Page 19 of The Fallen

Fear thrums through my body until I’m nearly frozen in place, unable to speak, breathe, or even think. When the hard wood comes crashing down onto my clit, I can’t even cry out. So many sensations wash over at once that it’s nearly impossible to process.

Pain. That certainly is the forefront. But quick on its heels is the burning pleasure that washes over me, soothing the hurt. Every inch of me burns in my blasphemous desire as he soothes the strike with his fingers.

“Pray, Sister Emily Agnes. Show me how good of a repentant you can be.”

Each strike scatters my words, interspersing them with moans and wails until they’re nothing but an incoherent jumble. That haze from last time settles over me, making me wooden andheavy. I don’t care what happens now, only that I find the release he’s building up in me.

Eventually, he tosses the ruler to the side and hovers over me, his heavy bulk pushing me down into the bed. I can feel his hands move and the scrape of cloth against my poor abused flesh.

“You are still taking the pills, yes?” he growls as he grips my chin in his grasp.

At first, I don’t understand him. It’s not until he shakes my head about a few times that I can clear the cobwebs enough to form a coherent sentence. “Yes, Father Confessor. Religiously.”

Something hot, hard, and bulbous nudges against my opening. I go to look down, but he holds my head in place. “This is your last part of your penance. Accept my absolution into your body like a good little Sister.”

Between my thighs, his hand moves back and forth, shoving that foreign object into me. Not far, just the entrance. Whatever it is, it’s large enough to stretch me open even bigger than his fingers. My stomach begins to flip and twist, as if thousands of butterflies reside there, flapping their wings at once.

Still his hand moves. The other eases up to my clit and strokes me, drawing a mournful sob from my lips. It hurts but feels so good at the same time. It’s my undoing. When he touches me like this, I cannot hold myself back.

With a sob, everything contracts for one painful moment before releasing. All the agony of the abstinence I’ve endured the last few days flows out of me, drawing hysteric cries from my chest. Father Draven continues to touch me, forcing my body to endure every blissfully agonizing stroke as his body jerks.

With a muffled roar, he freezes above me. Something hot fills my intimate area and streams out from around the object. It slides down over my bottom hole, coating me with warm, sticky fluid.

“Close your eyes, Sister Emily Agnes.”

My body shudders as I lie there, robbed of my sight. His clothes rustle, then my own as he pulls my habit down. With a gentle tug, he eases me from the bed.

“You may open your eyes now. Go straight to your room and shower. Dispose of your habit. Burn it, bury it, whatever you have to do. It contains the sin I’ve wrenched from your body. You are forgiven. Go, now. And sin no more.”

My steps are shaky as I leave his room. The halls and stairs are surprisingly bare, allowing me to make it to my room unmolested. Each step forces the sticky fluid down my inner thighs. It quickens my steps, so I do not drip any of the absolution onto the floor.

It’s mine and mine alone.

As I step into the shower, I can’t help the groan that flips past my lips and into the hot stream of water. Everything feels bruised and swollen. Part of me thinks that’s the point. If everything aches, I won’t want to defile myself.

And yet, I long for his discipline again. Reaching between my thighs, I scoop up some of the absolution. It is indeed sticky and white. Oddly, it smells like him, only a bit more potent. Before I can stop myself, I slide it onto my tongue.

Just like Eve when she tasted the fruit, I feel as if my eyes shoot open. The taste is bitter, like herbs, but also with a bite of the darkest chocolate. It’s addicting.

Pulling away from the spray, I scrape off every bit I can, even going so far as to slide my fingers into my intimate area to gather what’s left. He never said I couldn’t put it in my mouth. And so, like with communion, I slide to my knees as I ease my fingers past my lips.

For a moment, it’s as if Father Draven himself is doing it. Only, this is not the body and blood of Christ. If anything, it’s from him. All from him.

My unholy sacrament.

Chapter Thirteen

Father Draven

Game Night

The instant my eyes pop open, I know something is wrong. I can feel it in my gut. Rising, I pace about the room. Fourteen more hours until the implant shuts off. Even now, I feel the restraint slip in and out, as if testing the bonds, gearing up for a trial I never signed up for, never wanted.

From my room, I am unable to hear the Sisters as they prepare for the day, but I know they are. I feel their movements like ants crawling on my skin, stinging me with every clamp of their ragged jowls. Closing my eyes, I draw in Sister Emily Agnes’s lingering scent, dragging it deep into my lungs.

I can’t do this. I can’t face the women in my abbey. Even though the others hold no sway, one does. I cannot risk their lives and my sanity by joining them. Not today. Not until I can get myself under control.

Instead of the normal priestly array, I put on something comfortable and make my way down the stairs to see Mother Superior. She will need to guide the sheep while I’m locked updownstairs. Thankfully, they all seem to still be in their rooms, taking in quiet moments of individual contemplation.

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