Элла Франк - Blind Obsession

“I would…” He pauses for a moment and I hear a belt unbuckling. I know what he’s about to do. My body wants it, but my head is telling me to get the fuck out.

“But I don’t want to,” he whispers.

Swallowing, I try as hard as I can to push back off the wall.

“I don’t want this,” I deny feebly. I feel his hand loosen my hair. “Let me go, Phillipe.”

I think he’s about to do as I’ve asked until he moves. His whole body is flush up against me, and I move slightly. My breasts are pressed against the chilled wall while his hands trap mine at my sides. His body is wrapped up close behind, like he’s trying to crawl inside of me.

“You’re lying again,” he rasps into my ear.

His voice is edgy and almost sinister in its frustration, but what frightens me the most is that I can’t explain why it makes my soaked pussy clench so hard that I almost come.

Releasing my arms, his hands slide around both sides of my hips and cover my bare mound. Pressing my hot cheek against the wall, I start to pant as I try to sound believable, needing to convince him and myself. “I’m not. I don’t want this right now.”

But, I moan as one of his hands slides down between my thighs, and I feel his hard, hot cock throbbing insistently against my ass crack.

“Yes, you do. You just don’t want to admit it,” he persists.

As he voices one of my biggest fears, I feel two of his fingers slide down over my distended clit through my soaking wet lips. Shifting a little, I bring my legs together, and I feel his mouth on my shoulder.

“No. Keep them apart, Gemma, so I can get inside of you.”

Biting my bottom lip to stop myself from screaming, I leave them where they are, but still, those clever fingertips start to push up into me.

“Okay then, have it your way. Drenched.” He groans. “Absolutely drenched.”

I find myself finally giving in, embarrassed by the way my traitorous body is responding to this man — a man I don’t want to need right this minute. He moves back and pulls my hips away from the wall, tilting my ass up toward him.

In a voice I hardly recognize, he tells me, “Your body is begging for me to fuck it, Gemma, and I think your mind is too.”

I can’t help myself from responding. “I think you’re already doing that.”

“What?” he quietly demands.

“Fucking with my mind.”

I feel him dip his legs a little. His cock begins sliding through my hot, wet folds from behind, pushing through to meet where his hand is stroking my clit. I wish I could see down between my legs because I know he is also touching the tip of his own cock as it slides back and forth, teasing my entrance with the promise of a good hard fuck.

“Hmm, your ass is perfect,” he states, stroking a warm palm across my cheeks. The tips of his fingers are on my crack, and they grip tight, gently pulling my cheeks apart. “So fucking perfect.”

My breathing is out of control now as my hands support me against the wall. My breasts are swaying with each torturous slide of his cock between my needy pussy lips, and all I can think about is what he’s looking at. Closing my eyes on a moan of my own, I wait for his next move.

“All I am telling you, Gemma, is that maybe you should heed what the stories have told you. Maybe you should run. Run far away from me.”

I’m about to respond when his cock suddenly penetrates me with a long hard thrust. I gasp and bite my lip as he growls and lets go of my ass to grip my hip.

“But, for right now, it’s too fucking late,” he enlightens me, punctuating each word with a hard thrust.

His left hand moves to my ass, and his finger strokes over the dark pucker he’s looking at.

“Right now, you’re mine, just like she was mine. I’m going to pull you under and drown you in me until you can’t forget.”

His words are darkly disturbing. They’re too close to everything I have read. It’s too close to everything I have heard or been told about.

He flexes his hips, and his cock strokes deep inside of me. All I can do for the immediate moment is brace myself and hold on for the storm.

After all, if I am going to drown, this isn’t such a bad way to go.

Isn’t that the biggest mindfuck of all?

Day 11

 Broken Trust ~

Today, I was on a mission—a mission to rectify a wrong.

It had been three days, and still, Phillipe remained aloof.

He had returned from his walk the other night and told me everything was fine, but it hadn’t been. He hadn’t even been back to paint. It was almost as though he had distanced himself from me, and I had felt it as acutely as I would if I had lost a limb.

When I awoke this morning, he had already left the mattress we share up in the studio. I could hear the soft strands of a violin playing from a recording I had given him, so I knew he was somewhere in the room with me.

“Phillipe?” I called out. I waited for a response but not for long.

“Yes?” he replied, his deep voice sliding over me like a caress.

I felt the side of the mattress beside me dip.

Reaching across the pillow, I touched his fingers with mine. “Will you take me to town today?”

There was silence, except for the music floating around us as I felt his fingers squeeze mine.

“Of course.”

When I sat up, I let the sheet fall down to my waist, hoping to invoke some kind of reaction from him. Instead of the reaction I was hoping for, he let go of my hand, and I felt the mattress shift as he moved away.

“Phillipe?” I called, hating that my voice cracked.

“Yes, Chantel?”

Faced with the moment to tell him anything, anything that might bring him back to me, I found that I was not as brave as I wanted to be, so I remained silent.

“What time do you want to leave?” he asked.

I could tell he was walking away, moving toward the door.

“As soon as I get dressed?” I asked softly.

“Okay. I’ll be back in a little bit.”

“Phillipe?”

“Yes, Chantel?” Again, his voice was patient but detached.

I wanted to scream at him.

“I don’t want to be anywhere but with you. You know that, right?”

I never got an answer. He’d already left the room.

* * *

Several days later, I pull out my laptop and place the journal beside me in bed. I haven’t been sleeping very well. Too many questions and too many thoughts keep swirling through my mind, and I can’t seem to block them out, not even by shutting my eyes.

I still can’t quite wrap my mind around what exactly happened a few nights before.

Things have changed. Phillipe has changed, and for the first time in his presence, I feel frightened. Up until now, I have been wary, suspicious, and careful around him, but I have never felt the overwhelming need to protect myself from him as I had that night. Right on the cusp of that fear is also the sharp jagged edge of persistent desire.

It’s been days, and I know he’s avoiding me. Still, I can feel my body starting to throb at the thought of him.

Annoyed at myself and my traitorous body that seems to be continually betraying me, I turn on my laptop and lean back against the headboard, settling in to do something I told myself I would not do while I was here. I search the name Phillipe Tibideau.

* * *

He came and got me several minutes later, just like he had said he would. Once again though, he was silent. I hated the silence because, like anyone else, I couldn’t see his face to gauge his mood.

He took my hand as we were about to head downstairs.

“Phillipe, talk to me,” I insisted.

He stopped, and I could feel him turn to face me.

“What do you want me to say, Chantel?” he asked.

“I don’t know, but not talking to me isn’t going to fix things,” I explained, trying to get through to him.

“I can’t explain how I feel,” he softly told me.

I stepped closer to where I knew he was standing, and I raised my hand. He took my palm and placed it on his cheek.

“Tell me?” I whispered.

“No, Chantel. I’m okay,” he assured me, his voice strained.

“You’re not. You’re hurting. Tell me why. Is it because of my parents? I already told you—”

“No,” he replied, placing a finger to my lips. “No, it’s not your parents. It’s me.”

“I don’t understand,” I responded, moving my hand slowly.

That was when I felt both of his hands on my face, cupping my cheeks. As he leaned down and placed his mouth by my ear, I could feel his breath on my face.

He exhaled a soft gust of air. “I don’t want to scare you.”

“You are scaring me. You’re not talking to me. You aren’t painting. You’ve pulled away.”

“No,” he sighed, his lips still against my ear. “No, Chantel, it’s the other way around.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You don’t understand what it is I feel for you, and I’m scared to tell you. I’m scared it will make you run far away and never come back,” he confessed, placing one of his hands on my chest.

“Nothing could make me leave,” I stressed, turning my head to where his mouth had been by my ear.

“Nothing?” he asked.

Somehow, I knew his eyes were on me.

“Nothing,” I reaffirmed.

“I can’t stop the ache in my chest, Chantel.” He paused for a moment.

I made a move to speak, but he continued before I could utter a single sound.

“When your parents said they want you to think about moving back to America, I felt like someone had pulled my heart out of my chest.”

“But—”

“Literally, it felt like someone reached in and ripped my heart out of my chest. I shouldn’t feel this possessive of someone. I know that in here,” he explains, tapping my head. “But, here in my heart and in my soul…Chantel, I don’t know what’s happened to me. I’m all twisted and consumed in my need with these fucked-up thoughts. If you leave, I wouldn’t know what to do.”

“I’m not leaving you.” I tried to get through to him, but he wasn’t in the frame of mind to listen.

“Hearing them talk about you returning in several months made me crazy. I can’t let you go. You know that, right? I need you here.”

“I want and need to be here, Phillipe. Please,” I pleaded, “listen to what I’m telling you. Come back to me. Be strong with me. Trust me.”

“My heart aches for you,” he confessed, his voice dropping down, quiet and low. “I would die for you, and that terrifies me.”

I felt a shiver slide over my spine as I cradled his face in my palms. I had no words.

I was his.

* * *

Opening one of the articles my search revealed, I try not to flinch as the headline glares at me in accusation.

Tragic Accident or Tragic Betrayal?

By Michael London

I skim through the story and find myself cringing at certain questions from the journalist.

As my eyes continue down through the article, I see that it only gets worse. Words such as tragic, horrifying, and deceptive are littered throughout the whole piece.

Disgusted and annoyed at myself, I snap the laptop shut and push it away from my lap.

What am I doing? I have been here long enough to know that if he wanted to hurt me, he would have. Right?

Even though Phillipe is warning me to leave and my brain is agreeing, for some reason, I know that I won’t. On the tail end of that realization is a startling one—I can’t.

Not only am I determined to stay here to get this story and get it right, but I am also held here because of Phillipe and Chantel themselves.

Separately, they are fascinating individuals, both artistic in nature and both passionate about the other. Together, however, they are an irresistible force.