Page 26 of Daddy's Sinner

I look around my room, at the countless tokens of the Prophet and the faith he demanded I serve. They no longer hold any meaning for me, for I have discovered a new god—a god of sin, of desire, and of the forbidden.

With a smile on my lips, I slip out of my nightgown. He wouldn’t come tonight. The Prophet would be too busy tracking down my devil while I touch myself. As I lay on the bed, my fingers tracing the curve of my breast, I can’t help but imagine the warmth of my little stalker’s touch. Thanks to my romance books, I’ve discovered I like being dominated, not by duty, but by the thrill of someone watching me fuck myself. I spread my legs and let my fingers dance over my now-aching core, feeling the heat of desire building within me. I close my eyes and imagine my stalker, the way he would look, the way he would move, the way his body would feel against mine. I touch myself, imagining his rough hands guiding mine, our bodies entwined in a dance of sin.

As my fingers find their way inside me, I feel my muscles clenching, desperate for the release that has been denied me for so long. I moan softly, the sound lost in the darkness of the room. With each stroke, I draw closer, the pleasure building until it is almost unbearable. And just before I can come undone to the conjured-up images of my shadow, my door creaks open and in comes the Prophet. Duty calls, and all I can do is stare at the painted flowers on the ceiling as I feel him climb into bed and over me. His hands move up my thighs as I open up for him.

Sinner

Iwalk back to the cheap motel room, blood still staining my hands and mind. All I can think of is her—Marisol Morales. The succubus who has claimed my soul and damned me in her Eden. I collapse onto the worn-out mattress, my heart heavy with guilt and desire. I hate this feeling of need… this need to corrupt her and mold her to my image. My cock aches for release as I unbuckle my belt, slipping my hand into my pants to pull it out. I stroke it slowly, picturing her above me, riding my dick straight to hell. My bloodied hand moves with deliberate care, pumping my cock as the memory of her chocolate eyes and sultry curves consumes me. I can’t help but imagine the taste of her, how sweet her nectar would be on my lips and tongue.

The thought of her velvet skin beneath my calloused hands only fuels the fire, making the need for release even more unbearable. Her moans and pleas for more echo in my mind, driving me to the edge. Each stroke is like a climax in itself, as I imagine her breathless, her eyes locked onto mine as she succumbs to the darkness that courses through her veins. My heart pounds in my chest like a distant thunderstorm, growing ever closer. I close my eyes and envision her plush lips wrapped around me, her tongue darting in and out, sending waves of pleasure through me. Her hands firmly grasp my hips, pulling me in deeper. God, she is perfect.

My release is imminent as I feel a burning sensation building in my groin. Closing my eyes, I envision her caramel flesh glistening with sweat, her moans growing louder and more insistent with each passing moment. I imagine her body arching against mine, her fingers digging into the sheets as my cock plunges deep within her. My eyes roll back, my orgasm reaching its crescendo.

And then it is over. My hand stills, blood-covered cum smeared across my chest, face, and cock, a twisted smile on my lips. The succubus has consumed me, and I have willingly allowed myself to be.

I lick my lips, the salty copper taste still lingering from my climax, and revel in the fact that, in a way, I have severed my final connection to the world outside. I now belong to her completely, a damnation I both hate and love.

With a final shudder, I pull myself from the bed, the room now spinning with the aftermath of my release. I walk over to the bathroom, washing the remnants of my pleasure from my body. I stare at myself in the mirror, my eyes dark and hollow—the reflection of a man entirely lost.

Marisol enters my mind once more, her alluring presence pulling me back into the pleasure I had just experienced. I want nothing more than to see her, to watch her ride her fingers, to cleanse this world with her by my side. But the question is, would she die for her fake Prophet and place faith in me? Would she willingly submit to worship me as her one true God?

The idea of her submission to me fills me with a desire that makes my heart race. But I know that to have her completely, to meld our souls forever, requires something more. We must offer our life to one another… live and die for each other. And then I would have her. A twisted, sacrilegious union.

I step out of the bathroom and lay in the bed, allowing myself to succumb to sleep. Tomorrow, I’ll be returning back to the church. If only it were that simple. My need for the succubus, the seduction of her body and her wicked soul, is a force that cannot be tamed. The thought of her makes me hard again, and even though I know that I must return to the church tomorrow, my thoughts turn to the wickedness of the night.

Marisol and I would create a new religion, one that would worship us as gods. She would be my queen, my eternal partner, and I would be her prophet, her savior, her protector. We would offer our lives and souls toeach other, and in doing so, we would become something far greater than we are now.

But there is a price to pay for this eternal union. I must return to the church, to the followers who believe in me and trust me as their shepherd. And I will use them, I will manipulate them, I will turn their faith into worship and eradicate Victor’s cult. Erase his will from Marisol’s mind and heart. The only God’s work my sinner would do is for her own twisted desires. As I lie in bed, the darkness of the night swallowing me whole, I can feel Marisol’s presence within me. It’s not a gentle presence, but rather a darkness that consumes me, a deep void that threatens to swallow me whole. It is a darkness that I both fear and crave, a darkness that I know only I am capable of taming. Closing my eyes, I drift off to sleep where I hope to find her, but instead, I am pulled into the nightmare again.

This time I’m eighteen, locked in the chilly, echoey basement of the church, where a single flickering light bulb casts creepy shadows on the walls. I’m kneeling on the hard, cold floor, holding a tattered Bible against my chest. My skin is raw and bloody from the whip’s relentless strikes, each lash sending sharp waves of pain through me, mixing with the cold biting into my bones.

Father Guzman stands over me, his face a mask of unyielding anger. His eyes burn with a fire of judgment as he brandishes the whip with grim determination. “Read, boy!” he commands, his voice a harsh bark that echoes off the walls. “Repent for your sins!”

The Bible trembles in my hands, my voice faltering as I try to read through the haze of pain and tears. Each lash is a cruel reminder of my perceived transgressions, of my failures in the eyes of the church. I stammer through the verses, my throat raw from the strain.

The scene shifts abruptly. I’m now in the small, dimly lit sacristy of the church, the scent of incense heavy in the air. Father Guzman storms in, his face twisted in disgust and fury. I am caught in the act with one of the altar girls, her dress hastily pulled up as she clings to me, both of usfrozen in shock and fear. Father Guzman's onyx eyes blaze with righteous anger as he takes in the scene.

“You dare defile the sanctity of this place?” he roars, his voice echoing like thunder. His anger is palpable as he grasps a leather strap, his intentions clear. “You must be punished for your sins!”

Suddenly, I wake with a start, my body drenched in sweat, my heart pounding. I lie in bed, staring into the black void, the remnants of the nightmare still clinging to my consciousness.

Closing my eyes again I try to convince myself to find rest, but the shadows of my past are hard to shake. But eventually I drift back into a restless sleep, the remnants of the nightmares blending with the darkness that consumes me.

The next day, I wake up before the sun rises, my cock rock solid as I stretch and roll out of bed. Walking to the bathroom, I relieve myself and brush my teeth before doing my morning workout: one hundred push-ups and morning Bible reading.

As part of my daily routine, I walk over to my bag and retrieve a leather whip. With fervent devotion, I uncurl the leather and hold it up, reciting a verse from the Bible. John 1:9, to be exact: “If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.”

With each word spoken, I bring the whip down upon my back, feeling its sting and welcoming the pain. It’s a form of penance for my sins, a physical release of the guilt and burden that weigh on my conscience. The scars from previous sessions have healed, but the memories theyrepresent remain etched in my mind like a permanent reminder of my transgressions.

As the leather meets my skin, I can almost hear the whispers of sins and self-loathing being chased away. The ritual is both punishment and absolution. When the last lash falls, I stand there for a moment, breathing heavily as I let the pain seep into my bones. And then, as always, I feel a sense of peace wash over me.

Releasing my hard dick from my pants, I stroke it slowly as I look at myself in the mirror, my eyes glazed over. Sins forgiven, one more step to cleanse myself. The act of self-pleasure, mixed with the pain and guilt from the whip, always leaves me feeling vulnerable and open. I fuck my hand, wishing it was the wet warmth of Marisol’s cunt. The cold air soothes the sting from my back as I stroke even harder, chasing my release.

With a low groan, I let go of my inhibitions and allow myself to be enveloped by the forbidden pleasure that has become my sanctuary. My grasp tightens on my throbbing member as images of Marisol’s beautiful face and body flash through my mind, igniting a fire within me that burns brighter with each stroke.

And as the moment of release approaches, I can no longer hold back the primal groan of ecstasy that escapes my lips. My hips buck uncontrollably as I cum in a torrent of hot liquid that coats my hand and the cold bathroom floor. I collapse onto my knees, panting and sweating, my body spent and drained, yet filled with an almost holy satisfaction.

As I catch my breath, the fluids from my ejaculation begin to cool on my skin, serving as a reminder of the cycles I have been through, the sins I have confessed, and the pleasure I have found. I gaze at the mixture of sweat, blood, and semen and am struck by a profound sense of gratitude for the blessings and punishments that have brought me to this point of self-awareness and redemption.

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