Page 5 of Daddy's Sinner

I let out a bitter laugh. “Everything you’ve done for me? You mean turning me into your personal hitman? I’m done being your pawn, Guzman. Find someone else to do your dirty work.”

There’s a long pause, and I can sense the anger radiating through the line. “You’ll regret this,” he says, his voice a growl. “You don’t know what you’re dealing with. Victor isn’t the only enemy you have.”

“Maybe not,” I say, my voice steady and cold. “But I’m not afraid of you. Not anymore.”

I hang up before he can say anything else, before his voice can worm its way back into my head. The line goes dead, leaving me alone with the hum of the engine and the memories that haunt me.

Sinner

Memories of my mother flash through my mind—her sad, twisted smile, the way she used to look at me with those brown, hollow eyes that never held warmth. I remember the nights she’d make me kneel beside her bed, forcing me to recite prayers until my voice grew hoarse. Her voice, always cold, always distant, as she would tell me that I was born to serve a higher purpose, to be a warrior for God. But all I ever felt was fear and confusion.

And then there was Father Guzman. I can still feel the sting of the wooden ruler against my knuckles as he punished me, making me hold the Bible with trembling hands. His voice was calm and controlled. As he instructed me to read passages about sin and redemption, all while the pain seared through my flesh. Standing over me, his shadow looming, telling me that pain was necessary to cleanse the soul, that I was being purified for my future role.

I take a deep breath, letting the tension slowly leave my body. The road stretches out ahead of me, and I press down on the gas, the engine roaring to life. For now, all I need is the open road and the promise of freedom, even if it’s just a fleeting illusion.

But those memories cling to me like a shroud, a constant reminder of the chains I’ve worn all my life. I can still hear my mother’s whispers in the dark, still feel Father Guzman’s cold eyes on me, waiting for me to falter.I’m not that boy anymore, but their shadows linger, feeding the fire inside me. And with every mile I put between us, I know I’m closer to confronting the demons they created.

And I won’t stop until every last demon is gone.

The rest of the drive is mercifully silent. The old man doesn’t call again—not that I expected him to. But being alone with nothing but miles and miles of road ahead leaves me with nothing to do but think. Think about the task at hand. Think about Victor Morales and his cult. Think about her innocent eyes. Marisol. And think about the past. I can't escape, no matter how hard I try.

The night stretches out before me as I drive through the dark highways from Georgia to Taos, New Mexico. The headlights of my truck slice through the blackness, illuminating the road ahead but doing nothing to chase away the shadows in my mind. Victor Morales isn’t just another target; he’s a plague. The man has twisted that entire town into his personal hell. His cult, the Church of Eden, is a breeding ground for corruption and abuse. Killing him won’t be enough, but it’s a start. And then, there’s her—the woman in the picture. Marisol. I don’t know why, but something about her calls to me and tugs at the part of me I’ve tried so hard to bury.

As the miles pass by, I try to push those thoughts aside, focusing instead on the real reason I've come to Taos. There’s no room for doubt. No room for hesitation. This is what I was made for—what I was chosen for. I’m not just here to kill a man. I’m here to exorcize a demon. And maybe, just maybe, to save a soul or two along the way.

But those memories—those fucking memories—won’t let me rest. They claw at the edges of my mind, threatening to pull me under. Memories of my mother, of her screams, of the way those dull brown eyes looked at me before she died. I can’t escape them, no matter how fast I drive, no matter how far I go.

All I can do is keep moving forward, one mile at a time, until I reach the end of the road. And at the end of that road, I know I’ll find something far darker than the night that surrounds me.

After hours of driving, and the last light of day finally giving way to the first stars and the cloak of night, I arrive in Taos. The small town is now hushed in the sleep of darkness, only the mountains standing vigilant in the moonlight.

Turning off onto a gravel path that winds its way into the heart of Taos, I see the first signs of the life I'm due to interrupt. Small adobe houses, smoke curling lazily from their chimneys, the soft murmur of life. I can’t help but feel content to be here. After all, I'm here to bring absolution, to rid this beautiful town of the demons, and to help bring peace. But first, I have to cut down the sickness, and to do that, I need to end the Church of Eden. Not just Morales.

I arrive in town four days before I'm due to appear at the church, and for the first time in years, I am not a priest nor a weapon of God, but Matheo. It's been a while since I indulged in my own desires, my own needs. Free from the chains of the church. But more importantly, I can stalk my prey and find out more about the man. Mostly, I want to see her: Marisol Morales. And learn all I can about the angel of death, the daughter of Victor. The beautiful sun-kissed goddess with twin pools of chocolate that won’t escape my mind. She has an ethereal aura that makes it hard to believe she is the offspring of a man as vile as Victor Morales. But more than that, I’m curious—curious to see, to feel, and to taste her insides. I’m curious about everything Marisol.

After settling into my room, taking a quick shower, and having a brief masturbation session, I’m ready to explore the town. I want to see what kind of demons dwell on the Native lands. It’s getting late, and the town is quiet. The smell of seasoned food hangs in the air, clinging to me like a second skin, making my mouth water. I can’t remember the last time I had anything other than the bland food served at the rectory.

It doesn’t take long to find a small establishment—a bar with food, beers, and, hopefully, someone to release this pent-up carnal desire. A quick fuck to satisfy my needs. Relief is hard to find back at the rectory; some of the priests fuck each other, and while I’ve had my share of encounters, I crave someone from the outside world. A woman. A pussy that grips my dick and milks me dry. The thought alone sends blood rushing straight into my cock, hardening instantly. The last woman I was with was a married housewife at the confessional—a very sinful woman. But I welcomed her mouth around my cock, the warmth of her cunt as I fucked her inside the confessional. My Tuesday secret. But after almost being caught, she stopped coming around.

The cool night air hits my skin as I stroll into the bar, a sense of tranquility amidst the chaos of my thoughts. Smoke and a dim yellow hue fill the place from old pendant lights hanging from a wooden ceiling. People are playing pool in the corner, the constant clink of billiard balls providing a comforting background noise. I saunter up to the bar, the worn leather of the stool creaking under my weight as I take a seat. The bartender, a burly man with more hair on his knuckles than on his head, looks at me with wary eyes. Without a word, he places a napkin in front of me. “Bourbon, two ice,” I say in a low voice, careful not to draw too much attention. He nods and sets about making the drink, his movements methodical and practiced. While he does, I scan the room for potential companionship.

The scene is a mix of locals, some nursing drinks while others engage in rowdy banter. A group of men is speaking to some local women, and then there’s her. A tall, beautiful native woman, with high cheekbones, full lips, nice curves, and a long braid that ends just above her plump ass. She leans on the pool table, her body silhouetted by the dim bar light, and I see her eyes flicker toward me. A brief moment of contact sends a spark down my spine. The bartender places my drink in front of me, pulling me out of my reverie. I take a sip, admiring the way her tits push up against her tight shirt every time she leans over the pool table to make a shot. My eyes remain fixated on her, unabashedly appreciatingthe sight before me. The ice in my bourbon tingles against the glass as I gently swirl the drink—it’s almost poetic when her hazel eyes meet mine.

Her fierce determination as she plans her next move awakens my cock. Tonight, I can shed my pretenses and indulge in the world's temptations, and I will. I rise from my seat and stroll closer to her. She remains still as I stand behind her, close enough to catch the scent of her skin - a mix of spice and citrus. My cock stirs as our skin touches when I pick up a cue stick near her. Her ass aligns perfectly with my length.A match made in Eden.

I lean in, close enough for her to feel my breath just an inch from her ear. “You need a better angle on the shot,” I whisper, my voice gravelly, barely audible over the hum of the bar. Her body goes still, rigid with the sudden awareness of my presence. I pull back, but only enough to let her feel the absence of my warmth, as if it’s something she hadn’t realized she wanted—until now.

I pick up the chalk, rolling it over the cue tip, my gaze locked onto hers. “Mind if I join?” My voice cuts through the din, low and smooth, carrying across the room like a quiet challenge.

She raises an eyebrow, a teasing smirk curling at the edges of her lips. “Help yourself, pretty boy.”

The tension between us thickens. The unspoken connection is already a game—predator and prey, though neither of us would admit we’re both hunting. And I like that.

I circle the pool table with deliberate slowness, my eyes never leaving hers. Her grin doesn’t waver, but I catch a slight tremor in her body as I lean against the edge, watching her.Good.The soft click of the pool cue makes a melodic rhythm with the blues coming from the jukebox. Her hips sway subtly to the song, “Wicked Game,” by Chris Isaak. The lyrics seem perfectly in tune with our current standoff. This dance between us is just getting started, and I’m excited. It feels electric as if every molecule in the room is vibrating with anticipation.

“You’re not from around here?” She breaks the silence, striking the red ball and hitting her mark.

“No, I’m not,” I reply, my eyes locked on hers. I smile, appreciating her shot. “I’m a bit of a drifter. It never feels right staying in one place for too long.” The eight ball rolls into the corner pocket with a satisfying clunk. She steps back from the table, a triumphant smile playing on her lips. Despite the heat in the bar, a chill runs down my spine. She studies me, her eyes glinting with a mix of curiosity and challenge.

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