Page 8 of Daddy's Sinner

I walk over to my bag and pull out the whip I use for penance, then walk back to the bathroom and as I look at my reflection I begin reciting the Bible verse.1 Corinthians 6:18:"All other sins a person commits are outside the body, but whoever sins sexually, sins against their own body." I begin my lashes. Each strike of the whip is a physical confession, a tangible penance. My chest tightens as the leather bites into my skin, drawing forth the sweet sting of purification. I embrace the pain like a divine gift—a holy communion between my corporeal form and the flourishing spirit within—bridging the gap between physical passions and spiritual absolution.

“Ten… Eleven… Twelve,” I count each lash, wincing but cherishing the stinging pain that cleanses my sins. Blood begins to seep from the welts on my back. My cock hardens as I finish my forty lashes.

“Thirty-eight… Thirty-nine… Forty,” I hiss, the final lash landing with a wet smack against my sin-stained skin. I let the whip fall to the ground, the cool air stinging my open wounds. My body hums with pain, sweet and purifying, while my cock throbs with need. I slip out of my boxers and fist my length, watching myself in the mirror as I stroke.

With each glide of my hand, I watch as my reflection contorts in pleasure and agony—a symphony of ecstatic penance. My harsh breaths echo through the room as I move my hand faster. I know I should see only a man, twisted by his carnal desires. But all I see is a vessel of God.

Who am I, really? A sinner masquerading as a saint? Or a saint battling the sinner within? It doesn’t matter. This is my truth. I’m both.

Slowly, deliberately, I bring myself to the edge, staring at my reflection in the glass. My other hand explores the open wounds on my back, feeling the contrast of the warm blood against the cool air, a testament to my sin and repentance. The union of pain and pleasure makes me shudder.

With a final stroke, the apex of pleasure crashes over me, my semen spurting out in an arc of white, the physical essence of my sin exposed for the world—or God—to see. My breath comes in heavy gasps as I ride the waves of my climax, a release that is as much spiritual as it is physical.

My knees buckle, and I collapse onto the cold floor, my head resting against the wooden surface of the bathroom sink. The pain radiates through me, a cruel comfort that numbs the chaos inside. The violence of my own actions always leaves me stunned, my breath caught in my throat. The room hums with the deafening silence of judgment—my own, God’s, or maybe both.

What have I become?The question lingers in my mind, but the answer feels elusive, almost irrelevant.Does it even matter anymore?I search for some trace of the person I once was, but all I find is a void, a hollow echo of what used to be. Not that I was something more than what I'm now. No, she took care of that but now there's no more hope. No freedom. Only pain. The pain is the only thing that feels real, the only thing that connects me to this moment.

Was it worth it?The thought claws at my mind, but I push it away. I don’t know if I can face the answer. I don’t know if I want to.

Sinner

Once I finish my punishment, I shower and prepare for the day ahead. Slipping into dark blue jeans and a black henley long sleeve, I know I will probably die from the heat, but I can’t expose my tattoos that could make me stand out. I need to get close enough to Victor; after all, he’s the only reason I came into town earlier than planned—to watch him. In a small town like Taos, where everyone knows everyone, I have to make sure I’m not discovered before I’m ready to strike.

I step out of the room, leave the hotel, and head into the hot, sunny day. As I walk toward the small-town square where the market is held, I feel the dry dust under my boots and the weight of the sun on my back. The air is thick with the aroma of baked bread, fresh fruit, and spices. The chatter of vendors hawking their wares and the laughter of children at play create an enticing cacophony. My eyes scan the market, searching for Victor and his little dove. And then, as if God himself has ordained this moment, I spot them.

There’s no mistaking it—it’s her. The woman who has consumed my every thought since I first saw her picture. Ebony curls cascading to her waist, golden skin glowing like something divine. Those dark, secretive eyes, those plump, irresistible lips… My blood surges south. She’s pure yet sinful. An angel—no, my angel. The sight of her stirs something twisted in me, a mix of reverence and lust. I’m obsessed. She was made for me, only for me. God must be cruel, placing this temptation in my path. I want to worship her and defile her, to make her mine until her innocence is just a memory. My angel, my sinner. From the moment I saw her, I knew she was destined to be the object of my darkest desires. I can’t look away, knowing this is just the beginning.

And there's Victor, standing beside her. Marisol’s father. A demon in plain daylight. His hand rests on the small of her back as she pauses to smell the sunflowers. Her eyes light up as she brings the flowers to her button nose, inhaling their scent. The white dress clings to her small, perkybreasts and flaunts her thin waist, doing absolutely nothing to hide that round ass.

My pulse quickens, and my chest tightens. I force myself to swallow the bitterness that rises in my throat. The jealousy flows through me as I watch Victor leaning into whisper something in her ear, his eyes glinting wickedly in the midday sun. Marisol giggles—a sound so light and pure, it feels sacrilegious coming from a sinner like her. But I wanted more of that. I wanted to hear that beautiful sound come out of her. I continue to follow at a distance as they move from vendor to vendor, his hand firm on her back.

For her to be his daughter, he’s oddly possessive of her. But with a woman who looks like that, who wouldn’t be? But that’s her father, and that is wrong. An abomination. Still, I can’t help but be curious about their dynamic. He treats her more like a partner than a daughter. The townspeople don’t seem to notice, so maybe this behavior is normal. When his hand slides down to cup her peach-shaped ass, my teeth grind so hard I feel the pressure in my jaw.Mine.A wave of possessiveness surges through me, and all I want to do is pummel his face in for touching her. For touching what’s mine. She might not know I exist, but I know she does, and that's all that matters.Mine.The sight twists something dark and sick in my gut. It’s not right.It isn’t. How can no one see this? Marisol doesn’t flinch; instead, she continues to interact with the vendors, her laughter ringing out in the square, light and infectious. I keep my head tipped low, trying to avoid notice, sweat trickling down my forehead as I watch this grotesque display of sin. As a stranger approaches Victor, who stands outside the bookstore, Marisol is left alone momentarily while she browses for books. Like a moth drawn to a flame, I move closer to her.

I weave my way through the milling crowd, sidestepping street urchins playing with sticks, a couple haggling over the price of a clay pot, and an old woman counting her earnings for the day. I feel the eyes of others on me, but they quickly avert their gaze to more mundane matters.

Ahead, I spot the entrance to the bookstore, its wooden sign creaking softly in the breeze. The scent of old paper and ink beckons me inside, and I step over the threshold, immediately enveloped in the comforting quiet. The soft glow of afternoon light filters through the dusty windows, casting long shadows across the rows of bookshelves.

I see her almost immediately. She stands near the back of the shop, carefully selecting a book, her fingers delicately tracing the spine as if it were made of glass. A soft sigh escapes her lips as she settles on one, flipping it open to read the first few lines. My heart hammers loudly in my chest, the sound echoing in my ears as I listen to her read aloud, “Love is the greatest curse of them all, angel, and I’ve been cursed.” Her voice is a smooth melody, laced with longing and a tinge of sadness. Suddenly, I find myself wishing to be that book in her hands, to feel her touch upon me, to hear her voice reading my lines. It’s an irrational thought—one born out of desire.

“Love,” she whispers, closing the book and placing it back on the shelf. She moves down the romance section, browsing books and reading the backs of a few. Nothing seems to catch her attention as she places each book back where it belongs. Then she picks up another book, one I am very familiar with—an erotica. Opening the book, she lands on a random page and reads, “I am going to eat your pussy now, little traitor, and make you cry out my name.” She gasps, her face flushing a deep crimson as she reads the explicit line, her hands instinctively clapping the book shut. It’s a stark contrast to the previous book she held with such tenderness, and yet I find myself longing even more intensely. I want to be that outrageous line that shocks her into silence, that flushes her delicate skin, and provokes such a raw, unexpected response.

She nervously glances around the bookstore, ensuring she’s still alone, before opening the book again. A smirk plays on her lips, her eyes sparkling with mischief as she skims through another page—the forbidden love story of a priest and a nun. A book I’ve read many times before and pleasured myself too.

The unexpected thought slips into my mind, unbidden, and a heavy heat flares in my cheeks. I’m embarrassed by my own thoughts, by my own desires. But as I watch her continue to read the illicit tale—her lips faintly moving, her brow creasing in concentration, and her delicate fingers caressing the spine—I picture her caressing my skin, her naked reading that book while I feast on her cunt.

Her white cotton dress, simple yet elegant, drapes softly against her body, ending just above her knees. The fabric clings to her in the right places, accentuating her curves, while the exposed shoulders reveal smooth, sun-kissed skin. Her dark, wild coils are loose, cascading down her back like a waterfall, framing her face in a way that makes her look both innocent and alluring. I take a step closer, the floorboards creaking underfoot, but she doesn’t notice—too engrossed in the words that stir her deepest desires.

A flush of desire sweeps over me, and even in the chilly bookstore, I find myself sweating slightly. My skin prickles with heat, an uncomfortable contrast to the cool air around me. I look down, trying to bury myself in the book I’m supposed to be reading. But the words blur into an incomprehensible haze, dissolving into the background as my thoughts circle around her.

I can’t focus on the words. All I see is her—her delicate fingers flipping through pages, her eyes absorbed in the forbidden love story between a priest and a nun. She’s lost in a world where desire and sin intertwine, and her fascination is a magnetic force pulling me closer.

I try to steady my breathing, but my gaze drifts back to her. Her lips move slightly as she reads, and I long to hear the words she’s silently reciting, to know the moment the story pushes her to the edge.

The world fades, the bustling marketplace outside a distant hum. All that remains is the quiet rustle of pages and her intoxicating presence. With a mix of shame and yearning, I realize I’m not just watching her—I’m longing to be part of the story she’s so entranced by.

I watch as she abandons the book, her face flushed once again. She wanders to another section of the bookstore, this one filled with adventure tales and horror stories. But none of them seem to catch her interest. Closing the book in my hands, I diminish the distance between us. I want—no, I need—to talk to her, and so I do.

“That’s a good choice,” I say, pointing at the gothic horror novel in her hand. Marisol smiles. “I’m not sure if I can stomach horror.” Interestingly, the little killer can't stomach horror, yet she can take a life without flinching. A true little sinner, just like her father—an angel of death wrapped in innocence. The file told me everything about the church rituals, the blood her hands are stained with. But horror? That's where she draws the line.

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