Page 9 of The Preacher's Pet

Does she have dark thoughts, too? Fantasies and things she won’t admit to?

Something about the way she’d taken one look at the three of us and fled has me feeling things I’ve never experienced before. The desire to chase, tohunt.

When I catch my delectable prey, I’ll devour her.

I imagine her naked under me, thoughts flitting fast through my mind. She’s no longer on her knees, but on her back, on the mossy ground. I lift her dress, smoothing the material over her slender thighs. In my fantasy, no panties stand in the way of what I want. Instead, she’s laid bare, her most secret place exposed, just for me. I would push her thighs apart, and maybe she’d make a small sound of protest and try to keep them together, but I’d be stronger. And as I pushed them apart, she’d moan, just a little.

Oh, fuck. I tighten my grip and work myself harder.

What does her pussy look like? Does she shave, or has she got the same almost white-blonde hair there, too? I find myself hoping she has. Her hair is so amazing, I’d love to see it covering her slit as well. My cock is painful as I run my hand up the length of it, the veins standing out starkly against the skin.

My cock throbs as if it needs to release the buildup. It has been a while, and I think this won’t take long. I’m on the edge of exploding. My spine tingles and my balls feel heavy as if they’re desperate to eject their load.

I reach down with my other hand and cup them, then I twist them just once, sharply, inhaling at the delicious shot of pain.

Would she like a bit of pain? That strange, ethereal girl. Would she welcome it the way I sometimes do? A sting of exquisite agony to help with the pleasure?

I doubt she’d like anything hardcore, but maybe spanking? Just something light. Her over my knee.

My fantasy changes again. This time she’s over my knee, ass in the air as I smooth my palm over her soft, creamy flesh. Then I bring it down sharply on her behind. In my imagination, shesquirms and wriggles on my lap, pressing her pussy against my thighs, trying to get relief.

Bad girls shouldn’t do that, so I’d smack her again and again for it. Maybe she’d be crying, too, so prettily for me. Her pale skin would redden beautifully in ways I can imagine all too easily.

Damn. My cock is fucking pulsing as I stroke it. The head is a dark red, and my thigh muscles bunch and relax as I work toward what I need.

I’m committing so many fucking wrongs right now, but it feels so right.

My balls tighten and draw close to my body, my thighs tense, and I curse as cum shoots up my cock before spraying out against the shower tiles. I come for what seems like forever, waves of intense pleasure washing over me, until I fall forward, one palm against the tiles. My chest heaves, my head lowered.

When I come to my senses, I laugh softly to myself. What the fuck was that?

I tell myself it’s fine. One indiscretion isn’t an issue. Now I’ve gotten rid of the tension, I can think more clearly. It’s really Roman’s thing—this not jerking off stuff. He believes it preserves our masculine energy to be chaste not only with women, but even with ourselves. He says it makes us stronger and more focused. I do try, but fuck me, some days I just need to take the edge off.

My mind flicks back to Ophelia, and I’m dismayed when it seems I’m still just as interested in her hair, her perky tits, and her pointed nipples.

Damn, I might be in more trouble than I thought.

5

OPHELIA

I blinkopen my eyes and turn my head to look at the digits on the old-fashioned travel clock on my nightstand.

Six a.m.

The number is no surprise to me. I’d been woken at exactly this time for almost six years of my life, and even though I have the luxury of being able to wake up of my own accord now, I can’t seem to shake the habit.

Today is Sunday. When I’d been living my other life, it would be a day filled with back-to-back sermons and prayer, from the moment I wake, to the time I go to bed, but there’s none of that here. I’m filled with guilt at the thought of spending the day however I choose instead. The enormity of it is almost too much—the hours stretching ahead feel more overwhelming than having a strict schedule. It’s like I’m standing at the top of an endlessly tall ladder, and the view down is making me dizzy.

Even after all this time, I’m unused to having free time. It should feel like a luxury, but it doesn’t.

At least I managed to get through the night without being plagued with nightmares. I’m taking that as a good sign. I’d been worried that seeing Cain again, followed by my confession to Camile, might have stirred everything up, but perhaps thereis comfort in sharing, like my therapist always tried to convince me. I hadn’t thought I was ready to talk, but Camile is nice, and she’d made it easy to tell her some of it, at least. The thought of telling Cain, though, still leaves me feeling ashamed and upset. Even though I know I bear no blame, the shame never leaves me. It coats my skin like a sticky residue I can never wash away.

I wonder how Cain will be spending his day. Will he be with his friends? What was it Camile had said they call themselves? The Preachers? Why? What had happened to Cain to make him want to become part of a gang like that, and to make him wear a mask?

It occurs to me that while I might have a story, so does he.

I take a long shower and wash my hair. By the time I’m dressed and have blow-dried my hair, I’m hoping the cafeteria will be open for breakfast. My stomach rumbles.

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