Page 35 of Daddy's Sinner

Matheo. His name reverberates in my mind, the one bright spot in the darkness that surrounds me. He’s the only thing that keeps me going, the only thing that reminds me that there’s more to life than this suffocating existence. But even the thought of him is tainted by the knowledge of what I’ve become, what I’ve done.

I wonder if Matheo would recognize me now if he would still want me after everything I’ve done. The guilt gnaws at me, a constant reminder that I’m too far gone to ever truly be free. But for now, all I can do is close my eyes and hope that sleep will offer me some respite from the twisted reality I’ve been forced to endure.

In the darkness, the Prophet’s words echo in my mind, a twisted mantra that I can’t escape:“Your father’s greatest sin.”

Sinner

If you had told me that I would be standing in front of my next victim’s window, stroking my cock as I watched his precious Dove ride their victim into salvation, I would have laughed. But here I am, actually doing it. My hands are numb from the cold, but still, I continue to stroke my pulsating cock. Watching her movement slow, her eyes closed in what could be mistaken for passion, but I recognize as despair, as she rides that sinner into damnation. Anger and arousal flush through me.

I inhale deeply, tasting the tanginess of his mortality. Dissolving it with each swirl, each bob of my head. I can hear the grunts of approval as she continues to suck the soul out of this sinner’s body.

His body begins to spasm, his soul fucking her greedily from beneath her. The man thrusts upward, the sin in his core seeking friction from Marisol’s tight walls. She moans out in anguish, and though he takes it as encouragement, a sign of her pleasure, I know better. That beautiful sound of her torment-laced moan makes my cock twitch, the icy wind forgotten in favor of the hot, seething pleasure coursing through me. I nearly come as Marisol’s eyes flutter open, the world beyond them lost in a tumultuous sea of conflicting emotions. The sin pouring from the man beneath her is intoxicating, each thrust making the air around me heavy with its weight.

His eyes roll back, getting lost in the blissful sin he’s creating. I can’t help but increase my pace, matching the slow rolls of her hips. The sinner beneath her continues to thrust upwards, begging her for more, but she remains in her slow movements, a torturous rhythm designed to draw the sin out in a slow and agonizing release. My veins throb with it, with her.

Continuing to stroke my cock, my eyes drift to the Prophet, the sick bastard pleasuring himself while looking at them. But I am no better; I’m doing the same thing, and despite the disturbing nature of the situation, I can’t seem to pull my gaze or my hand away from my dick.

I feel my anger for the Prophet and pity for Marisol mixing with my own pleasure, creating a wicked cocktail of emotions that sends heat coursing through my veins. The Prophet’s eyes are as hungry and dark as mine. Guilt gnaws at me, but my body betrays my conscience, my hand never ceases in its motions.

My hand moves faster on my erection, matching the rapid beating of my heart. I gasp for air as I continue to pleasure myself, my senses swirling with the carnal spectacle unfolding before me. It’s like witnessing a live display of human depravity, an unfiltered exhibition of lust and wickedness that feels more intimate than any act of violence. But who am I to judge? I am just as guilty, and as if she can sense my impending orgasm, she glances directly in my direction, and our eyes meet. From my location, she can’t see me, but I bet she can feel me.

In perfect synchronization, she leans forward and slices her victim’s throat, pressing down to stop the bleeding as she reaches climax. And in that moment, so do I. In that heated and grotesque moment, a twisted kind of release comes, my body trembling in the cold while hers is warmed by fresh blood and sexual satisfaction. As I watch the life drain from the victim’s eyes, his body convulsing beneath her, I realize how fitting it is for such an end to coincide with three simultaneous climaxes of life and death.

The Prophet’s eyes glaze over, filled with twisted ecstasy as his hand moves faster over his pitiful cock before his cum splatters against her skin. My blood boils over as I watch this vile scene unfold. Barely able to suppress my fury, I grit my teeth, but then my eyes fixate on her. Her caramel, blood-stained skin seems to please both him and me. Blood rushes to my dick; I couldn’t blame him. She is a temptation in human form, a savior in angelic flesh. I feel my arousal once again as I observe her smearing a mixture of her victim’s blood and the Prophet’s semen over her perfect, perky breasts.

Marisol is the flirtation between purity and depravity, painting a picture that sparks a fire deep within me, ravaging my self-control. Theconfidence she radiates sends a shiver up my spine and a pulse of heat to my groin.

The crimson stains on her body are like a baptism in morbidity, the final form of an angel descended into her most depraved state. The Prophet’s pleasure subsides, surrendering to a vacant stare as he slowly pulls his hands away from his flaccid cock and tucks his junk back into his pants. Staring at the corpse beneath his Dove, the life extinguished from the victim’s gaze reflects the lifeless eyes staring back at him. Whispering something that I cannot hear, I watch as she, with the grace only she possesses, slips off the corpse and moves toward him, her golden skin glistening with blood and semen.

As she approaches him, his eyes meet hers, a hollow smile playing on his lips as he praises his angel for her successful mission. A sense of helplessness washes over me as the Prophet leads her out of the room.

From outside, I follow them as they make their way into the bathroom. He gently guides her into the tub and begins to clean every inch of her beautiful body. I simmer in anger that he touches what’s mine—I am her God, not him. He shouldn’t be allowed this privilege. He doesn’t deserve her. He doesn’t understand her beauty, her grace. He sees only the surface. But I… I see everything. I see how her eyes light up when she reads her favorite book.

His hands dip lower as he continues to massage the soap into her skin. I seethe when a small sound escapes her lips, not that I can hear it from outside, but I know it’s there.

I feel like an animal, a predator waiting to pounce, but it’s not in violence or covetousness. It’s in love, toxic and all-consuming. This man, this interloper, continues to touch her, carry her out of the bath, and place her in his bed.

Her face is ethereal as the moon illuminates her, but her eyes are vacant as if she is on autopilot. I watch as he enters her, worshiping her body as if it were the holiest of sanctuaries. He moves within her with a rhythmthat speaks volumes of his depravity. Yet, despite the grotesque tableau before me, I find myself stricken, my voyeuristic pleasure replaced with a growing sense of possessiveness. He seems to lose himself in her, his eyes closed, his lips moving silently in what I imagine to be prayers of perversion. She holds onto him, her body accommodating his every move with practiced ease, even as her face remains blank and unfeeling. I see a confirmation—she is mine.

This room, this place, is not her sanctuary; it is a prison. A prison where she is forced to surrender her body but not her soul. Her soul, that eternal flame, belongs to me and only me. And I will free her.

The moonlight spilling in through the window washes over them, casting their sin in an enigmatic glow. Strangely artistic, the scene painted before me is abominable yet tragically beautiful, a poignant contrast to the monstrous act unfolding. I feel my heart hammer against my ribcage, its pounding tempo matching the rhythm of their carnal dance.

My fist clenches and unclenches in sync with my throbbing heart, the primal urge for confrontation rising like a tempest within me. The sight of the interloper claiming what is rightfully mine makes my bones ache with fury. His audacity, his utter disrespect, is a burning coal against the raw flesh of my heart. I place my hand on the window, cold glass biting into my skin, the thin barrier between me and the spectacle that is unfolding before me.

Soon. I promise myself, glaring at the man ravishing the woman who is mine in every way but physical. Soon, this will end. I will free her from this false god and show her true salvation. One that only I can provide. I watch as he claims her again and finds release in my temple, defiling her with his filth and his depravity. His climax is a sickening sight, but one that steels my resolve further. Victor Morales will die a slow and painful death for touching her. My gaze shifts from the two entwined bodies to her face, her eyes staring blankly at the ceiling above. There is no joy in her gaze, no satisfaction—only emptiness. He looks down at her face with a sickening satisfaction that makes my blood boil. Yet, in her eyesstill lies that void. My fist clenches at my side as I watch the spectacle, my anger mounting with each minute that passes. Minutes, possibly hours, pass, and the night is at its darkest. The Prophet’s body relaxes in post-coital bliss, displaying a vulnerability he is ignorant of, oblivious to my hovering presence. I watch as she gently extricates herself from underneath him, her actions fluid and practiced. He is asleep now, and she is alone, shrouded in a silence only broken by his deep, unsuspecting slumber. From outside, I follow her back to her room where she practically runs to her bedroom and cries herself to sleep.

Sinner

Idon’t know for how long I watch her sleep, ever since she returned from Victor’s bedroom, her eyes swollen from tears. I wanted to console her, to hold her and tell her that everything would be okay, but I knew the last thing she’d want is to be touched right now. And I couldn’t blame her. At first, I came to snoop around and then I had to see her, but the moment I saw her broken like this, I couldn’t leave. I stayed, watching as she cried herself to sleep, each sob like a dagger to my heart. But it was getting late, and Victor is a creature of habit. I could end it all now but that's like removing a tumor and leaving the cancer. I needed to eradicate them all.

She seems at peace now. Standing up from her reading chair, I walk towards her bed and kneel beside her. "Soon, I'll save you from this hell.” I whisper before kissing her tenderly on her lips and slipping out the same way I snuck in. Her French door. She needs to learn how to lock it. With one final look at her, I slip into the night.

The chill of the night air bites into my skin as I leave her, a stark contrast to the heat I felt in Marisol’s room. My breath fogs up in front of me, matching the smoky whispers we shared moments before, her lips so close to mine I can still feel their warmth. But that warmth is gone now,replaced by a creeping cold that settles in my bones as I make my way back to the church.

My burner phone buzzes. It’s unusual for him to be calling this late at night, but I haven’t checked in. While it’s late here, it’s probably morning where he is.

“What do you need?” I answer, a grin spreading across my face as I imagine his expression of disapproval etched into every line.You insolent boy.

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