Page 28 of Forgive Me Father

One unread notification from: Eden Faulkner

Tapping on the notification, I sit up in my bed, nearly dropping my phone, my eyes plastered on the image in front of me.

It’s a picture of Eden, wet hair and all. She’s licking the side of one of her glistening fingers, her eyes lowered as she looks at the camera. The peaks of her perfectly round tits and delicate light pink nipples are cut off at the edge of my screen. My mouth begins to water as I trace a finger over the image of her curves.

A single line of text appears after the photo.

Following up with the single text, she gains the upper hand.

Your move Father.

The screen fades back to black moments later.

Eden Faulkner.

Has the devil himself sent you to test me?

1 Peter 5:8: "Be sober-minded; be watchful. Your adversary the devil prowls around like a roaring lion, seeking someone to devour."

Chapter 8

Eden

What have I done?

What sane person has phone sex with a priest? As if letting him listen to me finger fuck myself wasn’t enough, I poured gasoline on an already out-of-control fire with that photo.

Can I blame the Devil for this unyielding desire to tempt him more, or do I thank God for the unexpected reprieve Roman grants me from the torment of trauma threatening to break me almost every day? I bend at the sound of his voice, falling into a consuming pit of lust and hunger anytime I think of him.

This isn’t like me.

I barely sent Eric anything erotic, even when he’d begged for them.

Why in the fuck would I tempt my goddamn priest with a photo of myself licking my own cum off of my fingers?

Roman never responded after my raunchy photo or the text that could be interpreted in a million different ways. In the heat of the moment, I’d felt in control.

I wanted to know how far Roman was willing to go.

Now, one climax and zero new texts later, I’m wondering if he’d already reached that limit.

The pain from my father’s special brand of punishment lingers, and with Father Briar now paying closer attention to me, cutting isn’t an option to relieve the tension building in my chest and radiating through the rest of my tired body.

Glaring at the jewelry box where I hide the blades, I count to ten in my head.

They will always be there.

There is no need to add more wounds to an already mangled body. If you don’t stop, you won’t have any clean skin left.

Not today.

Fastening the tie to my apron, I work several layers of concealer onto the bruised skin around my neck. The best I could do was to make it look like someone had a great time sucking on my neck in a fit of passion.

I deliberately take my time getting ready, trying to avoid any chance of my dad insisting I sit down for breakfast. I move to the floor-leaning mirror in my bedroom, smoothing down the form-fitting, long-sleeved black turtleneck dress, making sure it covers the front of my thighs under the apron. In my hurry to make it back home a few months ago, I’d left most of my clothes in my dorm room. I knew they’d get thrown out after I left, but I couldn’t care less at the time. I was frustrated to find the four pairs of pants that I had to my name all in the wash this morning,leaving me with this or a pair of pajama shorts to wear to work today.

I moved to the closet, pulling out a pair of knee-high boots to hopefully combat the chilly air on my otherwise bare legs. Glancing at my phone, I grab my bag and hurry out of my room before I’m late.

The smell of eggs wafts through my nose as I creep downstairs. I catch sight of my brother slumped over the dining room table with his head resting in his palm as he pushes food around on his plate. His skin is dull, and the bags under his eyes tell me he got about as much sleep as I did last night. Grabbing my keys from the hanger by the front door, I’m stopped by the sound of my father’s voice before I can make my escape.