Page 5 of Remorseless Sinner

“It is good,” he replied, and I swallowed my bitter retort, looking down through blurry eyes and wishing there was a way to escape.

“Now for the final step of the wedding ceremony,” Pastor Mickelson said. “The ceremonial Watering of the Boot to demonstrate a wife’s devotion to her husband.”

Devotion? To my awful stepbrother?

And I absolutely did not want to water his boot.

This was supposed to be a special tradition in my religion, and I had always imagined that I would water the boot, but of someone different , maybe a man with golden blonde hair and a kind smile.

Thinking of William make the tears come even faster, streaming down my face.

Now it could never be.

I wanted someone who was a preacher or a teacher, or a librarian, someone good . Not someone like Saul , who stood there in his dark suit and tattoos, looking like the very Devil himself.

What was to become of me, wife of the Devil?

I didn’t know how he had fooled the Congregation, but he hadn’t fooled me.

When I didn’t move, Mom jabbed me in the back with her sharp nails, urging me closer on my knees to where Saul stood motionless.

“Gracie, it is important that you must water his boot or the ceremony will not be complete,” my mother hissed.

“We have entertained such wickedness in the church,” Pastor Mickelson thundered, “that she would not immediately clean the boot of her new husband.”

For a moment, I looked to Saul for help, but from what I saw in his eyes, he had not forgiven me for what had happened.

How had I ever thought I had escaped from him? How had I ever been foolish enough to think that maybe he had sailed to a new country?

Instead, he was back and more dangerous than ever.

I finally scooted reluctantly closer. His boots looked filthy, big old black shitkicker boots, and they had wet, oozing mud on them from my escape into the forest.

First, someone, probably my mother, handed me a soft white cloth and, with every inch of my skin crawling, I scooted toward Saul and began to clean his boots with the cloth.

There was absolute, hushed silence in the church, the great metallic blinking eyes retracted now to the ceiling, all the Congregation in a circle watching.

Hot, heavy breaths panting behind me, making my skin crawl.

I went as if to scoot away, every cell in my skin wanting to flee, but his big hand shot out and I felt him gather all my long wet hair up in his fist, trapping me in place.

Fuck

The profanity came easily to my mind, like with even the presence of my brother, all the wickedness in the world was swirling around my brain.

I gripped the fabric of his pants, trying not to touch his skin, and settled myself over his right boot, one leg on either side of it.

It was so embarrassing that because I had no panties on, my cunt lips hit the slick hard surface of his boot directly.

My face flamed. Now I was supposed to rub his boot between my thighs , until enough liquid came from my body to wet his horrible shoe.

This was supposed to be a miracle from Nimhe but since I couldn’t imagine this union was blessed by any god in the universe, I didn’t think anything would happen.

However, with his fist in my hair, I had no choice.

I began reluctantly to move my hips back and forth, catching my breath as I realized this position put a lot of pressure on my cunt.

Something must be wrong with how I was feeling.

It was not supposed to feel like this.

Something was driving me on, something inside wanting me to move my hips faster, dig my body down harder.

I tried to raise up so I was only brushing by his boot, but Saul still had my hair in his fist, and he flattened his palm and pressed down so I was forced to split my body right over his boot.

“Look at me,” Saul said. “Keep going.”

My nipples stung at his voice, and if I could have put hands around his throat and squeezed, I would have, but I reluctantly obeyed, back and forth, over his boot, as I felt a strange knot of tension began to twist tighter inside me.

I had watched this ceremony several other times before, and usually the watering was a tiny trickle, sometimes it seemed like nothing at all, and I was surprised the husband called a halt to it.

Some men were very eager to be married.

But it seemed Saul was just eager to punish me with how he waited.

I wasn’t even touching him and my fingers felt on fire where they gripped his pant leg.

It was such a humiliating position, submissively on my knees in front of him, and I hardly dared to look up for how that bulge seemed to block out all the light.

“Drench it, wife,” he said. “Show me how sorry you are.”

I gritted my teeth. It wasn’t like I had any option but to keep going, all my efforts zeroing in on one pressure point between my thighs, like if I kept going, kept hitting that spot, this humiliation would finally be over.

I was expecting a few drops, a little smear on his shoe so he could be a big man and say he had gotten a wife by brute force.

But what gushed from me was like a deluge, flowing from my dirty cunt all over Saul’s boot.

I looked down in astonishment, horrified and stunned by the pleasurable burst of energy inside me.

I had intended to stop as soon as there was one tiny drop, but my hips were moving as if on their own volition, grinding down on his hard boot as more liquid squirted from me, lascivious wet streams soaking my skirt and thighs.

And still I went, wetness dripping down to my ankles, and I was forced to grip his pants tightly, falling forward until I was smashed into his muscular leg, gripping him tight as my heart hammered and my arms trembled.

And it was done.

I was married to my stepbrother.