"Mrs Monroe, I don't—I don't think this is okay."
Her voice is quiet. She squirms lightly when Linda takes a step closer to the edge of the bed where Grace is sitting, fingers digging into the mattress.
It's almost too good to be true, Linda thinks, staring down at the girl like a quiet predator. Grace looks up at her through her long eyelashes, and Linda doesn't understand how anyone could have expected her to control herself and resist this girl.
There she sits. Grace Chasity. The biggest prude in town. On Linda's fucking bed.
In a cute little knit sweater vest, a white blouse underneath, and baby blue jeans, she looks fucking adorable — sweet enough to eat. Like a little treat, presented so beautifully for Linda.
A well-deserved treat. Getting her here, into her room, had already been such a challenge...
It had taken months of generously paying her for babysitting her boys, offering to drive her home, feigning interest in anything and everything Grace told her, to finally get her to trust her.
And as soon as Grace had stepped inside after being invited in, Linda apologizing for forgetting to tell her that Gerald had taken the boys on a little trip and she wouldn't need to babysit, she knew it had all paid off.
Linda gives her a faux innocent smile: "What isn't okay?"
"Me being here, I'm just-"
"Don't be silly, Grace. We're not doing anything wrong."
"I don't think I should be here," Grace says plainly, though still quiet. She's clearly unnerved by this situation—Linda wouldn't have it any other way.
"We're not doing anything wrong," Linda repeats, firmer this time, cautiously moving a hand to Grace's shoulder. The girl flinches.
Then, Linda goes in for the kill.
With her other hand, she forces Grace's knees apart, moving to kneel in the space between her thighs. Grace sucks in a sharp breath and starts to shake her head, but Linda's hands cup her face and her lips are pressed to hers before she can get a word out.
Grace is frozen. Unable to move, unable to talk, eyes wide open when Linda slowly draws away with a sickly sweet smile.
"Good girl, Grace."
Her hands move to unzip Grace's jeans. Linda doesn't waste any time in caressing Grace over her underwear—a sound escapes her, a whimper, and Linda bites her bottom lip.
Grace doesn't talk for the next hour or so, however long it takes for Linda to be done with her, save for a few breathy, high-pitched "Mrs Monroe..."s when Linda makes her come for the first, second and third time that day.
Tears roll down Grace's cheeks when Linda lies next to her, yet she makes no sound. She's scared to move. She'll lay here, fall asleep, pretend it was all a dream. But Linda's bite marks and bruises on her thighs and chest won't fade anytime soon, and not even praying will help rid Grace's soul of the marks Linda has left there.
