full, she hadn't forgotten that, but still it was a shock to feel them again. Then he opened his lips to return her kiss, his tongue sliding out to meet hers. They stayed there motionless except for the dueling match occurring between their tongues; he because he had no choice and she because she couldn't have moved if her life depended on it.

It took all of her willpower to pull away from his mouth. She sucked air into her lungs once the contact had been broken and tried to focus her thoughts. Do it, she screamed at herself. Do it now. Before she could change her mind she lifted the hand that held her crumpled panties and brought them to Dillon's mouth. His lips were still slightly parted from their kiss so it was easy to shove them into his mouth.

He grumbled around the fabric in his mouth and struggled with the ropes, but she knew he couldn't do anything about it. She lay down next to him, reveling in the feel of his body coming into contact with hers. She moved closer until her mouth was next to his ear.

"How do my panties taste? Do you remember the taste of me Dillon?" she purred into his ear. "I remember you eating my pussy; I know you liked it."

He only grunted in response. But she could see the evidence of his arousal, even though the sheets covered his more private parts. She ran a finger over the sheet covering his jutting cock and heard him struggling to maintain his cool. She traced the shape of him, up one side and down the other. It felt so good to touch him, to know he was hers for the taking.