Between Desire and Distant Hearts

Chapter 1

Isabelle Fairchild felt a thrill of anticipation as she heard the command, "Lift your hips higher."
"Oh, God," she murmured, her body responding with a shiver of delight.
She was dripping wet, her arousal pooling between her thighs. The thought of being devoured sent a fresh wave of desire coursing through her veins. "Baby, you're so wet, I want to taste you, every drop."
Sprawled on the bed, her figure was a vision of lithe grace, her waist narrow as a vine. She was kneeling, her porcelain bottom raised high, punctuating the air with moans of pleasure.
"Mhm... uh..."
The man behind her was spreading her cheeks, sliding his long fingers into her slick core, massaging the never-ending flow of her desire. His deep, husky voice was almost a growl, "I want to taste you, every inch."
She was lost in the sensation, her mind too consumed by pleasure to respond. His fingers pressed harder, finding her clitoris and giving it a firm tug.
"Ah!"
The pitch of her moans changed, but he only chuckled, increasing the pressure instead of relenting. His thumb found her entrance, barely breaching the tight hole, scratching at the delicate inner flesh.
"Such a naughty pussy, don't you want a man's tongue inside you?"
"I'll push my tongue in, lapping up your wetness, drinking it all in, swallowing every drop of your nectar."
"Genevieve, can I taste you?"
...
Did she want it? Isabelle Fairchild's body certainly did, even though a week had passed since that tempestuous night. She couldn't forget the wild ecstasy, the breathless desire, the feeling of being utterly consumed. Then, he had truly kissed her there.
The heat of his mouth, the strength of his tongue, it was utterly sublime. He had explored every fold, every sensitive spot, from her entrance to her clitoris and back again, thrusting his tongue deep inside her, lapping up her juices, stimulating her until she was on the brink of exploding with pleasure.
Now, her body was aching for more, dripping with need. She wanted him to tear off her wet panties, to pin her down on the bed, the sofa, the glass windows, even the floor – anywhere would do – and lick her pussy until she was begging for mercy.
"Genevieve," her husband's voice cut through her reverie. Oliver Blackmoor stood nearby, apron ties contrasting with his usual commanding presence, his voice gentle as he called out, "Dinner's ready, love."
"Oh," she replied, flustered, her soaked underwear a stark reminder of the fantasy she was lost in. She couldn't change now; instead, she tore herself away from her memories and desires, managing a smile for her husband, "Coming, darling..."
...
Today was their second wedding anniversary.
Oliver Blackmoor, her husband, was stunningly handsome, nobly bred, and only 26. He had earned his doctorate at 24 and was now a distinguished professor at the Royal University. He didn't smoke, drink, or stray; he was always gentle and considerate towards her, consistent as the morning star. By all accounts, he was the perfect spouse.
Isabelle should have been content, but lately, she felt a gnawing unrest.
"Genevieve, you're spacing out again," Oliver said, passing her a plate of steak, pouring red wine into their tall glasses.
The candlelight flickered against the walls, casting a warm glow over the room. As she looked at her husband, a mist of emotion clouded her eyes.
She loved Oliver, that much was certain.
Two years ago, she was a fresh college graduate, barely 22, when her father fell into a coma after a car accident. She had to take the reins of the Fairchild family business, navigating a sea of sharks. She and Oliver had quickly married and, with their families' support, secured a major deal that stabilized her position.
Everyone thought it was merely a business arrangement, but Isabelle knew better. She loved Oliver deeply, passionately, a love that had endured for many years.
"Genevieve," he prompted, concern etching his features.
"I..." she began, her voice barely a whisper.
Oliver smiled gently, always the picture of patience. "You've been working too hard, haven't you?"
"I'm sorry," Oliver took her hand in his, genuine apology in his eyes. "I can only teach and research, I can't help much with the company."
Her eyes welled up with tears. She threw herself into his arms, sobbing, "It's my fault, Oliver, I'm sorry..."
This was the Oliver she knew, the man who was everything she could ask for. Why wasn't she satisfied?
Their marital life had been harmonious, save for one aspect: their lovemaking. But Oliver's prowess was apparent, and she was determined to bridge this gap. If she put in the effort, perhaps their physical relationship could be as harmonious as the rest of their marriage.
"Genevieve, what's wrong?" Oliver stroked her hair, genuinely puzzled.
"Honey, I'm... I'm so wet, soaked through..." Isabelle grabbed his hand, guiding it beneath her skirt, pressing his fingers against her dampening panties.
Oliver, ever the gentleman, felt a jolt of surprise at her forwardness. His instinct was to pull away, but Isabelle held his hand firm, lifting her flushed face to look at him, her voice thick with embarrassment, "I really want you to fuck me, husband. Will you fuck me?"
...
A new chapter began, a tale of passion and desire.
Isabelle Fairchild found herself torn between two sides of her husband, Oliver, who harbored a secret dual personality. She loved them both, and the story that unfolded was one of indulgence and the pursuit of pleasure.
This was a tale meant for enjoyment, a celebration of the myriad ways love could manifest. Readers were encouraged to immerse themselves in the fantasy, to savor the rich tapestry of emotions and sensations woven by the narrative.
For those who found themselves captivated by the tale, remember to cherish it, to keep it close as the story continued to unfold.

Chapter 2

Isabelle Fairchild was on a quest for love. She was a woman driven by desire, yet Oliver Blackmoor was emotionally distant. After two years of marriage, their intimate moments were few and far between. Even during their honeymoon, they were close only once every two weeks. Eventually, those two weeks became three, then stretched to once a month, and finally to every two or three months...
Isabelle sometimes felt an aching emptiness. During those hard times, she tried to entice Oliver, but her efforts rarely bore fruit. Oliver simply wasn't interested in intimacy. Instead of savoring her delicate body at night, he preferred to immerse himself in the dry and technical world of cells and genes. He was a kind and thoughtful husband, yet he was also a rigid, emotionally detached professor.
This time was no different. Even when Isabelle laid aside her modesty and shamelessly coaxed him, Oliver gently turned her down. “You haven’t eaten yet, let’s have dinner first, okay?”
Isabelle felt a pang of disappointment. She loved Oliver and respected him, so even during her moments of need, she had never pressured him. When the ache became unbearable, she’d resorted to using a massager, searching for relief through artificial means. But this time, Isabelle couldn’t hold back any longer.
If it weren't for the man who had appeared a week ago, she might have been able to endure this emotional drought. But that man had returned, kissing her body and teasing her sensitive spots. Although he hadn't penetrated her, his fingers and lips had awakened desires long buried within her, granting her wave after wave of ecstasy. Now, she felt as if her patience was running thin.
“Oliver, darling…” Isabelle gazed at him, her eyes glimmering with irresistible allure. Ignoring her shyness, she slipped off her top and bra, revealing her soft, full breasts, leaning in closer to him. “I’m not hungry, honey. My breasts itch, and my… you know… needs your help. Ah~ please help me, please. Right now… ah ha~ all I want is your touch, honey, can you feed it to me?”
Oliver stiffened, his ears turning red. He avoided looking at his wife, momentarily flipping his gaze away before he mustered his voice again. “Isabelle, what’s gotten into you today?”
“I just want you!” Isabelle cried, lifting her breasts toward him, first teasingly brushing against his throat, then offering them to his mouth. “Darling, I feel so uncomfortable here; my breasts are aching. Can you just lick them for me? Mmm~ ah… it’s okay to bite, I don’t mind…”
“Isabelle…” Oliver frowned, not complying with her wish to bite down, but instead placed his hand on her full breasts. “Mmm… oh, it feels good… so good…”
He hardly moved, yet Isabelle took matters into her own hands, grinding against him. She placed his hand on her body, then straddled him, cupping his face and kissing him deeply.
Even in their kisses, Oliver was gentle, but in that tenderness, Isabelle was transported back to that summer when she was eighteen. That boy had the same air about him as Oliver but was wild and reckless. He used to pin her arms above her head, pressing his knee between her legs as he kissed her forcefully. Isabelle could never forget that feeling, and even now, just the thought of it sent heat flooding through her.
“Oliver, Oliver…” she lamented, “You awakened my desires before; why has that intimacy vanished?”
“I want it so much, I want you, darling… to be close…” After their kiss, Isabelle gasped, her head tilted back, unshed tears glistening in her eyes as she pulled off her underwear and unzipped Oliver's pants.
It was still soft, but it was substantial. Isabelle had seen it fully erect before and knew how much pleasure it could bring her, even if that wild side had been dormant for years. “Darling~ ah… baby…”
She parted her legs, caressing her wet body, then positioned herself over his sleeping desire. “Ah~”
She felt it stirring awake, swelling with blood beneath her softness as it began to harden and fill. “Mmm… it’s so big… oh god, it’s so good… ah~ it’s hitting me, it’s so pleasurable… darling, I feel amazing…”
“Isabelle,” Oliver cradled her face, still maintaining his gentle composure even in this heated moment, patiently asking, “Do you really want this?”
“I do…” Isabelle sobbed and nodded vigorously. “I want to welcome you with my body, I want you…"
Oliver held her gently, kissing her forehead. His voice was a husky whisper, “Then let’s go to the bedroom.”

Chapter 3

Despite his arousal, Oliver Blackmoor retained his gentle demeanor and tender touch. He carried Isabelle Fairchild back to their room, laid her on the bed, and took out the lubricant from the bedside table, pouring it onto his palm. He began to carefully and patiently stretch her, readying her for what was to come.
"You don't have to..." Isabelle began, spreading her legs wide for him to see her glistening, wet core. She moaned, "I'm so wet... Ah... You don't need to stretch me anymore, Oliver. You can just... slide in... Ah, yes..."
"Good girl," Oliver soothed her with his warm voice, insisting, "We need to do this right, so you won't get hurt."
His fingers, skilled from years of experimentation, slid into her, first one, then two, and finally three, stretching her delicately, all the while maintaining an overwhelming gentleness. He was never rough, always taking great care with Isabelle, even in the throes of passion. Yet, as he tenderly prepared her, Isabelle found herself reminiscing about that summer when she was eighteen.
The boy she had known then was nothing like the Oliver of today. Their lovemaking had been exhilarating, wild, excessive, a mix of pain and pleasure etched into her memory. He had been a boy who rarely bothered with foreplay, even on the night he took her virginity, he had only roughly thrust a few times with his fingers before plunging into her with abandon, leaving her forever marked by his passion.
"Does it hurt?" she remembered the boy asking, and when she had cried out in pain, he had bitten her lip and given her a kiss filled with the scent of their mingling bodies, telling her, "I want you to hurt, Isabelle. How else will you remember me?"
Now, as Oliver finally deemed her ready and asked if they could continue, Isabelle nodded, biting her finger as she emerged from her memories. Oliver rolled on a condom and slowly pushed himself into her.
Oliver was always meticulous in their lovemaking, never forgetting protection, and always disposing of the condom properly afterward, ensuring everything was clean and tidy. Unlike the boy from her past.
That boy had always taken her raw and unprotected, thrusting into her with reckless abandon, his skin rubbing tightly against her walls, his vigorous motions causing their juices to splash everywhere. He had loved to climax inside her.
In their two years of marriage, Oliver had never once finished inside her. He was always so considerate, never fully sheathing himself, always holding back that last inch, never reaching her cervix. Yet, that part of her had been claimed long ago, in her eighteenth year, by a boy who had no qualms about thrusting deep into her womb, filling it with his seed.
She had once naively asked him, "You always finish inside me. What if I get pregnant?" The boy had blown a ring of smoke in her face, making her cough as he gripped her chin, his eyes mischievous and his tone both vile and indulgent, "Can't you take care of it yourself?"
The thought vanished as Oliver's member filled her completely, his handsome, refined professor's body moving rhythmically within her. "You're filled up... filled by Oliver..." The words were the same as they had been that summer, but the response was vastly different. Instead of a wild, frenzied coupling, she was met with her husband's tender kisses and his considerate inquiry, "Is this okay? Does it feel good?"
"It's perfect... Mmm..." Isabelle wrapped her arms around his neck, arching her back to meet his thrusts, whispering in his ear, "I feel so good, Oliver. So, so good... Ah... Yes..."
What was she longing for? The boy had given her ecstasy that bordered on divine ecstasy, but he had also given her pain and hurt. Oliver was nothing like that.
Oliver, her husband, was a paragon of gentleness. This tender lovemaking could also bring her joy; she didn't need the wild, reckless passion of her youth. This was enough, Oliver was enough, and she should be satisfied. But why couldn't she reach her climax?
She was enjoying it, her core gripping his shaft tightly, her muscles trembling with anticipation. She was so close, just a little more, just on the edge, yet the peak eluded her.
———
With the chapter now transformed, the story of Isabelle and Oliver continues, their intimate moments unfolding with the same passion and complexity as their past, now framed within an American context, their love a testament to the many forms that happiness and fulfillment can take.

Chapter 4

Isabelle Fairchild let out a sob that echoed through the chamber. Her face was etched with sorrow, a heartrending picture that struck Oliver Blackmoor with a pang of concern. He immediately ceased his movements.
"Did I hurt you, my dear Isabelle?" Oliver's voice was soft and soothing as he gently withdrew his manhood, each motion careful and filled with tenderness and affection—a stark contrast to another's roughness.
When that man had taken her, her cries of pain and pleas for mercy went unheeded. He had ravaged her with relentless force, stretching her tight core until it was sore and swollen, her delicate folds bruised and battered. He would drag her back by the ankles whenever she tried to escape, thrusting deep into her depths, violating her most sensitive spot without an ounce of mercy.
That man had moments of tenderness, but they were tainted with a hint of carelessness and malice. Isabelle remembered one such night when he had finished using her. He had caressed her inflamed petals, lowering his lips to soothe them with his tongue, feigning sympathy as he murmured, "Your sweet pussy is all swollen from my cock, poor thing. Let me lick it better. It'll feel good in no time."
At first, he had indeed licked her tenderly, but his tongue soon became aggressive, his strokes growing stronger, and her clitoris, already abused, was played with mercilessly. Her overstimulated sex, far from being comforted, responded with another flood of wetness, bringing her to an orgasm under his command.
But that youth was no longer present. Now, when she called out that familiar name, the only one to answer was her husband, Oliver.
"I'm here, Isabelle. What's wrong?"
Isabelle blinked, forcing her tears to flow freely as she gazed upon the face that had made countless maids swoon. In a moment of confusion, she uttered, "Would you... lick me again?"
Oliver's handsome brows furrowed in surprise.
Seeing his reaction, Isabelle's heart skipped a beat, and she realized her slip of the tongue. They had been married for two years, and Oliver had never once gone down on her. She shouldn't have used the word "again."
Yet Oliver leaned in and kissed her forehead, his voice gentle, "Next time, my love. I've never done that before. I need to do some research."
"Okay," Isabelle said, her fingers gripping the sheets tightly, her nervousness still palpable.
But Oliver simply said, "Let me take you to the bath."
Isabelle nodded absently, only realizing as she was lifted into his arms that the firmness between his legs remained, unsated. He had only just taken her, yet he showed no interest in finishing.
"You... haven't come," Isabelle said, her cheeks flushing with warmth.
"It's fine," Oliver replied, disposing of the condom and showing no signs of continuing.
Isabelle couldn't help but stare at his member, large and imposing, the head smooth and round, his testicles full, the shaft rigid and slightly curved—just the right shade of red. It seemed even larger than she remembered from their youth.
Without thinking, Isabelle reached out and grasped the thick column, her fingers unable to fully encircle it, so she used both hands.
Oliver's body tensed perceptibly.
"Husband," Isabelle said, looking up at him, her eyes filled with longing and anticipation, "May I help you release? I want to pleasure you. May I?"
Despite her seductive request, Oliver gently removed her hands, saying, "No need, I'm fine. Let's get you cleaned up first."
Isabelle felt a mix of embarrassment and shyness, but she said nothing more, allowing Oliver to care for her, to dry her hair, and to lead her back to their bed.
"Goodnight," Isabelle said first.
Oliver, however, did not return the sentiment as he usually did. Instead, he paused for a moment before asking, "Why did you cry earlier?"
Isabelle's heart leapt. "I... I thought of something unpleasant."
"It's alright, it's all in the past," Oliver reassured her, holding her close. "I'll always be by your side, Isabelle."
"Thank you, husband," she murmured.
"And... " Oliver sat up, retrieving a gift he had prepared from the bedside cabinet—a diamond necklace of inestimable value. He fastened it around her neck, kissed her forehead, and whispered, "Happy second wedding anniversary, and... goodnight."
"Oliver... " Tears welled up in Isabelle's eyes as she threw herself into his embrace.
...
The next morning, Isabelle was awakened by the ringing of her phone. She saw the caller ID display "Evelyn Blackmoor" and quickly dressed to take the call on the balcony, away from Oliver.
"Evelyn, what's the matter?" Isabelle asked, her voice still heavy with sleep.
A mature, stern voice came from the other end. "The results of Oliver's physical are in."

Chapter 5

At 8:55 AM, Isabelle Fairchild arrived precisely at the base of Fairchild Tower in a crisp business suit, the heels of her shoes clicking confidently against the pavement.
Her striking features were impossible to overlook. She walked with an undeniable charisma, her makeup perfectly accented; as soon as she appeared, all eyes were drawn to her. “Good morning, Ms. Fairchild!”
“Ms. Fairchild, good morning!” greeted several onlookers, but Isabelle merely nodded in acknowledgment, her stride brisk as she headed upstairs.
“The Professor is waiting for you inside,” Thea, her assistant, said respectfully, taking Isabelle’s bag as she entered the office.
“Yes, please inform everyone that the 10 AM meeting is postponed,” Isabelle instructed curtly, closing the door and locking it behind her.
A woman with stylish short hair stood by the window, arms crossed, gazing at her. “How was your anniversary yesterday?”
“Now isn’t the time for that,” Isabelle said, hurrying towards her friend Evelyn Blackmoor, her voice laced with urgency. “Where’s Oliver’s medical report?”
“Right here…” Evelyn said, shaking her head at Isabelle’s impatience as she pulled the report from her bag.
Isabelle scanned the document quickly. “Everything looks fine,” she said, but confusion soon clouded her expression.
“That was the case six years ago when he had an episode,” Evelyn reminded her gently.
Isabelle furrowed her brow and bit her lip. “Evelyn,” she said, her eyes cast down, “how can I not be anxious?”
“Let’s talk this through. What happened exactly? How are you sure that his alter ego has resurfaced?”
“Last weekend, he was working late at the lab,” Isabelle recalled, her pace quickening as thoughts flooded back. “I waited for him to have dinner together, the same as we always do. After that, he went to the gym, and I did some yoga nearby. After showering, I found him already asleep when I returned to the bedroom.”
Evelyn interjected, “He was asleep?”
“Yeah.” Isabelle continued, “Seeing him asleep, I lay beside him, but he suddenly woke up in the middle of the night and… well…”
“Go on,” Evelyn urged, intrigued.
A blush crept onto Isabelle's cheeks, her voice dropping to a whisper. “He… touched my... chest...”
To clarify, Oliver Blackmoor had roused her by playing with her. He rarely initiated physical contact even when they were intimate, so feeling his hand wandering was bewildering.
She had half-opened her eyes, blearily nuzzling against him, calling out, “Honey.” But in an instant, she found herself flipped over, her sleep pants yanked off, a sharp smack landing on her backside.
“Oliver…” she squeaked, feeling both confused and exhilarated as he gripped and kneaded her breasts, his warm breath tickling her ear. “Who are you calling honey, huh? A few squeezes, and you think that gives me access?”
“Mm…”
The sensation was overwhelming, a strange mix of pleasure and pain, leaving her breathless. Attempting to escape was futile; the moment she turned to see Oliver’s familiar face, her resistance melted away. “Oliver… ahh…,” she breathed, surrendering to the wave of ecstasy.
“Is that how you want it, little minx? Want me to let my man out to fill your delicate body?”
The pleasure tightened within her, and before she knew it, she couldn’t hold back her moans. Oliver turned her back around, removing her last piece of clothing and thrusting into her.
“Want it, slut? You want me inside you?”
Isabelle could barely comprehend whether this was a dream or reality; instinctively, she yearned for him. But Oliver held back, refusing her until she begged for relief.
“Please, it hurts…” Isabelle whimpered, but he only instructed her to stay on her knees.
The teasing pleasure was irresistible, enough to tip her over the edge multiple times until she felt herself fading into unconsciousness.
As Isabelle came back to the present, her cheeks flushed with recollection, she concluded, “That’s how it went down. The next morning he was back to being the sweet, reserved professor.”
After a thoughtful pause, Evelyn asked, “You’re certain that really happened, and it wasn’t just a vivid fantasy from your suppressed desires?”
“Of course I’m sure!” Isabelle snapped, frustrated. “The next day, everything was swollen, and I had bruises from his touches. I definitely didn’t do that to myself.”
Evelyn stroked her chin, chuckling softly. “He’s certainly entertaining. Six years ago, he used his alter ego to violate you, and now he just seems interested in some hot role play…”
“That wasn’t violation,” Isabelle retorted. “It was consent, at best.”
Evelyn raised an eyebrow. “And you’re ready to defend him now?”
Isabelle cleared her throat, her eyes twinkling. “Honestly, I was going along with it. It was him who decided to turn it into some kind of forced play.”
Evelyn laughed, “You’re so naive, marrying a guy like him!”

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