Roleplay: Interrogation

My cunt is on display. Pink. Clit engorged. It looks at you, hungry.

I’m bare-arsed on our faded rosewood dressing table, still bearing the nail scratches from older sessions. Better times maybe. Crystal perfume bottles lie scattered across it, my handbag propped amongst them.

You reach for it.

No.

No no no.

Fuck.

It’s too soon. I can’t let you see it.

I spread my legs wider. Slip my fingers between them, and part my lips, the oldest trick.

“Stop,” you say.

“Come make me.”

I think you dislike me naughty. I use that to my advantage. Always have. My fingers sink deep, glistening with need, as you walk towards me. Moonlight bathes across my skin, and I feel exposed.

My eyes find your scuffed boots. Then your trousers, dulled by long shifts. The belt holding up your cuffs. Your body camera blinks under the badge, a tiny eye that watches everything we do.

“Come kiss me,” I whisper. My heart rate refuses to slow. Won’t cooperate.

You look between me and the handbag. Lift your dead phone by way of explanation.

“Princess, give me a sec, will you?”

No. No no.

I stand, chest heaving, fingers jittering, and pull you into me.

“Kiss me, will you?”

“You’re acting funny, love.”

I can’t let you see it.

You resist. Tug at the zip. My heart drops somewhere below my chequered, pleated skirt as you hold me by the waist, kiss me hard. And push your legs between my thighs.

A silly yip escapes me. For a second, I lose sight of the handbag and longing crashes into panic. My cunt slicks the fabric of your trousers. I wonder if you can feel it. Feel how wet I am.

How wrong I am.

If you see it...

You’d know.

Know I cheated. Know I’m carrying...

You grab my arse. Calloused fingers dig into soft cheeks.

“Please. Charge your phone later.”

“Mm. You’re acting weird.”

I bite my lip hard. Then kiss you even harder.

Fuck.

Our marriage. Twenty bloody years about to go down the drain because I couldn’t keep my legs shut.

You hold me by the waist, reach past me. Slide the zip open. The mighty slut in me only grows wetter with your legs still wedged between my thighs. Even now. Even terrified.

You open it.

Relief washes through me when you don’t reach for the leather pouch in it. The little time bomb nestled inside. Instead you fish out the charging lead, plug your phone in. Return to me.

“Hands up.”

My heart still won’t slow.

If you open my handbag again, God, you’ll know everything.

My back hits the soft mattress as you drop me. Our pinstriped sheets rumple beneath me. You fasten the steel cuffs around my wrists, locking me open upon the bed. Spread for you. Kneeling between my legs, you unbutton my shirt and kiss my breasts, and I arch into it because maybe. Maybe this is fine. Maybe we’re fine.

I’m thinking I’ve won when you free my wrists just long enough to flip me to my knees, bind me facing away. And only then step aside.

This is, by some distance, the longest foreplay has ever taken. Usually, I’d have your seed swimming inside me by now. Usually you’d be done with me. Sated.

You return with a slender blindfold. Draw the soft fabric across my eyes, sealing me in darkness.

Zzrrrp.

I hear the teeth of my handbag sing apart with a metallic rasp. You do it slowly. Behind my back, where I can’t see your face. Can’t read you. Can’t manage you. I hope above all else that you’re opening something else.

I hear the soft tap of something on glass. Then the scent drifts towards me, rich tobacco threading through something darker. Woody. Vetiver, maybe. Or sandalwood. Must be a Virginia Slim. Last time you touched one of those, you had a terrible day at work that almost had you quit.

I find woody perfumes cloying. Often rather too much. But braided with the cigarette smoke, my cunt clenches. I feel myself grow wetter and I hate myself for it.

I make no sound as I wait. Counting your steps. You’re moving around the room, circling me. Maybe pacing as you smoke. But you don’t seem to come close to the bed. Then I hear a clicking sound. Metal on metal? A lighter? Something else?

My mind wanders, scrambling to decode it.

I can’t.

My thighs begin to tremble from holding the position. Anticipation screws me. I swallow. Probably shouldn’t have. It sounds louder than my breathing in the quiet room.

You hiss.

You hate hissing. You only ever hiss when something is wrong.

In this moment, I am wrong.

You climb the bed. Above me now. Both legs on either side of me, my petite frame encased between your legs. I tense, expecting your hands. A smack. But you don’t touch me. I feel something slick on my bum, chill enough to make my body jerk. I gasp.

It trails up the inside of my thigh. So light it almost tickles but the sensation shoots between my legs. To my clit. My hips jerk forward and I squirm, limited by your knees pressed into the bed.

The lube. The first breach. Our first contact since you’ve spotted my betrayal.

I flinch when your fingers push through and sink inside me. You finger my hole so tenderly goosepimples cover my skin. I want you angry. But you’re so calm my cunt clenches as my arsehole puckers.

The fat head of your cock strokes my arse hole. I’m horrified that it’s working. You’ve never taken me there. We agreed to never use this hole. Unless. Unless I sleep with someone else.

Now I know for certain. You’ve seen the test.

With your low sperm count there’s only one explanation to a positive pregnancy strip.

You slap my arse with your shaft. I keep my words behind my teeth, but barely.

The head of your cock pushes past my tight entrance. You do it slowly. I choke on a sound that’s barely a sob. It burns. Fuck, it burns. Stretching me open in a way I’ve never let anyone. Not even you.

I still ask why. I want to be sure. Need to hear you say it.

Worse than a raised pitch, you speak softly. “You know why.”

“Please. Tell me, what’s on your mind.”

“Shh.” Pinning me down as you push deeper. Your hand rests on my lower back as your full length sinks inside my arse. Every fucking inch of it.

“Fuck me,” My cunt drips shamelessly. Betraying me with the cuffs biting my skin.

“Hush. You don’t get to talk yet.” I hear it through your teeth.

Forehead pressed to the rumpled pinstripe pillowslip. Blindfold damp with tears I didn’t know I was crying. I whimper for you. The feel of your cock lights up nerves I didn’t know existed. Despite the terror I feel, my hips push back to meet you. Needy little slut that I am.

“Still greedy.” you groan.

You pull your cock out, and I keen. A muffled sound swallowed by the pillow that cradles my cheeks. Then you push in again. Remain still. Buried to the hilt.

Your cigarette and sandalwood scent mingles with the smell of sex around us. I love it. And I hate it.

“Tell me,” you say. Palm splayed over my back, claiming territory that has always been yours to begin with. “Who owns it.”

Your cock in my arse right now feels better than that of the person who’s knocked me up. I feel awful. Greed over new cocks remains my weakness.

“I can’t...”

“Tell me.”

I feel the agonising withdrawal when you pull out. Then you slam back in. So much harder and I scream into the pillow. More. I need more please. As your hips check mine I realize I must speak.

I whisper it.

“Your best friend.”

There’s stillness. Dire silence. The bed stops creaking. You hold my hips, fingers digging in.

“You positive?”

Being quiet is answer enough.

You exhale. And my heart shatters into tiny little pieces.

Then you start moving.

I gasp when you thrust so deep my vision blurs. Tender is gone now. Your new pace has nothing to do with love. You’re fucking feelings into me. Hurt. Betrayal. Need. All of it.

“How long have you known you’re pregnant,” you grit out, punctuating your words with your snapping hips.

“Some weeks,” I sob. The most honest thing my lips have uttered today. Guilt that’s been eating me alive for weeks. “I don’t — I don’t know. We fucked a lot.”

Your hand finds my clit, engorged, slick, throbbing, and you rub it as you pound into my arsehole. Circling it. Heartache and my need for more, makes my brain spin, and I’m babbling apologies, slutty encouragements, begging you to stop, begging you to not stop. And you. You don’t slow. Your strokes don’t show an ounce of the sadness your voice pretends to lack.

“You’re supposed to be mine,” you whisper by my ear. Your chest pressed flush to my back. “Whatever’s growing in you, it doesn’t matter. You’re still fucking mine.”

You thrust so, so deep my eyes water anew.

I come apart. Arsehole spasming around your cock, and you follow. Hips stuttering as your seed shoots deep inside the one hole we swore we’d never go into.

Because I broke the rules first.

Your hushed breaths feel ticklish on my skin. My tears have the blindfold wet.

We will have to discuss how to raise this baby. Somehow. Together or apart.

“We’re not done talking about this,” you say, as you pull out slowly, leaving my hole empty, trembling, yours.

Always yours.

2026 © Claire Torquil ♡ All rights reserved.

P. K. Hofferman (Kinky Ink) , Thank you, for sitting through rereading my drafts! 💙

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Thanks to Sloane Black for this prompt that said to “Write a scene where your character has something in their purse, backpack, briefcase, or pocket they desparately don’t want discovered.”