Page 34 of Daddy's Sinner

The sinner’s body goes limp beneath mine, his soul finally released from its torment. I sit in the eerie quiet, my hands covered in blood, my body still trembling from the weight of what I’ve just done.

The Prophet steps closer, his eyes softening with satisfaction as he gazes at me. “You have done well, Dove,” he purrs, pride thick in his voice. “You are blessed. Come, let us purify you.”

I take his hand because I must—because there is no other choice. He leads me to the bathroom, washing the blood and filth from my skin with careful precision, his lips whispering prayers over every inch of my body. His touch is a mockery of tenderness, his cleansing another layer of control.

“You are chosen,” he murmurs, his voice filled with conviction. “God’s work is never easy, but you were born for this. The daughter of Lilith, destined to purify the world.”

The weight of his words presses down on me like a heavy chain, suffocating and unyielding. I am not chosen. I am trapped. But I do not fight him. I let him finish his ritual, washing away the remnants of the demon, though the stain on my soul remains.

The Prophet gently cleanses my body, praying over me with each deliberate stroke. I close my eyes, surrendering to his ministrations as his lips move reverently over my skin. His hands roam with a feigned tenderness, cleansing us both of the darkness we have partaken in. I am carried from the tub to his room, now naked in his bed. He continues his ritual, praying over me with each touch, his hands and lips offering false comfort.

As he enters me, I force back the bile rising in my throat, the revulsion threatening to overwhelm me. My body stiffens, resisting the violation, but I fight to focus on the sensation of his hands and lips. His breath is hot and his voice a soothing murmur, repeating the mantra of purification and redemption.

“Dove…” he whispers, his voice blending with the rhythm of his movements. I’m here, but my mind drifts away to thoughts of Matheo, desperately clinging to the memory of his touch, his presence. Matheo, who represents a world far removed from this torment. I envision him inside me, his weight above me, not the Prophet’s.

Suddenly, the Prophet bites my shoulder, pulling me back to the grim reality of our ritual. His satisfaction is a hollow sound, void of any true connection. I close my eyes again, seeking refuge in my own mind. The room blurs around me, a foggy veil separating me from the present.

“Dove… You are mine,” he murmurs, his lips trailing down my skin. But I am no longer Dove. The girl who once willingly submitted is gone. I only belong to Matheo. I chant his name in my head, trying to drown out the Prophet’s guttural sounds. The room fades as I immerse myself in memories of Matheo, allowing the Prophet's actions to become a distant, painful echo. But he pulls me back... dragging me back to this hell. My body rocks and his voice grow more urgently, the chants of purification blending with the physical sensations. But I endure his pleasure as though it were my penance, a twisted form of redemption. His grip tightens, his thrusts growing rougher and more desperate. I am nothing more than a vessel for his release.

“You’re a good girl…” His praise sends shivers down my spine. His movements quicken, his body pressing against mine with increasing urgency. I accept his weight, his final thrust within me marking the end of the ritual. His seed fills me, and the act is completed.

He collapses onto me, his breath slow and heavy against my skin. His kisses become softer, less fervent, each one a silent prayer of thanks for the ritual we have completed. The room is thick with the mingling scents of blood and sweat. As he withdraws, a fresh wave of disgust overwhelms me. I roll to my side and retch onto the carpet, the contents of my stomach spilling forth.

“Dove,” he murmurs, his voice a soft echo as he gently strokes my back. “My salvation… your father’s greatest sin.” I heave again, his prayers for our souls and his desire for me to bear him a child resonating through my mind. Soon I would be done with birth control, and he would swell me with his child. I sigh. This has been my existence since childhood—preparation for this role, a life destined to be bound to the Prophet’s will.

Victor Morales. My father.

My time as his chosen one came after my mother's death. In our community, when the matron dies, the next in line must fulfill her role until the man of the house marries. But Victor never married, and now I am his Dove, prophesied to purify the world as his bride.

He slumps against me, exhausted, and then moves to sit on the edge of the bed, his gaze fixed on my naked form.

“We must prepare for another sinner,” he says solemnly, his voice carrying a hint of bitterness.

“Another so soon?” I ask, my brow furrowed as I prop myself up on my elbows. My hair cascades over my shoulders, and his gaze remains unwavering.

“Yes, Dove,” he replies, his voice tinged with bitterness. “A priest who has succumbed to earthly temptations. We must guide him toward salvation. He defiles this town.”

My heart sinks at his words. The Prophet’s role extends beyond mere guidance; he seeks out those who misuse his teachings, and it falls to me to deliver their salvation. His hands move to my leg, and I fight back the bile rising in my throat. I had always known this would be my fate, but the reality of it is crushing. The priest of the Catholic Church doesn't belong here, but the question remains: can I truly go through with it? Could I end my only source of solace?

“I can’t help but wonder,” I whisper, struggling to keep my voice steady, “why must it always fall to me? Why am I the one to cleanse these sins?”

The Prophet’s gaze is unyielding as he leans closer, his voice a cold whisper. “Because, my Dove, it is your role. You were chosen. You are the instrument through which these souls find redemption.”

“But what if...” I start, my voice trembling, “what if the salvation we offer is just another layer of suffering? What if I’m causing more harm than good?”

He chuckles darkly, a sound devoid of warmth. “Doubt is the weapon of the unfaithful. Your purpose is clear, and you must not falter. Remember, it is not for you to question the divine plan.”

With that, he moves back towards me, his presence dominating as he claims me once again. His thrusts are relentless, his breathing growing heavy with exertion. I close my eyes, forcing myself to shut out the revulsion and the pain. My thoughts drift back to Matheo, the only person who has ever brought me true happiness. I envision his touch, his voice, trying to find solace in memories that now seem so distant.

The Prophet’s grip tightens as he drives deeper, his satisfaction palpable. He mutters prayers and chants, each word a cruel reminder of my role. “Through your sacrifice, we cleanse the world. Your suffering is not in vain.”

As he reaches his climax, I feel a mixture of disgust and resignation. His body presses against mine, heavy and unyielding. His breath becomes ragged, and he finally falls asleep, leaving me alone with the crushing weight of my duties.

The room is silent except for the sound of his deep, satisfied breaths. I lie there, still, the pungent mix of blood and sweat hanging in the air. I am left to grapple with the haunting memories of Matheo and the grim reality of my life. I run my fingers over my sweat-soaked skin, feeling the emptiness that comes with being used as a vessel for someone else’s sense of purity.

I climb out of bed and stumble towards the door, my feet barely carrying me. The air outside the room feels cooler, less stifling, but it does little to alleviate the weight pressing down on me. I make my way to my dimly lit bedroom, where I can still feel the echoes of the Prophet’s voice ringing in my ears, his words a constant reminder of the twisted reality I’ve been forced to accept.

Collapsing onto the bed, I curl up into a ball, my body still trembling. The tears that I’ve been holding back finally spill over, hot and relentless. I’ve been doing this for so long, playing the role of the Prophet’s Dove, his obedient servant, but with each passing day, the facade cracks a little more.

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