The Maiden (The Cloister Book 1)

by Celia Aaron

  “Sure.” Noah sinks onto the tufted leather couch as I stand next to the fireplace.

  “And you, Adam? What do you have to say about that bright white gal you got?” He opens a cross-shaped box—handmade by one of his congregants—and scoops a bump of coke onto his pinky nail, then snorts it.

  “She’s adequate.”

  My father laughs, though no lines appear in his forehead, no crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes. Botox is a hell of a drug. “Adequate?” He chuckles. “Is this the year when you take one for yourself?”

  “Is that what you want?” I keep my tone level.

  His eyes narrow. “If you want to challenge me, boy, best come at me with all you got. If you don’t, I’ll end you.”

  “Dad.” Noah’s gentle tone floats through the acrimony, falling like a gentle snow on my father’s anger. “He’s just not ready yet.”

  “He’s thirty years old. Plenty ready!” He takes another sniff of powdery courage.

  “Sure, but he’s in charge of our operation. His focus is—”

  “I can defend myself just fine, Noah.” I level my father with a glare. “I’m not taking one of these fools as a wife. If they’re stupid enough to fall for your song and dance, then I want nothing to do with them.”

  Dad stabs his finger through the air. “I am the Lord’s Prophet, Adam. God has chosen me for this. And He has chosen them to serve me.”

  Out of my father’s many delusions, this is his favorite. I could argue, could spell it out that he is a whoremonger of epic proportions. I don’t. All I want is to go to bed and forget this day happened. That isn’t really an option. I’ll be met with my fucked-up reality the second I wake up in the morning. But the bliss of sleep—hours of nothing but utter darkness—is my only remaining pleasure.

  His anger turns suddenly serene, which is never a good sign. “I was going to let you say goodnight to your mother, but since you both insist on being obstinate, I think I’ll pass.”

  Noah holds a hand out. “Dad, please.” He doesn’t realize that pleading will only feed my father’s refusal.

  Besides, it’s a trick. Dad hasn’t let us get near our mother in years. She’s watched even more closely than the Maidens.

  “That’s fine.” I stand and stretch, easily hiding my hatred in nonchalance. “I’m ready to hit the hay anyway.”

  When my father realizes he can’t make me squeal, his ire returns triple-fold. “Get out of here! Both of you. Service in the morning. This one will be beamed in at our new ministry in India. Surely some of those dot-head idiots can gather up rupees to send over here. Godless heathens.” He stubs out his cigar in a crystal ashtray, his dark eyes cutting into my back as I walk away.

  I lie in bed, my thoughts drawn back to the ritual, to Delilah. Her thin file rests on the pillow next to me, a snapshot of her oval face pinned to the front. Twenty-one, went to college, from northern Louisiana where her parents still live. She started attending services at Heavenly about a year ago, right after the murder scandal broke.

  She came to church every time the doors were open. Always alone, despite a handful of attempts from some of the male members of the congregation. Perfect for the Cloister—a spotless record and distant parents. She’d come to Alabama for school, but like so many others, she’d fallen for the siren song of the Prophet.

  I drum my fingers on my bare chest, her image on the backs of my eyelids. The way she’d looked on that bed. Jesus.

  I’ve trained a Maiden every year for the past five years, and I’ve never reacted to one the way I did to her. I pushed her too far, forcing her to look me in the eye and give me more of her than I’m allowed to have. And I was hard on her, but not as hard as I will be. Going easy on her like Noah does with his Maidens would only end in trouble. My hand strays beneath the sheet to my bare cock. It’s already hard—the simple thought of her, legs spread, small hands fisting the quilt—that’s all it takes. I begin to stroke myself, imagining devouring her sweet cunt as she writhes, fighting the pleasure and then giving in. When she comes on my face, I shoot a thick load all over my stomach.

  When I come back down from the euphoria, I realize I can’t let this happen again. Fantasizing about her will only cloud my mind, will make me rethink all the shit I have to do to prepare her. I wipe myself clean and toss the sheet to the floor.

  She’ll be ready.

  I won’t fail.

  Not this time.

  Chapter 5

  Delilah

  The congregation buzzes, each voice added to the others until the 20,000 seat auditorium crackles with energy. I kneel, my head down, my hands folded, a white veil over my face. My fellow Cloister Maidens do the same on either side of me. Twelve innocents on a pedestal for the crowd to watch, to covet.

  The Prophet is nothing if not a showoff. The gilded floor of his stage says as much, and when he walks out in his shiny black shoes, the crowd turns into a living monster, the roar of approval drowning out the constant hum of sin.

  He grins, the smile of a kindly father figure, and waves at the congregation. His image is magnified on the huge monitors on either side of the stage. The girl next to me shivers, though I doubt it’s from fear. Religious rapture, hero worship that endures despite whatever terrors may have befallen her the night before.

  “Now, now. The glory goes to God, not me.” The Prophet speaks through a small microphone that curves around his cheek and hovers at his lips.

  I can’t turn around. The Maidens are required to kneel, the perfect image of devout femininity during the service. Our veils cover everything in a whitewash and hide some of the bruises. I realized this morning that I was one of the lucky ones—many of the girls had suffered during the night as I rocked in a corner, my arms wrapped around my calves.

  Even if I can’t see behind me, I know the sanctuary is full of devout believers. At our backs, the children have been brought in from the nursery, all of them in white jumpers. There’s no talking allowed during service, and I’ve seen the women assigned to childcare yank a child out of the sanctuary on plenty of occasions. I cringed, but no one else batted an eyelash.

  A row of Heavenly Police Officers line the sides of the aisles. The State granted the Heavenly campus municipality status a few years back, allowing the Prophet to form his own police force and government. His influence spreads more each day, like an all-consuming rot.

  “We have a new crop of Cloister Maidens, praise be to God.” He motions to us, twelve pawns in his game of power. Stage lights make him shine. The crowd applauds. Their hunger is a harsh wind at our backs.

  “These coveted spots have been filled with young women who will become the future for our church. Twelve months of intensive training in the ways of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit will yield a set of females that walk in the light and love of our Savior.” He sweeps a hand at us. The applause grows.

  He holds a hand up, and all sound stops. “As a treat for our new Cloister Maidens and for all of you, we have a very special guest with us this morning. A woman who embodies everything a young woman should be. She is the shining example, the future that we want for all our Cloister Maidens, especially since she was one herself. Please welcome our First Lady of Alabama, Mrs. Miriam Williams.”

  The crowd roars as she walks onto the stage, her blush pink heels, long legs, and impeccable cream dress accenting her flowing blonde hair. She waves, a huge beauty-queen smile on her face as she embraces the Prophet and kisses him on each cheek.

  When they finish beaming at each other, she lifts a microphone and steps forward, her gaze roving over the Cloister Maidens at her feet.

  “Blessed are you among women.” Her voice, the perfect blend of high and low, rolls over the arena. “For you are the hope for a better future.”

  Another burst of applause, and then the crowd quiets.

  Her clear blue eyes are almost as sharp as her smile as she surveys us. “The Lord has brought you to the Prophet, just as He did for me. I praise God every day fo
r that blessing, and I have no doubt that all of you do the same. The Prophet knows your hearts, your minds, your wants, and your dreams. And only through him will you reach your full potential as a Godly woman in a fallen world.”

  A chorus of “amen” rises from the spectators.

  “Trust him. Listen to him. Only the Prophet knows God’s plan for your life.” She lifts her eyes and sweeps her dramatic gaze over the crowd. “The Cloister Maidens are blessed to be in the care of the Prophet. As are we all. May God continue to shine his light on and through his one true representative here on earth.” She turns and drops a deep curtsey before the Prophet. He nods, then strides to her, takes her hand, and pulls her upright.

  “A true woman of God, is she not?”

  The churchgoers erupt, a volcano of approval for both the Prophet and Miriam. She struts off the stage with a wave, her white teeth glinting like the stage lights in her eyes.

  I chance a glance at the Prophet as he begins his sermon, but my gaze is drawn to the right. Adam stands to the side of the stage, obscured from the crowd but visible to some of the Maidens. It’s difficult to see through the veil, but his attention seems to be locked on me. His dark eyes pinning me with something akin to curiosity—or perhaps disgust. I shouldn’t care which it is, even though I do. Adam isn’t a man for me to be interested in; he’s just another obstacle I’ll have to defeat on my way to the truth.

  Dropping my gaze, I focus on the edge of the stage. I don’t listen to the Prophet. I never have. That’s not what I’m here for.

  I take my plate of vegetables and a tiny portion of meat and sit at one of the tables in the dining hall. Smaller than the banquet hall, this room is strictly utilitarian—metal tables and chairs, tile floors, and a full kitchen staffed by Spinners. We eat lunch and dinner here. The Head Spinner told us that the Prophet believes breakfast is for the weak; therefore, we skip it at the Cloister. I suspect the lack of breakfast and the low quality of food has more to do with keeping us tiredly compliant, or perhaps attractively thin. Maybe both.

  Another Maiden sits next to me and opens her milk carton. “Hi.”

  “Hi.” I spear a piece of droopy broccoli and put it in my mouth.

  “I’m Melin—I mean, I’m Sarah.” She smiles, her dark hair curling around her forehead. She looks barely old enough to drive.

  “Delilah.”

  “Where are you from?” She cuts off a corner of her meat chunk and gingerly puts it in her mouth.

  “Louisiana. You?”

  “Birmingham.” She wrinkles her nose but swallows.

  “How old are you?”

  She smiles and spears a green bean. “Old enough.”

  I glance up and see another Maiden watching us. “Hello.”

  She drops her eyes—one of them with a black half-moon beneath it—and picks at her food.

  “That’s Eve. She was—”

  I jump as Sarah yelps.

  A Spinner stands next to her, a short baton in her hand. “No speaking during mealtimes.”

  Sarah clutches her bare neck where she’d been struck and cringes against me. I wrap my arm around her. The Spinner rears back again. I flinch as the baton lands against the side of my neck.

  “No contact between Maidens!” She scowls as I release Sarah.

  “I’m okay.” Sarah sniffs, a tear running down her light brown cheek.

  My neck stings, but I refuse to touch the sore spot. I won’t give the Spinner the satisfaction.

  She threads her baton through a loop on the belt of her skirt and walks toward the kitchen, her long black skirt almost touching the ground.

  I reach under the table and squeeze Sarah’s knee. She gives me a brief nod, then begins eating again.

  I wonder about the women who signed up for this under the delusion that the Cloister would be some sort of sisterhood-paradise. Have they come to terms with what it really is? After last night, I can’t imagine any of them still believe in the Prophet, in the safety they were promised. But as I glance up at one of the Maidens, the smug satisfaction in her eyes as she gazes at the welt forming on my neck tells me that some of these women are exactly where they want to be.

  “Training begins in five minutes.” A different Spinner stands at the hall door, her voice a harsh bark. She doesn’t look a day over thirty, but, given her air of authority, she appears to be in charge. Her hair is hidden beneath a black habit, and her eyes seem to bore through anyone she looks at too directly. I drop my gaze, lest she see the true me.

  I down what I can of my lackluster food. By the time I’m done, the rest of the Maidens are filing out the door. I join the line as we wind our way along the corridors, the Cloister like a honeycomb. When we emerge into a large room, some of the women gasp.

  Three high tables—the type you see at doctor’s offices—sit to the right, a Spinner at each. Then another set of three tables with some sort of odd IV bags hanging on their corners, a large sink at their back. Beyond the tables is a wall covered in a dark lattice. Whips, clamps, crops, chains, and a large selection of dildos dangle at intervals. In the corner is a large wooden structure in the shape of an X, and the straps along the top and bottom of it tell me it’s not just for decor.

  “God smiles on women who please their masters. You must be precious in His sight.” The Head Spinner spreads her arms wide. “This is your training room. You will spend quite a bit of your time here every morning. The afternoons will be spent in prayer or performing chores. And your nights belong to your Protector.”

  One girl makes a slight sound, as if her throat swallows a fearful groan.

  The Head Spinner smacks her baton into the palm of her hand. “Remove your clothes. All of you.”

  I’ve already become accustomed to forced disrobing, so I drop my dress to the floor without complaint. They don’t give us underwear here.

  The Head Spinner walks to the first girl in line and uses her baton to tilt the girl’s chin up. “All body hair is unseemly in the sight of the Lord.”

  And what Bible verse says that, exactly? Porn 1:69? I keep my thought to myself.

  She slides her baton down the naked girl’s torso and stops at the patch of hair between her thighs. “Shameful. All of you. Your bodies are shameful. We have twelve months to try and mold you into females that God and the Prophet can be proud of.” She lets out a labored sigh and moves to the next girl. “But I have never had such a bottom-of-the-barrel class of Maidens in the past five years.” She uses her baton to poke at Eve’s curvy waistline. “That one’s a sasquatch, this one needs to lose weight.” She continued down the line until she came to me. “Now here’s one that shows promise. Trim body, good hair—of course we’ll need to remove that mess between your legs.” She presses the baton under my chin, lifting my face to hers. “Oh, dear.” She frowns. “These eyes simply won’t do.” She clucks her tongue. “There’s something in them I don’t care for. Something that is displeasing to the Lord.” She hesitates for another moment before moving down the row, criticizing hair, weight, dimples, cellulite, skin tone, and even the location of moles. “Is this a tattoo?” Her disgust coats the air like oil on water. “How on earth did you make it into the Cloister with this evil mark of the fallen world on your body?”

  By the time she returns to the front of the line, we’ve all shrunk about six inches, and I hear some sniffles in the back.

  She smacks the baton in her palm. “The Cloister was created by the Prophet to train young women, such as yourselves, to follow the Lord’s teachings and obey His will. Some things that happen here may confuse you.” A hint of a smile creeps across her thin lips. “They may even scare you, but be assured that everything is done in accordance with the Prophet’s plan for your life. You will understand in time.”

  She speaks with a sureness I’ve only seen in salesmen and politicians. It makes my skin crawl.

  “You three Maidens, here.” She points to the first set of tables.

  “The next three, here.” She motions with her
baton to the second area.

  I’m the last woman to take one of the tables with the odd IV bag.

  “Up.” The nearest Spinner pats my table.

  I climb and sit, my arms wrapped around my knees. Dread pulses through me with each beat of my heart.

  “The rest of you, come with me.” The Head Spinner leads the remaining women to the lattice wall.

  “I need the three of you on all fours.” One of the Spinners behind the tables grabs an IV bag and turns on the water, testing its warmth with her fingertips.

  That’s when I realize they aren’t IV bags. Too big. Too not-entirely-medical.

  I saw one of these hanging behind the door in my grandparents’ bathroom and thought it was some sort of special balloon. Fun, right? No. They’re enema bags.

  Sick fucks.

  I exchange a glance with Sarah on the table next to me. Her brows are drawn together as she stares at the bag hanging from the hook above her table. I silently mouth the word “enema” to her.

  She doesn’t understand.

  I mouth it again.

  When her brown eyes widen, I know she caught the word.

  “All fours, I said!” the Spinner at the sink barks.

  We all turn over and get on our knees. Humiliation washes over me in a dreadful torrent. I dig my nails into the top of the padded table. Another thought adds to my cocktail of shame: is there a camera in here like the one in the vent of my ceiling? Has to be. Maybe Adam’s watching right now, getting off on my torment.

  A yelp draws my attention to the other three tables. One of the Spinners is waxing Eve, yanking her dark pubic hair out and tossing the strips aside. Another girl is on hands and knees as a Spinner applies something between her cheeks. She doesn’t rip it away. Must not be wax. A memory of Georgia and me watching “Bridesmaids” and giggling together floats through my mind. Are they bleaching her asshole?

  I bet mine will be glowing white before the day is—this thought is interrupted when I feel cold hands on my backside and then the unmistakable insertion of a hose into my ass. My reaction is to push it out.