Page 22 of Daddy's Sinner

“You were made for this,” Gabriel continues, his voice heavy with authority. “Made to fuck, to breed, to bring forth the Prophet’s will. Andyou’re going to give it to me, Marisol. You’re going to give me everything.”

The words reverberate through me, sinking deep into the parts of me I try to deny. There’s no escape from this, from the reality of who I am. As Gabriel pushes me closer to the edge, I can’t help but wonder what it would feel like if it were Alex pushing me over. Would his touch be gentler? Would he whisper my name with reverence instead of demand?

The Prophet’s voice cuts through, cold and unyielding. “If you’re found worthy, Gabriel, a child shall bloom within her, a blessing on our tradition.” His words mock Gabriel's rough thrusts into me. Each one blurs the line between sacred and profane. I feel Gabriel's cock jerk inside me, his movements growing erratic, desperate to claim me completely.

“Tell me you need this,” Gabriel demands, his voice a harsh rasp. “Tell me you need me inside you, filling you up, making you whole.” His breath hitches as he thrusts harder, his fingers digging into my skin with bruising force. “Say it, Marisol. Say you’re mine.” He whispers amongst the chants.

The words choke in my throat, caught between the desire to scream and the instinct to submit. But Gabriel doesn’t wait for an answer. His hand snakes around my throat, just enough to send a rush of heat through me, and his voice drops to a dangerous whisper. “You’re mine, Marisol. Body and soul. And you’re going to carry my child, a gift to the Prophet himself.”

The weight of his claim suffocates me, but the twisted part of me, molded by this life, finds a sick sense of satisfaction in it. I am nothing more than a vessel—a vessel for Gabriel, for the Prophet. I should be honored. Gabriel’s thrusts become frenzied; his grip unrelenting as he chases his release. “I’m going to fill you up, Marisol. You’re going to take all of me, every last drop. And you’re going to love it.”

I bite my lip, the metallic taste of blood sharp. I want to detach, to escape this public humiliation, but the congregation's prayers anchor me beneath Gabriel's weight. His movements are precise, each thrust punctuating the Prophet’s sermon. My body responds out of habit, the line between pain and pleasure blurring until they merge. The slickness between my thighs is evidence of Gabriel's control and my own betrayal.

I hate myself for it, for the way my body complies even as my mind rebels.

Each thrust drives me further away from myself, mingling with the Prophet’s twisted liturgy. The prayers grow louder, drowning out my ragged breathing. Gabriel’s grip on my thighs tightens as he drives into me harder, faster. My back arches, my nails clawing at his back, trying to hold onto some control.

There’s no control, only surrender to the Prophet’s will, the congregation's demands, and the burning ache in my core. Gabriel’s name slips from my lips, a plea or a curse—I don’t know. I’m overwhelmed, dragged into darkness where escape seems impossible.

What would Alex say if he knew? Would he still want me if he knew how I’ve been used and broken?

Tension coils in my belly, snapping as I’m thrown into the abyss. My vision blurs with the force of the orgasm, my body shaking with it. Gabriel grunts above me, his thrusts becoming erratic as he chases his release, pinning me down, his mouth capturing my cries.

I should be happy. The Prophet will be pleased, and Gabriel will be elevated. But all I can think about is Alex—his hands, his lips, his voice whispering my name like a prayer.

I’m drowning in conflicting emotions, the elation of release tainted by guilt and shame. Gabriel’s movements slow as he finds his own release, sealing the ritual with his seed. As he pulls away, the Prophet’s final benediction echoes in my mind, a knife twisting in the wound. Theprayers fade, the congregation disperses, leaving me exposed and trembling. Even now, it’s not Gabriel’s touch that lingers, but the forbidden thought of Alex—a desire I can’t act on but can’t ignore.

I’m a sinner. And for him, I’d sin a thousand times over.

The room slowly empties, the echoes of the Prophet’s words still hanging in the air as the maidens follow the seedlings to the conception quarters. The ritual is complete, but the lingering tension clings to the walls like a suffocating fog. I prepare to leave, to cleanse myself of what has just transpired, but a sense of unease prickles at the back of my neck.

Then I see her—a maiden still sitting in the room, her posture tense, hands clasped in her lap. My heart stutters in my chest.She shouldn’t be here. The Prophet won’t be pleased if he finds her still here. She knows what happens when he isn’t happy. She’ll be punished… or worse.

I take a hesitant step toward her, intending to urge her to leave, but something in the way she lifts her face and meets my gaze stops me. Her blue eyes—so vivid, so full of life—are brimming with something other than submission. I feel a pang of something I can’t quite name as I stare into them.Desperation? Fear?

No.It’s something deeper—something I recognize but have tried so hard to bury. She doesn’t want this. She doesn’t want the life that’s been laid out for her. It’s a feeling I know all too well, one that gnaws at me every time I close my eyes, but that I’ve buried deep inside, smothered by years of conditioning, of duty, of fear.

But instead of offering her comfort, instead of reaching out, I hear my mother’s voice in my head, cold and distant, telling me to accept it, to embrace my role.“This is your path, Marisol. There is no other.”The words have been drilled into me since I was old enough to understand what it meant to belong to the Prophet, to the congregation. To Gabriel.

“Just accept it,” I whisper, my voice hollow even to my own ears. The words hang in the air, heavy and meaningless, as I turn away, the weight of my own sins pressing down on me. I can feel Gabriel’s cum trickling down my thighs, a sticky, shameful reminder of what I’ve just endured—and of what she will endure, too.

“No.” Her voice is a soft but firm refusal, and it stops me dead in my tracks. I turn back to her, stunned by her defiance. She stands up slowly, her eyes never leaving mine. “I can’t… I won’t.” There’s a quiver in her voice, but there’s also resolve—something I’ve long forgotten how to summon in myself.

“You don’t understand,” I say, trying to keep my tone even, though my own fear is creeping into my words. “The Prophet… he won’t tolerate disobedience. If you don’t… if you don’t follow the path, he’ll—” I don’t finish the sentence. I can’t. The horrors that await her if she continues to defy her role are too terrible to speak aloud. Women here remain in their place, quiet, honorable and breedable. Nothing more nothing less.

“I don’t care,” she interrupts, shaking her head. “I’d rather die than live like this. Like a whore. To be fucked and bred until I die.” Her words hit me like a blow to the chest, and I suddenly feel like I can’t breathe.Would I have said the same, if I had known then what I know now? If I had known the true cost of submission, of obedience?

“Don’t say that,” I hiss, taking a step closer, the urgency in my voice betraying the panic rising within me. “You don’t mean it. You don’t know what you’re saying. You have to do what they tell you—there’s no other way. You have to—”

“Have to?” she cuts me off, her eyes narrowing. “Like you? Like all of us? Is this what you want, Marisol? Is this the life you chose?”

Her words slice through me, sharper than any blade. I want to lash out, to tell her she doesn’t understand, that this isn’t about what we want, but about what we must do. But the words die in my throat because a part of me knows she’s right. A part of me wants to scream that no, this isn’t the life I chose—that it was forced upon me, just as it’s being forced upon her.

“I don’t want this,” I finally whisper, the admission burning on my tongue like poison. “But what choice do we have? What choice did I have?”

She steps closer, her expression softening. “We always have a choice, Marisol. Even if it’s not the one we want.”

I shake my head, backing away from her. “You don’t understand. You’re too young, too new. You haven’t seen what they do to those who resist, who refuse. It’s not a choice—it’s survival. And if you don’t submit… if you don’t obey, you won’t survive.”

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