Page 11 of The Fallen

I suppose if I had to name a sin I struggled with there, it was the desire to abide in God’s nature as much as humanly possible. The secluded beach called to me in a way the chapel never did. There, I felt at peace. There, I felt at one with God.

The other Nuns didn’t understand. For them, prayers were to be done in the chapel and nowhere else. They had no idea I’d spend my extra time sitting in the sand just conversing with the Almighty. Would that be considered forbidden too? That I had the audacity to seek Him out on my own terms?

Wrenching my fingers away, I turn my cheek as tears dot my eyes. I’ve only ever wanted to be good, and now I feel as if I’ve failed massively. Unfortunately, the need to touch myself continues to eat at my brain, like a maggot burrowing into the soft flesh and taking control of me.

In fact, I no longer recognize the person I once was. Other than the beach, I could abstain from almost anything. Now, there’s this unholy desire, this unquenchable urge to bring myself back to that pinnacle. Truly, it’s the closest I’ve ever been to God—even more so than communing on the beach.

At the foot of the bed, the Father Confessor watches me, his eyes dark and intense. He says nothing while I collect my breath. So far, there has been no condemnation and only inquiry. Maybe I’m lucky and this is truly a misunderstanding.

Again, with tentative starts and stops, I reach between my thighs and stroke my heated flesh. Father Draven leans forward, his nose flaring as he takes in my scent. Emboldened by his reaction, I let myself go. Just a little bit. Just enough to release some of the fetters binding me inside.

A soft moan slips from my lips, punctuating the silence between us. The mournful sound drifts in the air, pealing outfrom my body like church bells alerting us to prayers. In this way, my body is the altar upon which my prayers reside. Soft, breathy pleas for the release I so desperately need.

My other hand slides down, just like earlier, to tease my entrance. Father Draven’s quick intake of breath spurs me forward. Desperation guides me as I slip my finger inside and slowly move it back and forth.

From between my splayed thighs, I watch his every movement, noting how he tenses in the chair. His knuckles turn as white as snow, rivaling the soft, billowy blankets lying on the grass. But I can’t stop. I won’t stop. I’m so close I can feel it.

Tipping my head back, I lie there, forcing my body to relax as I touch myself, bringing myself ever closer to the peak. Heat engulfs my hands as his strong fingers hold me there, stilling my movements. A startled shriek flits from my lips as I look up to see him hovering over me.

“You must stop.”

“I... But...” Confusion, frustration, and anger crash in on me at once, like a deluge threatening to drown me.

With a flick of my wrist, I try to buck his hands, but he’s implacable, an unmovable force holding me there. What’s worse is that his proximity sends tendrils of heat through my body, creating an endless loop of renewed pleasure and anguishing abstinence.

The pleasure is so intense it borders on pain, leaving me bereft and breathless as I move against him. Perhaps if he won’t let me finish, his hand can do the job. My hips undulate up and down and I rub myself against my fingers. His hand still doesn’t move, but it adds increased pressure, driving me forward even faster.

It’s shameless how I’m using him, but at this point, if I’m going to be punished, I might as well complete the act, so my penance is for something. How wretched would it be to sufferboth denial and a punishment? It doesn’t seem all that fair to me.

“Enough of this,” he growls, using his Alpha influence to root me to the spot.

My body trembles as he wrenches his hand away, leaving me lying there without his added warmth. A chill rushes in, encasing me in the cold rebuke. Before I can even utter a word, a hint of remorse, he pulls me off of the bed and drags me over to his desk.

I’m soon face down over the polished wood, my dress hiked up over my bottom to rest at my low back. The crash of his hand against my upturned backside jolts me into the edge, bringing a bite of pain to my midsection. Somehow, the discomfort doesn’t translate to pain.

Instead, it adds to the need already swirling inside me, ready to burst from my body. I long to cry out, to show a repentant spirit, but the only sound escaping my lips is another moan. It ripples through my chest and reverberates into the air like a living thing.

All it does is make him spank me harder. His strong, firm hand glides against my skin, making my stomach flip with each stinging caress. His deep voice vibrates against my body as he lectures me, assuring me that my actions are indeed a sin. Not a mortal one, thank goodness, but a sin, nonetheless. As such, I should be repentant while being punished.

Unfortunately, his hands on my body, his firm way of handling me, and the delicious timber of his voice have me wanting to sin even more. My fingers claw against the wood as fire licks over every inch of me, burning me from the inside out. The agony of his touch stokes the flames even higher.

The harder he spanks me, the more the pain morphs into something else. Unholy desire races through me, drawing me upfrom the desk as I lean into his hand. My backside stings with each punishing blow, but I barely feel it.

A haze drops over my eyes as I slump forward onto the desk, all fight drained out of me. I can’t bring myself to care, can’t even find the will to move. It’s as if my mind and body part as my consciousness drifts above me. Though I’m fully aware of what he’s doing and saying, it’s as if it’s happening to someone else and not me.

Soft, languid warmth spreads over me like a comforting blanket swaddling me up. I’m barely even cognizant as he repositions me, hoisting my left knee up onto the desk to open me further to his punishment. However, the moment his fingers smack against the heated flesh of my most intimate parts, it’s as if everything crashes back in around me.

His touch is hard, stinging, drawing pain to the area where there had been only pleasure. I howl out in despair as he smacks me again. Once more, that sense of warmth spreads through my body, transmuting the pain into blissful agony splintering over me.

He’s closer now. His chest grazes my back as I lift and arch into him. Unable to control my actions, I slide my arm up and curl my hand around his neck. I need him here with me as he introduces me to this brand of pain.

Thankfully, there are no words of rebuke, no chastising me for my actions. Not verbally, anyway. However, the force with which he strikes me becomes a touch harder. I’ll take his punishment if it means being able to hold him like this—my anchor in the tumultuous storm.

The need is relentless and overwhelming. The pain and pleasure mixes and morphs, leaving me raw and breathless, a writhing mass of longing.

“Pray, little wanton,” he growls against my ear, his hand striking me again. “Let me hear your repentance spill from your lips.”

“My God,” I whimper, grinding up against him. “I am sorry for my sins with all my heart. In choosing to do wrong, and failing to do good, I have sinned against you, whom I should love above all things.” Once more, his fingers strike me, sending a primal moan flitting past my lips.

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