Page 45 of Of Angels & Absolution

“No,” he says. “Crawl on your knees.”

thirteen

The Saint

“Dude, what got into you tonight?” Heath asks, hitting the button to turn on the jets. “You were savage out there. I’m surprised they didn’t give you a technical and eject you after the second guy you injured.”

“Excessive force,” Angel agrees, clamping an ice pack to his shoulder while the rest of his body remains submerged in the scalding water bubbling around us. “You know, my cousin can get you into that fight club downtown if you want to beat the shit out of somebody. Football field is probably not the place for it.”

“Count yourself lucky I didn’t take it out on you,” I mutter.

“What’d I do?” Angel protests, looking wounded.

“Besides fingering his hot sister in front of the whole library?”

“Somebody had to do it,” Angel says, flashing a grin.

My fists clench, and I fight the urge to knock the smugness out of him.

“And hey,” he adds. “It’s not like you could do it.”

“Not while he’s still pretending she’s his sister,” Heath agrees, grinning too. But he’s watching me, waiting for a reaction while he plays with his lip ring, tonguing it like a dare. Goading me.

“She is my sister,” I growl. An image swims before me unbidden—Mercy on her knees before me, face flushed, lifting her skirt in a slow, torturous tease. Her lips parted for me, eyes wide with innocence, while I shot my load into her greedy littlemouth. If Father Salvatore had asked her to bend over and hold her virgin cunt open for me, she would have broken her back to get in position before I could refuse.

“If you stop calling her your sister, maybe you can finger her next time,” Heath says.

“Or taste her,” Angel says, licking his lips in an exaggerated, lascivious gesture. “It’s not my fault you’re too much of a pussy to eat hers. Take it from me. It’s delicious.”

“I don’t fucking need this,” I say, standing and sloshing water from the hot tub as I climb out.

They both laugh, obviously having the times of their fucking lives.

“Good thinking,” Heath calls. “You shouldn’t be in a hot tub when you’re on your period anyway.”

“Fuck you,” I say, slamming out of the locker room.

They don’t understand.

Maybe they would if I told them, but how can I tell them what I did? I would have to admit that I’d also erased the video feed from the night Mercy went out, and then I’d have to explain why. Close as we are, there are some things I just can’t tell them because they don’t know what it’s been like for me.

They don’t know that I’ve spent a decade repeating the same mantra in my head—she’s my sister. She’s my sister. She’s my sister.

That when puberty hit like a ton of bricks, and I was so horny I would hump my own bed when I thought about her in the shower next to my room, sometimes I’d pull her down into my lap and rub my dick on her like an animal when she didn’t even notice because she was too innocent. That a few years later, when I thought I’d gotten hold of myself, puberty hit her, and I’d see her budding nipples poking against her shirt or the way her tiny tits bounced without the support of a bra, and I’d have to go in the bathroom and rub one out, all the while steeped in ashame so deep I couldn’t bear it. That I used to see her maxi pads in the trash can in the bathroom, and I’d take them out and jerk off into them, imagining her cunt sliding over me with the blood.

They don’t know that once, my dad found one in my drawer at home, licked clean but still bloodstained, and he made me go to an old priest to confess. And that the old priest made me watch from another room while he wrapped a wire around some other kid’s dick and shocked it while the boy pleaded and writhed in agony. Afterwards, the priest came in and told me that this was the punishment for sins of sexual transgression, and if I did something like that again, I would face the same.

I told him that my father would never let him do that to me, and he said, “Who do you think brought you here? Who brings them all here? Do you think this boy’s parents aren’t fully aware and in support of our methods of treatment?”

I didn’t know what to say.

“This was your warning,” the old creep said. “Next time, you’ll be in that room, and someone else will be here—hopefully someone who heeds their warning.”

I had nightmares about that boy’s cries for months.

But I never told Heath and Angel, because their fathers would never make them witness something like that, let alone endure it. But then, they weren’t deviants. I’m sure neither jerked off to the fantasy of his sister’s wet pussy sliding up and down his shaft while she begged him to stop before their parents caught them; or her refusing him but turning over and offering her ass so she could please him but still be a virgin when she got married.

If they did, they didn’t share it with me, so I knew not to share my indiscretions with them.

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