Page 57 of Of Heathens & Havoc

“We thank you.”

I enter a trancelike state from the steady murmur of the voices, the chant like a prayer over my body. The Master bends to kiss the top of each of my feet, as if he worships the ground I walk on, as if I’m above even the man who commands this whole ritual.

“Your body is holy,” he murmurs, his hands moving slowly from my feet to my ankles. “The sacred desires of your flesh belong to your god.”

As he speaks, he moves higher, his fingers digging into my calves in a firm massage that makes pleasure ripple through my entire being.

“The sacred desires of our flesh belong to you.”

He massages up my thighs, which begin to tremble at his touch as his hands continue until they meet the slickness on my skin that’s not from the holy water, but from my most unholy urges. Just before he touches my center, he lifts his hands away. I stifle a cry of frustration, my hips jerking involuntarily in protest.

He dips his fingers into the bowl of holy water, then returns them to me. He spreads my sex and wets me thoroughly this time. I gasp as the cold liquid trickles down, blessed, holy water that should steam upon touching such a hot, unholy vessel. Squeezing my eyes closed in humiliation, I pray he can’t feel how wet I am already. I listen for a sizzle when the water meets my hot flesh, because the shame is burning me alive. But the only sound is a slick, wet sound as he coats me with the sacred water, sliding his fingers into my slit, through my folds, over my swollen bud.

“Your body is now ready to receive our sin, Mercy,” he murmurs. “Open yourself for us.”

“Please,” I whisper, tears trickling down my temples. He opens me, soaking my folds in the liquid again. The stroke of his fingers makes my whole body quake violently with need, with shame, with protest.

“May your body preserve your soul,” he murmurs in the same hushed, reverent tone a priest would use while administering communion.

The depth of humiliation is too much to bear.

“God is always with you, my lamb,” he murmurs, expertly leading me into a temptation I’ve wanted since the day I returned to Thorncrown, when I sat in the booth and heard Father Salvatore’s smoky, rich voice, felt the things it did to me while I confessed my darkest sins. “I am your god now. Give yourself to god, and he will show you the way.”

I feel my flesh responding to his touch, coating his fingers with a hotter, thicker liquid as I think about the man behind the screen in the confession booth. I ignite with a shame so hot I think I’ll combust. The humiliation is too deep, too horrible, to endure. A sob rips from me, wracking my whole body as he moves lower, holding open the entrance to my body. The others lean in to see, ignoring the ugly sounds tearing from my throat.

“These men worship at your sacred altar,” he murmurs. “Take them into your body now.”

I whimper as the others watch him expose me fully.

“Saint,” he says quietly.

“Me?” my brother asks. “I can’t. She’s my sister.”

“It is your desire.”

There’s a long pause, while tears pour from my eyes, the knife of pain in my chest rendering me speechless. He’s not my god. He’s not a comfort, a shepherd, or a father I’ve confessed my sins to, an instrument of God. He’s a sinner like the others, one who worships whatever gods or devils they do—the leader of the Hellhounds.

Suddenly, a sharp pain stabs through me as my brother roughly drives a finger to the hilt inside me. A shriek tears from my lips at the shock and pain, my whole body going rigid as I jerk at my bonds.

“Oh relax,” Saint snaps. “It’s just a finger.”

“Let him in,” the leader says, gently stroking the back of his fingers down the side of my breast. Then he lifts his head to give orders to my brother. “Give her communion.”

Saint thrusts his finger into me again, then draws it out. In the flickering firelight, I can see it slicked with red blood.

“The blood of the lamb,” the Master says with deep reverence. “Poured out for you.”

Saint lowers his finger to my trembling lips, pushing it inside.

“Suck,” the Master commands.

I obey automatically, the response programmed into me after years of being told to kneel, to open my mouth, to take communion. I can taste the sweet, iron tang of my blood spread over my tongue, the one I’ve tasted so many times, and I suck harder, latching onto the familiar, comforting flavor of my own body that has anchored me so often, reminded me I’m alive even when she’s gone, when I’m gone to everyone I love.

Saint draws a sharp breath, and my eyes search for his, but I can’t find them behind the dark mask. The throbbing ache he left inside me returns harder than ever, like a scream waiting to be unleashed.

“Such a pure little thing,” the Master says. “Empty your sins into her.”

I let out a muffled protest, and Saint’s finger hits the back of my throat, making me gag. At the same moment, a finger plunges deep into my core. I choke out another cry, and my hips jerk up, my thighs straining as Heath thrusts his finger in and out of my slick opening. He groans, reaching under the black robe and fumbling himself out. His cock stands up straight and smooth, proudly filling his hand as he begins to pump over his shaft to the pierced tip.

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