Betrayed by my Body

Isabella’s POV

"Let go of me!" I snarled, twisting in his grip. My voice cracked with rage and panic, but he didn’t move. His hands gripped my arms firmly—not violently, but with a maddening certainty that made my skin crawl.

I screamed as I tried to pull away from him but he held me tightly in place as he parted my legs open even more.

“Shh," he blew against my folds and a shiver went down my spine. "You're already wet for me yet you're trying to fight me,” he said as he chuckled darkly.

That sound did more things to my body than I cared to admit and that made me sick.

“You really are a sick bastard," I spat, my voice shaking with rage. "Kidnapping me—then shoving your face between my legs like I’m just another whore? What the hell is wrong with you? Is this your routine? Snatch up women and pretend you know them?! You're a freak!"

But instead of answering, his mouth moved lower, and the sudden flick of his tongue against my core made my breath hitch. I bit down hard on my lower lip, forcing the sound to die in my throat.

I wouldn't give him the satisfaction.

I clenched my fists into the sheets, my nails digging crescent moons into the fabric as I fought the trembling in my thighs.

No. Don’t react. Don’t feel anything. He doesn’t deserve that.

But my body betrayed me, humming with something I didn’t want to name. Shame rose in my throat like bile, hot and thick, choking the scream that begged to escape.

How could this be happening to me?

"You think you're in control," I muttered under my breath, eyes squeezed shut. "But you're nothing more than a coward hiding behind twisted fantasies."

Still—he didn’t speak. He didn’t stop.

My mind screamed for my body to freeze, to shut down, to stop feeling anything at all. But the confusion, the fear, the humiliation—it all swirled together into something I didn’t know how to fight. My breaths came in ragged bursts, and tears blurred my vision.

I wanted to disappear. To tear myself away and vanish into a version of me that didn’t tremble under a stranger’s touch. A version of me that was stronger—colder—unbreakable.

But I wasn’t. Not at this moment.

And that terrified me.

I hated myself.

Hated the wetness between my thighs. Hated the traitorous ache building low in my stomach. Hated that part of me—however small—felt like it had been here before.

I didn’t know him.

But some part of me… wished I did.

And that was the worst betrayal of all.

"I’ve dreamt of you every night," he murmured, his breath brushing against my lips before he kissed me—slow, desperate, like he was clinging to something long lost.

I turned my head, tried to pull away, but he only tightened his grip, holding me like I might disappear if he let go.

“Please…” The word came out broken, pitiful. I hated how fragile I sounded. “Please just stop…”

He didn’t move. His eyes flicked across my face, jaw tight, like he was wrestling something inside him too.

"You want me," he breathed against my skin, voice low and certain, "you just don’t know it yet."

Before I could even form a response, his tongue invaded me—and my mind shattered into panic and chaos.

“No!” I screamed, a sound ripped from the core of me. My hands flew to his hair, yanking with all the strength I had left, but even then—I couldn’t tell if I wanted to pull him away… or hold him down there.

My heart thundered. My breath came in shallow gasps. I was drowning in a whirlpool of confusion, terror, and unbearable heat.

He sank his teeth into the soft flesh of my inner thigh. I gasped at the sharp sting, sure he’d branded me with that bite—something meant to leave a mark, a reminder.

My hands trembled as I tried to push him away, my voice cracked and fragile. “Please… just stop. Just let me go…”

But he didn’t.

Instead, he grabbed me harder, dragging me closer to his mouth like I was something he had been starving for—like he had waited for this moment forever.

And his lips moved against me—slow, deliberate, possessive.

I squirmed, struggled, whimpered—but he was stronger.

"You begged for this once," he murmured against my skin, his voice drenched in something darker than lust—something twisted, desperate. “You craved this. You needed it like air.”

I shook my head, trying to silence the voice in me that asked if he was right.

Because what terrified me most wasn’t his strength, or his obsession.

It was the way my body remembered something… my mind didn’t.

“You're insane! I'm not the…" my words got lost in my throat when he took my clit in his mouth and started sucking on it.

“I'm going to make you remember just how good I made you feel,” he growled and even when I tried to close my legs he wouldn't let me.

My eyes burned with tears of frustration. I hated that my body was betraying me. I hated it so much.

"I don't know what you're talking about, I don't know who you're talking about,” I whispered as I threw my head back in shame and pleasure.

"But your body knows what I'm talking about…you're wet for me, that's enough proof that you feel something…that your want me,”

"You're crazy! You're just insane! You sick…oh god!" I could die on the spot because of the shame I felt at the moment.

I couldn't believe I was moaning for a total stranger. A captor who keeps calling me another woman's name. This was absolutely crazy.

His hand squished my breasts as his tongue continued to work on my wet folds despite my struggles, despite my resistance, despite my pleading.

I felt my body shamefully getting close to an orgasm and a sob broke through my mouth.

“Don't…” don't what? Was I going to tell him to stop or keep going.

I bit my lips hard to the point that I tasted blood.

"You taste so fucking good just like I remember," he grunted as he licked me and my hands gripped his hair tightly as he groaned at my tight hold on his hair but didn't make any move to stop what he was doing.

My eyes rolled back in pleasure and despite how I tried to stop the moans. A loud moan escaped my mouth as I came on his tongue breathing hard.

Now was the right time for the ground to open up and swallow me.

“You're a psycho," I whispered with my eyes closed, refusing to look at him.

I was ashamed of myself—my body.

“Yet here you are,” he sneered, his voice low and cruel. “Soaking a psycho’s tongue.”

That dark chuckle that followed—it made my stomach twist, not just in disgust, but in shame. He was enjoying this. Thriving on my confusion. My pain.

I wanted to hurt him with my hatred, burn him with the fire blazing through my chest.

But even as I screamed, I felt the sting of tears in my eyes, the weight of betrayal—not from him.

From my own body.

From the part of me that responded when I didn’t want it to.

Without another word, his footsteps echoed against the floor—slow, deliberate—each one dragging the silence out like a blade across skin. Then came the low creak of the door, followed by the soft click of it closing, leaving me alone in the suffocating stillness.

I turned my face into the pillows and screamed in anger and shame. I screamed and screamed until my throat became sore.

No. I won’t stay here and let this stranger break me down piece by piece. I have to find a way out—any way out.

I will get out of here.

I don’t care who the hell he is, or why my body reacted like it recognized him. That means nothing. It has to mean nothing.

One way or another, I’m getting out of here.

Whatever it takes.

Whatever I have to do.