Page 33 of Daddy's Sinner

Inside, he removes my robe, exposing me to him and the ministers of his church. My skin prickles under their gaze, but I force myself to remain still, to be what they expect of me. My thoughts drift back to Matheo, wondering if he would ever look at me this way—if he would see me as something to be used, or if he would worship me as I had him.

The sinner lies in the center of the room, bound and naked, waiting for his other half—his Lilith. I walk over to him, and his breath quickens when he sees me.

“Angel of death,” he whispers, his voice trembling with fear and desire. I can see the terror in his eyes, the way he clings to whatever shred of innocence he has left. But I am not his angel—I am his punishment. I am the vessel through which his sin will be absolved, the conduit for his salvation.

Dove

The room is dim, the air thick with incense and dread, a single flickering candle casting jagged shadows on walls lined with crucifixes. I kneel on the cold floor, my hands numb against the ground. My mind drifts, detached from the sinner's lust pressing against my lips. My movements are mechanical, devoid of desire. This is what I’ve been taught—to empty myself, to erase any notion of will or want. The Prophet says this is my duty. Born from sin, I must absorb theirs to purge them clean. But redemption feels like a distant shore I’ll never touch.

The Prophet calls me corrupted. Yet it was his teachings that twisted me into this, his hands that forged me in this fire. His voice became the law of God, telling me I was marked by sin, tainted before I even knew what sin was. I learned submission. To be pure, I must serve. To be cleansed, I must endure. It’s a cycle I’ve come to accept because escape is an illusion. I’ve learned that lesson well.

The sinner groans softly, and though I quicken my pace, it’s not out of desire—it’s because I know the Prophet expects it. His voice taught me how to turn my body into a vessel for cleansing the wicked. This is a ritual I endure but never embrace. My body shudders, not in anticipation of pleasure, but with the knowledge of what comes next. The soft sobs of the man before me fill the air.

“With fervent pleas for your salvation, beg for redemption, sinner!” The Prophet’s voice booms, a terrible authority that reverberates off the walls. I flinch, my heart tightening at the sound. The sinner, a man still clinging to some semblance of dignity, trembles before me. His bound hands brush against my legs as he collapses to his knees. His fear seeps into the air, mingling with sweat and desperation.

The Prophet steps back into the shadows, his presence lingering, always watching but never intervening. The man before me is handsome in a way that seems incongruent with the filth and shame that clings to him. He trembles, his body betraying him, responding to my touch despite theweight of his guilt. His sins are etched into his flesh, and it’s my role to cleanse him.

I reach out, fingers brushing his tear-streaked face. His wide blue eyes—terrified, pleading—meet mine. He searches for something in me, perhaps mercy, perhaps absolution. But I have none to give. I am not his savior. I am merely the tool through which his sins will be purged.

“You will beg for forgiveness,” the Prophet intones, his voice rich with dark promise. “Through her, you will be made clean. The fire of your sin will be extinguished. Accept her. Surrender to her. Only then can your soul be saved.”

The man’s body quakes with terror, caught between shame and the Prophet’s cruel promise of salvation. I harden my heart. It will soon be over, and I can retreat into the silence of my room until the next sinner is brought to me.

The sinner mutters broken prayers, his voice barely a whisper. He clings to the idea of God even as his body betrays him. I am his salvation now, not God. His guilt clings to him, and I can taste it as I work to draw out the weight of his sins.

The Prophet’s voice cuts through the silence again. "With fervent pleas for your salvation, beg for redemption!" The man’s sobs grow more desperate, his body trembling beneath my touch. His face twists with agony and shame, but his body continues to respond, his need overpowering the fear that grips him.

“Submit,” I whisper, echoing the Prophet’s teachings. His blue eyes lock onto mine, filled with a desperate hope for something I cannot give. He shudders under my touch, and I command him to close his eyes. His lashes cast shadows over his cheeks as he surrenders to the moment.

I pull away from him, offering false comfort. “Shh,” I murmur softly, “you will be forgiven.”

I climb over him, straddling his shaking form. He clutches at me as if I am the lifeline to his salvation, his body shaking with fear, desire, and regret. His breath comes in ragged gasps as he succumbs to the ritual. His hands grip my hips as I lower myself onto him, his body tense beneath me.

“This is so messed up,” he gasps, his voice thick with regret and anguish.

“Redemption is never simple,” I murmur, grinding my hips against him, feeling him harden within me. The Prophet watches from the shadows, his approval heavy in the air. I feel none of it—only the cold weight of obligation pressing down on me.

Behind me, the Prophet’s voice rises in a chant. “Guide him to the light, my Dove. Deliver him from evil.”

The sinner’s hands tremble as they clutch my waist, his body teetering on the edge of despair and desire. “I... I don’t want this... please,” he stammers, tears filling his eyes. His body jerks beneath me, panic clear in his every movement.

“Shh,” I soothe him, though the words are hollow. “It’s almost over.”

With a final shuddering gasp, the sinner’s body tenses beneath mine, his climax breaking through him like a wave of release. His essence spills into me, hollow and broken. I can feel the demon within him recoil, driven out momentarily by the ritual, but I know it’s not gone—not truly.

I’m proven right when his eyes darken, his fingers turning to claws as they dig into my flesh. I wince, biting back a gasp of pain as the demon fights back, rearing its ugly head once more.

The Prophet steps closer, his voice growing darker, more commanding. “Let her consume your sins,” he growls, his voice thick with satisfaction. “Let her purify you, demon.”

The sinner bucks beneath me, his body trembling with fear and desperation as the battle rages inside him. But it’s not him I care about anymore—it’s the Prophet. I need this to end. I need the peace that comes from his approval, however false it may be.

“Give in,” I whisper, forcing my body to move faster against the sinner’s, pushing the demon closer to the surface. “Release.”

His eyes meet mine, pleading, filled with the same desperation I feel inside. But I cannot save him. I can only finish this.

With one swift motion, I reach for the blade hidden in my hair. In a blur of movement, I slice it across his throat, feeling his blood spill over my hands. His body convulses beneath mine, a final, guttural cry escaping his lips before silence falls.

The Prophet groans in satisfaction behind me, his own release following as he anoints the room with his approval. “He is free,” he murmurs, his voice thick with reverence. “The demon has been banished.”

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