Page 4

Chapter 4

AIRLIE

“T ighten that wet little cunt around my cock one more time, and I’ll snap your fucking neck before switching holes,” Father growls as fire courses through my aching body with each of his deep thrusts. My bare back is flush against his exposed, sweat-soaked chest as his warm, uneven breaths fan the side of my neck, causing my skin to prickle. “I know what you're doing, little whore , and we’ll finish when I fucking say so.”

The thick stench of blood and salt clings to the air, its raw, metallic scent mixing with the smell of frankincense and candles as they flicker and burn, curling and twisting my stomach, making me feel sick. I recoil and bite the inside of my mouth, forcing my eyes shut. I just need to focus on something else—anything but the unholy, acrid stench of God . The sharp, stinging sensation beneath his fingernails slicing into my left hip does the trick, as warmth spills from beneath his touch and my blood slowly trickles down my leg. He must notice because he adjusts his grip on me, wrapping his arm around my waist instead, still pinning me against him.

He has always been disgusted by my blood.

But he sure loves to sit by and watch me bleed.

His large, wooden crucifix is hard up against my throat, held there by his free hand with a weight that no longer frightens me. Fear is what he wants. Fear is what keeps him coming back for more. Like a ravenous lion circling a poor helpless lamb, waiting for it to stumble before finally taking it into its mouth and feasting on its bones. He never fully restricts my airflow, always giving me a moment to catch my breath when he sees that I need it, yet the relief he gives me is never enough to stop me from bruising. I see them peppering my skin, scattered across my body whenever I stare into the salty water.

I used to despise these scars.

They were proof of my suffering, after all.

When I look at them now, all I see is art. The way their colors lighten and fade over time, from various shades of black and deep green to navy blue and gray before finally disappearing. Reminds me of seaweed, tangled and swaying in the moonlight beneath the ocean’s surface.

Every scar on my skin sculpts me into something different, something Father can't take away. These scars are mine, and I have to remind myself that I am not his. Even if he says, I am.

“That’s it. Ugh— yes . By grace, your cunt is so—ugh,” he says between pants before he drops the crucifix to the ground, then bends me forward, splaying his hand out on my back, forcing me still as he pounds into me faster. “You’re my filthiest sin,” he confesses. “I want to feel your swollen, dripping flesh between my teeth as I eat you,” he says—promises, I think, his voice hoarse as he shifts his arms to hold my hips with both hands . He speaks like this a lot lately, and as unsettling as it is, I can’t help but wonder if he really thinks I'd taste good.

We each walk a delicate line when it comes to sin. I find myself captivated by it, drawn to it, intrigued by how much pain and torment my body can endure before it finally surrenders and the darkness devours me whole. Before he devours me whole.

Father says I have a sickness.

That there’s an evil festering deep within my core that only he can save me from.

It’s why he plays with me.

He forces my head back with a jerk, pulling on my long hair and wrapping it in his fist. The sharp tug sends a jolt of pain from the base of my skull as heat pricks my ears, and I bite down on my tongue, holding back a whimper. I gasp inwardly as his grip continues to tighten, and he drives his hard length into me. His movements grow rigid. His cold, wrinkly skin rails against my bones as he continues to bury himself in my broken body.

Muted grunts and labored breaths bounce off the stone, filling the candlelit darkness surrounding us. He thrusts one last time before finally spilling inside me, and I'm flooded with relief when he lets go of my hair. I ignore the urge to rub my head as he steps away, and I stay bent, knowing he’ll want to observe me like this. I open my eyes, widen my legs, and watch his shadow move and crouch behind me in the dim amber light reflecting off the stone. He runs two fingers over my sensitive flesh, diving them in and out of my burning cunt. I wish I could tell him to stop, but I know he won't.

“ You will keep my seed inside of you, Whore,” he says, his tone now laced with indifference, though I recognize the threat within his words.

I nod in response, and then he turns away. I use this moment to straighten slowly. My body thrums with the aftermath of his assault, and I’m thankful he was in a good mood tonight because it wasn’t so bad this time. I turn around to face him as he sits back on his weathered, wooden chair, running his fingers along the worn edges of his brown leather Bible resting in his hands as he waits for me. His dark, intense eyes bore into mine, contempt and hunger swirling within them, sending ice-cold chills down my spine.

Instinct takes over, and I reach for the washcloth draped over the back of his chair, pushing through the sharp sting on my side from his nails. I dip it into the bucket on the floor by his feet, wringing out the soapy water, and then I kneel before him, bathing his skin clean of me as he reads to me, asking Christ for forgiveness.

God will forgive me because he loves me, or so I am told.

But not enough to save me.